POPPY’S GIGGLE FROM the room next door filters through the thin walls of my bedroom. Watching Branch do pull-ups from a low-hanging limb off a tree in the yard, I have half a notion to get dressed and go down there with him.
Last night at the festival turned out to be more than I even expected. It took Branch a while to really loosen up and let his guard down, something that I don’t think he really does all that much. But when he dropped it, he really dropped it. So much so, in fact, that I waited for almost an hour while he showed a group of high school boys how to throw a football and catch a pass on the tennis courts.
I’ve never seen him quite like that. Invigorated. Energized. Talking a mile-a-minute and jumping from one thing to another. I think that little side track was his favorite part of the night, although he insists it was his victory over me in Skee Ball.
My bed still smells like him, sticky, red candy smeared on my sheets from our romp when we got back. I showered after and again now when I woke up and still feel the tackiness on my thighs and breasts. So worth it.
He catches me watching him and drops to the ground and busts out a number of push-ups, all the while maintaining eye contact. I laugh, give him a thumbs up, and then walk away from the window.
I have to. He’s a glorious sight all shirtless and golden from the afternoon sun, but this little fest will come to an end when we go home tomorrow and I need to start applying the brakes now.
By the time I get dressed and stretch out a little, my muscles aching, Poppy and Finn are already in the kitchen. They’re whispering back and forth as I enter.
“Secrets are lies,” I say, plucking a strawberry out of a bowl.
Poppy turns around and smirks. “No, I know what a lie is and it’s not a secret. Or, maybe it is. Is it?”
I toss her a look and mouth, “Stop it” while Finn’s back is to me. “How was the party at Machlan’s?”
“Those boys are nuts,” Poppy giggles. “I kind of love them.”
“What happened?” I ask, looking at Finn.
“Just the normal shit. Peck had bottle rockets so I’ll let you determine how that fared.”
“Oh no,” I laugh.
“Pretty much. What did you do last night?” he asks.
“Branch and I went to the Water Festival, actually. I ate way too much.”
“She did.” His voice slides into the room from the doorway.
Looking over my shoulder, I see him standing there, leaning against the frame. His eyes are on me, but they’re filled with something I haven’t seen in them before and can’t even begin to figure out.
“You can’t take Layla to a festival and not drop one hundred dollars on food,” Finn laughs. “Let me guess: lemon shake-ups.”
“And elephant ears,” Branch adds. “And candy apples.”
“That explains that,” Poppy says, her eyes twinkling.
“That explains what?” Finn asks.
“Um, the stick on the counter this morning,” she fumbles. “I was like, ‘Damn, that looks like a candy apple stick.’ Guess it was.”
My head goes to my hands as she continues with her makeshift story. She can’t tell him she asked me about the red smears on my sheets earlier. Finn would go crazy.
“I’m going to take my strawberries,” I say, grabbing the bowl as I stand, “and go sit on the porch.”
“We’ll be right out,” Poppy says, turning back to Finn.
I brush past Branch on my way. He slides his hand to the side and lets his fingertips dance along my thigh. It’s such a simple touch that I can’t look at him. I just keep walking.
My skin tickles where he touched me for minutes after. As I get situated on the wicker love seat and think about him in the other room, I smile like a loon. I know it. I can’t help it.
Even on my best days with Callum, it was work—work I thought would pay off in the end. I wrote off the stress between us as spillover from practice or the last game or decided his irritability must be from the things he took to stay fit. With Branch, there’s none of that. It’s so easy.
Their laughter comes around the corner before I see them and I watch the doorway for Branch. His eyes find mine right away, softness mixed with mischief in those blues.
Everyone grabs a seat like we’ve done this a hundred times. We eat fresh fruit and coffee that Poppy made and laugh and talk about our jobs and tell stories from summers past. They let me snap some pictures of their plates for my blog and I mentally put together the post as Poppy takes our dishes to the kitchen.
A wind chime tinkles in the corner, the warm afternoon breeze gently nudging it back and forth as we sit, stomachs full, and relax. Branch sits across from me, his feet up on the table again, his hands on his belly and eyes closed. Finn stretches out on a chaise beside him, a binder of football-related stuff on his lap. Poppy comes back from the kitchen and sits next to me.
A contented sigh passes my lips as I feel my body, although sore from my romps with Branch, give in. It’s one of those moments I’ve experienced only a few times in my life. It’s a calm in the center of my core, a contentedness that I wish I could channel every day.
My computer sits beside me where I left it at some point. As Poppy checks her email on her phone, I attach my phone to my laptop and download the pictures I just took for the blog. Wanting to get the vision I have for the Summer Fun post I can see so clearly, I click open my browser. There are tabs lining the top and I start to click on each one and close them.
Then I stop.
My eyes dart from the screen, over the rim of the computer to Branch, and back to the screen again.
I gulp.
I hit refresh.
Exposé’s website is front and center, a tab open from when I was checking on Callum when we first got here.
Now, on the main page, is a picture of Branch in Crave. He’s wearing the same shirt he came in that night smelling like the bar. The letters hanging above his head, in all bold caps, reads: “Best Having the Best Time.”
A lump sits in my throat, my cheeks hot like I’m going to get caught doing something wrong. When I glance up at Branch, he hasn’t moved.
I don’t need to peruse the article to know what it’s going to say. The picture of the girl in shorts so short you can almost see her hoohah sitting on Branch’s lap is pretty much a spoiler. Still, I’m a glutton for punishment, so I read on.
EXPOSÉ ALERT: BEST HAVING THE BEST TIME
Seems like our favorite bromance hit up local favorite, Crave, in tiny Linton, Illinois this week. Our sources tell us Miller was seen buying shots and playing pool while our honey-haired honey Best went missing in action with the “lucky” lady on his lap.
These two are in town on a quick retreat before the pre-season starts and should be reporting for training in just a few short days. Anyone else awaiting those pictures and stories? Just us? Didn’t think so.
PS: Lucky Lady—we’re so jealous.
Forcing a swallow and trying to manage the feelings screeching through my head, I close the computer and stand. Poppy looks at me with a quirked brow.
“Gotta pee,” I mumble and make a quick exit from the porch.
Taking the steps two at a time, I’m in my bedroom in ten seconds flat. My computer goes skidding across the comforter.
I don’t sit. I pace. Back and forth I go in front of the window that overlooks the lake. The pale pink curtains that have hung in this room since I picked them out when I was seven years old flutter in the wind from the open window.
Before I can make sense of anything, the door flies open. I whirl around to see Poppy standing in the doorway.
“You did not have to pee,” she says flatly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“What did you see? Don’t tell me you were looking up Callum’s vacation,” she sighs. “Damn it, Layla.”
“I wasn’t looking up Callum or his fucking vacation. Here,” I say, thrusting the computer at her. “Open it. Passcode is ‘milkshake’ with a one instead of the i.”
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Just look,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.
The exact moment she gets to the “honey-haired” piece is obvious because her eyes bug out. “Ooohhh . . .”
“I’m not mad,” I say, more to myself than to her. “It’s not that at all. It’s expected. It’s the natural order of things. I just stupidly forgot that and thought he was all about me this weekend, which, I guess, is a part of his charm and I’m totally capable of understand that because I’m an adult,” I say, throwing my hand through the air and knocking a candle off my dresser. It shatters on the floor and breaks into a handful of pieces. “Starting now.”
Poppy puts the computer carefully on the bed. “You can be mad.”
“I’m not mad!”
“You’re not mad,” she says, trying to not show her amusement. “You’re . . . irritated.”
“I’m not irritated either. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m going home.”
Now she laughs. “Because we’re adults, right?”
“Yes,” I say, stomping to the closet and pulling out the few things I bothered to hang up. “I’m an adult and I can go home so I don’t have to look at his smug face for the next couple of days.”
“Maybe he’s not smug.”
“Maybe not,” I say simply, shoving my things into my suitcase. “But if you want the truth, I’m a little embarrassed.”
“At what?”
I fall onto the bed, the adrenaline from the last few minutes catching up with me. Looking at my best friend, I feel the fight wane. “I’m embarrassed at myself.”
My friend sits beside me. “Why would you be? It got you to stop thinking about Dickface and got you off—how many times? Five?”
“Five that time. I haven’t told you the rest,” I sigh. “But that’s not the point.”
“No, the point is there’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”
“I know that. I do. I’m a grown woman and he’s most definitely a man,” I whimper. “But maybe it would’ve been nice to think about this two weeks from now and not wonder who came before me and who came after.”
“You mean that figuratively, right?”
“Shut up,” I whine. “Was that girl texting him while we were at the Festival? Did he see her there? Will he see her when we leave?”
“So what if he does?”
Reality settles in atop the embarrassment and twinge of self-pity. He will see other women. I’ll see other men. But still.
“Maybe it would’ve been nice not to feel like I was a point on the scoreboard,” I sigh.
“You don’t know that’s what it is.”
“Oh, I do. At least number two.” My head hangs, my chin almost touching my chest. The position makes my neck pain rear its ugly head again, the twinge making me grimace. “I just don’t want to look at him, Pop. I don’t want to look at him and know I was ‘Saturday and Sunday,’ you know? I need a little dignity.”
She pulls me into a quick hug and then stands. “We go home.” Marching to the door, she stops before she pulls it open. “And I know you don’t want details, but your brother promised to take me on the boat tonight and do very, very wicked things to me. You are the only person I’d leave that invitation for, but I might never forgive you. Just so you know.”
“I owe you.”
“Ha,” she says, pulling the door open. “You owe me twenty.”
SETTLED.
What a terrifying fucking word.
It’s not a bad feeling, though, as I stretch out. My muscles are relaxed, my cock satisfied, which is a miracle in and of itself.
I haven’t ever felt this relaxed—not even on vacation in the Dominican Republic last year with a model whose name started with an L.
There’s something about this place that just digs into your bones and takes over everything . . . and there’s something about that girl that has taken over my brain.
I don’t know what it is, exactly. Sure, she’s beautiful. Her sense of humor is spot on. She’s intelligent and classy and has a mouth that I would love to discipline with my tongue every time she breaks from sophistication and says something dirty. She’s a conundrum, a riddle, a seemingly hot ass chick that has something underneath that I want to explore and I plan on doing just that tonight if I can figure out a way to get Poppy to get Finn out of here.
Everything inside me yells to be careful, tread lightly, because this one is a hazard. Layla isn’t dangerous like most women with their plots and plans. She’s a risk because she doesn’t have either. There’s something incredibly sweet and attractive about that. My only saving grace is that she’s Finn’s sister and the weekend will be ending soon enough. We should be safe and enjoy this while it lasts.
A vision of her legs around my neck, the pink of her pussy bared just for me has my cock going rock hard and my brain working overtime on how to take care of that as quickly as possible.
“What?” Finn asks, making me jump.
“What, what?”
“What are you thinking about?” he laughs. “You just had the weirdest look on your face.”
“Ah, nothing.”
“No, it was something . . .”
“How are the new plays?” I ask, motioning to the playbook in hopes he’ll be easily redirected. “Anything too crazy?”
“Just variations on what we ran last year. We’ll see how Chauncey does in the other slot. Some of this shit is going to make him or break him.”
“I—” I stop talking at the sound of something banging behind us. Finn flashes me a curious look as we get to our feet and head into the greater part of the house.
Layla and Poppy are coming down the stairs, dragging their suitcases behind them. Everything I’ve heard Layla say about leaving replays in my mind and nothing I can find makes me think her plan was to leave today.
My gaze sears into her and she feels it. I can tell by the way she refuses to look my way. My jaw sets, my arms crossing over with I know is a tell-tale sign I’m irritated, but I can’t make myself uncross them either.
“What the fuck?” Finn looks at the girls. Only Poppy will look at him back. “Where are you going?”
“We’re heading out,” Poppy says too happily.
“I didn’t think you had to leave until tomorrow,” Finn bounces back, clearly as irritated as I am that they’re leaving. “We had plans, remember?”
Layla gets to the bottom of the stairs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have some work to do and I just can’t work here,” she lies. “I’ve gotten crap done since we arrived and you know me and work ethic.”
“You seem to have been pretty productive to me,” I point out, goading her into looking my way. She doesn’t.
“Did Branch piss you off?” Finn asks. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”
If he only knew.
“No, Finn,” she says, forcing a swallow. The motion causes a little gold chain to move against the hollow of her throat. “Nothing like that. I just really need to get back. There are a couple of promotion contracts on my desk and I need to unpack. I had no business coming up here this weekend. Work, then play, and Lord knows I’ve not earned the play part yet.”
“Fine. Let us help you with your bags,” Finn says, reaching for Poppy’s floral piece when his phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the screen. “Hey, I need to get this. It’s Machlan. Can you wait a second?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, Machlan,” Finn says, disappearing into the kitchen.
The awkwardness is tangible as the three of us stand in the foyer. Poppy clears her throat and touches Layla gently on the shoulder. “I’m going to take my things outside.”
Layla nods, gripping her necklace, and watches Poppy cart her bag out the door.
“What’s going on?” I ask before the door even shuts.
“Nothing. Why?”
“I didn’t know you were planning on leaving today.”
“Plans change,” she shrugs.
Nodding, I try to stay loose. “They do. But that was quick. I had your pussy in my mouth—”
“Branch!”
“What? It’s the truth.”
“And it’s also not public information,” she hisses, looking towards the kitchen. “Look, if you don’t mind keeping this our little secret, I’d appreciate it.”
My brows pull together. “I get you don’t want Finn to know. But why are you acting all weird about it?”
“I’m not,” she says, tucking another strand of hair out of her face. “I just, you know, am more of a private person than a lot of people and I’d rather not land on a magazine.”
She gulps, like she misspoke, and I can’t help but lift a brow. She looks away and plays it off.
“For what it’s worth, it was a fun weekend,” she says.
“I agree. The best one in a long time.”
We share a smile, one that stings my chest. Making a move to help her with her bag, I’m stopped when she stops.
“I got this, Branch.”
“Let me be a gentleman and help.”
She laughs, the sound pulling my lips up too. “You erased any gentlemanly behavior already today.”
A hundred things race to my lips, a host of things I want to say are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t. Something in her eye stops me.
“Good luck this season, Branch,” she says quietly.
“Thanks.” I dig for pockets to stick my hands into, but my shorts don’t have any. “Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.”
“I don’t think that would be good for either of us.” She re-grips the handle of her luggage. “Fantasy Land is over and we’re back to reality.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means . . .” She looks around the room before settling her eyes on me. “It means this weekend was great. See ya.”
I can’t even form a response to that. I stand in the doorway like a chump and watch her walk to her car. A part of me wants to chase her and ask her to stay and another part of me remembers why I don’t chase women. Even her. Finn’s footsteps are what finally breaks my haze.
“Hey,” I say. “They went on out. I’m gonna get a drink.”
Blowing by him, he tosses me a curious glance but doesn’t say a word. I pour a glass of lemonade, smiling at the remnants of the candy apple in the trashcan beside the refrigerator.
She felt so good wrapped around me. The way she teased me, taunted me, slightly mocked me and had me laughing was something I haven’t really experienced before. Sex is usually one of a few things: a power struggle, an interview, the means to an end, a physical need. With Layla this weekend, it was . . . different.
The door shutting rings through the open-aired house and Finn’s shoes squeak against the wood floors. He comes in, scratching his head. “That fucked up my plans for the night.”
Mine, too.
“You think Layla really had to work?” I ask.
“Hell, no. That was a lie.”
“Why would she lie?” I take a drink to keep from making any sort of face that would give Finn a clue as to why I’m so curious.
“I don’t know,” he says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “My guess is it’s something to do with Callum.”
“That motherfucker,” I grumble.
He shakes his head. “He might’ve called her or texted her or some shit and she just didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell her this, but he called me a couple of nights ago too.”
“For what?”
“Manipulation.” He twists the top off his beer and tosses it into the trash. “Told me how worried he is about her, how she’s not taking the break-up very well and he hopes I’ll keep an eye on her. What he means is he’s afraid she’ll move on and wants me to keep her busy so she doesn’t meet anyone else.”
“Piece of fucking shit.”
Finn downs most of his beer in one gulp as I try to sort this out in my head. He twists the bottle between two fingers.
“Machlan said to apologize to you,” Finn says.
“For what?”
“Apparently there is a story running on Exposé today about you and some chick from Crave.”
The glass slips from my hand and hits the floor with a loud, ominous crack. “Shit,” I mutter, scooping up the large shards with my bare hands.
“He said he knows who yapped to the magazine and he’s banned them from the bar. Some new girl in town but not the one you fucked that night.”
I look at him with a seriousness I rarely do. “I didn’t fuck anyone that night.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he laughs. “Anyway, he said to tell you he’s sorry and he hopes you’ll come back in sometime. Now I’m gonna grab a shower and figure out what the hell to do tonight.”
He walks out and I stand in the center of the kitchen, broken glass in my hand, but with a newfound clarity. Dumping the pieces in the trash, I bust ass to the screened in porch to see a vacant spot next to my car.
I’m tempted to figure out her phone number, even if it means stealing Finn’s phone, and call her to tell her I didn’t fuck anyone . . . then logic sets in.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t fucking matter.