Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

somewhat, knee digging into the couch to hold his weight. His stomach muscles contract as my hand slides down them. “I know how this goes, but I’ve never done it before, so I might need some help.”

I am on fire. Anticipation is to blame for why I nervously babble, “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

Wesley’s chin falls onto his chest, body shaking with silent laughter. “Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry.”

But it dispels some of the tension, relaxing me enough to smile.

I claim his mouth again and he surrenders the self-doubt and insecurities building up inside him, letting instincts take over. The rest of our clothes come off. I smooth a hand over his chest and push so that his back hits the couch, and his eyes widen. Taking charge takes the pressure off of him. I straddle his hard, muscular body and introduce him to the finer things in life.

“Jesus,” he rasps again and again. “Jesus. God.”

“I had no idea you were so devout.”

A rumbling laugh swiftly ebbs into a groan, and he draws in a deep breath until his ribs protrude. His eyes pierce mine, brows pulling together ever so slightly. Before I can ask what, he moves.

A quick study, he rolls us and seamlessly assumes control. Pupils blown. Lips swollen. Pleased half smiles as he learns what I like; soft laughs and grated curses as we both learn what he likes.

He feels wonderful,

wonderful,

wonderful

and it isn’t because of any particular move he’s making, or because he’s some kind of god in bed, but because it’s him, and I think he just might feel the same way about me.

A dozen manifestations of Wesley have tried to imitate this. Wesleys on windy hilltops, soaked in rain, chests heaving, hair dripping. Wesleys leaving footprints in the sand on a warm beach. Princes and baristas.

He doesn’t kiss like a dream, doesn’t touch like a fantasy. He is Wesley, real. My imagination will spend the next thousand years chasing the memory of this: Wesley. Real. It will never get it right because he is beyond imagining. Nothing beats real.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

HOURS LATER, WE’RE IN my bed. When we collapsed on my mattress we both announced that we were going to sleep like the dead tonight, but reality has made liars of us because we’re not used to having company when we sleep and each of us keeps jolting awake whenever the other one moves. It’s a lovely gift that keeps giving to see him next to me. I kind of like that I keep forgetting his presence every time I’m about to drift off to sleep and then abruptly startle; this means the truth of his being here sinks in over, and over, and over again.

Wesley reaches up to stroke my hair, smiling only with his eyes. I feel more than accepted when he touches me, when he holds me and smiles at me. I feel wanted.

I feel like I’ve finally found home.

Suspended in a state that isn’t quite dreamland, not quite wakefulness, I scroll through my mental calendar. We’ve got so much coming up in the next few weeks: his brother will be visiting before we know it to discuss investing in us, I’ll be meeting Sasha Campos in hopes that she’s going to join me in my new adventure, and I could possibly have that young woman and her son from the gas station staying here soon. I’ve got to get the last of my legal ducks put in a row. The house painted up into everlasting sunset.

Wesley’s got sections of wild overgrowth to clear in preparation for four-legged friends (and a few with wings). Once the hotel opens, Wesley will still leave from time to time for landscaping jobs. I, on the other hand, am going to be homebound for the foreseeable future.

Which means that if there are any last hurrahs in order, the time for them is now.

“Hey,” I whisper, prodding him. “Are you awake?”

“I don’t know.”

My mouth twitches. “You don’t know if you’re awake?”

“I don’t know anything right now,” he replies hoarsely. “What’s my name? Never heard of it. My brain’s as smooth as a scoop of ice cream and I’m not mad about it.” He folds his arms beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. “So I’m going to lie here and just be absolutely stupid for a while.”

“I think we should make good on our pact,” I tell him, effectively shattering his afterglow. “Quitting at the resort. Going to Loch Ness.”

“We will.”

I sit up, laying a palm to his chest where his heart pounds rhythmically. “I mean now,” I elaborate gently. “I think we should go now.”

“Right now?” He’s still half-asleep.

“I found a buyer for Victor’s coin collection. I was going to put the money toward a pool, but I think we should do this with it instead. Before it gets so hectic around here that we miss our chance. When I feel like I really need to do something, I don’t want to put it off.” I swallow. “From here on out.”

Wesley pulls himself up onto his elbow, a fathomless silhouette save for the twin gleams of his eyes. He stares and stares at me, and then finally says, “All right. Let’s do it.”

Chapter 20

WHEN MORNING DAWNS, WE’VE got our plane tickets, set to take off at eleven forty-five a.m. We’re bleary-eyed and groggy but there’s a thrum of exhilaration in the air and we’re already packed, in the car, on our way to Around the Mountain Resort & Spa. I’m going to quit a job I don’t have anymore in legendary style, and then Wesley’s going to find proof of the Loch Ness Monster but never tell a soul about it. We are a pair.

“Car music?” he suggests, fiddling with the dial.

“I’m too amped up for music.” Which sounds absurd, but I think the extra stimulation would feed my anxiety and then I wouldn’t be able to go through with my half of the pact.

We play I