We strolled along the boardwalk, stopping, of course, to play our rematch game—which I duly won in defense of my champion Skee-Baller status.
And I taunted him with the childhood chant “Brick Wall Waterfall.”
“Peanut butter, Captain Crunch. I got something you can’t touch.” I danced in front of him, doing the little girl’s taunt while he laughed at me. “Reese’s Pieces, 7 Up. Mess with me, I’ll mess you up.” I held out one hand to stop him in his tracks, while putting the other thumb and forefinger in the shape of an L on my forehead. “Loser, loser. Double loser. Whatever. As if. Kiss this. You just got dissed!”
He took it like a champ, appearing happy that I was talking again. But we fell into easy silence when we grabbed a quick meal, and on the way back to the boat, I munched on a Balboa Bar—the famous sprinkled dipped ice cream on a stick, reliving my childhood in so many ways.
“Don’t you drip that ice cream all over my boat,” he muttered as we climbed in.
It was definitely time for more taunting. I turned to him, mouthing the thing suggestively—pulling it in and out of my mouth, giving it long licks while I moaned my enjoyment of the sweet dairy treat. He watched me, eyes widening in disbelief before he nearly fell to the floor in laughter.
“Wow, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m almost getting turned on watching you give your ice cream a blowjob.”
I responded by smacking my lips and finishing up the ice cream as we took the long way home all the way around Balboa Island, which wasn’t that big. But since the Duffy was slow, it took some time.
“You’ve been quiet this afternoon,” he finally said when we were halfway around.
I shrugged, looking out over the water, studying the play of late afternoon light sparkling off the surface. “Not much to say. I’m not really in a talking mood. Just happy you’re home..”
He frowned, steering around some moored boats, complete with decks full of sleeping sea lions lazing in the sun. “Any particular reason?”
I darted a look at him before turning back to the scenery, admiring the lavish homes that equaled the one in which we lived, and others on the level of ostentation. “When I was at tea, my friend from high school, Camille, shared some hometown gossip with me.”
His brows rose. “Ah. Has there been some excitement up in good ol’ Anza?”
I turned back to him and shifted on my bench. “Yeah. Someone I knew in high school got arrested in Mexico and thrown into prison for drug possession.”
I tried to gauge his reaction. Did I notice a brief, stony glaze cover those dark eyes? A slight flexing of his jaw? Or was that all my imagination?
“Huh. Was it a friend?”
“No, definitely not,” I said. “It was that jerk I dated my sophomore year.”
His eyebrow twitched, and there was a long pause. I turned to see that we approached Bay Island, headed right toward our slip. The water slapped up on the sides of the yacht off our private beach.
Adam deftly maneuvered in, and I hopped out of the boat before he could respond. Bring this up? Or push it aside? What should I do?
Was it really essential that he even know? These questions swirled round and round, and I wasn’t ure how I felt about hearing the answers. Did I care whether he was involved or that the guy was getting his comeuppance?
Once inside, I went to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of red wine we’d opened last night with dinner. When he entered the kitchen, I held it up to him and he shook his head, so I pulled out the cork with a thunk and poured a glass for myself.
Adam observed this silently, eyes narrowing slightly as I immediately scooped up the glass and sipped at it. The air between us grew a little thicker, a little heavier. I swallowed and waited.
“Wanna talk about it? You’re not upset about that news, are you?”
I took a breath and let it go. “No.” I sipped again. “I’m fucking overjoyed by it and struggling with how guilty that makes me feel.”
He put a hand on the smooth granite counter and leaned against his arm, never taking his eyes from me. I couldn’t return his gaze, looking at the muscles bulge in his strong forearm instead. “Why would you feel guilty, Emilia? I guarantee that shit-stain never spent a day in his life feeling guilty about what he did to you.”
I nodded, still avoiding his eyes and the question burning on the tip of my tongue. The space between us filled with those unasked questions, those unvoiced answers. My heartbeat flooded the silence with relentless thumps. Then I downed the rest of the glass in one gulp. “My brain is mush. Can we veg out with a movie?”
He smiled, but that forehead still buckled with concern, the dark eyes heavy. “After watching the way you ate that ice cream, I’d be very happy with some Netflix and chill.” He grinned, flaunting that devastatingly handsome smile.
I smirked at him. “You should be so lucky, punk.”
Setting the wine glass in the sink, I enjoyed the warm glow and happy flush the grape had brought me—grateful for it, in fact. Adam swept up behind me to encircle my waist with his arms, and my heart surged, beating quickly as he landed a brief, warm kiss on the side of my neck.
I leaned back against his hard chest, and this feeling—this feeling…
It congealed behind my eyes, causing tingles. It thickened in my throat. Cradled in his strong arms, I decided then and there…it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this feeling. How he made me feel—safe, secure, at peace.
By the time we moved downstairs to the audiovisual room in the basement, all the emotion had clumped together into a full-blown lump in my throat, around which I could barely breathe—preventing speech.
When he settled into his recliner and watched me where I stood, he deliberately scooted to the side and held out his hand for me to come sit with him. I squeezed in beside him. We were a perfect fit, and he settled his arm around the back of my waist, pulling me even closer. My head lowered against his solid shoulder, and he reached for the remote, beginning to cue up a movie.
I leaned over, straining upward to kiss him—though it landed somewhere between his jaw and the top of his neck. He turned to me, features blank, but still those eyes, so full, so heavy. Was there something there or was I reading into it?
Worry? Attentiveness? Guilt?
Should I tell him what I was feeling?
“What was that for?”