Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

“Eight thirty a.m., then,” he says, voice gravelly.

I sink down into the tub, skin scorching. “Yep.”

My face hidden by porcelain, I glance at the wall in time to watch the profile of his shadow turn, throwing another look back at me. He’s got a fist pressed to his mouth.

“I gotta . . . I’m going back upstairs.” He sounds weak.

“Yep,” I repeat, an octave higher. “See you in the morning.”

I see Wesley well before morning. He visits me while we’re asleep.

I’m back in the ballroom, standing above him. He’s the one in the tub now, sprawled out lazy and regal, wearing a pirate costume. He holds out his arms for me to climb aboard. “Time for your bath, Maybell.”

I wake up at 8:29 Saturday morning hot, sweaty, and doomed. Nothing like a sex dream between friends to speed up the unavoidable: I’ve got a full-blown crush.

Chapter 13

NOT TO BE DRAMATIC, but I would rather drink battery acid than be in the throes of a crush.

Crushes are fun in theory (ask me about my many dreamland husbands), but in reality, they’re energy vampires that are more trouble than they’re worth. The preoccupation is exhausting. I get sick to my stomach from swallowing too many butterflies, I lose sleep, my already intrusive penchant for fantasizing levels up a thousand degrees. I start worrying too much about whether my hair looks perfect or if I’m talking too loud, and prescription-strength deodorant becomes the safety pin holding my precarious shit together. All this emotional work, only to always end up being hurt by it? When I drag a glance over my dating history, the polls are conclusive. Nothing good ever comes from a crush.

Wesley’s wearing a knitted white cardigan this morning, lounging against the wall and peeling a banana, when I stroll into the kitchen with my camping gear. Cardigans are my kryptonite. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. What am I talking about? Of course he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. Oh lord, this is already wretched.

He makes a come here motion and shows me one of the X’s on the treasure map. “I figured we’d start over here, then work our way northeast. The truck won’t be able to pass beyond this point”—he raps a cluster of trees—“so I hope you won’t mind carrying the pack with our food and smaller supplies?” His questioning look prompts me to nod.

Wesley’s pack is considerably larger, containing our tent and sleeping bags. He’ll also be toting a shovel. I think about the roll of toilet paper in my pack and regret every choice I’ve ever made that’s led me to this point.

“Great.” I unscrew a bottled water, proceeding to chug the whole thing.

“Hey.” He bends his knees and tilts to look me in the eye, the ghost of a smile quirking his lips. “You all right? You good?”

“Yep.”

The playful light in his eyes falls flat. “You don’t want to?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I pick up my pack, narrowing my eyes at him jokingly. “That treasure’s mine, Koehler. Let’s roll.”

The smile returns, bigger now. “Okay, Parrish.”

It’s shaping up to be a balmy spring day, and the drive is gorgeous. Wesley’s pickup barrels through tunnels of green, bright and rich, like being inside an emerald. Irises and bleeding hearts are in bloom, garden-variety flowers petering out the farther we go, overtaken by native plants. He calls them all by name, pointing out lady’s-slipper orchids, phlox, silverbells growing directly out of cracks in the road. We’ll eventually have to get the road repaved, as it looks like it’s endured several earthquakes and an apocalypse. The prospect makes me a little sad. I’m starting to like the wildness of Falling Stars, nature reclaiming what we stole.

All too soon, we’re parking in a field and Wesley’s killing the engine. “This is it,” he announces, opening his door.

“Already?” I grab the map, calculating how far we are from the first X, then how far away the second X is from the first. There are five potential treasure sites. Over two hundred and ninety-four acres.

“Hope you’re wearing hiking shoes.”

I am. With special Dr. Scholl’s socks that are supposed to prevent blistering. The last thing my dumbass libido needs is for my feet to give out on me, leaving Wesley responsible for carrying me home.

“Hope you’re wearing shovel-digging gloves,” I counter.

“Hands are already callused.” He raises his brows, a touch haughty. “I’m in landscaping, remember? No stranger to shovels.”

Oh. Right.

I have no business dwelling on his callused hands, or how sturdy and capable he looks when he shrugs his pack on. I bet he could lift me up on his shoulders right now without a faltering step. If I’m going to survive this, I’ll have to pretend he isn’t my hot exploring companion but a . . . guard bear . . . or something. A bear with the stubble of a beard and minty mouthwash on his breath. And a cardigan. Oof.

I’m fine. I’m fine! I’ll fight this off like an infection.

“So, Koehler,” I begin casually as we slip into the trees. Effortlessly casually. Breezily, in fact. “How’d you get into the landscaping business?”

“I grew up on a farm. Tell me about your dad?”

I nearly walk into a tree.

“Sorry.” He looks it, too. “I didn’t mean to put it so bluntly. It’s just, I’ve been wondering. I know the name Parrish came from your mom’s side of the family. You’ve never mentioned your dad . . .” His face is reddening.

He’s awkward, but I’m about to be even more so. “I don’t know who my dad is.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry. I’m not the best conversationalist—I’m much better in text messages and notes left in dumbwaiters.”

“It’s all right.” I offer him a rueful smile. “You want to hear something bonkers? Whenever I think about my dad I picture Mick Fleetwood. You know who I’m talking about? One of the guys from Fleetwood Mac?”

He laughs. “Are you serious? Why?”

I