I could have pointed out I had my own car, a practical Prius with side airbags and great gas mileage. I could have given him my address, a sensible one-bedroom in a recently built complex close to work.
I stood there, struck dumb with happiness.
“Or...” He watched me. “We can drive to the beach. Spend the night. Watch the sun come up.”
I was the sensible sister. The responsible firstborn.“Never any trouble,”as Aunt Phee liked to say. Not the type of girl to hook up on the first date. To hop into the car of a near-stranger and drive an hour to the beach for tear-your-clothes-off sex.
Of course I said yes.
We checked into a room in Carolina Beach. We made love against thewall. And on the bathroom counter in front of the giant mirror. Icouldn’t look at my reflection for days afterward without blushing. Even now, the memory made me tingle.
I never told anybody. Not Sallie, who would have cheered me on, or Amy, who was way too young. Not even Jo. I had to set a good example.
I told Momma we met at the bank. Well, it was true.
“I can’t believe I got lucky,” John confessed to me later, after we’d been dating a few months.
But I knew I was the lucky one.
I moved in a year later; we married the following June, with Daddy officiating and my sisters as my bridesmaids. Momma rented a tent for the reception in the upper pasture, and Amy decorated the long tables with lace runners and mason jars of peonies and cornflowers.
“Cheap,”Aunt Phee had sniffed. Referring to the flower arrangements, I hoped, and not my future husband.
It was true John didn’t make a lot of money, even with his coaching stipend. But he was steady and hardworking, patient and firm with his students, encouraging with his team. He would make an excellent father. Everybody liked him. Even my father, who rarely showed any interest in my life—Jo was his prize student and Amy his pet—expressed approval. Well, what he actually said was,“He seems like a stand-up guy. Just tell me one thing that he standsfor.”
“Ashton, hush,”Momma said.
For once I didn’t care what my parents thought. John made me feel needed. Desired. Loved.
Even now, the smell of him, warm and familiar, sent pleasure signals to my brain. I stretched between the sheets, relishing the unfamiliar luxury of lying in bed beside John while the dawn edged the shutters with gray light. What day was it?
He nuzzled my ear, his early-morning stubble scraping my nerve endings to life. “You feel great.”
The familiar line made me smile. I tilted my head to give him better access. Encouraged, he slid a hand to my breast.
“The kids will be up soon,” I murmured.
John kissed the side of my neck. “I’m up now.”
My smile spread, my eyes still closed. “I noticed.” He felt so good wrapped around me, a blanket of muscle. “Don’t you have to leave for work?”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving. The word bolted into my brain. I jerked away. “I should call Momma.”
“It’s too early.” John’s lips brushed my temple. “Let her sleep.”
“Are you kidding? She’s probably making stuffing right now.” Cleaning stalls. Canning applesauce. Splitting firewood.
“Jo’s home. Let Jo help her.” He kissed my shoulder. “Relax.”
He didn’t understand. The only way to stop Momma from doing something was to get to it first.
But his hands, roaming under my nightshirt, were sneaky and persuasive. His body was warm and solid. Despite the drumbeat pulse of things to do, my breathing hitched. I shifted to my side to face him. He kissed me, soft, married kisses, coaxing. Tender.
I raised my head. “Do you hear the kids?”
“Nope. Don’t worry.” Another kiss. “I locked the door.”
