“Right this way, m’lady,” Hicks says with some kind of accent that makes Leslie roll her eyes.
Ian leads Leslie inside, passing Chase who’s taking a shot in the kitchen. I notice a slight glare from him at Ian as he gathers mixers to make Leslie’s drink.
With Ian and Leslie’s departure, Regan and I are alone outside. We walk back to the deck, grab some beers, and sit on the steps going into the backyard. Our knees are close, almost touching. I can feel the heat radiating off her body. I want to press my knee into hers, to feel what her skin would feel like against my jeans, my skin.
“I didn’t realize how bad at cornhole you’d be, Brady.” I take a sip of beer and look into her hazel eyes.
“Well, we can’t be good at everything, Dixon,” she taunts.
Despite her sass, the way she says my name doesn’t have the same bite as it usually does. This sounds almost…friendly. It makes something in my chest heat up and start to spread throughout the rest of my body, making the want to touch her grow even more.
“I can show you how to throw a cornhole bag properly,” I offer. Why am I offering to help her? I should be happy that for once, she sucks at something. I’ve already put it out there, can’t take it back now.
“There’s a technique to throwing a cornhole bag?” she questions, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course. Just like in racing, there is a technique to every skill.”
I take her beer out of her hand and place it behind us before I stand and offer her my hand to help her up. She looks at my hand and back up at me. Questioning if she should take it or not. To my surprise, she places her smaller hand in mine. The warmth of her hand in mine feels like fireworks going off on the Fourth of July. Just like it did when we touched for the photo at the hospital, and when she grabbed my wrist at the diner. This is strikethree of her touches making me feel something. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but I want to explore it to find out.
“The goal is to get a good arc in your throw,” I say, throwing a bag to demonstrate. It lands on the board with a loud thud. “You try.” I hand her a bag.
She tries to copy my form, but she just flails and the bag lands nowhere near the board. She looks a bit defeated. I’ve never seen her look that way about anything. While racing, she’s confident in her skills, her decisions, no matter what others, myself included, say about how she got there. Deep down, I know she’s good at what she does. She’s so fucking talented, and I think that’s why we will forever be at odds with each other. No matter how much her touch lights me up inside.
No matter how much I like it and want more of it.
I pick up another bag and hand it to her. “Let me help.” She doesn’t protest as I step behind her, placing one hand on her waist and another on the wrist that’s holding the bag. She stiffens at first to my touch, but then leans into it. “Remember, the key is the arc,” I whisper into her ear. Her breath catches, and I feel a shudder course through her. I smile to myself, knowing that I got a reaction out of her.
I guide her arm for the throw. “Release.” She does, and the bag lands on the board next to the one I threw earlier.
“I got it!” she shouts. She turns around to face me. “That was—” She stops short, realizing how close our bodies are. How close our faces are. I look down at her, gorgeous hazel eyes peering into mine. She tucks a piece of shiny blonde hair behind her ear, and I get a whiff of vanilla. I’m now picturing that hair wrapped around my fist.
That thought takes me by surprise. I can already feel my jeans tightening behind the zipper, all my blood rushing to my cock at just that one thought.
“Regan—” I breathe, but she cuts me off.
“Since when is it Regan and not Brady?” she asks, her chest rising and falling with her quickening breaths.
Without thinking, I start to lean down toward her, my eyes closing. We still aren’t touching, but the spark between us is evident. Like lightning about to strike as a storm brews in the distance. We are getting closer and closer, everything happening in slow motion.
That is, until I hear my name called.
“Dixon!” someone shouts from the house. We both jump apart. Pretending like we weren’t just about to kiss.
Were we about to kiss?
“Get up here.” I realize it’s Taylor. “Sanford is passed out and we need help getting him to his room.”
Of course he is. I look to Regan, asking her permission to leave.
“Go,” she says. Gesturing toward the house with her head.
“Coming.” I head toward the house, but turn back to Regan. For some reason, I say nothing and head inside to get Chase into bed. Had I really almost kissed Regan Brady? My stomach swoops at picturing her pink lips on mine. Would her hair feel as soft as it looks, wrapped in my fingers?
As I’m walking back into the house, Leslie passes me to meet Regan outside. She’s wobbling a little bit—it seems like she found the liquor she was looking for earlier. I hope no one saw that almost kiss. I would never live it down.
But if I’m being honest, I wish Taylor hadn’t interrupted. The urge to know what she tastes like overwhelms me in a way I’m not prepared for.
I help Taylor get Chase into his bedroom. I grab a trash can, a glass of water, and some Tylenol for the morning after, because it seems like he’s going to need it.
