The Lovett men grabbed each of their children by the waist and carried them in football holds up the stairs. Theo shouted, “I’ll save ya a seat, fart face,” as he was carried across the threshold.
Following suit, Davey could be heard chantingfart facefrom inside.
Ryan chuckled and made his way to the door, and Ginny made a split second decision. She jumped up from the swing, stumbling a respectable amount without falling flat on her face. “So, fart face,” she bit her lip, feeling her smile widen, “Ry… do you maybe wanna go for a walk with me before supper?”
He looked to the door, where food, friendship, and a lack of hard conversations waited, but then, seeming to make a decision of his own, Ryan nodded and wordlessly stepped down the stairs once more, pausing for Ginny to catch up.
They walked down the long and winding driveway that led from the family home to the main road with the sounds of the breeze, critters, bugs, and the trees around them a tranquil soundtrack along their path. Large branches from the towering oaks lining the driveway hung over the path, casting darker shadows over the twilight of the surrounding woods. With little space between them, Ginny’s bare arm brushed against Ryan’s. Innocent contact that sent goosebumps across her skin and an instinct to be closer.
Before he could shove those stiff hands of his into his pockets, Ginny interlaced their fingers together and pulled him to a stop. She felt the tension sizzle between them immediately but wouldn’t release him, andHoly Heaven’s to Betsy, SHE WAS HOLDING RYAN HOOD’S HAND!
“Ryan, can we talk about this?” Ginny whispered more sedately than she felt.
He looked down at their hands where they connected. “About that?”
“Yes, Ryan. About that. We’re holding hands. And, frankly, it’s awesome.” She wiggled their hands but would not let him go. “But we should also talk about the peacocking and cookies and… the office.”
“Peacocking? What in the world does peacocking have to do with you and me holdin’ hands right now?”
“Oh, you are such a Peacocker.” Her voice sounded so much like Georgia’s it startled her, but then suddenly Ryan seemed much closer than just moments before and she felt her own conviction rise. “Every time any guy shows the slightest interest in me, you get all high and mighty, struttin’ around—” She changed her voice to mimic his, “Why do you call yourself Virginia… huff huff huff. Grump grump grump.”
“I don’t strut,Ginny.” Even in the growing darkness, Ginny could see Ryan’s green eyes narrow on hers. His stare intense, but his resolve softening. “And I don’t sound like that.”
“You do, and I want you to just finally admit it. You feel something, Ryan, and I feel something, too. And the other day in Danger’s office, I thought you—”
Ryan surged forward, the space between them taut, his breath on her face and his familiar scent wrapping her so closely she felt it impossibly hard to concentrate. “I feel…” he pulled his hand out of hers and traced her face with his finger, touching one of her stray curls so lightly she wasn’t even sure it’d happened.
Suddenly, Ginny was transported to a hot alleyway off of Main Street two years before. Desperate for the answer to the question she knew in her heart. She was frustrated and tired, but starry-eyed over this man, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it, even if he was. Even if she had to be brave for them both. Now, with Ryan looking at her—really looking—she was not going to let him walk away from her again.
She caught his hand against her face, wordlessly begging him not to release her. And when he didn’t fight her—didn’t withdraw, didn’t run—Ginny slowly ran her hands against the light, bristly shadow of hair along his jaw, closing the distance between them. So slowly, she moved closer, setting a glacial pace and giving him every opportunity to pull back. Letting Ryan decide, then and there, if he’d accept what she offered. If he could admit his feelings, not with words or declarations, but with action.
With touch and lips and promises.
One. Two. Three breaths and her endurance slipped. She brushed her lips against his and sighed helplessly against them before connecting again and feeling his answering sigh press against her lips in return. He deepened the kiss, pulling her flushagainst him and framing her face with his hands. Those hands he always buried in pockets, finally tangling in her hair, tracing her spine, landing at her waist. Squeezing her hips in a desperate push and pull that delighted and unnerved her.
Ginny had waited so long to kiss Ryan. Had spent teenage nights innocently dreaming, in the privacy of her very active imagination, what it would be like. But her wildest fantasies held no candle to the man hovering over her now. Pressing his mouth against hers again with a feather light touch and then, putting a firm and all too soon stop to things by resting his forehead on the crown of her head.
“See,” she said, breathless, “kissin’ really is the sweetest. We should probably do it again… just to be sure.”
“Ginny,” he sighed again. Deep. Resigned.
And for some reason, her nickname on his lips… the lips she’d just had on hers… didn’t sound anything like she wanted it to.
“I can’t—” he began, stepping away from her.
“You just did,” Ginny said, completely astounded at the turn things had taken.
“I can’t do this with you. You're—” He pulled further away and put his hands in his pockets. It may as well have been that giant red boundary line he always drew between them.
“I’m what, Ryan?”
“You’re you, Gin. You’re my friends’ little sister. You’re…”
Ginny felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes. His blatant rejection punched her in the gut with the weight of a sledgehammer to her sternum. She backed up, tripping again on the ridiculous croc sandals she’d decided to wear but righting herself before she could fall flat on her face.
She felt foolish. So foolish and silly. Exactly as Ryan so obviously viewed her.
“I’m sorry.” He stared at the ground, not at her.
