“Look, what I want—what I really want—is to be able to hold your hand or touch your face,” she said, moving her other hand up to cup Reese’s cheek, “and not have you think I’m doing it for any other reason than because I like to touch you. Because it feels good and I want it to make you feel good, too.”
Reese leaned into the touch. Sydney’s hand was warm and soft and comforting against her face, her thumb rubbing gently along Reese’s cheekbone.
Sydney sucked in a deep breath, her hand stilling. “So if there’s anything I can give you, I hope it’s making it clear that I am attracted to you.”
It was Reese who closed the space between them, finding Sydney’s lips with her own. The kiss was tentative at first, and she wasn’t sure she was breathing until Sydney sucked gently at her bottom lip, and a soft exhale of air rushed out of her, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks, waiting for this to happen.
She didn’t want to be afraid. She didn’t want to let her past define her future. She didn’t want to stop herself because, even though Sydney’s life wasn’t set in stone, it felt safer to stop things before they ever got started than hurt later down the line.
Sydney’s hand slotted down against her neck, adjusting them to get a better position, her tongue asking for entry against Reese’s already wet lips.
When she granted it, thanked with a soft bite at the edge of her mouth, stars exploded behind her eyelids, and she wondered if the fireworks show was starting again.
Thirteen
Sydney had been practically skippingthrough the house since she’d returned to Florida on Friday morning. Unfortunately, the skipping wasn’t easily hidden, and it was starting to lead to questions.
She bounced down the staircase before heading through the hallway and depositing herself in a seat at the kitchen island. By the time she’d hit the first floor, she’d tried to slow her steps, making sure her pace was leisurely and didn’t earn her any more raised eyebrows.
“You used to bounce through the house like that after you’d won a match,” her mom said from where she stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious.
Rachel King was far less of a pushover than Sydney’s father, who’d simply given her a kiss on the head after clocking her noticeably upbeat attitude since returning home, telling her that, “Stoneport seemed to have done her wonders.”
In the three days she’d been home, she hadn’t quite come up with an easy way to explain her newfound carefree nature, let alone the con—or whatever it had become—that she was running with Reese. Sydney was now an active participant in all of Grant’swedding events, something she knew her mom wouldn’t approve of.
Which was fair, even if it meant she was constantly dodging questions.
Still, she was on cloud nine, and even a little subterfuge couldn’t dampen her mood.
“What are you making?” Sydney asked, trying to change the subject.
“Gator gumbo,” her mom supplied, stirring the pot before taking a deep inhale of the aroma.
Sydney blanched. “You’re kidding me.” She wouldn’t call herself a picky eater, but she drew the line at anything that would be able to eat her back if they had the chance.
Her mom turned around, wiping her hands on a dish towel on the kitchen island. She had Sydney’s green eyes and blonde hair, though her mom’s face was sharper, a sort of ‘no nonsense’ look that had served her well in her previous life as a middle school teacher. “I thought we were all just saying whatever we wanted in this house now, regardless of whether it was the truth.”
“Mom,” Sydney whined, transported back to her childhood and the zero things she’d ever been away to get away with. That was why she and Hallie had always caused a ruckus at The Stone’s Throw: Hallie’s parents were much busier and less likely to catch onto their schemes until it was too late.
Rachel held her hands up. “I’m just saying. I’ve played good cop for the last couple of days, giving you space, but you left for Stoneport like a kicked puppy and now you’re back, walking around with stars in your eyes. As a mother, am I wrong for being curious as to what’s caused this sudden change in attitude?”
“Dad is ‘good cop,’” Sydney argued. “You’ve been giving me those looks since I walked in the door.”
“Because you didn’t walk. Youfloated,” her mom batted back.
“Have you gotten a hobby? Because I told you that hobbies would do you wonders. Great to keep the mind active and sharp.”
“There are only so many games of pickleball a woman canplay, my dear. Not all of us have your zest for professional athletics.”
Sydney tapped her finger on her chin, trying to remember what her mom had been up to lately. “How was that book club you joined?”
“A guise for afternoon drinking.”
“Are we… against that?” Sydney asked, clocking the glass of wine her mom was now sipping.
“The cookbook said a South African shiraz paired nicely.”
Sydney eyed the gumbo pot warily. “Have you tried it yet?”
