“What are you doing?”
With my free hand, I take her and lead her toward the front railing, the place she always stands and holds onto when she’s staring off at the sunset. I fall to my knees, and with one hand holding tight to the grayed wood, I use the tip of the blade to start carving.
Magnolia kneels slightly behind me, her chin resting on my shoulder as I slowly etch our initials into the wood.
L + M
Once satisfied with my work, I blow away the sawdust and lean back, carefully closing the blade and tucking it back into my pocket. “Claimed it.” I smirk, peering over to look at her.
With her gaze focused on those two letters, I can see the tears well again in her eyes. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her to me, planting a kiss on her temple. “Don’t cry, baby, just think of the future. Think of the day our kids will be running around this place; they’ll get to look at this and hear the story of how their parents fell in love.”
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” she teases, swiping away at a lonely tear. “God, I’m going to show up at dinner all puffy and swollen, your family will know I’ve been crying.”
A clap of thunder booms ahead, rattling the rickety roof above us. Mags flinches, hands covering her ears, and I stand, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get out of here before it tears our house apart.”
With her fingers laced tightly with mine, we race down the steps, across the slick grass, and I pull her to the driver’s side of my truck. She squeals when my hat gets ripped off her head, and I whip open the door, helping her in before I chase after it.
We’re a laughing, gasping, soaked mess by the time I shut my door. Once inside, we take one look at ourselves and start laughing again. “Nevermind the puffy face, they’re going to ask what we were doing in the rain,” she says through a giggle, and I stare over at her as she pulls down the passenger side visor.Mags runs her fingers through her tangled locks, watching her foggy reflection as she combs through her hair, and I continue to watch her. That pinch in my chest is back, the one that started the moment I realized we aren’t going to be spending every day together in the near future. It sits in a pit behind my ribs, deep in the hollow of my organs; an ominous voice that tells me I don’t know what I’ll do without this girl.
“Whatcha thinking, Hart?” she asks, flipping up the visor.
“Just thinking how much I love you.”
Her head tilts and a soft smile appears on her face.
My eyes flick down to her raspberry-colored tank top, which, on the run from the porch to my truck got soaked with rain. Her nipples are pebbled, pushing through what looks like a lacey bra and the thin tank, making my dick harden in my pants. “Thinking that you look real good right now, Mags.”
She looks down at the front of her shirt where my eyes are burning a hole, then back at me. With her soft smile turning sultry, she reaches for the hem of her tank, gripping the fabric and pulling it up and over her head before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it on my face.
It lands on my shoulder, my hand in the air with a half-hearted attempt to catch it.
Then her hands disappear behind her, and her sheer turquoise bra loosens. I suck in a breath and hold it when the straps fall loose, slipping down her shoulders. She tugs it away, reaching a hand out with the strap dangling from her finger as she drops it in my lap. “What about now?” she coos, and I scrub a hand over my face, feeling drunk on the look of her.
“I think you look like every goddamn prayer and dream I’ve ever had, all mixed in one.”
She smiles, bringing her hands up to twist a damp strand of hair that rests on her collar bone.
Reaching my arm out, I snag her wrist, and with one quick move, I pull her under me. She squeals once I trap her beneath my body with her back resting on the seat of my truck. Ripping off my own damp shirt, I fling it to the floor, twisting my ballcap backward on my head as my mouth moves to her chest. “And I think we’re going to be late for dinner.”
CHAPTER 5
Lukas
TWENTY YEARS OLD
Athick bead of sweat drips down my back, rolling a slow path between my shoulder blades, nearly tickling once it hits the center of my spine. It’s a fucking miserably hot day, record high temps for September, they say. I adjust the brim of my ball cap, eyes laser-focused on the catcher, Diaz, squatting sixty feet away from me. His hands work in quick motions.
Fly ball.
I shake my head no.
Fastball.
I shake no again.
He gives me the middle finger, and the corner of my lip twitches.
He motions again for a fastball, this time on the outside. I ponder it for a second, then shake my head. None of them feel right.
