Do Anything (9 page)

“I’m too scared to submit anything I write now, but I can only imagine what it must have been like for her.”

“That makes no sense to me.” He stops and turns to look at me.

“Well, it was a pretty sexist society.”

“No,” he corrects. “Not her … you. Why on Earth would you be afraid? You’ve read more than most people do in a lifetime because of your job. You have a passion for the written word. You’re smart, and funny, so why would you ever be afraid?”

“All of those things don’t mean I would have any talent as a writer, no matter how much I’d love to be one.”

“It seems to me you’re the only one standing in the way of you being a writer.”

I laugh at his analysis, and he flashes me a glance as though he’s hurt by my response. I grab his arm, still giggling. “All right Dr. Blackburn, how about we quit analyzing me and talk about something else.”

“You’re just laughing because you know I’m right,” Holden scoffs, pulling my arm until it’s around his elbow.

We walk through the museum, arm-in-arm. I admire jewelry once worn by her and the history splayed out in front of us. A family quilt made with love, milestones marked throughout her life.

“Having fun?” he asks as we make our way through the final room.

I rest my head on his arm. “I am.”

“Hungry?”

My ears perk up. “Is this when I get to discover what’s inside the basket?”

“Maybe,” he chimes playfully.

We thank the museum worker and make our way back to the truck. I soon realize I am blathering on about Jane and all the useless facts I know about her. We fall silent.

“You okay?” he asks, noticing the shift.

“I just realized I must have been boring you.”

He shakes his head. “I love hearing you talk, especially about stuff that excites you. So I take it Jane is your favorite author?”

“Oh God, no!” I exclaim.

“What?” He gasps, and I realize how absurd I must sound.

“It’s kind of hard to name a favorite. I’m into the classics, but I also love authors like Anne Rice, John Green, and Veronica Roth.” I rattle off another half dozen authors who have inspired me, and he listens closely as he drives.

He inquires about names he doesn’t recognize, and I describe what they’ve written. I promise his life will never be the same once he reads them. Before I finish my last explanation, he’s pulling off onto the side of the road, the truck hopping as it pulls into the grass.

“What are we doing?” I ask, realizing we are in the middle of nowhere.

He grins at me. “You’ll see.”

We exit the truck, the basket now firmly in his grasp, and my fingers intertwined with his other hand. This doesn’t feel real. The natural connection I have with him, the instantaneous comfort level between us. I don’t want to ruin this; it’s an amazing feeling so I keep my mouth shut and go with it.

We walk over the hillside; a huge tree comes into sight. Walking about another twenty yards, he stops and opens the basket. I watch, intrigued, as he pulls out a blanket first, spreading it across the ground.

“Oh my, are we going to have a picnic?” I ask, excited.

“Depends, do you like picnics?” he asks, his hands hovering over the open basket, waiting for my answer.

“I love them.”

“Then yes,” he confirms, reaching in and pulling out several containers.

I sit down on the blanket, exploring the contents. “What did you make us?”

“Yeah, I made it, sure, that sounds good,” he jokes.

“I see … what did Bea make us?” I laugh.

“Some fried chicken, a pasta salad, and I think she put some bread and butter in here—” he says, still pulling items from the basket. “Yeah, here it is. And of course, a bottle of wine.”

“Nice, very impressive.”

“I try,” he says, taking a seat and twisting off the wine cap.

“Screw top, fancy,” I tease.

“Nothing but the best.”

A moment later we’re devouring the food; my stomach thrilled with the selections. Holden swallows his mouthful. “Can I ask you a question?”

I smile, then answer, “I don’t know, will I not like the question?”

“I don’t think it’s bad.”

“Okay,” I answer, hesitant.

“Have you ever tried to write anything?”

I flinch at his question, surprised at the seriousness with which he asked. “I guess, in college, for assignments.”

“No—like a book. Have you ever tried to write a book?”

I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think I’ve experienced enough things in my life yet.”

“I don’t understand. Do you think Anne Rice has ever actually met a vampire?” His question makes me laugh.

“Well, no.”

“You jumped on a plane to a place you’ve never been and had a pretty hot and steamy encounter with a stranger in the middle of the night. I don’t know, but your life sounds pretty damn interesting to me.”

“I …” I have nothing to say in response.

“Exactly.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” I growl, leaning back on my elbows.

“Oh, I can definitely help you out with that request,” he replies, climbing on top of my body, his lips meeting mine without hesitation.

The kiss begins tender, then he presses firmly against me, and I allow his tongue to explore the inside of my mouth. I drink him in, as he tastes me, the sourness of my last drink of wine lingering on my palette.

He pulls away, kissing my neck, and I push my lips against his ear and whisper, “You’re right. You’re a really good tour guide.”

I feel his body convulse with laughter, as his head moves down my body, and he lifts up my shirt, trailing kisses down my stomach. My hips lift toward his head in anticipation. I close my eyes, waiting for him to tug at the button of my pants, but nothing happens.

I open my eyes, and he’s staring at me.

“What?” I gasp.

“We better get back,” he says, standing up.

“Huh?” I squeak, exasperated.

He reaches out a hand to help me up. I take hold, and he yanks me upright, pulling my body close to him. “You said you wanted to slow down last night, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“I changed my mind,” I moan.

Holden laughs; Jesus, I love his laugh. “Uh-huh, come on, give me a hand,” he directs me, grabbing the empty containers and tossing them back into the basket. Though I’m frustrated, Holden has just piqued my curiosity.

I bounce down the stairs, each step exuding energy. The last two weeks have felt like a dream. I’ve spent about every waking moment with Holden. Kenzie still can’t believe I haven’t screwed him yet. She can’t seem to wrap her head around the idea that two people might be able to spend almost every minute of every day together and simply enjoy conversation.

We do enjoy the occasional kiss; all right, perhaps more than the occasional kiss. His hands have also explored my body many times, but he doesn’t seem to be pushing me to speed things along. Though it sounds cliché to Kenzie, he’s a gentleman. I’ve told him about Jack, probably more than I should have. I explained that we had been together since college, and that I’d never really had a serious relationship besides him.

When I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep, I tend to dive into our relationship. Analyzing every detail. My conclusion is that we’ve both been hurt. Maddie left him at the altar, and I … well, we don’t need to rehash my issues. Two people who have experienced our kind of hurt start off in a common place. Maybe it helps to relate to one another, but I think it also makes us cautious; hence why I haven’t ripped his clothes off yet, no matter how bad both of us have wanted to.

I doubt at any stage in my life I’d sleep with a man after only two weeks. Though the idea makes me curious, it isn’t who I am. And while Kenzie likes to play off that she is a wild child, I know her too well. Through all of her complaining, she loves Ben and would never be unfaithful to him, no matter how much she claims she could be tempted.

Holden is stationed behind the bar. My stomach flutters when I look at him. Our eyes meet, and it’s like that little shock you get when there is too much static electricity in the air. I push all the air from my lungs as I walk by him and cross the room, taking a seat in front of the fireplace. I prop my feet up on the small stool in front of me and pull my book up in front of my face, cracking the pages. It’s funny to me how comfortable I feel here. I never feel like this anywhere. I’m always holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong. Since being on this trip, though—well, really since meeting Holden—everything has changed. And I like it.

“Tea?” Holden asks, clearing his throat over my shoulder. I’ve told him for days now that I hate tea. In fact, I think it tastes like hot dirty water, and I’m not sure why anyone would subject herself to it.

He explained to me that it was because I hadn’t found a flavor of tea my taste buds enjoyed and that everyone likes tea. Since that conversation, he has brought me a different blend of tea each day to see if it might be the perfect mix for me. So far I’m winning the argument.

“And what do we have today?” I ask, placing the book on my lap.

“A blackberry mojito green tea.” The way he is glaring down at me, I want to kiss him, taste his lips.

“Mojito? Now that sounds like a tea I could get behind.” I laugh, eagerly taking the cup and saucer from his hands, and sip. I wince.

“Still not right," he remarks.

“Sorry slick, keep trying,” I confirm, scrunching my nose in disgust.

“I’m going to find a tea you like.”

“If you say so.” I can’t quit smiling at his persistence.

He plops down in the chair across from me. He usually doesn’t come over to me so early in the day, often consumed with running the pub, but today seems to be slow. I’m trying to get back into my book, but I can sense he is staring at me.

I tilt the pages down, allowing my eyes to engage with his. “Yes?”

“What part are you at?” he asks.

I think about his question, realizing he means my book. “Have you read this?”

“Oh yeah; I love Hugh Howey.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait. Back up,” I gasp, shaking my head. “We’ve been hanging out for two weeks now, spending all our time together, and you never once mentioned anything about books. You know that my entire trip is focused on my bookish ways, and yet you never think to mention you’re a reader.”

“I love to read actually.”

“And you never mentioned this why?” I exclaim.

“You never asked,” he answers plainly, a hint of a smile tickling the corner of his mouth.

Leaning over, I strike him in the arm with the book. He flinches, laughing. I settle back into my chair, smiling at him. “I love that you’re a reader.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

I think about his words. I wish everyone were a reader. Not the recreational and occasional three or four books a year, but the obsessive like me. I can’t understand not having that thirst.

“No,” I answer directly, and his face shifts as he sees my somber expression. “Jack hated reading. The only thing he ever read was law journals, and it was because he had to.”

A silence settles between us, and my gaze is drawn to the embers of the fire. I’d managed to avoid thinking about Jack much, but here he was, in my mind. I’d started to think maybe I was finally getting over him, but once again there is an ache in my chest as he enters my thoughts. I tell myself I don’t miss him, because how could I miss someone who could treat me so poorly.

“You don’t talk about him much,” Holden interrupts my thoughts.

I shake my head, and my voice cracks, “Still fresh I guess.”

I look over to see large blue eyes, his eyebrows lifted, and I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. I know that look. I’ve seen it a lot lately, but never from him. It’s pity. I need to shift this conversation and soon.

“He really did a number on you, huh?” Holden continues.

“Wha—” I start, then change the subject. “No more than Maddie did on you.” I can’t figure out why I do that. Every time I start to feel vulnerable I have to make someone else feel even more uncomfortable. But my statement doesn’t seem to be affecting him in the way I thought it would. His brow narrows, and I can see he is considering my words.

“Then yeah, he must have messed you up pretty good, because Maddie destroyed me.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have …” My chest aches, and I wish I could disappear.

“No, don’t be silly. I don’t mind talking about it with you. I mean …” He looks over his shoulder as if checking to see if someone is listening, then looks back to me and smiles. “I don’t really have anyone here I talk to like I do you. I keep things bottled up because I know nobody will understand. But it’s not like that with you.”

“I feel the same way. I think part of me getting on that plane was because I was sick of everyone asking me about Jack. If I tried to talk about it with them, they always wanted to fix it. You can’t fix what happened.”

“Exactly, but sometimes you just need a person to listen.” As Holden speaks these words I feel a shiver run through my body.

“Listen.” The word leaves my lips at the exact same time he says it. We both sit quiet, looking at one another.

“I’m glad you came here.”

“Me too.”