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I crack my can open and take a long sip, giving myself a beat to move past whatever this bristly irritation is before returning to the deck and retaking my seat. Thankfully, they’re no longer ogling my neighbor and are now talking about the A’s game from a few nights ago.
I’m normally pretty good at poker. It requires a kind of shrewd attention to detail that comes naturally to me. But tonight, all my mojo seems off. I feel distracted and a bit restless, my mind scattered when normally I keep it carefully focused.
I can’t seem to shake off Jeremiah’s comments. They might have been slightly uncouth, but it wasn’t anything wildly inappropriate. And yet I wanted to leap out of my fucking chair and launch myself at his throat. As someone who considers himself to be a fairly calm, easygoing guy, I can’t say I particularly liked that feeling. I have no idea where it came from or why it bloomed so quickly in my chest, but it did. Even as Nick deals us a new hand and everyone has clearly moved on, something prickly is humming through my veins.
“Reid. You in?”
Nick’s question drags me out from under the current of emotion I’m feeling, and I find everyone staring at me, waiting for my bet.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up in my chair and returning my attention to the cards in my hand.
I guess the reason doesn’t matter. The reality is that I feel…protective of Busy, warranted or not. I didn’t like what Jeremiah said, not one bit. But I also didn’t like everyone watching her in her bathing suit. I didn’t want them to sit around talking about her, eyeing her the way they were.
So while, yes, it was protective, it was also…possessive. Something I definitely shouldn’t be feeling.
Not about Busy Mitchell.
Not about anyone.
It’s dark when the guys finally take off, and for the first time, I’m glad to see them all go. I remained distracted for the rest of the game, and when nine o’clock finally rolled around, I brought up the workday tomorrow. Everyone seemed to be as glad to wrap up the evening as I was to see them out the door.
Which is a shame.
I slump down into my chair on the porch, having finally finished putting everything away, and I just stare out at the lake, my feet resting on the small coffee table and my hands folded in my lap. Just like how I feel about mornings, I love watching the lake at night. The gentle glow of lights in the distance and the moon in the sky, the way it all dances in the reflection of the water. It’s beautiful.
After while, I hear the familiar squeak of the screen door opening at the green cabin. Busy emerges, a bottle of wine in one hand and her phone in the other. I’m sitting in the dark, but thelight of the moon is enough to illuminate us both, so when she turns, glancing in my direction, she waves.
“I thought all you guys went back inside.”
I nod. “We did, but everyone’s gone now, so…” I shrug. “Just enjoying the night.”
She bobs her head then looks out at the water for a beat or two. “Mind if I join you?” she asks. “I’ll gladly share my wine in exchange for a chair so I don’t have to sit on the ground.”
Part of me thinks I should say no, thinks my little outburst earlier means I’m stepping into murky waters by spending any time with Busy. The flare of interest I felt and my resulting attitude at the other guys is enough for me to know better.
But I ignore that small voice, and instead, I nod and gesture to the chair next to mine. Busy smiles and hops off her deck, crossing over to the edge of mine, her bare feet padding softly on the grass between our cabins. When she plops down next to me, I get a waft of something sweet and fruity—jasmine, maybe.
“It’s on the cheaper side,” she says, twisting off the top of her wine bottle, “but I promise it won’t give you a hangover.” She takes a long sip before she shrugs, licking her lips. “Most likely.”
Then she extends the bottle my way. I look at it for a beat then back at Busy before reaching out and accepting it. Apparently we’re drinking straight from the source tonight, andsharingthe bottle—two things I haven’t done in atleasta decade. I’ve never been a big drinker, but you have lower standards in your early 20s.
Groaning internally at the reminder that Busyisin her early 20s, I take my own sip, careful to hide my wince at the bitter taste, then pass it back to her.
“Were you guys playing poker?” she asks, her feet joining mine on the coffee table, her head tilting back to look up at the stars.
“Yeah. It’s a monthly thing Nick started. You know Nick Waltham, right?”
“I do. He’s friends with my brother. He did all the construction work on Cedar Cider, too.”
I nod. Boyd was a year ahead of me in school. I didn’t know him that well, but I was friends with a few of his friends, and we were both athletes, so we were friendlyeven if we weren’t friends.
“A regular poker night with friends sounds like fun.”
I shrug a shoulder. “It can be.”
Busy’s head lolls to the side, her eyes connecting with mine. “Ooof. Was itnottonight?”
Licking my lips, I chuckle slightly, surprised she was able to read me so easily.
