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“It’s gonna be about twenty minutes,” he says, wrapping his other arm around my shoulders so that my head comes to rest against his chest. “You can nap if you want.”
I almost laugh because how old does he think that I am? Five? But then I realise that, actually, it was less than a decade ago that I literallywasfive, and as school was tiring the best thing that I could do right nowwouldbe to refresh myself with a nap. I tuck myself tighter against his torso and he makes a low satisfied noise as I close my eyes.
He gives my thigh a little squeeze when we reach our stop. I open my eyes sleepily as he interlocks our fingers and starts walking us purposefully down the centre isle of the bus. Looking up at him I feel as though I’ve died and gone to Heaven.Imagine waking up to Tate Coleson every morning.My legs wobble at the thought.
Once we are completely out of the bus I realise that he has literally taken me to the back of Bumfuck, Nowhere. There isn’t even a pavement beside the bus sign. Instead, the road is encased by an arching alcove of evergreens, rainwater trickling heavily through the sparse gaps in the canopy, and a consistent pattering hammering against the leaves above us. There’s asmall location sign just behind us but Tate’s grip on my hand doesn’t loosen enough for me to be able to lean over and read it. He glances down at me before he attempts to wade through the dense forest which seemingly lines the road out of town, his expression cautious.
“We’re only a minute away, I promise,” he says, probably sensing my unease. I keep my face impassive but it doesn’t convince him in the slightest. He pulls me away from the roadside, so that we’re both shielded behind one of the bordering trees, and he gently rubs his thumbs up my jaw. My body traitorously melts a little, so I really hope that he isn’t a serial killer. He leans down and presses his lips chastely to mine, to try and ease me up. The warmth from his mouth seeps into me and I shudder pleasurably at the feeling, not even minding the fat rain drops that are hitting against my forehead and exposed cheeks. He pulls away and says, “I wish that the weather was better, but I think that you’ll still like it. It’s my favourite place.”
The vulnerability in his voice catches my interest but he turns away and starts leading us through the trees again before I have the chance to study it.He’s taking me to his favourite place?My tiny ego shivers in delight.
It only takes another twenty seconds for the spot to come into view and I gasp when I see it. How have I lived here forever and never known about this place?
Hearing me, Tate turns his head and he gives me a small smile. “You like it?” he asks.
Iloveit. If anything, the onslaught of rain makes it even more atmospheric. As the thicket of trees becomes sparser we enter a secluded gravel clearing, encircling a gigantic lake. Its smooth silver surface is being pelted with shots of rain and it’s creating a thunder of ear-bashing slaps, harmonised by the thud of pellets hitting the emerald leaves around us.
I look up at him, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he watches me nervously, and I return his earlier shy smile. “This is so amazing,” I say, still shimmering with the fact that Tate Coleson invitedmeinto his secret sacred place. “Where even are we? We have, like, thewholeplace to ourselves.”
His eyes roam down my body as he pulls me to his chest and he takes a long, deep inhalation, as if he’s breathing in my scent. “Silver Lake,” he mumbles, his hands rubbing up and down my arms. “And I’m glad you like it.” When he lifts his eyes back to mine, they’re dangerously sparkly.
He walks us backwards so that we stay under the sheltering canopy of leaves and then he shucks off his blazer and spreads it between a tree-nook, creating a sort of woodland throne. Somehow he manages to steadily sink us both to the ground, with me sitting on his blazer and him kneeling between my legs, his muscular thighs spread apart in a way that makes me blush. He dips down so that his head is level with mine, and then he takes my lips in his as he steadies himself, holding onto my hips.
He moves his hands so that he can pull down the zipper on my jacket and, once opened, he settles them gently on my waist. I have read a lot of romance books so I know that he’s probably about to touch my chest, and I’m half-tempted to apologise in advance because there is really nothing there for him, but he catches me by surprise when his fingers trail to the lower half of my shirt, and he softly splays his palm out across my quivering stomach. My knees knock against the sides of his wide ribcage and it sends a jolt of electricity through both of our bodies. He pulls away, his breathing completely off the rails as he falls back onto his haunches. The way that he’s sat is giving me the most explicit view of what lies between his thighs and I don’t think that I have ever been so red in my life. He hasn’t even used his tongue, although he said that he wanted to when we werein his bedroom the other day, but I can see that he has already stiffened drastically under the fabric of his pants.
He notices what I’m looking at and he instantly changes his position, getting to his feet and then coming to sit next to me. I’m half surprised that he doesn’t take my eye out when he crouches down at my side before sprawling his long legs out. His dad must be a behemoth if this is what Tate looks like before he’s even turnedsixteen.
We sit in silence for a minute as we try to get our breathing to return to normal, and Tate leans his head back against the tree trunk, his Adam’s apple rolling up and down his neck as he swallows. His caramel skin looks even more tan under the shade of the leaves and it’s so beautiful that I don’t want to look away from him. I fold my hands over where he touched me on my stomach and he tilts his head down to the side so that he can watch me.
“What’s with the tummy thing?” I ask, kind of boldly, but I’m too curious not to mention it.
His eyes flash up to mine but he drops them back down to my stomach, a soft blush appearing and staining his cheekbones. “Uh…” he rubs one of his hands across the back of his neck, as if he’s embarrassed or nervous and not sure if he should tell me. “I just… because it’s where…” He breathes out a shaky exhale and shifts a bit, dropping his hand down again. “Not right now, of course, ’cause we’re both young and all but… when we’re older…”
I lean my head around so that I can meet his eyes and he runs his hand down his face, groaning a little.
“It’s just… it’s where you’ll make babies is all,” he finishes, and my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Whatever I expected him to say, it was notthat. Tate wants babies? Why have I never thought about boys as wanting to have children? Honestly, I have never really thought about babies, but the idea thatTate Coleson thinks about…makingthem… it makes my breath catch.
“Okay,” I say shakily and he laughs, dropping his head into his hands.
“Sorry, that’s so weird. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he says, sitting straight again so that he can tentatively gauge my reaction. Our gazes lock and we both laugh, ignoring the loud current of excitement that hums between us with the knowledge thathe wants to make a baby, and he heavily implied thathe wants to make it with me.
Looking for a distraction I notice something on the other side of the shore, so I ask, “What’s that?” pointing to the wooden structure to the East of the lake, the golden wood turning a deeper, almost mahogany colour under its blanketing of rain.
“I think it’s-” Tate pauses for a moment and swallows hard. His voice has gone so deep that I feel it reverberating inside of me. He runs his hand through his hair, water droplets cascading down his defined jaw and neck, and he tries again. “I think it’s an old chalet or a bungalow, but it’s been derelict for ages now. Super quaint and traditional.” He thinks for a moment. “I bet my dad and me would know how to fix it up real good.”
I look up at his face in surprise because I’m pretty sure that this is the first time that Tate has ever mentioned his dad. He moves his hand to mine and locks our fingers together as if he can sense what I’m thinking.
“My dad recently moved back to town… and I’m kind of hoping that my mom’s going to let me go and live with him, once he’s got his business all set up and running again. I want to start working with him as soon as possible,” he says. His eyes flash down to my mouth but then he quickly looks away, and he tries to shield the large swell between his thighs with his rigid fist. “He’d love you, just so you know,” he adds, eyes still looking out over to the little wooden chalet.
I look down at out connected fingers and ask, “Did he bring you here? Is that how you found this place?”
He nods, smiling, and a crimson blush delicately spreads over his cheekbones. “Yeah - I’m gonna sound like a wet-wipe but I guess it’s sorta special to me, because of that,” he answers, laughing as he shakes more rain from his hair. Tate Coleson is so cut that he’s borderline Sasquatch, so the fact that he isn’t afraid to admit his emotions lights up a flock of fireflies in my belly, and it makes me like him even more. “I haven’t brought anyone here, ever. Not Madden. Andespeciallynot Huddy, even though we…” he sighs and rolls his shoulders, the large bones making intimidating cracking sounds. “We share everything,” he finishes.
My stomach drops a little, but I don’t say anything. At least Tate seems to be as uncomfortable about Hudson as I am - but then I have to wonder, why the hell does he stay friends with him?
I stroke my thumb up the long length of his pointer finger, falling rhythmically into the dips around his large knuckles, and his attention immediately snaps back to me. I avoid his gaze until I reach the tip of his finger and then I look up at him from underneath my lashes. The doe eyes seem to flick a switch in his brain because he hunches around me again, threading the fingers of his free hand into my hair.
“I wanted to bring you here so that I could ask you something,” he says, bringing my face in closer to his. “And you don’t have to say yes… or, if you already had plans…” He trails off for a moment, his eyes looking deep into my own, as if he’s trying to read my mind before he follows through with the rest of his sentence. He braces himself – and I secretly bracemyself– and then, with a deep, shoulder-heaving inhalation, he asks me, “River, will you go to Homecoming with me?”
