Page 89 of Small Town, Big Storm

I don’t care.

Maybe it’s because even though I left the cooler and blanket unattended, no one’s touched it.

Or maybe it’s because the weather is beautiful, the perfect mix of hot with a refreshing breeze that makes it pleasant to sit in the shade.

Maybe it’s that Poppy’s hand is in mine.

“Hang on,” I murmur, snagging the blanket and cooler, tucking the former under my arm, gripping the latter in my free hand.

Because I don’t let Poppy go.

Because I won’t let her go.

I lead her down a narrow winding path. It’s not a secret—Cedar Hollow Beach is too public for that to be reality—but it’s a pain in the ass to get to, full of blackberry brambles and poison oak.

But I scoped out a safe path earlier.

I release her hand, turn so my back is to her. “Hop on.”

“Um,” she begins.

I glance over my shoulder. “Hop on, baby.”

She bites her lip again, a flicker of heat sliding through her eyes, and I make note of that response, make note to call her baby time and again if it means she looks at me like that.

“I’m not exactly a teenager, Storm,” she says softly.

I move over to a fallen log, set the cooler and blanket on top of it, and crouch a little lower. “I’ll help you, Poppyseed.”

Her inhale is sharp and when I glance over, her expression is unreadable.

“What?”

“You haven’t called me that since…” Her words trail off and before I can reply, she moves over to the log, climbs on top, settles her hands on my shoulders. “I’m heavier now than I was back then.”

“Good,” I say. “I am too.” I reach for the backs of her legs. “Now, hop up, baby.”

A blip of hesitation.

Then her legs flex and she jumps onto my back, her arms and legs wrapping around me.

I take a second to enjoy the feel of her pressed against me.

Then I snag the cooler and the blanket, and start down the trail, winding through rocks and logs, stepping carefully through loose dirt and fallen leaves, and—most importantly—avoiding thorns and rash-causing plants.

“You know,” I say as I carry her, “I still dream about the red bikini sometimes.”

Her arms and legs tighten around me. “Wh-what?”

“That summer you were fond of”—I step on top of a rock—“an exceptionally tiny red bikini. I liked it.” I hop down, continue on. “A lot.”

“I’m getting that.” She huffs out a laugh that raises goosebumps on my nape. “And I remember.” The words are silken fingers drifting down my front, wrapping around my cock.

“Please tell me you still have it,” I all but beg.

She laughs again. “Oh no,” she says. “My days of teeny tiny bikinis are long over.”

“Why?” I ask as I carefully navigate us down the final decline that will take us to the smaller, more secluded beach.