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Less than five minutes later, I’m opening the door to my cabin after waving goodnight to Laila while she made her way into the bungalow next door.
Once I’m alone, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and stare at the blank screen.
My veins are still buzzing from the evening, from the performance but also because of Mindy and what happened between us and what I want to happen between us. That can’t be it. There has to be more. I haven’t spent nearly enough time with her mouth.
I leave my phone on the counter in the kitchen, then head upstairs to take a cold shower, rinse off the gel in my hair, and change into something more comfortable.
When I’m finished, I make my way back downstairs and pick up the phone. Nothing. My thumbs have a will of their own and click on the text icon, pulling up Mindy’s name.
But doubt trickles in.
What if she was caught up in the excitement of the moment and now that it’s over, she’s regretting it?
Maybe I’m just convenient. Maybe she was right all along and it’s a bad idea to do this since we’re working together and if everything goes bad then that could negatively affect her career and shouldn’t I be thinking about—
A rapid knocking jars me from the spiraling thoughts.
My heart thumps a staccato beat as I race to open the door. Mindy immediately throws herself into my arms, her mouth pressing against mine, her hands in my hair, and all my fears and doubts crumble under her eager hands.
She’s still wearing the dress from earlier, but she’s traded the heels for boots and thrown on a coat.
I kick the door shut and press her back against it, fine tremors rushing through my body, unable to contain the thrilling fact that’s she’s here, in my arms.
Her hands slip under my shirt, running up my back, gripping and tugging me toward her.
I cup her face in my hands, warring with competing impulses, wanting more than anything to be inside of her as soon as humanly possible and simultaneously wanting to slow us down so I can take my time and enjoy every luscious second.
Before I can choose between the devil or the angel on my shoulders, someone bangs on the door, the vibration echoing through me, and we both jump, our eyes locking in mutual confusion.
“Who?” she mouths.
I lean over and she shifts her head to the side so I can peer through the peephole.
“Jake,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes, ducking out from between me and the door. She gives me a saucy wink before disappearing into the coat closet in the entry. I lean my head against the door, taking a few deep breaths and once again trying to calm my raging erection.
After a few seconds, I let him in.
“Dude.” He stalks past me, heading for the kitchen. “Can I talk to you about how freaking hard it is to be in a bar where I used to get wasted and not have a single drop?”
I follow him, resting an arm against one of the stools while he opens the fridge and grabs a soda.
“It is hard. One of the hardest things in the world, and yet you did it. You should be proud of yourself.”
He stares down at the can in his hand, frowning for a few seconds before lifting his gaze to mine. “Remember the other day, you said something about how life is always going to have shitty times, and it doesn’t last forever, and you need some kind of tools to get through it to the happy bits, or whatever?”
I move farther into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah.”
“What tools do you use?”
“Songwriting, mostly.”
“Oh.” He pops open the soda and takes a long chug. “That makes sense.”
“That’s what worked best for me. There are a lot of different approaches, though. Writing is only one of them. It doesn’t have to be a song or anything creative, either, sometimes just freewriting your feelings is a way to sort of release them. You can also try things like exercise, meditation, or finding a grief support group.”
“Right.”
