Page 32 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)
Shuffling forward, she set both hands on the center console. Shit. The climb back over was going to be neither graceful, nor flattering. “Would it be dangerous to ask you to close your eyes while I get back into my seat?”
He flicked the mirror back down. “You got yourself into this mess.”
“Hey. I’ve covered for enough of your messes.”
“Yeah? Think I never covered for you?”
“Okay, so maybe—“
“Finn’s house, this late at night? No, she’s over at Pippa’s…” he said, lifting to a half grin as he teased her via reflection. “The cookies are all gone? That was me, I got hungry last night—“
“Okay, I get it,” she said, moving forward and wedging herself between the front seats. Snug with her shoulders not quite stuck, she growled, “The whiskey is missing? I wanted to try it, I’m sorry.”
Knees on the center console, she climbed further, knowing the flashing was imminent.
“Give up? We could go all night with this, and I’ll win.” She egged him on so she didn’t think about the fact that he was about to see the granny panties she wore so they didn’t show through her work slacks.
Voice a little hoarse this time, his body shifted over so she had more room, Cole gripped the wheel. “The sparkly silver thong with the clever straps on the laundry room floor? Totally mine,” he said.
Her mouth gaped open and she gave up on grace and flopped into the seat.
His wicked, cheek-biting grin was aimed right at her.
“Wait, what?”
“I’m still covering for you, apparently.
That was this morning,“ he said, quickly shifting his gaze back to the road. “I ran into Ellen in the laundry room, and she was holding up your new panties, and I didn’t know her eyes could open so wide. I was worried she was going to have a heart attack. With all her worrying over you losing control and having a wild and reckless affair with a not-nice boy, I had to. So I blushed and stammered like they were mine and stuffed them in my pocket.” Already laughing, he reached into his pocket and dangled her risqué thong from the tip of his fingers, glimmering a glance at her that was hotter than the microscopic panties.
She quickly stuffed them in her own pocket. “What did she say?”
“Nothing. Not a word. But I felt the disappointment burning in her lowered eyebrows.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry. I know she thinks I’m either a late bloomer on the rebellious phase or early on the midlife crisis, and I’m one knee-trembler away from losing my sweetness.
For your sake, however, she also doesn’t need to think you’re fucking some woman with wicked appetites.
Seriously, you should just fess up that they’re mine. ”
“Are you kidding? If I admitted that I could identify your panties, it would be so much worse than if I happened to have someone else’s panties, and I honestly panicked and it was obvious that I recognized them.
Either way, she should get used to the fact that tighty whities and granny panties don’t turn either of us on. ”
Trace’s stomach rolled as she pictured her mother’s face. Supportive, yes, her parents always had her back. But some people didn’t do change, and Trace knew she came by sticking to her comfort zone naturally.
Skimpy panties. Miniskirts. Flirting with Cole, who they protected as fiercely as they did her. They knew she was raging to break out of her comfort zone and be the person she had repressed for so long.
Maybe she should cool things down with him, stop flirting, stop wishing she had the guts to kiss him, to let him see those panties while she had them on.
Too much all at once, it was probably stupid to even consider a thing with him, while she was still working on her and he was still working on him.
“And if she figures out that they’re my panties, and you claimed they were yours?”
“Then we hope to hell they are okay with it.” He gripped the wheel tighter, his brow low. “I can’t hurt them.”
W ater sprayed high around the tires as he drove through another freeway puddle.
Rain pounded the car from every angle, the road, flooding incessantly until the air hazed with moisture.
Sunset was a few hours away, but the clouds were so engorged, it may as well be midnight.
Cole gripped the wheel tightly. Even this car could hydroplane in the lakes pooling on the road.
Trace had gone quiet in her seat, tapping her thumb on her lips and looking pretty much everywhere but at him.
He’d blown it. Too many attempts at kissing her, flirting and talking about blowjobs and panties and thinking about her naked.
Ellen and Jeremy were old for their age, protective and a hint overbearing sometimes, but they knew Trace.
She was like them in a lot of ways, her love of curling up with a cup of coffee on a rainy morning, her big heart, and that tendency to turn inward when the world got complicated.
But there was this adventurous side of her that was uniquely Trace, who loved to travel, to laugh wildly with friends, a creative and curious soul.
She just needed to find that confidence she’d lost along the way.
And that, he could absolutely relate to.
If they thought she picked out his new wardrobe, did they think he’d picked out hers?
Trace was probably put off by discovering that she had been his imaginary lover for so long. Yeah. Probably shouldn’t have told her, but it felt dishonest not to. He’d told a lot of lies in his life, but keeping anything from her was a bizarre level of hell.
“Sounds like everyone’s doing their own thing tonight,” Trace said flatly as she read a text on her phone.
“K,” he said, not knowing how to respond.
“A few are already there, but some are still at work and will filter in.”
“K.”
Another hour went by. Nothing.
They made their way south and finally jagged off the freeway toward the Oregon Coast and the smaller towns that dotted it.
Highways widened and slowed through towns which became smaller the farther they got from the freeway.
The houses grew taller to see past the ones in front, the trees angled with the wind.
The ocean made its presence clear, even though it wasn’t visible yet.
Trace texted someone now and again, but she didn’t say anything.
“Sunset Lodge?” he asked, breaking the brittle silence over the pummeling of the rain on the windshield.
“Yeah. It’s on the south side of town.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. It looks really nice online.” Trace seemed to brighten as the conversation stayed light, bringing warm inflections back into her voice. “Asher was not keen on waiting any longer, and Pippa was determined to make it special so he and Sophie didn’t actually elope.”
“Sounds about right.”
As the commotion of town thinned and the houses increased, he saw the sign to their hotel and turned down the smaller street. Still couldn’t see the ocean, a tall grass-covered sand berm blocking the narrow spaces between houses, restaurants, and the hotel.
He pulled into a parking space and stole a quick glance at Trace.
She smiled softly, still quiet since she’d stolen her panties back from him.
The moment he stepped outside, the salt air filled his lungs and coated his skin in a cool balm. The rain wasn’t so bad now, dabbling in a steady pattern.
When he reached the back, Trace was just sliding out his bag and passed it to him, then grabbed hers.
At least they’d outlawed suits for the wedding. He was not keen on strapping a tie around his neck, nor making a last-minute run to the only nice clothing store in town to see if they had anything that wouldn’t make him look like a penguin, a golfer, or a Las Vegas tycoon.
Cole held back as Trace took the lead, exuding enough manners and politeness for them both, marveling at the interior as they walked past the wooden bench covered with sea creature pillow-cased cushions in the entry.
The lobby was grand with a massive stone hearth and a table with coffee and cookies.
Driftwood and blue and white décor introduced the place as a coastal getaway, yet it had the warm grandeur of a mountain lodge with the oversized fireplace and overstuffed, sasquatch size furniture.
The cookies smelled great, but thanks to getting hooked on Ellen’s, he didn’t care to waste his time with other cookies.
“Hello,” greeted a woman sitting behind a long desk. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” Trace said, strolling up and taking the seat opposite the host.
Cole stood back, waiting for his turn.
“Trace Perry. And this is Cole Falk.”
“The Sutherland-Jones wedding group. Excellent. We weren’t able to get all of your rooms together, but I think yours is right in the middle, actually,” the woman said, pensively looking to the wooden beams on the ceiling for confirmation that she’d remembered correctly.
That was good. Trace would prefer being in the middle of everything. She nodded politely, waiting with her credit card and driver’s license.
Cole wandered over to the coffee area and poured two cups. He walked back over and slid a cup on the desk in front of Trace.
She looked up and whispered, “Lifesaver. Thanks.”
He smiled back over the rim of the mass-produced white ceramic mug. Sometimes she looked at him like she wanted to jump him, steamy-eyed and full bosom-heaving lust. Other times, like now, he couldn’t tell if she was being distantly polite or was nervous, her cheeks pink and smile tight.
After a lot of hunt-and-peck typing, although impressively fast, the concierge took the card and ran it, punching a few more things into the computer, leisurely making a little packet with the tide tables and list of restaurants.
Knowing he was right there, she could at least work on two at once, or was he going to have to wait as long for her to do everything with the same measured perfection for him as well?