Page 35 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

There’s a car waiting for us when we land, and I glance down at Gen, wondering if it’s too much.

Anders is holding up a name sign, like the blacked out SUV isn’t the eye sore it is amongst the middle class vehicles picking up travelers at this end of Hartsfield-Jackson.

But she’s unfazed, and the ease with which she slides into the back bench reminds me that she’s very used to this, reminds me that she spent years with Will, one of two heirs to his grandfather’s dairy dynasty.

But as the car slows and we pull into the long, meandering drive that leads to my parent’s oversized, historic home, I hear her short intake of breath.

“You grew up here?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the structure.

“I did,” I exhale, a nervous chuckle escaping me. “If it makes you feel better, it was inherited.”

“Because old money isn’t more intimidating than new money,” she jokes, anxiety pooling in her eyes. “And you told them I’m coming? ”

“Of course I told them. They can’t wait to meet you.”

She pulls a deep breath in through her nose and I move off the bench, taking her hand to help her step out. “I’ve never done well with these people.” Real concern flashes in her gaze. “I need, like, a run down. What should I not do?”

“Gen.” I pull her to me, brushing a curly wisp out of her face, my hand scooping behind her head to tilt it up to face me. “There’s nothing. You’re perfect…please be you. I don’t want you to be anything else.”

A deep blush forms across her cheeks, blooms over her chest. She bites down on her bottom lip and I have to kiss her. I barely even think as I press my lips to hers, the sudden flick of her tongue against mine amplifying the desire that’s always thrumming just beneath the surface for her.

“Maybe bitin’ that lip.” I drag my thumb across said lip, loving the feel of it beneath my touch. “It drives me crazy. Can’t think straight when you do it.”

“I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. I do it all the time,” she says, her eyes narrowing in slight challenge. I grip her waist, my thumb running over her ribcage, and her eyes heat in real time.

“It’s been a long few months,” I admit.

“Then I think you can handle yourself for a weekend.” She smiles a little bigger than before as we hear the front door shut in the distance, and I turn to see Evie Fielder—blowout visible from here—in the distance, her eyes crinkling, her excitement palpable.

We make our way up to the porch and, wordlessly, my mom wraps her arms around me, squeezing tightly, and I catch something like longing flash in Gen’s gaze.

“I did just see you a few weeks ago,” I chuckle, pulling back to look down at her as she playfully smacks my arm .

“Just you wait. There’s nothin’ like seein’ your babies back home.

If only I could get your sister to leave her fancy new job for even a day ,” she says with a dainty huff, turning to Gen.

Curiosity laces her expression, a subtle smile softening intensity of her assessing gaze.

“Genevieve,” she says like she’s known her since she was in diapers, her gaze shifting to one of acceptance in a millisecond as she grabs and squeezes her hand.

“What a pleasure to have you here this weekend.”

Something unfurls in my chest; I knew she would love Gen, and even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t have changed anything. But the look in Gen’s eyes as she’s accepted the way my mom is accepting her has me feeling like pieces are clicking into place.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you. I know it was last minute…” Gen starts to say, her earlier worry peering through.

“Nonsense! I love having guests. The more the merrier! Not that Grant ever has guests. In fact, you’re the first girl he’s ever brought here. Well…not that he’s never brought a girl here but?—”

“And that’s enough, I think. Should we go in?” A blush burns on my cheeks as I rest my hand on the small of Gen’s back, ushering her and my mother inside.

“Oh, pish posh ,” my mom says, her drawl slightly more pronounced. “You know what I meant. And so does Genevieve.” She leans forward, tossing a conspiratorial wink at the suddenly shy ballerina trying her hardest to melt away into my touch.

The house is a breath of fresh air, the way it always is: a sea of pinks, greens, yellows, and cream.

I remember thinking it felt like one of those home and garden magazines, with big bundles of flowers on every table, napkins at every chair of the dining table.

Sunlight streams into each room, hardly a dark corner in sight.

We all ascend the grand staircase, Gen falling back to meet my ear.

“You have to know this house is insane,” she whispers, her eyes lit up with amazement. “The doors?” Her gaze sweeps over the intricately foiled doors that line the perimeter of the second floor, completely ignoring the small spiral staircase that leads to the third floor.

“Anders brought your bags up and I think…” my mom thinks for a moment, finally pointing to one of the doors when she remembers, opening it with dramatic flair. “Yes! I put you in here, Gen. It’s my favorite one.”

The massive, four poster bed could almost require a step stool to climb on top of. The room is decorated in shades of cream and the mid morning sun pours in through the french doors that lead to the balcony.

“This is so beautiful. Did you design it?” Gen asks, glancing around.

“Sloane did.” Mom’s mouth curves in happy remembrance, a fleeting, far away look on her face; it pulls the slightest thread of sadness into this moment. “Years ago. But she did so well, didn’t she?”

She shuffles away toward an en suite bathroom, explaining how to turn the shower on, opening the closets, displaying the perfumed lining of each drawer, and Gen doesn’t just play along—she seems genuinely interested.

“Anders has your stuff down the hall,” my mom tells me, and I glance at Gen the second she glances at me. “And we’re having lunch at the Club, so please be ready in an hour.” She all but skips out of the room, tapping a gentle hand on my shoulder before leaving.

“ Anders? ” Gen breaks the silence and the tension from the room situation, and I can’t help but chuckle .

“I think she only hired him because that is actually his name.”

“No,” she gasps, actually shocked. “She’s kind of wonderful.”

“She is,” I say, no longer interested in talking about my mother, because all I can think about is when I’m going to get any time alone with this girl.

My hands are fisted in the front pocket of my grey sweatsuit as I take her in, rolling my lips together as I take her in.

Deep purple half zip that matches the sweats and leaves the smallest sliver of skin exposed.

Hair pulled up, her long curls swinging behind her.

Standing there with her hip pushed slightly out, her hands resting on her waist as her lips flicker at my attention.

“Separate rooms?” she asks like it’s a joke, but I know she’s serious.

“Is that going to be a problem?” I slowly move toward her.

“I guess it’s fine.” Just as I reach her she begins to walk out of the room, calling over her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you get out of showing me your childhood bedroom.”

I watch her discern which room is mine by the worn name plates that hang from thumbtacks on the two furthest doors.

Then she opens the door and freezes, something about the dark, forest green shiplapped wall that sports a display case with my high school jersey giving her pause.

My bed stands in the middle of the wall, the deep green duvet that matches the wall contrasting with crisp white linens and pillows, my multicolored quilt neatly tucked at the foot of it.

One wall is really just a built-in bookcase, littered with more trophies and awards than actual books.

The same desk that was here when I moved in, made from the same oak as the bed frame, sits in front of the open casement window that is open every time I fly in.

I watch her downloading all of this, taking her time with these small details, and desire lances through me like a hot firework streamer—searing and hard to ignore.

“The shiplap was never my idea,” I whispers against her ear, softly bracing her hip as I nudge her inside, feeling her shiver beneath my touch.

She releases a breath that morphs into this refreshing burst of laughter.

“Let me guess—it was Sloane’s?”

“She went through a hard core interior design phase.”

Her hands gravitate to the quilt on the bed, tracing the patches of t-shirts my mom wove together throughout the years.

One patch features a cartoon sun, the phrase “Everton Sunshines” in large Comic Sans beneath it.

Another is cut from one of my MVP shirts—I think my sophomore year.

Another from a Fielder Foods youth food program t-shirt.

Her gaze snags on the Chicago one I brought with me from my uncle’s house, one of the only possessions I had back then.

“She makes quilts from all our commemorative stuff over the years, gives them to us when we graduate,” I explain, warmth and melancholy settling in my chest at the sight.

“Why didn’t you take it with you?”

“Felt like bringing the past with me. I wanted to start fresh.”

“But this is so…” she pauses. “Cozy. Looking at this feels like an endless hug.”

“It is,” I laugh. “And when I’m here, I get to feel it. But I didn’t want to bring my past when I left.”

She crosses the room, running her finger along the bookcase like she might find dust there. She doesn’t know Evie Fielder, yet.

“How many of these did you actually read?” she asks, looking over her shoulder.

“All of them. Surprised?” I smirk at her, once again distracted by the way her teeth tug at her bottom lip.

“A little,” she grins, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“I’m not saying I’m a reader, but I’ve been known to dabble.”

“What’s your favorite book then?”

“ The Great Gatsby .” She rolls her eyes in mock disdain. “Or… The Count of Monte Cristo .”

“You read that?” Her brows shoot up in disbelief.

“Between the movie and the spark notes, it feels like I did,” I say, grinning.

“I was gonna say… that’s a long one,” she teases, and I’m obsessed with the way she always does. Obsessed with the little moments where she’s trying her best to make me crack a smile at my own expense.

“Read Gatsby , though. What’s that face for?” I mirror the crinkle of her nose with one of my own.

“I don’t think I’ve thought of it once since the twelfth grade,” she admits. “I guess I saw the movie. All I remember is that it was sad and Daisy was a bitch.”

“That might be a direct quote from the summary.” A smile tugs at my lips before I glance at the clock on the desk. “We should get dressed.”

“Or we could get un dressed…” she looks up at me through her lashes, her teeth about to draw blood with how hard she’s biting. And I know what she wants, because I want it, too.

I allow myself a small part of her, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss that has her pushing up against me, before pulling back, tempering the desire that threatens to fundamentally change things between us.

Because I know that once I have her, really have her, I won’t be able to let go.

And that scares me just as much as it exhilarates me.

“I’d love nothin’ more than to undress you right here, but then we’d never make it to lunch. Don’t know if we’d make it to dinner, either.”

Her blush is instant as she wets her lips, nodding. I know she thinks I’m stalling, but she lets it go. “Fine. Country club, right?”

“Yes,” I sigh, running my hands over her arms and shoulders in a soothing motion in an attempt to soothe myself, too. “It’s a business meets pleasure kind of thing. Mom mingles with the wives, and Dad talks business.”

“Got it.” Her smile does little to hide the dread on her face.

“Up sides? The food is incredible. The drinks are free. We don’t have to stay the whole time. And then…we can spend the rest of the night together.”

She stands on her tiptoes, itching up to press a soft kiss to my lips, and I want to shut the door and spend the afternoon memorizing every inch of her skin. “Good. I’m holding you to it, Fielder.”