Page 58 of Show Me
Eric put his hands up placatingly. “Easy. Don’t get defensive when you’re the one hurling the bombshells. Why the hell are you making sex tapes?”
“It’s a long story and…fuck, I should’ve stopped at one mimosa. I hope he doesn’t kill me. If he does, will you avenge my death by—”
“No. Focus.” Eric stared at me, and I shook my head vehemently.
“I really can’t tell you, but I can share that it’s consensual, and there’s a reason for it, and…god, for such a happy, no-worries kind of guy, he’s got me all confused.”
Eric was still frowning. “Nate and I haven’t even made sex videos yet.”
“How would you? Judging by what I’ve heard in the past, neither of you would be able to concentrate long enough to hit Record once you got started.”
He sniffed. “Please.”
“Anyway, moving on. The point is, when you see a fire and then deliberately stick your hand in the middle of it, that’s just stupid.”
Eric smiled. “You know, some people gradually inch closer to the fire, enjoying the warmth, stepping back if necessary, assessing according to their comfort level. Some manage to not get burned. Imagine that.”
“Did you?”
Eric upended his glass. “No. I mean, I tried. I think it looked like I was standing fireside, but I had my…hot dogright smack-dab in the middle. It got a bit crispy at points, I suppose.” He eyed his empty glass, then me, and exhaled a self-deprecating chuckle. “Right. Think I’m done with mimosas for now.” He set it aside and stretched out his legs. “It worked out, though, in the end. So maybe don’t be so afraid of the what-ifs. Because the what-ifs are worse than regrets, if you ask me.”
“What’s your per-hour rate?” I joked, even though I was wondering over what he’d said. He wasn’t wrong, but I’d gotten really good at justifying ways to keep my heart from getting rototilled like it had freshman year.
“This one’s on the house. Although”—Eric wiggled his brows—“next time you make pot roast, you might let me know. I miss your cooking. Nate and I are absolutely shit at it. If it was just Nate, he’d eat steamed chicken breasts and rice with broccoli all the time. If it was just me, I’d eat frozen meals. So we live in a gustatory purgatory of trying to meet halfway, usually with stir-fry. We eat alotof fucking stir-fry.”
“Buy an Instant Pot. Live it, love it.”
“Instant Pot, all right,” Eric echoed, and we both glanced up as Sam came barreling toward us.
Truth to tell, 280 pounds of muscle combined with his wild-eyed grin wasn’t the worst I’d ever had speeding recklessly toward me. When I was sixteen, my whole leg was violently sexually assaulted by a horny St. Bernard named Paul when he got out of our neighbor’s backyard. The idea of a violently horny Sam, however, wasn’t unappealing at all.
I threw my hands up as an ineffective shield when he dipped low and scooped me out of the chair into a fireman carry.
“You can’t just manhandle me because I’m fun-size.” I smacked his back.
“I can and I will,” he rumbled.
Underneath the jokey exterior, the low timbre of his voice hit me in the pit of my stomach.
He set me down on a patch of grass, clamped his hands on my shoulders, and turned me around. “Hit it,” he called, and just as I started to issue a strongly worded threat, my brother aimed the water hose at me and blasted it.
“You fuckers,” I howled, squirming in Sam’s grip as the icy deluge doused me.
Matt dropped the hose and leapt, wrestling me to the ground. We’d done this all through high school, too, usually resulting in me pinned and giving the mercy yell. I alternated between crowing with laughter, cursing him, and throwing elbows as we rolled. Then Sam turned the hose on both of us. Matt relented, and I rose up onto my elbows, sopping wet, muddy, and exhilarated—a sensation that was only heightened when Sam extended a hand to pull me up.
I let him yank me to my feet.
“This is all your fault.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said in a way that wasn’t with a football field’s distance of contrition. His grin faded as his gaze moved down my body and back up. My tee was plastered to my torso, my nipples torpedoing the wet cotton as a shiver racked my shoulders. Sam glanced over his shoulder at a water fight that had broken out near a white SUV, then back at me, little drops of water spiking his eyelashes.
I had a sudden urge to gently run my thumb along the fan of them.
“Can I?” Sam reached out, hovering a knuckle near my cheek. “You’ve got a little bit of mud—actually, you’re covered in it…” He trailed off, and I nodded.
He rubbed my cheek lightly, and then, gaze darting over my shoulder at something I couldn’t see behind me, he let his hand fall back to his side and licked his lips, calling my attention to the plump center point of his mouth. God, his lips were like a cherry-red ribbon wrapped around one of the most spectacular smiles I’d ever seen.
“I had an idea for a scene that maybe we could discuss later. Or tonight at the party?”