Page 20 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

ERIC

“I’m not disappointed, Tinkerbell.” I hope she takes the words like the caress they’re meant to be—something that will tamp down the doubt I see rising in her eyes.

“But Bryan Limpdick is a fool. You should have every solo in that damn production because you have the voice of an angel. But it doesn’t change the fact that you did this thing. You conquered your fear.”

She tries to smile, but the muscles in her cheeks don’t seem to want to obey.

“I tried out, you know? The rest doesn’t matter. You know how things go. I’m pretty busy, and there’s a lot going on in general, so…like I said…we’ll see.”

“We’ll see my ass,” I say through gritted teeth. “Like you said, you’re happy to be part of the cast. So now you’re well on your way to making those thespian and bucket list dreams come true.”

She’s gazing at the wall over my shoulder, like it’s hard to meet my gaze. Maybe it hurts to look at the guy who kissed her like she mattered and then vanished like she didn’t when so many people have already made her feel invisible.

I hate this version of her. Okay, not hate. I like every single version of my Tinkerbell. But this isn’t the woman who overcame her fear on that stage. The one who gets flustered when I catch her staring but turns into a smart-ass when she's comfortable enough to forget to be nervous around me.

Where’s the Taylor who’s shy with everyone else but lets me see that little spark of sass that most people never get to witness, like I’ve been given access to a part of her she doesn't share with just anyone? She’s most beautiful when she stops being careful and just lets herself be real.

As if reading my mind, she says, “You did what you promised and more. Now I’m sure you want to do whatever you came here for and get on with your plans for the night.” She arches a brow. “Not that I’d know what they are since you’ve been avoiding me.”

That again. Right. Because I put ice on her thumb but didn’t give her a reason for disappearing on her after all that time coaching her for the audition. How do I explain that I was staying away for her own good because she’s better off without me?

She walks out of the break room, moving fast like she’s trying to escape. Does she really think I’m not going to follow?

“I wasn’t ghosting you.” Not exactly anyway. “And you need to explain what ‘we’ll see’ means.”

I’m hot on her heels now, trying not to notice the sway of her hips and the way the cotton leggings hug the curve of her delectable ass. “Why are you here in your dad’s workshop on a Friday night? What about your plans?”

Sometimes deflection is the best offense.

“I’m working on the StoryWalk project.” She slows but doesn’t turn around, answering over her shoulder instead.

“For the record, I grew up coming to the shop. I like doing stuff with my hands. Dad doesn’t mind as long as I don’t get in anybody’s way during business hours or when the crews are running on a tight deadline. ”

“How generous of him.” Her step falters in response to my sarcastic tone. The longer I spend with Taylor, the more I’m convinced her family doesn’t appreciate her the way they should. They don’t see what I see—the Taylor who’s capable of so damn much more than they give her credit for.

“What’s a StoryWalk project?” I ask, hoping it’s something benign that will help my rising temper cool off. This seems less triggering than Bryan Limpdick’s choice not to give Taylor a bigger role. It’s also easier than admitting I regret every second I kept my distance from her.

“It’s a way to display pages of a children’s book on signs along a walking path.” She sweeps a hand toward the large frames covering the work table. I realize that each one holds a page from a children’s book with plexiglass covering it.

“Where does it go?”

“We’ll install this one at the nature center along one of the popular trails. Kids can walk the path with their family and read the story. Once the posts go in and we mount the frames, I can switch out the books every couple of months so people will be able to enjoy new stories year-round.”

“Did you come up with the concept?”

Her shoulders relax as she smiles at me.

“No, but our library district is the first in this area to implement it. I’m hoping to start a trend.

It’s the best of both worlds—encouraging people to read and getting them outside.

Since the library is sponsoring the installation, it will encourage more families to visit us if the kid’s interest gets snagged by reading as they walk outside. ”

“I bet people are going to love it.”

She shrugs. “It’s important to come up with creative ways to encourage kids to read more. I have other ideas, but…” She shrugs. “My boss is kind of old school. He’s retiring this spring, so hopefully, whoever gets hired as the next director will be more willing to try new things.”

“You should be the next director,” I tell her.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no thanks. Can you hand me that piece of plexiglass?” She points to a nearby workbench.

“Why not? ”

“I like working with patrons, especially the kids. The director position is more forward-facing. Schmoozing donors and speaking at town council meetings. Stuff like that is not in my wheelhouse.”

“It didn’t used to be, but you conquered that fear,” I remind her.

“I got through the audition,” she agrees slowly. She starts to bite down on her lip then gives a slight shake of her head. Probably because she notices me noticing.

The moment I see that small tell, something in me settles. I might not have the right to claim her, but I know she’s mine in this moment.

I glance back at the story walk displays, then at her, and realize it’s time to circle back. We need to discuss the thing she’s trying to quit before she has a chance to be the success I believe she can be.

“What’s going on, Taylor?”

“We must be having a very serious conversation.” One corner of her mouth lifts. “You didn’t call me Tinkerbell.” She wants to distract me, but it won’t work.

“What’s going on?” I repeat as I step forward and take her shoulders, holding her steady so she can’t duck away.

“Everyone has things they’re good at,” she tells me, and I have a feeling she’s parroting what’s been said to her on more than one occasion. A subtle suggestion to stay small.

“I’m good at organizing.” She grimaces. “I’m actually pretty handy with a hammer when I’m not getting a jump scare mid-swing. I’m good with kids, and I think I do a good job tutoring.”

“Yes, on all of those,” I agree. “None of which are a problem as far as I can tell.”

“I’m not good at being on stage.” She shrugs.

“It isn’t like I’m planning on switching careers to acting, but yesterday, we did a run-through of the first scene.

We were using scripts. I wasn’t even expected to have it memorized.

But I kept thinking about what it’s going to be like when the theater is full and people are looking at me.

I couldn’t say my line, and I almost puked on stage again.

I managed to make it to the bathroom, but everyone knew what was happening. ”

“You got sick. Big deal. You have weeks to deal with your nerves.”

“Or potentially spew into the laps of a paying audience.” She closes her eyes, her expression pained. It’s shame, and it cuts deep.

“I’m going to take my win at the audition and switch to stage crew. We’re only a couple of days into rehearsals. Someone can take over my role. I’ll still be part of the production, near Bryan, but if I can’t even manage one line in rehearsals…”

She lets out a sigh and turns her head so she’s looking at the story boards instead of meeting my gaze.

“I’m not sleeping well. I’m having dreams. The kind where I’m on stage naked and?—”

“Okay, hold up.” I gently squeeze her shoulders. “Tell me more about naked dreams. I’ve never been a theater buff, but that could definitely change my mind.”

My stupid comment elicits a small laugh, which was my hope. I can work with laughter

“They aren’t those kinds of dreams.”

“Which is a damn shame. You’re going to be fine, Tink. So what if we didn’t fully vanquish your stage fright? We can get you there by opening night.”

“I don’t even think you can get me there, Mr. Confidence.”

That feels like a challenge, and not just one involved with her stage fright. How far am I willing to go to prove she’s not alone in this?

Her head is still tilted away from me, and I can’t help myself. Her skin is smooth and creamy and utterly irresistible.

I lean in and press my mouth to her throat, right where her pulse flutters.

But the taste of her unleashes something inside me, and the constant craving I’ve had for her these past few days takes over.

I kiss her again, trailing my mouth along her jaw, rewarded with a soft sigh of pleasure.

I feel like I’ve won the damn lottery when she turns her head so our lips meet.

The need I feel is there just as powerfully in her. This—us—isn’t a mistake. I’m done pretending otherwise.

She tastes like cinnamon gum, and I waste no time sliding my tongue inside her mouth. She’s hot and sweet and my dick rises to the occasion like it’s going to see the light of day in this workshop. Not likely, bud.

This is about Tinkerbell, and fixing my colossal fuck up this week. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against her mouth. “I didn’t mean to ghost you.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and I want to lick that lie from her lips.

I shift so my hips are against the work table and pull her closer. Deepen the kiss as I cup her ass. A moan escapes my mouth, and she catches it with hers. “I’m going to make it up to you,” I tell her.

“You don’t have to?—”

Her voice cuts off as my fingers graze the waistband of her stretchy pants. “Let me,” I whisper. “I want to touch you. To make you feel good.”

She makes a humming sound in her throat that makes me want to drop to my knees in front of her.

“Is that a yes?”

She presses a palm to my chest like she’s grounding herself in me. Or maybe she’s grounding both of us because my head is in the fucking clouds waiting for her answer. “Mmm-hmmm,” she murmurs finally.

I trail my mouth along her jawline at the same time I dip my fingers lower. Over the swell of her belly and under the lacy edge of her panties.

“Jesus, you’re already wet.”

She shivers and lets out a little whimper. “Is that bad?”

“No, sweetheart.” I pull back until she meets my gaze, and I don’t try to hide how much I want her. Not in this moment. “It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever felt.”

I trace one finger along her center then circle it over her clit.

She lets out a small cry—so sensitive—and I wrap one arm around her waist just in case she needs the support.

But I’m the one who needs it when she presses an open-mouthed kiss to my neck and gently sucks.

Shit, that’s going to leave a mark. One I won’t be able to hide.

But there’s no damn way I’m stopping her.

My fingers find a rhythm, and her hips roll back and forth like she’s working herself over on my hand. It’s so fucking hot.

I claim her mouth again, kissing her and stroking her and…I’m back to feeling like a teenager ready for–

No.

This is about her.

I push one, then two fingers inside her while my thumb takes over against her clit.

Her hips are moving faster now, and she’s kissing me with a mindless abandon that I could definitely get used to.

Then she goes stiff, cries out, and I feel her clamp around my fingers.

The satisfaction that rolls through me is like nothing I’ve ever felt.

She sags against my chest, and I pull my hand out of her pants and wrap her in a tight hug. “You’re beautiful, Tink. The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You need to get out more,” she says softly.

I know she means it as a joke, but I hate that it’s made at her expense.

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head, then frown as she steps away from me.

“I should go,” she says, straightening her sweatshirt. “I’m meeting some friends later.”

“Oh.” Well, hell. Why did I think she and I would be spending the rest of the night together? I should know better. I should be better .

“Um…do you need help with your…” I wave a hand at the workbench “…project thing.”

“I think you’ve done more than enough for me tonight.” She leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek, then walks away like she didn’t just come apart in my arms.

More than enough? Oh, hell, no. It might be wrong, and it might mean me breaking promises left and right, but Tinkerbell and I have barely scratched the surface. Not even close.