Page 71 of Peaches

Suddenly that small word sounds terrifying because all I ever want to do is make her this agreeable and satisfied. Claim all her maybes and turn them into a yes for the rest of my life.

“I’m not holding you back, Grace,” I finally say, and she smiles wide and turns to leave, but I grab her quickly and fling her back around. “But I’m not giving you up easily, either Peaches.”

She stares at me, confused, the same air of challenge from earlier drifting back to the surface in her eyes.

“You can go,” I state confidently as she looks at me with questioning eyes. I know what I have to say next will be met with a fight, but it’s a fight I’ll be damned if I let her win. I meant what I said. She can go. “But…,” I continue, as her eyes squint in that same challenging way and I hold on to her a little tighter loving every second of keeping her in suspense.

“…that is, only if I go with you.”

“Excuse me?!”

She heard me right. What’s more, she’ll comply. Accept my terms. Even if I have to get her to surrender the best way I know how. With my face between her legs and my name once again screaming from her lips.

“Excuse me… ’Sir!’” I tease.

“Brett! If you don’t…”

But I drop to my knees, her sass and back talk falling with me as I lick, suck, tease what’s mine. What’s always been mine. And what I intend to keep as mine, forever, now that we’ve finally stopped fighting.

18

Brett

“So this isthe man responsible for getting my Grace here in one piece last night?” an attractive older woman with greying hair says to me as I nervously walk up the steps of the old church building and take her hand.

She shakes mine gently, putting me at ease when for some reason I find myself more anxious than if I was closing a million-dollar deal. Her eyes are gentle, kind. They remind me of Marie’s and I’m temporarily comforted as I return her calming smile and glance at Grace out of the corner of my eye.

“Yes, ma’am,” I exclaim, trying to find some confidence inside when I know I have none. “I made sure to take good care of her, even if we didn’t get in until close to two in the morning.”

The drive from Savannah to Central Kentucky is only eight and a half hours, give or take. But in last night’s storm it took us close to ten. After dropping Grace at her mother’s and seeing that she got safely inside, I tracked down the nearest hotel and finally called it a night. Tossing and turning for a while before I could actually fall asleep, I woke up late and missed meeting them an hour earlier as promised.

I look up as people start to trail out of the building behind Mrs. Presley and Grace in small crowds. The two women glance behind them and take notice just as I climb up two more steps, take Grace’s arm in mine, and escort them both to the parking lot.

“Momma never misses Pastor Evans,” Grace begins to explain, “Even if my brother is still in the hospital.”

Her flippant comment earns her a scowl from her mother as the hot afternoon sun pelts down on us from above and the humidity grows once we reach the black asphalt.

Steam rises off puddles scattered throughout the lot. A reminder of the storm that blew through last night. We part from her mother’s side momentarily as we sidestep around a large pool of sorts in the middle of the street, but I hold onto Grace’s arm tightly, not intending to let her go since being forced to be without her the last couple of hours.

Hours that seemed like days as I realized when I woke this morning that it was the first time we’d been separated since we’ve met.

Is this how that feels? The ache I’ve always heard everyone else talk of? To want someone, need someone, so bad you physically don’t feel right without them. Because the realization makes me understand why I’ve probably avoided it as long as I have.

I’ve never felt anything for a woman like I’m feeling myself develop feelings for Grace. Something that scares me, because God, when I think about it, she’s undeniably all the future I could ever want, I’ve always been more of thepoor bastard married to his worktype than ever really been considered the kind to hold hands, go for walks in the park, oryearnfor anyone, hell anything, more than I do my next big deal. Yet, something about Grace makes it easy to feel this kind of falling fast, heart pounding, need more of her, can’t get enough, want her closer, don’t want to let her out of my sight, feeling.

All the above an addicting new habit I don’t ever plan on breaking.

She looks up at me and holds my gaze. A smile spreads across her face and I return it, enjoying the fact that whatever is happening between us is bringing us closer than we ever thought possible. And as much as it frightens me, I also know I can’tnotfall. I can’tnotgive into it. To her. It’s as if something else has taken over my body. I know that sounds corny as hell, but I also know you’ll get it. By the look in her eyes, she does too, and she’s just as nervous and anxious about the prospect as I am.

In a good way, I’m hoping.

“There is not much I can do for Archie, Grace Olivia,” her mother scolds, and I find I love the way my peach’s first and middle name roll together. Looking down at Grace as we reach the opposite side of the car as her mother, my peach gives me a roll of the eyes as Mrs. Presley’s back is turned while she’s walking to the driver’s side. I call her Mrs. because I just now realize I still don’t know her first name. I can’t help myself in response to Grace’s brazenness, I smack her ass when her mother isn’t looking for the defiance she’s giving her. Okay, maybe not defiance, more just an excuse to play with her a little like my body’s craving.

Shocked, she grabs her cheeks and looks at me in slight horror that I’d do that in a church parking lot,of all places,before glancing around her to see if any one saw. But truth be told, if what I want to do to her and the thoughts I’ve already had about her are a sin, then I’m going to hell anyway, so I plan to enjoy every tantalizing, teasing torturous moment by her side until then.

I wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her back to my front, and whisper in her ear, “Behave, Peaches, or that smack is just the start of it,” just as her mom turns around and looks at us over the hood of the car. Grace lets out a whispered purr at my comment and I smile at her mother, triumphant in controlling Grace’s tongue, and her sass, if only for a moment.

“Grace told me you went to a hotel last night, Brett,” she says, oblivious to our little exchange. “Our house may not be big, but you are welcome to stay with us tonight. In fact, I insist,” she offers in a pure and perfect southern hospitable fashion.

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