Page 18 of Lemon Crush

This can’t be how I die.

Did I put on deodorant?

Only when I was coughing up unattractive blobs of crackerand sucking in air like a dying fish did I realize that I’d been Heimliched. And that his arms were still around me, practically touching the undersides of my unfettered breasts.

It was noteworthy for being the most action I’d gotten in a while. Even the word sounded dirty at the moment. Heim-licked.

He still smells really good.

Still coughing and embarrassingly turned on for someone who’d nearly killed themselves with peanut butter crackers, I tapped his forearms. He let go and immediately stepped out of the way so I could grab a handful of paper towels from the counter and wet them in the sink.

He wisely remained silent, giving me a moment to compose myself after my mortifying reaction to his unexpected appearance. I wiped my mouth quickly, then crouched to clean up the floor, which did nothing to block my awareness of him as he leaned against the island, watching me with concern.

Had I mentioned he’d filled out over the years? And not in that beer-gut-but-no-ass-at-all way you secretly wished on your teenage crushes. His grease-smeared tee hugged his shoulders, pecs and biceps in a way that made me jealous, and the relaxed fit of his jeans only emphasized the firm roundness of his ass.

Meanwhile, I was in an old tank top with no bra and a pair of shapeless sweat shorts. Which might actually top my homeless ragamuffin look from yesterday, as far as things I shouldn’t wear—or skip wearing, in this particular case—when there was any possibility that I might encounter Wade Hudson.

I wasn’t the type of person who could safely go without a bra in public, and believe me, that wasn’t a brag. After I’d gotten past the adolescent shame that my D cups existed, I’d had a mere five years in my twenties to enjoy the attention they received before gravity made them a hindrance that required sturdy, unsexy support at all times.

My one quasi-clean boulder holder was lying on the floor of my bedroom at the moment because I hadn’t expected company, much less that Wade would be delivering my car out of the blue. I might have thought about him more than I liked over the years, but that didn’t mean I appreciated him appearing in my backyard without a phone call or text message first. Even better, a full week’s notice, so I could pluck, shave, visit a hair salon, lose twenty-five pounds…run away.

Too late now

“Thank you,” I finally croaked, standing up and tossing the towels in the trash. “It must have gone down the wrong pipe.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Gus? Maybe you want to sit down for a minute.”

“I’m fine.” I rasped out the lie, taking a drink of the flat soda to soothe my now-scratchy throat. If it weren’t so sore, I could have told him no one called me Gus anymore.

He was the only one who ever had. My name was supposed to have been something magical like Tabitha or Nimue, given Samantha Retta’s love of witchy-women power in general andCamelotin particular. But my father’s parents were having none of it. To compromise and passive-aggressively retaliate, Mom had named me after the first thing she saw in the recovery room. I may not love my name, but I was eternally grateful she’d spotted the calendar instead of a bed pan.

Wade started calling me Gus shortly after we became next door neighbors. At eleven, I’d thought the overly masculine nickname gave his sister Bernie and me something in common.

At thirteen, I was sure there was some secret encoded in it that meant he wanted to marry me, but he was eighteen and thought we should keep it on the down-low until I was legal.

Teenage girls are idiots.

Forty-three-year-olds had their own issues, I thought as I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to maintain some dignitywhile hiding my nipples. Instead, I managed to prop my breasts up like some OnlyFans doxy.

Now that I’d gotten all that choking and navel gazing out of the way, I finally noticed that he hadn’t come here empty-handed. He was holding a single balloon that saidCongratulations!

“You do that for all your customers?” I asked, smiling a little at the idea.

He frowned. “Do what?”

I nodded at the balloon hovering above him. “Deliver repaired vehicles with a congratulatory balloon. It’s nice,” I assured him. “Probably good for customer relations.”

“Oh. Uh, no. Not usually. They were out of birthday balloons at the store.” He tried to hand it to me, and when I didn’t reach for it, he let it go to bob around on the ceiling. “It’s for you. Happy late birthday, August.”

Wade was giving me a“Congratulations, you made it another year!”balloon?

The last few days had been very surreal for me.

“Well, thanks.”

I’d rather have his secret for aging well than a balloon filled with helium. Did he lift those cars he worked on for fun? Because his broad chest made me think of naked body surfing. Those massive shoulders and thick thighs? Naked tree climbing. The capable, work-worn hands? Yeah, like I said before—lady bait. Despite how much he irritated me, if I wrote romance, he would be the hero.

If I wrote grisly murder mysteries or tentacle porn, he’d be the hero. He was always the hero.

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