Page 16 of Backed By You
I burst out laughing. “Is that all you took from that conversation?” I ask, plopping on the bed beside her and falling against the sea of pillows. “I say one thing about a guy’s chest—”
She turns to me, her legs crossed beneath her. “Donotdownplay this for me,” she states, a glint in her eye. “I haven’t heard you talk about a guy inanycapacity for… Tell me, are there cobwebs in your cave of wonders or just dust?”
I snatch the pillow from behind my head and whip it in her direction. “Stop!”
We laugh for a few minutes over vagina innuendos before our laughter subsides.
Shea moves closer to me, her expression serious. “I worry about you, Cals. When I suggested you get away, I didn’t think you’d be gone this long. I miss you.”
I sit up at the emotion in her voice. “I miss you, too,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. She gives me a light squeeze. “I’m okay. I promise. It’s just…” I trail off and Hulk perks up, his gaze findingmine. “It’s this place, Shea. Fame is not for me. I love what I do, don’t get me wrong, but theobsessionpeople have here… It’s too much.”
“I get that,” she says, brushing a tear from her cheek.
“You can come see me, too, you know,” I offer, taking her hand. “There’s plenty of cute mountain men just waiting to grovel at your feet.”
She smirks. “So now he’s cute?”
I rush to say, “I never said—”
“If I didn’t know any better,” she’s full-blown beaming now, “I’d think you have a crush, Miss Hot-Shot Movie Director slash Screenwriter Extraordinaire.”
I fight to contain any form of a smile and aim for disgust. “Ew. Gross.”
Shea rolls her eyes, laughing. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”
We spend the rest of the day catching up after six months apart. Opting to stay in, we order takeout, watch Real Housewives, laugh, and gossip. The whole time, a certain grumpy veteran lingers in the back of my mind, and I find myself wondering what he’s doing…and if he’s thinking about me, too.
Six.
Beau
“Beau?Yououthere,son?” my father calls from outside the shed.
I grit my teeth. “Yeah. In here.”
I’ve spent the last three days and two nights at my parents’ house, sleeping in my childhood bedroom on a twin-sized mattress that has my feet dangling off the end and my knee killing me every damn morning.
The old metal shelves creak when I push aside boxes labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting. Camping gear, Christmas decorations, old sports equipment—all catalogued and preserved like family artifacts. That’s my mother for you, keeping everything just in case one of us might need it someday.
Dad appears in the doorway, blocking what little light filters into the musty shed. “Your mother’s been calling you. Dinner is ready.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I mutter, shoving another box aside.
He doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps inside, the floorboards groaning under his weight. “What are you looking for?”
“My old tent.” I don’t look at him as I continue my search. “The small one. Two-person Coleman.”
“Going camping?” he asks. His tone is casual, but I know my father. Nothing he asks is without purpose.
I don’t respond.
He’s quiet for a moment, watching me rummage through piles of junk that should’ve been thrown out years ago. “Your mother put all the camping gear in the rafters after you left. Said there wasn’t much point keeping it accessible with you overseas.”
I glance up at the wooden beams above us, spotting the edge of a plastic storage bin. Of course. I ignore the twinge in my knee and reach up.
That bed may have fucked me up more than I thought.
“I can get that,” Dad offers.
