Page 21 of At First Smile
“Shameless man. No doubt naming his place after her secured his favorite son status,” I tease.
“My brothers need no tricks to secure that status,” he mutters. His statement is almost so quiet that it feels as if he’d not intended to say it aloud.
The questions tap at the back of my closed mouth.What does that mean? Do you not share status as a favorite son? Why?I don’t know the dynamics of siblings. Despite my four stepdads, I’ve remained a blissfully solo child for my mother. Trina and JoJo are as close as I have to sisters. But there’s a sadness that radiates from Rowan. I just want to smooth it away but fear my questions will only further wrinkle the emotions.
I rake my teeth against my lip. “Why’d you name your pub Axel’s?”
“My dad’s name was Axel.”
My heart squeezes. “You’re such a sweet man.”
Rowan’s muscles stiffen beneath my grip. His body’s rigidity seems to protest my soft proclamation.
I squeeze his arm and reiterate, “You’re a sweet man.”
He stops and pivots to face me. For a moment, our gazes tether. His as equally obscured in his ball cap as mine is beneath his hat on my head.
“Pen.” He takes my hand and threads our fingers together.
My pulse riots.
He then guides my hand to a grassy covered outcrop that stops at my chest level. As if waking up, my eyes widen. We’re almost at the top. The grassy ledge requires the hiker to use upper body strength to lift themselves to the top, and it stands between us and the riverbed above. The purr of gushing water filters through the trees’ canopy.
“I can go first and pull you up or you can go first, and I’ll be here in case you”—he swallows thickly— “want me.”
My eyes flutter between Rowan and the ledge. It’s such a small thing, but it’s huge to me. My entire life people have focused on my needs. Not in the traditional sense that we all crave to have our needs met, but in the idea of me needing to be taken care of.
“I’ll go first.” I fold Cane Austen and pass her to Rowan. “Would you mind?”
“Got her.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I place my hands flat on the ledge’s silken grassy surface. I squat, then I jump, using the momentum to hoist myself up.Don’t fall. Don’t fall.The internal mantra repeats as I swing my legs up and scramble to the top.
“You got it,” Rowan cheers.
Secure on the ledge, I spin to face him, the lush grass rasps against my knees. “Want me to pull you up?” I wink, knowing there’s no way I’d be able to pull him up.
“Maybe next time.” He hands me Cane Austen and then, like it’s nothing, jumps onto the ledge beside me.
“Show off.”
With a lopsided grin, he stands and then bends to take my hand and lifts me to my feet beside him. “Just a little further.” He squeezes his fingers around mine.
The dirt path along the river is smooth, allowing us to suspend human guide. My arm moves right to left, trailing Cane Austen against the path’s rocky edges, the song of the waterfallhums in my ears. Patches of midafternoon sun break through the thinning grove of pine, birch, and maple trees. After a bend in the path through a small clearing, we come to the river. The once distant babble has become a steady rush. Water ripples toward the cliff’s edge. A moss-covered bridge, constructed with misshapen stone and weathered wood, connects the river’s two banks.
“This is like something out of a Nicolas Sparks’ novel,” I quip.
A deep laugh bubbles from Rowan.
“Come on.” I take Rowan’s hand, tugging him along. His compliance allows a temporary delusion that I have the strength to move him.
The bridge’s center features a small observation deck perfect for viewing the falls. A small, dark wooden bench outlines the oval-shaped deck. Walking to the edge, I fold Cane Austen and place her on the bench and then proceed to step on it. The observation deck’s stone wall provides enough barrier to keep me safe, but Rowan wraps his large hands around my waist, nonetheless.
My head twists, snapping my gaze to Rowan. Again, he says nothing. No comment about keeping me safe or me needing him. He just tips his head toward the waterfalls.
“Join me.” I bite my lip. “The view is better up here.”
As if in a silent debate, his head bobs between me, the falls, and back to me again. Finally, he steps onto the bench and moves behind me. His strong hands remain on my middle. Heat from his body licks across my skin. I may combust from the gentle tug of his steady fingers against my shirt. Scant inches separate his front from my back. His large form hovering over me should feel intimidating. The posture is borderline possessive, but not in the way my body craves to be claimed by this man. There’s just enough distance between us to make me question any intention outside of protectiveness.
