Page 100 of Wild Card
Nothing about the moment is eventhatfunny, but there’s something about it that clearly overwhelms us both.
Bash bends over slightly, pressing a hand to his abdomen. It reminds me of that night on the moving walkway in the airport, when he propped his hands on his knees, bent over, and laughed so hard that he could barely breathe.
I hadn’t realized then what a special moment that was. I hadn’t realized that he didn’t create a lot of room in his life for laughter.
I do now, though. So I watch him. I admire him. I laugh along with him.
My chest swells until it feels so full that it could burst. Every limb is deliciously soft. Every lump of anxiety inside me somehow smoothed over. And the knowledge that this is only the beginning of whatever this thing is between us does nothing but feed my excitement.
At the truck, he opens the door for me, and before I can even try to get myself into it, his hands are back on my waist. A flash of what we just did plays in my mind, and a shiver races down my spine as he lifts me into the passenger seat.
“You know I can get into the truck myself,” I say, curving a brow in his direction.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I know. But I think I’ve spent enough time not touching you.”
He shoots me a wink and slams the door before rounding the vehicle to his side.
As we pull out of the hangar’s winding driveway, he opens the sunroof and warm rays float in, kissing the top of my head. They match the warmth coursing through my limbs.
I close my eyes and settle back into the comfortable leather seat, relaxing into the blissful sensation.
It’s one of those days—not quite summer, but so close that you can taste it. Still a light nip in the air, but in the sun, if you close your eyes, it’s like you can imagine being somewhere tropical. And after a long, cold winter, there’s nothing better.
Well, except sex in an airplane with Bash.
“Does that count as our first date?” he asks, making me smile into the warm light.
“I’d say so.”
“Thank fuck.”
I glance his way, curious about his response. “Why?”
He shoots me a borderline playful glance from the driver’s seat. “Now you have to tell me your full name.”
My responding chuckle is raspy. His reasoning transports me back to that night in the airport. I told him then that my full name was first-date material…and he remembered.
“Guinevere.”
I chance a look at him, expecting a joke or offhanded comment. I’ve always disliked my full name. It seems frilly and impractical, and I’ve never felt as though it reallyfitme.
But Bash doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, he murmurs, “Guinevere,” like he’s trying it on for size. Then he smiles, reaches for my hand, and adds, “I love that.”
The warmth on my face surges through my entire body. I don’t think he realizes how good he makes me feel in all the most simple ways. The way he mends my wounds without even trying. No, all he does now is turn up the music and take me fora cruise along the rural road while holding hands over the center console.
He cranks the volume when “She Drives Me Crazy” by Fine Young Cannibals plays. I think I even catch him mumbling along with the words.
We don’t talk, but we don’t need to. Part of me doesn’t know what there is to say. The other part of me is avoiding thinking about the fact that we’re heading back to his house, where we’re going to have to address how to handle Tripp. Because Bash is an honest man, a loyal man, and if he’s going to have me as a mainstay in his life—which I hope he will—we’re going to have to tell Tripp at some point.
And I have a sinking suspicion that it will not go over well.
Like I willed the problem into existence, Tripp’s rental car is back in the driveway when we pull up. However, in addition to his car, there are also a few more.
The truck rocks as we make our way down the gravel driveway, and I slowly turn my head toward Bash, brows pulled up in question.
“So, about all the things I promised we were going to do when we got home…” He trails off, lifting one hand and scrubbing it across the back of his neck. “We might have to wait until a little bit later.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, and why is that?”
