Page 90 of Backslide
“Truce. It’s when two sides agree to stop fighting for the greater good.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” he smirks. “But, for the record,Iwasn’t fighting.”
I roll my eyes big, my frustration ramping up like a race car at the starting line. “Do you want to try to get along or not? ’Cause I can take my pinky elsewhere.”
“No, no, no!” he says, rearranging his expression into something more solemn. “Okay. I’m in.”
He hooks his finger around mine and, against my will, something unholy vibrates through me, buzzy and electric. I flash to the hot tub, his fingers knotted in my hair.
Now, his hazel eyes zero in on mine and seem to hold them there like some Jedi mind trick. Like he’s thinking about the same thing. His hands are big and warm. Andbig. Did I mention big?
“But,” he says, before I can pull my pinky back to safety or, better yet, to a nunnery, “what are the deal points of this truce? If it’s official, there must be terms, right?”
Every second I spend physically touching him spells more disaster. I know I should inch away, but instead I find myself pulled into his orbit, answering his flirty side-eye with my own.
“Oh, there are terms,” I say, taking a step forward. “Major terms.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Major terms, huh? Not minor terms. Okay, then.”
“Are you ready? Can you handle it?”
“Yup. I’vebeenready.” For a second, I’m disoriented—I’m not sure what he means.
“For this?” I manage, with all the false bravado I can muster. “Never.”
He steps in close too, so that now our hands, intertwined, are the only things separating us. The air between us is kinetic and charged. I can see his chest rise and fall. And it’s hypnotic.
My breath feels shallower too. I need to get it together, break this spell or risk jumping his bones. Would he reject me again? Am I this glutton for punishment? A few more seconds and I can’t be held responsible for where my lips land. And I don’t know for sure what’s going through his head, but his eyes are wolfish like he’s about to eat me for lunch.
“So,” he says, leaning in closer, “what are the rules? Tell me. No promises. But I’ll do my best to follow them.”
Behind us, someone clears their throat. My face flashes red hot.
What am I doing?Falling down the same black hole, that’s what.
“Just don’t be an asshole,” I mutter and tear my hand away.
Noah’s hand is left stranded, dangling in midair. He exhales sharply. And I feel that pang of pathos again.Dammit.
He shrugs, lowering his hand and sliding it into his pocket for safekeeping. “I’ll try,” he murmurs.
To our right is a man who must be Mike, the oyster farm’s “head of sustainable agriculture” according to his name tag. He’s the dude Cara says we are meant to meet. He is goofy looking in a floppy fisherman’s cap and rubber waders. But beneath it, I see he is about our age—and not un-handsome.
“Welcome,” he says. “You must be Ben Goldstein and Cara Faustin.”
“There’s been a slight change of plans,” I say.
“They couldn’t come, so we’re here in their place,” Noah explains.
“We’re not married,” I over-explain.
“Or even a couple,” Noah grumbles.
“Oh,” Mike says, eyes widening slightly. “Okay! Well, nice to meet you then.”
He directs this only to me.
“Are you ready to begin the tour?”
