Page 6 of Better Than the Beach
She nods, but she’s not one to sayI told you so.Everyonetold me so, but I ignored them, because I was an idiot in love. Fucking joke. It’s all such a fucking joke.
And everyone is laughing at me.
“How are the roads?” Ma asks, mercifully changing the subject.
“Pretty bad. Visibility is terrible.”
“You shouldn’t have driven,” she scolds.
“I thought I could beat it.” I sigh, then shrug. “Anyway, I made it, and I don’t plan on leaving again until the storm has cleared.”
“Good,” Ma says with a nod. “I am so glad you’re here, Nolan. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m glad you’re here alone, without Colleen, that sniveling, lying little cu—”
“Okay, Ma!” I cut her off, and she gives me a shameless smirk. I shake my head. She’s incorrigible. “I’m glad to be here, too.”
“Do you need anything else tonight?”
I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. Being the youngest of six boys, I was not planned. Ma had me when she was forty, but I’m still not used to her face showing her age. She’s always seemed young, with more energy than even me at times, but in the years since my father’s death, I’ve watched her mellow out more than I’d like to acknowledge. Four of my five brothers are still in the area, but I’ve been in Boulder working on my PhD, and I spent the last several holidays with Colleen’s family, neglecting my own.
I don’t get home enough. Every time I see her, the guilt weighs heavier.
“Go to sleep, Ma,” I tell her softly. “I’m probably going to be up trying to get some work done. I’m still wired from that drive.”
She places her teacup in the sink, gives my head a kiss, then pads out of the kitchen. I didn’t lie to her; I am going to be up for a while. But instead of doing work, I’m going to wallow.
I stare into my teacup until the chamomile turns cold, searching the liquid as if it can answer the questions plaguing my mind.
Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this? Is Colleen right? Is this all my fault? Is there anything I could have done to prevent it? Tofixit?
Well into the night, when my eyes start to drift shut, I move to the sink and wash, dry, and put away the teacups. Then I grab my bags and make my way upstairs to my old room. It’s long since been converted into a guest suite for the B&B, but it still feels like home.
I am five years younger than my youngest sibling, Oliver. Nearly fifteen years younger than my oldest sibling, Joel. But even still, it’s like the walls have absorbed the sounds of the Montrose boys. If I close my eyes, I can feel the energy. The ruckus and rowdiness that the town has always known us for.
Even me, the studious one. The respectful one. The college graduate. The hockey star. The momma’s boy. Even the best-behaved wolf in the pack is still a wolf. I guess I’ve forgotten that in recent years. But coming home this holiday season? I don’t know. Something about it feels promising. Like maybe I’ll reawaken the wolfish part of me that’s lain dormant for so long. The one that Colleen tried to muzzle and almost succeeded in snuffing out entirely.
The next morning, I’m up with the sun.
I can’t go for a run thanks to the snow that’s still falling outside, so I make use of Ma’s in-home gym. When I was growing up, it was just a weight bench and some dumbbells, but in recent years, she’s added a treadmill, a bunch of Kettlebells, and a StairMaster. I run a quick five miles, work my abdominals until my muscles ache and I’m drenched in sweat, then make my way to the second-floor bathroom to take a much-needed shower.
I let the hot water cascade over my body, loosening my sore muscles and washing away the sweat. If only the weight on my shoulders could swirl down the drain, too. I use the shampoo my mom keeps for guests—some kind of eucalyptus blend—and when my stomach growls, I turn off the faucet and step out of the shower. I’m facing the mirror above the sink, toweling off my hair, when the knob turns, and the bathroom door swings open.
I whip toward the doorway and open my mouth to warn my mother that I’m in here, but instead, I am met with a girl.
No.
Awoman.
A woman with long dark hair and delicate fingers. Her head is bent over, so I can’t see her face, except for the blurry reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Before I can speak, she sets a toothbrush on the counter and looks up.
Our eyes meet, and she lets out a startled yelp. I throw my palms up, about to apologize for scaring her, when her eyes drop from my face to my chest, then farther down. I can feel her gaze dragging over my body, and suddenly, my words are stuck in my throat. Her eyes widen, and she gasps again, reminding me that I’m not wearing any clothes, and my towel is bunched in the hand that I currently have raised in her direction. I’m completely exposed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers slowly, but she doesn’t make a move to look away.
Her eyes are trained right on my cock, locked there, and for the first time in more than eight months, I start to harden. When her throat constricts with a swallow, my semi quickly grows into a full-on erection. I can feel it—thick, heavy and extending from my body—and I resist the urge to wrap my hand around it and squeeze. When she bites her lip, I have to stifle a groan, which shakes me from my lust-fogged trance. I drop my hands to cover my dick with the towel, and she blinks. The woman flashes her wide eyes back to mine, and a pink flush takes over her soft cheeks.
I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“You’re wearing my clothes.”
