Page 17 of More With You

His arms around me, our ravenous passion pushes us back to the nearest wall, my back hitting the wooden countertop. His lips sear up the curve of my neck, his hips moving with the roll of his mouth catching mine, driving me to the point of delicious madness. I pull his face to mine, kissing him harder, until our breaths are harsh and hot and desperate, and the humidity isn’t the only thing making me want to shed my clothes. I want to take it further, to never stop kissing him, but the honk of a horn and the intermittent rasp of the radio from the small boats passing beneath the bridge keep tugging me back into reality. I can’t dive into him completely in here, no matter how much I want to.

Palms flat to his hard chest, I force myself to break away, panting heavily. I don’t say anything; I just look up into his eyes and smile. We both do. It’s a knowing kind of smile. A promise that this is just a pause, not a full stop. There’s no rush, I realize. There are plenty of moments to come, and a brave new world to look forward to, together. His warm, glistening eyes tell me he knows it, too.

Turning back around in his arms, I smile as his arms tighten around my waist once again, like a life-rope pulling me back to the boat. Still breathing hard, I take another look at his painting and the matched view beyond. He’s captured the sky and the shoreline perfectly, but it’s not photographic. It’s got his signature in every shading choice, every color, every accent, every detail he’s decided to add or ignore. And I can’t help but wonder what I’d look like through his artist’s eye.

We stay like that for a while. Not talking. Just breathing each other in.

See… this is perfect.

It might’ve stayed that way, too, but the jangling of keys startles us out of our blissful moment. Expecting Levi, I leap away from Ben and seize a long wooden paintbrush. I’m taking no chances, this time. However futile.

The older man who enters looks at me in alarm. “Uh… hey there, Ben.” He puts up his hands in surrender. “And hey there to you, Miss.”

The man is taller than I thought, with a barrel chest and a stomach that swallows up his belt. It’s hot out, but he’s wearing a cable-knit, fisherman’s sweater that gives him a teddy bear quality. His gray hair is still thick and looks like he’s only ever combed it with his fingers, while a scraggly beard hides his chin. But his dark eyes and red-cheeked face are friendly, and so is the wedding ring that seems to be cutting off his circulation.

Ben’s face cracks into a smile, but all I can muster is pulsing embarrassment and shaky legs, as the burst of adrenaline drains away. I quickly set down the paintbrush, feeling like I’m trespassing somehow.

Ben’s hand on the small of my back reassures me. “Lou, I want you to meet Summer.” He peers down at me. “Summer, this is my friend, Lou. He’s here for the next shift.”

“The day guy.” I recognize him from my many crossings.

Lou chuckles. “That’s me. Would you believe, I have a name?”

I smile at him shyly. It’s not like he caught us doing something bad, but he’s grinning at me as if he did. Like he knows something, and he likes that he knows.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lou.” I clear my tight throat. “Quite an office you’ve got here. I was just… um… admiring the view.”

Lou erupts into cheery laughter and places his bag on a narrow side-table by the door. The tiny booth suddenly feels like a clown car, with three people now stuffed inside it. To punctuate the point, Lou swipes a bead of sweat off his brow. I think about suggesting he take off the thick sweater, but to each their own.

“Y’all scoot on out of here and go have some fun,” he encourages, corralling me and Ben toward the door. “They’re boilin’ up crawfish at Lucky’s today. Go and get ya some, and tell ‘em Lou sent ya, so they don’t go stingy on the portions!” The twinkle in his eye is impossible to miss as he shoos us the rest of the way out of the door, and onto the shoulder of the bridge.

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Whadda you say?”

“I say, I’m hungry,” I reply, and, with Ben’s fingers interlacing with mine, we make our precarious descent to start the rest of our day together. And I’m hoping there are no more rude interruptions waiting for us. Two heart attacks are quite enough for one date.

BEN

I know there’s a word for those who see colors when they hear music, but I wonder if there’s a word for what I have. When she’s in my arms, and my lips are on hers, I see a kaleidoscope of color. Colors I have no name for. Colors that don’t exist anywhere else but in her kiss. I want to dip my brush into them and spill them on canvas, painting something the world has never seen. Her beauty, her body, her spirit will be at the center of it all—the most awe-inspiring muse to ever capture an artist’s gaze.

Does she feel it, too? When her eyes close, what does she see? Can she sense the magic that zings between us, sparking its vivid fireworks? I can’t put into words, this energy inside me. I could paint it, but even then, it might never match up to the feeling. But isn’t that what an artist strives for, to create something no one has ever seen, achieving something that defies human understanding?

Whatever it is, I’m like a starved man, and she’s my only chance of survival. I’m hungry for her. So hungry my body is growling for another touch. Surely, she feels it. Everyone must be able to. The air thrums with it when we’re near each other.

7

SUMMER

“Pass me another beer! My mouth is on fire!” I’m huffing like a dragon, trying to cool the fire on my tongue. A sensible person, in full knowledge of their heat limits, would stop, but I can’t. These crawfish are insanely good: a little sweet, a little salty, a little garlicky, and a whole heap of spicy. Addictively spicy.

Ben laughs and passes me a freshly cracked bottle. “Tasty, right?”

“Incredible.” I take a big sip of the beer and hold the icy, malty liquid in my mouth for a few seconds, hoping it’ll ease the burn.

“Just wait until you learn how to suck the heads.” He takes a sip from his own bottle, grinning as my brow furrows in his direction.

I swallow my mouthful. “I’m sorry. Is that some strange, southern, sexual innuendo that I’m missing? I might not be from around here, but I doubt that’s the kind of thing you can get away with in public.”

He chuckles, but there’s a sultry glint in his eyes. Reaching into our ten-pound bag of crawfish, he plucks out one of the vivid, orangey-red critters and hands one to me before choosing one for himself. Mine is plumper, but I don’t know if he did that deliberately.

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