Page 38 of Back to Square One

Next to Sara sat Evie. She’d been kind of quiet for the remainder of the day, and while she’d seemed to avoid talking to Rowan, she had not avoided looking at her. At least half a dozen times, Rowan had glanced up from whatever she was doing—reading, listening to a conversation, giving her opinion on something—and had caught Evie’s gaze on her. Almost every time, Evie had looked away quickly, though there was once or twice she’d smiled sadly before shifting her focus.

It was confusing, to say the least, and Rowan kept thinking that she probably needed to address it at some point. But not tonight. Tonight was for catching up with Sara, relaxing with her friends, having a non-alcoholic beer, and making s’mores. After the boat ride, she’d promised herself to just enjoy the rest of the day and to try not to dwell.

Tall order, but she was doing her best.

The marshmallow she was toasting burst into flames.

“Hey!” Lizzie shouted at her. “I thought you didn’t like char-mallows.”

“Damn it.” Rowan shook her head. “I zoned. Sorry, Justine. Here.” She handed the stick off to Lizzie, who took the blackened marshmallow, happily stuffed it in her mouth, then loaded the stick with another one and handed it back. With a glance to Justine, Rowan said, “I got this one. Promise.”

Justine smiled at her. “I trust you.”

Man, she was not herself tonight, and she was only now beginning to understand the effect Evie’d had on her earlier. The closeness. The warmth. The trust. Because she didn’t think Evie would’ve allowed herself to fall asleep on a person she didn’t trust. Across the fire, she met dark eyes, Evie looking at her again. This time, though, she didn’t look away. She held Rowan’s gaze, lifted her beer to her lips, and swigged. Rowan was the one who broke the connection because honestly? It was turning her the hell on. That flutter low in her body had kicked up a notch or five, and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

Giving her head a shake, she did her best to tune in to a conversation. Any conversation, please and thank you. Justine was talking to Sara about her café and a new advertising angle she was thinking about. Jasmine and Claire were chatting about a new movie Rowan hadn’t seen. Lizzie, Becca, and Stevie were analyzing the new players on the Buffalo Bills and how they thought they were going to do this season.

None of those conversations pulled her in.

She finished Justine’s marshmallow—perfectly golden brown this time—and handed it over, mentioned that she was going to hit the bathroom, and pushed to her feet. She loved her friends, and she loved being with them, but things were weird, she felt weird, and she needed a damn minute.

Inside the house, the silence was such a change from the buzz of conversation outside that she stood for a moment, back against the door, and let it envelop her. Her ears did that thing where they had to adjust to the quiet and felt like they pressed against her head for a beat. She took one of her deep, calming breaths and waited for her heart rate to slow. After a minute or two, she started to feel better.

The powder room was in its own little darkened hallway off the kitchen. She was going to use her own bathroom, but climbing the stairs right now felt like a lot, and she was afraid if she made it to her room, she’d flop down on the bed and be done for the night, and she wasn’t quite ready for that.

“Powder room it is, then,” she said to the empty kitchen as she walked through.

When she finished, she stood at the sink with the water running and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked a little tired, that was true. It was in her eyes. Somebody who didn’t know her might not notice, but Stevie probably had. Her mother would. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Her blue eyes were slightly pink where the whites were, probably from the campfire smoke. Always one of her best features, her auburn hair had been in a ponytail earlier, but it was giving her a headache, so she’d taken it down, brushed it out, and now it fell in waves around her shoulders. She used her fingers to comb through it, fluff it up a bit, then straightened her shirt, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and smiled at the girl in the mirror.

“You got this,” she said. She gave her hands a quick wash, dried them, then clicked off the light and opened the door. And stopped.

Evie was standing in the darkened hallway, and she startled Rowan enough to pull a little gasp from her.

“Jesus,” she said with a soft laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me. I didn’t see you, it’s so dark right here.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem. Bathroom’s all yours.” Rowan started to move past her, but Evie’s hand closed on her arm.

“Wait. Please.”

Rowan stopped and turned to look at her. It was hard to make out her expression in the darkness, but Rowan could see her eyes, and there was something there she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Lots of somethings, all jumbled together. Worry. Fear. Sadness. Longing.

In that moment, she wished she didn’t know Evie so well, wished she couldn’t read her like a book, because there was one other thing on her face, the clearest of them all. Desire.

“Evie, what—” Her question was interrupted by Evie’s finger against her lips, silencing her. Evie was taller than she was, and when she took a step toward Rowan, forcing her to step back, Rowan felt trapped, a prisoner between the softness of Evie’s body and the solid surface of the wall behind her. Fully, deliciously trapped.

Evie studied her face. Her dark eyes roamed over Rowan, and she moved her hand lightly, fluttering over her chin, the side of her neck, close, but not actually touching her. She picked up a lock of her hair and sifted it between her fingers.

Rowan couldn’t move. No, she didn’t want to move, that was the reality of it. Evie had leaned into her, and now their bodies were pressed together from knees to hips, their faces no more than an inch or two apart. Evie’s hand dug into Rowan’s hair then, grasped the back of her head, and pulled her in, until she felt like she’d been captured by Evie’s mouth.

Kissing Evie in the darkened hallway of a lake house had not been on Rowan’s bingo card. In fact, it was nowhere near her bingo card. It wasn’t even in the same state as her bingo card.

And yet.

There they were, and kissing Evie was everything Rowan remembered. Soft and then hard. Giving and then demanding. Her hands moved by themselves, it seemed, grasping the sides of Evie’s unzipped hoodie and pulling her impossibly closer, up onto her toes, before moving up to either side of Evie’s face and holding her, plundering, pushing her tongue into Evie’s mouth. A moan escaped one of them, and Rowan wasn’t sure if it was her or Evie. The kiss went from zero to a hundred and sixty in about two seconds, which was how it had always been with them. Nobody turned her on, so completely, so quickly, the way Evie did. Christ on a bike, she was wet already. Hot and wet and—

“Oh, God.”