Page 49 of Back to Square One

“And that’s game!” Stevie shouted with pride, arms straight up in the air in victory. “Next up? Evie and Jasmine, that’s you.”

Evie gave Rowan a soft smile. “Gotta throw bean bags.” She pushed up from her low-sitting chair with some effort and high-fived her partner as they got ready to play.

Rowan sipped her beer and watched, doing her best to make sure that was all she was doing: watching and not ogling. Not drooling. Not picturing.

“Hey, bitch,” Stevie said, dropping into the chair Evie had abandoned. “All good?”

Rowan nodded slowly. “Yep.”

“You two’ve been chatting quite a bit.”

“Yep.” More nodding. They watched for a moment or two before Rowan added quietly, “She’s not with Claire. They’re not together.”

Stevie seemed to take that in. “Huh. Okay. Well, something’s going on there.”

“Yep. I just don’t know what, and she didn’t seem to want to tell me.”

More spectating, and Stevie cheered a particularly good shot by Becca. Then she said for only Rowan to hear, “Just watch yourself. Okay?” When Rowan turned to look at her, Stevie’s eyes were boring into her. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Again.”

Rowan nodded but said nothing.

Rowan dropped off that night like a toddler who’d been running around all day in the fresh air, instantly asleep. Both her body and her mind were exhausted, but despite that, she was happy she had again not needed a nap. Her doctor had told her she’d get stronger—slowly—and back to normal eventually. She felt like she was definitely on that path.

She woke up with a start, jerking into wakefulness and not sure why. A glance at her phone told her it was nearing three in the morning. She’d left the French doors open with the screen shut, and she could hear the gentle hoots of an owl somewhere in the distance, as well as the soft lapping of the water against the shore. It all should’ve been peaceful enough to lull her back to sleep, but instead, she lay there, awake, replaying the evening, the cornhole games, and being close to Evie. And while somewhere in her brain, alarm bells were going off—muted ones—she couldn’t help it. She lay there and recalled things like Evie’s laugh—sometimes soft and musical, sometimes a bark that startled you. Her hands—long fingers, roundly filed nails, what Rowan knew was very soft skin. Her scent—she still wore the same body mist, a sweet, subtle pumpkin variety that she wore all year long because she loved it so much. Her long, lean body—

“Jesus Christ, Ro, enough already.” She whispered the words into the silence of the room, annoyed with herself. As if to punctuate the scolding, her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that the beer had made her full, and she hadn’t really eaten much of the dinner Justine had cooked for them. She also knew there were leftovers in the fridge.

As she lay there, debating whether to get up or hope to fall back to sleep, her stomach rumbled again, making the decision for her.

“Fine.” She tossed off the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She wore a pair of old gym shorts and a tank top, and nobody was up, so she wasn’t worried about anybody seeing her. Running her fingers through her hair, she gave her scalp a good scratch as she quietly opened her bedroom door, glanced across at the closed door of Claire and Evie’s room, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

Justine made a habit of leaving the light on over the sink in the kitchen. It wasn’t super bright, but it was enough to allow Rowan to navigate around the end table and past the couch piled with blankets without crashing into any furniture, and she made it safely to the fridge. She pulled the door open, and that lit the room up pretty good. Inside, she found a big bowl of green grapes, freshly washed.

Excellent, she thought as she pulled them out and set the bowl on the counter. She snapped off a bunch and carried them to the back door as she ate, looking out toward the water. The lake looked so peaceful now, calm, glassy, the moon’s reflection rippling on the surface. Beautiful and serene, she soaked it in as she inhaled a deep breath, then blew it out slowly.

There was a slight rustling sound behind her, and when she turned to see what it was, her heart rate kicked up. That was no pile of blankets on the couch, it was Evie, and she was sitting up, looking at Rowan.

The moment was heavy. Full. The very air held something Rowan wasn’t sure she wanted to think about, but she couldn’t look away from Evie, whose eyes conveyed so many things—concern, sorrow, hope, want—Rowan could see it all. Even at a distance, even in the very dim light. She knew Evie that well, and she could still read what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

Rowan’s swallow was loud in the silence of the room, and she didn’t know how long they stayed like that—her standing there, Evie sitting, looking at her. But finally, Evie held out her hand. A simple, harmless move that might as well have been a lasso around Rowan, capturing her and pulling her toward the couch. She didn’t even think about it. At all. She dropped the remainder of her grapes on the counter as she walked past it on her way to the couch. Once her feet started moving, there was no stopping her. She walked directly to the couch, directly to Evie, took her face in both hands, and crushed their mouths together.

Evie pulled her down onto her and Rowan stretched out so the full length of her body lay on Evie’s, and it was like heaven, like a dream and a fantasy and a wish and a memory all wrapped up together. This kiss was nothing like the ambush kissing in the hallway. That was a surprise. This was not. Rowan had to admit that to herself. They’d been leading up to this moment since the ambush kiss in the hallway. She just hadn’t realized it at the time.

They said nothing. They didn’t have to, and their bodies fell into an old familiar rhythm without even needing to try. It had been years, but nothing had been forgotten. Evie was thinner than Rowan remembered, but her skin was still as soft as velvet, her lips still tasted like they always did, like Evie, sweet and erotic, and they still moved like they were one. Evie somehow flipped their positions—something she was shockingly good at; they’d joked about it many times—and Rowan found herself on her back on the couch, Evie looking down at her with an expression so familiar, it made Rowan’s chest ache. With longing. With desire. With love.

Evie’s long fingers pushed Rowan’s tank up to expose her breasts to the cool night air, and her nipples stood at attention in an instant. Evie took a moment to simply look at them, and Rowan could almost feel that look, before Evie ran a hand up her stomach and closed it over one breast, kneading it, zeroing in on the nipple, pulling a soft gasp from Rowan’s lips, even as she held eye contact, watching her reaction.

“God,” Evie said, so quietly, Rowan almost didn’t hear it. Then she lowered her head and took Rowan’s nipple into her mouth, sucked.

This time, Rowan’s gasp was louder, and she clamped her lips together. The last thing they needed was to wake up the rest of the house—and if she was being honest, the danger of discovery made it all that much hotter.

Fingers of one hand threaded into Evie’s hair, she ran the other up under Evie’s T-shirt, her palm running over Evie’s bare back, absorbing the warmth, marveling at the softness. Evie’s mouth was back on hers, kissing her deeply. Thoroughly. Plundering her mouth, her tongue taking liberties and Rowan allowing them. She spread her legs, making room for Evie to settle her hips against her, and Rowan realized then just how wet she was. Ridiculously so. As if reading her mind, Evie slipped a hand between them, her fingers searching, pressing, probing until she found Rowan’s soaking center through the fabric of her shorts, and they both gasped. Too loudly. Their eyes met, and they laughed very quietly, and the vision of Evie above her, smiling down at her, was so shockingly normal, it brought tears to Rowan’s eyes.

With the threat of the tears came questions. What about the breakup? What exactly was this?—but then Evie’s mouth chased them away, at least for the time being, drowning Rowan in the pleasure of being wanted, desired. Evie’s fingers slipped beneath Rowan’s shorts, and it was like a zap of electricity shot through her legs.

“Jesus, you’re so wet,” Evie muttered as she stroked. Her face was mere millimeters from Rowan’s, their eyes locked. A faraway voice in Rowan’s mind seemed to be shouting those questions—what were they doing? What the hell was happening? But the blood rushing in her ears drowned it out. She hadn’t been with anybody since the breakup with Evie—at least nobody she could remember—and the feeling of Evie touching her, kissing her, that eye contact…it was all too delicious to give up. No, Rowan stifled that voice and did what she could to focus on the now. It made her think of Evie’s tattoo.

here, now…