29
Now
The house is empty. Felix and I call out for Bridget, but she’s not in her room, the bathroom, the kitchen. She’s not watching TV. She’s not anywhere. I check the driveway. Zach’s truck is gone, and Felix’s is, too.
“Um . . .” I say, stepping back inside. “I think we’ve been ditched.”
Felix stands beside the coffee table, a sopping wet mess. We brushed ourselves off as best we could, but we still dragged half the beach back with us. I think my dress might be ruined. I begin to laugh, but then I see a sheet of
paper in his hand.
“What’s that?”
Felix passes it to me. My name is at the top in Bridget’s handwriting.
“I haven’t read it,” he says.
Bee,
I know you’re upset with me, and I’m sorry. I know you put your life on hold to come here for me, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve bought our tickets for Wednesday morning—they’re on me. Flight leaves at ten.
I’m meeting Miles in Charlottetown. He lands this evening. We have some things we need to work out in person, but I promise you I’ll explain everything to you when we’re back tomorrow.
You are the very best friend, and I love you.
—B
P.S. Tell Wolf I borrowed his truck.
I hand it to Felix after I’m done. As his eyes move across the page, they harden. A muscle in his jaw ticks. But when he lifts his gaze to mine, the ice melts. He throws an arm around my shoulder, drawing me to him. He brings his lips to my forehead. It’s so casually affectionate, and the ease at which he does this is a little staggering.
“I hope you don’t mind being stuck with me for the night,” I say.
“I can think of worse things.” He looks at the letter again. “Should we call her?”
“No. Let’s leave her alone.” I’m baffled by what “everything” could be, but I’m also hopeful that if she’s meeting Miles, the wedding is on. “I love her, but this trip has been chaos.”
His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “It’s not all bad.”
Felix’s eyes are on me. And I know that look. That blue fire.
“Shower?” he asks.
“Shower,” I say.
• • •
WE SPEND THE AFTERNOON SO TIGHTLY KNIT TOGETHER THAT I CAN’T SAY FOR SURE where Felix ends and I begin. When my stomach grumbles, Felix pulls me
from his old bed.
“Let’s go out.”
We dress, and Felix tosses me the keys to the Mustang. I almost trip on the rug trying to catch them.
He picks up the keys off the ground and hands them to me. “You drive.”
After some jerky shifts and a few reminders from Felix, I have the hang of it again. The rain has stopped, but moody clouds linger, the departing sun slung low and plump between them. Shadows grow long, and the fields glow gold. The ocean is dark, twinkling with promise. Felix’s profile is washed in
orange and gold. We crest a hill and are met with a stunning vista of cliffs and sea. I let out a long exhale.
I follow Felix’s instructions to a roadside fish and chips stand and fold the towels he packed over the damp picnic table bench. We sit side by side, thighs kissing, ankles twined.
Without asking, Felix opens a couple of ketchup packets and squirts them on my fries. It’s how I like to eat them—uneven dollops of red sauce, some bites sweeter than others. These details we’ve stored about each other.
I press my lips to his when he’s done. “Thank you.”
“For the ketchup?”
“For the ketchup.”
I open three more packets and squeeze them into a puddle for dipping on the side of his basket, the way he likes.
“I can’t believe you have to leave in two days,” Felix says. “I’ve just got you.”
“I know.” But I’m grinning. I’ve just got you. I don’t know what this is, but I like it already.
“I’ll be in Toronto later this week for the wedding.”
“I’m very aware.”
“I’ve booked a hotel room.” His eyes ask the question.
“Cancel,” I say. “Stay with me.”
His smile is magnificent. “Is your bed pink?”
“Does that matter?”
“I like your pink.” His gaze drops to my mouth.
“You make that sound dirty.”
“It might be.”
“Well, the bed is white. The walls are pale pink.”
“Perfect.”
“Felix Clark among the streetlights and traffic and skyscrapers. You are made for the East Coast, but I like picturing you in the city.”
He hums, then swipes his thumb over a dot of ketchup at the corner of my mouth. He sucks it off his thumb. “I’m made for a lot of things.”
I’m going to miss this place. I’m going to miss this man.
On the way back to Summer Wind, we stop at a market and Felix buys oysters for dessert.
“You never get sick of them, huh?” he says after I’ve polished off my eighth. We’re snuggled on the outdoor sofa. Citronella candles flicker in jars around the deck.
I squeeze a lemon wedge over my ninth. “Never.”
“You still eat like you’re from away,” he says with fondness.
“I am from away.”
“You’ve been here so many times, you’re practically an islander.”
“I think island regulations stipulate you have to spend at least three winters on PEI before you can claim that title.”
Felix smiles. “Five, actually. I like oysters, but they’re not my favorite.”
I jerk my head back, eyes wide. “Excuse me? I don’t think you’re allowed to talk like that. They might not let you compete next year.”
“I prefer my seafood cooked. I’m more of a fish and chips guy.”
“I find this highly offensive, borderline scandalous. No wonder it’s taken you so long to come clean.”
Felix laughs, then prepares an oyster for himself, shaking a bottle of hot sauce on top. “There’s a lot about each other we don’t know yet.”
“Hmm . . . That’s true. Important things. Your favorite color, for
instance.”
“Pink.”
“That’s my favorite color.”
“Mine, too,” he says. “Pink like your suitcase. Pink like your lips. Pink like that striped dress with the buttons and the buckles on your sandals. Pink like the ribbon on your nightgown. Lucy pink.”
I don’t even think he’s joking. “Lucy pink. You’re . . .” I shake my head.
“You like me.”
“I do.”
I take a deep breath. “It’s going to take me time to get used to that. It
feels . . .”
“Like a dream?”
“Or an explicit fantasy.”
He chuckles.
“Favorite number?” I ask.
“Ah, the tough questions. Six.”
“Because?”
“When I turned six, I announced that it was my favorite number, and my dad said when I turned seven, seven would be my favorite number. I decided right then that I’d never let go of six.”
“So committed. Mine is thirteen. I feel the need to show it love.”
“Very generous. Very Lucy.”
“Middle name?”
“Edgar.”
“Felix Edgar Clark,” I repeat. “I can work with that.”
“And yours?”
“Beth. Not as exciting as Edgar.”
“Lucy Beth Ashby.” He cocks a brow. “Sounds very exciting.”
“Ha. If you could go anywhere in the world? Just one place.”
He stares out at the water. “Australia. I’ve heard so much from Miles, and I’d like to see it for myself.” His voice has gone soft. When his gaze returns to mine, it looks . . . I’m not sure. Sad? Hesitant?
“It’s a very long flight,” I say.
“It is. Maybe you could keep me company. We could go together one day, stand on a different beach, facing the Pacific.”
“One day.” I like that—the idea of a future with Felix in it. “Can I ask something more personal?”
Felix turns his attention to me. “Okay.”
“I’ve heard Bridget’s version of your breakup with Joy, but not yours.
And I’m curious.”
He slides an oyster between his lips and chews it slowly. “Is there anything specific you want to know?” he says after a minute.
“Whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”
“You probably know most of the story.” He rubs the back of his neck. I can feel his reluctance, sense that wound hasn’t healed completely. “I was fifteen when we started dating. Joy was sixteen. But we had known each
other most of our lives. By the time I was twelve, my crush was fully realized. The way Joy played hockey . . .” He drifts off, shaking his head as if he’s still amazed.
“In some ways,” Felix goes on, “I think that was our problem. When Joy and I started dating, it was very serious very fast. The way it progressed felt like an inevitability rather than a choice—we followed the path we thought we were supposed to. She went away to university and I stayed here. We spent our weekends visiting each other when we could, and we both missed out on other things. I’m not saying we didn’t love each other. We did.” He
shrugged. “But we grew up.”
“But the breakup was hard.”
“Harder than hard. My mom and dad were in on the proposal. Joy’s parents, too. The four of them organized this big party for all our friends and family, and I got down on my knee in front of everyone. Joy burst into tears. I thought they were happy ones. She said yes, and then broke up with me not long after. It was shocking . . . and so painful.”
He looks lost in the memory, the lingering hurt.
“I’m so sorry.”
Felix sets his hand on my knee. “It’s okay. There’s nothing there anymore. Joy is seeing someone, and . . .” He kisses me once. “Maybe I am,
too.”
He lets that sit there.
Maybe. Maybe it could work.
“What is it that you’re looking for?” I ask. “From this. From us.”
Felix sets his plate down, then takes mine from my hands and puts it on the coffee table. He leans over me, bracketing my head with his arms.
One kiss. “This.”
Then another.
“But not just this?”
He shakes his head, moves his mouth to my ear. “No. More than this.”
I tilt my head to the side as his lips find my chest. “I think I need to go slow,” I say. And I definitely need to tell Bridget. “I’m not good at this. I’m not good at more.”
Felix lifts his head, bringing his eyes to mine. Steady. “I am.”
• • •
WE SPEND THE REST OF THE EVENING ON THE COUCH IN THE TV ROOM UNDER A blanket. I’m wearing one of Felix’s sweatshirts, black with a hood and white drawstrings, and nothing else aside from my prettiest pair of underwear and a thick pair of socks. He’s in sweats. I am addicted to Felix in sweats. I am addicted to Felix in everything.
Felix has put The Great British Baking Show on, but we’re not really watching. We’re smiling at each other, kissing, twisting our fingers together.
It feels as if we’re playing, testing what a relationship could be like, but I’m so at home. So comfortable.
It’s like we’ve had a thousand nights like this one.
I lift the blanket to my nose, take a deep whiff. I want to remember
everything about this moment.
“What’s with you and the blankets?”
“Ugh. They’re just the best. The wool is so soft. The color.” This one is a lemony yellow. “I love how they smell like this place.”
“They’re made on the island,” he says, pointing to the tag at the edge of the blanket. MACAUSLAND’S WOOLLEN MILLS. “Up in Bloomfield. I can take you
there tomorrow if you want.”
“Yes. Really?”
“Sure. I’ve never seen someone so excited by a blanket.”
“I’m going to need you to roll around in it so it can soak up the full Felix
scent.”
He laughs. “Excuse me?”
“I’m hooked on it,” I tell him. “I could bottle it and make a fortune.”
“You,” he says, “are an odd woman, but I’ll happily roll around on your
blanket.”
“Good man.”
We kiss, we whisper, we hold hands.
“I can’t decide if I like you better with or without the beard,” I say, narrowing one eye. “You’re almost too hot like this.” Felix smiles, and I touch his dimple. “But I feel like the beard makes your eyes stand out even
more.”
“My strongest feature.”
“They’re lethal.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a real conundrum.”
“Let me know when you solve it. I was trying out the clean-shaven thing for the wedding. I wanted time to grow the beard back in case it was a mistake.”
“That’s shockingly vain of you, Felix Clark.”
“Well, I was going to see you.” He pulls me, hauling me over his lap so I’m straddling him. He squeezes the backs of my thighs. “I wanted to look my best.”
“I bought a very sexy dress, with an extremely high slit, but the neckline goes up to here.” I point above my collarbone. “I didn’t want you to see . . .”
He finishes my sentence. “You blush?”
I feel my chest heat. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s happening right now, isn’t it?” He dips his hand under the bottom of the sweatshirt. His fingers creep up my stomach.
“No.” A pinkie grazes my nipple.
Felix places his palm flat on my sternum. “I can feel how hot your skin is.
Your heart is beating so fast.”
“You’re imagining things,” I say as the flush spreads beneath his fingertips.
“Really?” He arches a brow. “Arms up, then.”
I pause, then raise my hands over my head. Slowly, Felix works the hoodie off, sucking air between his teeth. I watch him soak me in, first with his eyes, then with his hands, following the scarlet with his fingers.
I dip my head so I can kiss his cheek and mouth and neck. When I pull the collar of his shirt to the side so I can taste his skin, he lets out a low moan. I
reach for the hem.
“I showed you mine.”
When I’ve got his top off, I shimmy from his lap, bringing him with me. I lie back, wanting to feel his bare chest against mine. I love how he’s hard where I’m soft. He traces my moles, he kisses the indent at the base of my throat, then, eyes finding mine, positions himself between my thighs. Even though he’s still half-dressed, the way he’s pressed against me—all of him and all of me—and even though I’m sore from the beach sex and the shower sex, I’m already throbbing.
“I want to make something clear.” He rocks his hips against me, and my
eyelids flutter closed.
“Mmm?”
“Look at me, Lucy.”
My gaze finds his.
“You and me—we’re very good at this, but we’re more than this.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He strokes my cheek with his thumb and then my bottom lip. “I’ll go as slow as you want.” He kisses me once, brushes his nose against mine.
“Thank you,” I tell him. I snake my legs around the back of his thighs and give him a long kiss. “But right now, I’m not interested in slow.”
