Match Cut: A Standalone Small Town Romance (Foxe Hill Book 1) Page 10

  His thumb strokes mine and shivers run through me, from my spine all the way to my stomach, seeping through to my pelvis and causing me the slightest bit of anxiety.

  Do not think with your throbbing vagina. Do not do it! Think with your brain.

  My brain tells me this is not what I should be doing. My brain tells me Keaton is out of my league. Also, I’m only in town for a few months, God willing. A fling is the last thing I need right now, but good lord above, it’s Keaton.

  “Tell me something,” he says, turning toward me.

  Kiss me. Kiss me now. Take me up against a tree. Rip my panties down and have your way with me.

  “It’s cold,” I say.

  He smiles, letting out a small breath and nodding in the direction of the campsite.

  “Want to head back?” he asks.

  He pulls his hand away from mine and I want to tug it right back, but I can’t find the guts to do it. I’m better than this, but around Keaton? No spine.

  I swallow, nodding slightly as he turns to walk back.

  I ruined it. I’m not sure what I ruined, but there was a moment between us under the stars. Something romantic…an opportunity for something more, and I didn’t have the courage to do anything at all.

  It’s only after a few steps that Keaton twists around, causing me to bump into his chest. I open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but he grips the back of my head and lowers his mouth to mine, pulling me into a deep, long kiss.

  Electricity bursts through my body, zapping every single nerve. My fingertips tingle, my lips are heated by his, and my nipples are already hardened by the time he wraps his other arm around my waist, tugging me closer.

  His mouth is desire itself. Every movement of his lips is heavy, backed by a low hum of longing. I grip his arms, running my hands over every hill and valley of his muscles—large biceps, strong forearms, and the large hands clutching the fabric of my jacket as if he can’t bear to let me go.

  He teases my lips with his tongue until I grant him entrance. I hiss in a breath of air as we wrestle back and forth until I’m biting his bottom lip. His groans, pulling away to plant kiss after kiss along my neckline and collarbone.

  My heart is beating faster than I thought possible, my head clouding with thoughts ranging from Holy hell to I can feel his hard cock against me and oh my god I think he’s huge.

  When he trails back up my neck to plant another kiss on my mouth, I let out a small moan, which only spurs him to grip my hair tighter and nibble the curve of my neckline.

  I want all of him in this moment, but after I let out another uncontrollable moan from a nip at my ear, he pulls away, leaving both of us exasperated and breathing heavily.

  Keaton runs a hand through his hair, placing the other on his hip and chuckling.

  “I’m not sorry for that,” he says. “But…we can’t. I can’t. Asher…he…”

  “I get it.”

  I absolutely one hundred percent do not fucking get it. My body wants him, and it wants him now.

  I stop to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I just kissed Keaton. I just felt his erection against me. Keaton, of all people. The sides of his mouth curl into a sly, devilish smirk, and my thighs ache to feel his touch again.

  “We’re in the woods,” he says.

  “Yes,” I respond.

  “We should head back.”

  And, as if that settles every question lingering between us, we walk back to the campsite in silence. I crawl into my tent, zip it up, and lie down in the exact same position I was in just thirty minutes ago.

  Though, this time, I think bears are the least of my worries.

  Leaving the campsite the following morning lacks the same excitement from when we arrived. Kayla and Joey are hungover, stumbling into the back of their car as Lily volunteers to drive. We exchange hugs, and after the girls tell me they would very much like to have a girls day soon, I pull myself up into the back seat of Keaton’s Jeep.

  We don’t speak the entire ride back. Asher is asleep in the front seat, letting the seatbelt hold him in place so he doesn’t fall through the opening of the missing door. Keaton doesn’t look at me once.

  Trees fly by, sunlight flickering through the branches. The morning air is cool, but the sun warms my face once we reach the stretch of land leading into Foxe Hill. Fields are fenced in on both sides, with grass waving in the emptiness save for the occasional grazing cow or long dirt driveway leading from the road to a well-kept house that always seems to be precariously placed on a hill.

  The area becomes slightly less rural as we approach town until we’re back on Main Street. It’s a Sunday morning, and nobody is out. The streetlights are red, flashing a coordinated intersection into a four-way stop. The lights for Keaton’s sandwich shop are on, but there’s only the one employee inside.

  I can see how the locals are worried. Sunday mornings have always been slow and vacant, but I remember there being at least a few folks walking on the sidewalks, getting in their weekend exercise, or maybe even early moviegoers catching the matinee.

  It’s sad what Foxe Hill has become, and I almost feel nostalgic for it too.

  I’m dropped off at my parents’ house, and Asher wakes like a bear coming out of hibernation, lazily saluting me as I carry my bags and tent into the house. Keaton gives a small wave, nothing a friend wouldn’t give to another friend, nothing to signal that we kissed last night, which makes my heart feel just a bit heavier.

  Regret is the first word that comes to mind because I know he must regret it. Asher is his best friend, and I’m just the desperate little sister.

  My mom is already plucking weeds out in the back yard when I walk in. Dad watches from the kitchen with the newspaper and his cup of coffee, giving a thumbs-up when she points to the thriving flowerbed. I turn to my phone, seeing a text from Keaton before my bag is even off my shoulder.

  Keaton: Meet me at the theater in an hour.

  I bite my lower lip.

  Regret is definitely the word I’m looking for.

  After a shower and coming up with some excuse to run an errand (I may have told my dad we needed bread? I don’t even know), I crank up the van and head to the movie theater, driving like a bat out of hell.

  When I sneak in through the back door, the smell of butter and popcorn wafts down the hall. I can barely see the few feet in front of me, the only light shining out from under the doors of Viewing Room 1. It’s almost nine o’clock on a Sunday, and the workers won’t be arriving on shift for another hour if the schedule is the same as it was years ago. If I’m lucky, nothing has changed except for the fact that I am meeting up with a man who is so severely out of my league. Is this the high school experience everyone else had? The anticipation, the anxiety, the borderline excitement of knowing you’re about to walk into the lion’s den?

  I crack open the viewing room door and Keaton is already silhouetted in the center row, feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of him, a bag of popcorn settled in his lap. His head turns to find me, and he waves. Good sign number one: That grin of his stretches from ear to ear, that dimple as deep as ever, so genuine and welcoming.

  I walk down the aisle, plopping down in the seat next to him.

  “Hi,” is all I can get out.

  “Hi there,” he responds. Good sign number two: His eyes dance over me, taking in the loose bun that took over ten minutes to get to the right level of ‘I’m casual. This is no big deal.’ However, paired with my most slimming crop top, I might have created an odd juxtaposition as far as what look I’m going for.

  “What movie are we watching today?” I ask, turning toward the screen. Any more eye contact and I might just melt into this chair.

  “Well, I put on the first movie I could find,” he says. I can feel his eyes still on me even as I face forward. I try my best to steady my breathing, but he’s right next to me and he looks so ridiculously hot and I already just want whatever movie this is to be over and done so I can go hide
elsewhere.

  “And what is that?” I ask.

  “Jaws,” he responds with a laugh.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I just got it for our next book club, so it was the closest thing to the projector.”

  “I didn’t know it was a book first,” I say.

  “Not a lot of people do.”

  His smile is intoxicating. I’m anxious about all the words not being exchanged yet still lingering in the air like storm clouds ready to rain down on us. His hands rest on the popcorn bag, but I want them touching me. His jaw ticks as his eyes roam over the opening credits, but I want to feel it under my touch. I want all of him.

  “Tell me something,” he says. It catches me off guard, as the statement always does.

  Something… How about the warmth of your hands when they were on my waist? How about the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss since it happened? How about the way your sleeves are rolled up just so, showing off the strong muscles of your forearms underneath?

  I have so many questions, but only one truly matters.

  “What happened last night?” I ask.

  He inhales sharply, blinking at the screen but surely not actually watching the film. I can see the gears turning. He lowers the popcorn bag to the ground, propping it against the seat in front of him, and twists toward me.

  “I kissed you.”

  “And you regretted it?” I ask.

  “No,” he says quickly, following up with a small laugh. “No. But…Asher is like a brother to me. I respect him more than I respect anyone else. And you…you’re something different, Violet, and I can’t ignore that.” I don’t respond, and he continues. “You’re a grown woman and you can make your own decisions, as can I. I kissed you, and I’d honestly like to do that again,” he says matter-of-factly. His voice lowers, gruff and sensual, and its timbre rushes through me like aromatic smoke. “I’d like to do much more.”

  I blink, unable to form any type of words.

  Please God yes?

  “Yes.” That’s all I can get out.

  His hand trails from his own lap to my knee then up to my thigh, fingers splaying out until his palm covers me. Nerves send jitters through me. I can feel every single gesture he makes, every twitch of his thumb, every slight movement setting alight something new, a longing I didn’t know existed. I’ve been touched before and my so-called “number” is probably about standard for someone who has lived in L.A. for the past few years (take that as you will), but this anxiety isn’t the same as that of a one-night stand. This is years of Keaton lingering in the subconscious of my mind.

  He strokes his hand up my thigh and to my waist, exploring my skin, no doubt feeling the goose bumps rising up my side.

  “Do it,” I murmur, daring him, and with only the raising of a single eyebrow, he waits not one more second to comply with my request.

  His lips are full of energy when they meet mine. My chest is engulfed by flames licking at my heart and setting everything inside of me on edge. My hands roam back to his arms; I’ve been desperate to touch them again—their hardness, their bulk, the thought of how tightly they can hold me.

  Keaton clutches my waist, his hand finding the exposed area between my jeans and my crop top. Shivers shoot through me, and he’s inching higher, running a thumb just below my bra line, teasing even the thought of going farther. I arch my back, pressing myself into him. Damn being in a theater. Damn employees arriving in an hour. I need him to know this is everything I want. Permission granted, Keaton Marks.

  And then—his phone. A buzzing in his jeans. He lets it go for a couple rings before pulling back. “Hang on a second.” When he glances down at it, a groan escapes his mouth. The sound is enough to tempt me forward to kiss his neck. He groans again when my lips meet his throat, but the sound is more of a release and very clearly unrelated to the frustration of a call.

  “Yes?” he asks into the phone, letting my lips continue to wander across his skin, taking his hand from underneath my shirt and moving it to my neck, ghosting over my hairline as if coaxing my kisses further. “Absolutely…uh-huh…it’s alright. Feel better, man. Alright, uh-huh. Bye.”

  His thumb taps his screen a bit harshly, and he sighs.

  “I have to go,” he says. “Trust me, I really don’t want to.” His hand curls into my hair, running through it with fervor. “Matt is sick, and as the owner, I’m obligated to work his shift.”

  I lean back, and there’s a moment of silence once more. His eyebrows are tilted inward, and I can feel mine doing the same.

  I can admit I was wrong earlier—no regret about last night is even remotely present in his features—but the thought still lingers. What does he want? Is this just a fling for him? I am almost ashamed of how much I wish for that not to be true.

  “What is this?” I ask, internally cringing at such a childish question. We’re both nearly thirty, him likely already that age. Labels seem so trivial.

  He laughs, letting his hand fall back down to my thigh and giving me the best eye-fucking I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Whatever you want it to be,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  He leans forward, running his hand along my leg and down to my knee. “Why not?” His voice is a whisper, low and sensual and everything I want in this moment.

  When he traces a line down my spine with his other hand, I inhale sharply and my body turns to putty in his hands, my brain to utter mush. “I honestly don’t know,” I say breathlessly.

  “Meet me again tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He plants another kiss to my collarbone and stands to leave. He glances up at the booth, and I shake my hand in his direction. “I’ll handle the projector, don’t worry.”

  He smiles. “Thanks.” Keaton bends down and tilts my chin up, causing swarms of butterflies to flood my stomach. He kisses me, deeply, and then is gone before I can gather the strength to answer.

  I wait a moment, soaking up the past few minutes, trying to parse through any event in my life that could have led to this perfect moment. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but once the scene of a very irate shark appears on screen, I figure it’s time to leave. Jaws can claim his victims another time.

  I shut down the projector and leave the theater through the back door. On the way back to my car, I take in the sight of Main Street once more. It’s hard to ignore its vacancy and even more difficult not to steal a glance at the large windows of the sandwich shop where Keaton is already in action, moving behind the counter, distracted and tending to the two customers inside. I inhale the scent of freshly baked bread and unlock the van.

  I toss the keys down on my beside table and take out my trusty brainstorming notebook. I prop it on the shelf next to my old yearbooks and stare it down.

  “I will conquer you,” I taunt.

  The Keaton distraction has gone on too long. I’m here to work, and I will. Except…the yearbooks on the shelf tempt me to pull them out. I’m not sure what compels me to do so, but next thing I know I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed and flipping through, brainstorming left behind.

  So much for work.

  I wonder how silly I look in my photo, wonder if Keaton is as handsome as I remember. Was my teenage self justified to crush on him so hard? Would my teenage self even believe I just ended a very heated make-out session with him?

  The yearbook is from my sophomore year, the last year Keaton and I would have been in school together. I find my picture first and instantly cringe. Braces, bangs, and a sharp bone structure I had yet to grow into. Those high cheekbones belonged to a woman still covered by baby fat with no discernible heart-shaped face or curved chin just yet. I had no idea what confidence even was, and I wouldn’t learn for many years.

  I turn to the senior pictures and find Keaton. His hair is parted to the side and neater than I ever saw it at that age. His grandfather clearly must have had input on how he would lo
ok for his final picture in high school. The accompanying bowtie makes him seem even more put together, and he is significantly more gangly, not nearly as filled out as the man I see now. Now, he’s thicker, muscular…and handsy, a man who clearly knows what to do.

  I thumb through the remaining pages, seeing people I recognize but thought I would surely never see again. Some, like Kayla—hair and makeup perfect as ever—have stayed, but others, the acquaintances from my honors classes and those study groups…they must have moved on.

  This town clearly experienced a mass exodus, and ever since then it’s been limping forward the best it can. It still has charm, though. The theater is an excellent example of our town’s staple landmark, and Main Street hasn’t changed one bit. It’s lacking a crowd, but the cute small-town vibe still exists.

  And then—it hits me.

  I toss the yearbook to the ground, grab my notebook from the shelf, and happily let my blessed car-horn moment run me over.

  Twelve

  Keaton

  I’ve just sat down in the fifth row back when Violet busts in through the double doors. The movie was playing for just me, an audience of one, fulfilling our plan even though she was a good fifteen minutes late. I was starting to wonder if she would show or not, but there she stands, dressed in all black and only visible across the theater due to her smooth ivory skin and pale blonde hair. She spots me and sidesteps down the aisle quickly, landing in the seat next to me and already giddy and smiling, almost frighteningly so.

  She pulls her legs underneath her and raises her hands in the air, spreading the fingers wide as if presenting something.

  “I have news,” she says.

  “Okay.” I breathe out. “Go.” Even with her enthusiasm radiating in waves, all I want to do is kiss her. Being without her the last day has been agonizing, to say the least. I tried to call her but only got her voicemail. It wasn’t until she texted me an hour after I confirmed our plans that I was positive she wasn’t dead.