Shy (12 page)

Oh. My. God. Despite my sorrow at what happened tonight, anticipatory fire licks through me at the thought of being alone with Jake at his apartment. “Yes, please. I would love that.”

Before Jake can pull away from the curb, a BMW parks in the space in front of us. A spiffy black BMW with a bumper sticker that says “The Neutron Stars.”

Granville.

My stomach twists into knots.

Jake senses my agitation and anxiety and follows my gaze to the BMW and to the silhouette of the person sitting in the driver's seat. Granville's head is bent over, as if he is doing something like texting into a cell phone to let me know he's there.

My cell phone plays Beethoven.

Jake looks at me, then at the BMW in front of us, at its bumper sticker, then back to me. His brow darkens.

I feel like I have a desert in my throat. I wish I could ignore the text, but I can't. I look at my phone. It reads, “Are you in your dorm room? I'm outside. Please come talk. I'm so sorry.”

Jake reads the text over my shoulder. “What did that son of a bitch do to you?” he asks roughly.

“Nothing,” I say softly, tears back in my voice, but this time, I can't let them out where Jake can see them. “He didn't do anything. It's just that–”

“What did he do to make you cry?” he demands. “You'd better tell me right now, because if you don't, I'm going to assume the worst and I'll haul that rich son of a bitch out of his fancy car and pound his ass into the pavement.”

“Honest, Granville didn't do anything. We went to karaoke night at the coffee house, and I blew it, trying to sing in front of an audience. I choked badly, really badly. And some girl came up and kind of elbowed me away and tried to sing with him. I'd never seen her before, but he seemed to know her. He left her singing the song alone and tried to talk to me, but I was so upset that I called a cab to take me back here.”

Jake softens, just a bit. “Why didn't you call me?”

I stroke the side of his face and feel raspy stubble. He hasn't shaved in a while. I push down an urge to kiss that roughened cheek and say instead, “You haven't exactly been making yourself available to me this week, have you? I called and texted you so many times, but you ignored me.”

He lets out a long breath. “I was trying to stay away from you because I thought it was best for you. But oh, God, babe, I missed you. I...”

My cell phone plays Beethoven. Granville again. The text reads, “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jake frowns again. “If you're going to come home with me, how about you send him a text and tell him you're busy tonight?”

I nod, then I text Granville a short message. “I'm okay. I'm with Jake.”

Granville knows Jake is my best friend, but he doesn't know my deeper, more romantic—and much more complicated—feelings for him. Maybe he's intuited them. I'm not sure, but at this point, it doesn't matter. I don't owe him an explanation, at least not right now. And it sure seems as though he has plenty of unfinished business with the girl who showed up at the Old Grind.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's go.”

Jake pulls away from the curb. We slip by Granville, who's still sitting in his BMW and has, no doubt, received my text. He has no clue we just passed him by.

Talking to Granville will have to wait until later.

It's Jake I need.

Who's Jake? I wonder. Then I remember. Frannie's best friend, also her ex-boyfriend. I can't parse out that weird dynamic. I mean, it's nice that they stayed friends after their breakup, but what about the weird vibe when I came into the practice room that time and she was talking to him on the phone and I could have sworn I detected a vibe like the guy was jealous?

Frannie hasn't told me much about Jake. The subject hasn't come up since that morning. Maybe, since he's her best friend, she called him to talk about what happened tonight at the Old Grind.

My heart hurts. I wish it were me she wants to turn to when she's upset, when she's feeling brokenhearted and devastated as I saw, on her face, she's feeling tonight. And when she looked at Rowan, listening to her sing, I'm sure she felt she isn't as good a singer.

But that isn't true. Her voice is luminous and beautiful, though she can't yet understand how good it is and how far she could take it if she could free herself from her prison of shyness. I wonder how the hell such a talented young woman got stuck in such a stifling prison in the first place. I hate how much the shyness hurts her. Because it does. I know it does.

I feel damn jealous of this Jake guy right now. I wish it were me comforting her and not him. But I also have to say that if he's a good, supportive friend to her and makes her feel even one iota closer to the incredible person she truly is, then jealousy aside, I'm glad she's with him. I'm a new friend, yeah, but sometimes a person needs a tried-and-true old friend.

After all, I caused the scenario that hurt her so badly, by suggesting karaoke when she wasn't truly ready yet. And that's my fault.

I'll let things rest for now, then call her again later. I really do want to talk to her as soon as possible.

I'm not used to being at Jake's apartment without Ty and Kelsey around. Jake was still living at home when we were dating. He, Ty, and Kelsey got this apartment after we broke up. Since then, Jake has been very careful to only bring me here when the two of us wouldn't be alone. With the chemistry between us, I guess he was aware something could happen, despite the fact we'd broken up. The chemistry between us didn't go away just because we split as a couple.

I figured I'd be crying myself to sleep tonight, maybe talking to Granville about what had happened at the Old Grind if I'd been in the mood to talk to anyone, but I never dreamed Jake would call. I'd hoped he would call again at some point—I couldn't see how our friendship could disappear like a puff of smoke—but being alone with Jake, at his apartment tonight?

I love how life can sometimes surprise me in happy ways, even in the midst of failure and disappointment.

Jake and I haven't said anything to each other since we drove away from my dorm building, leaving Granville sitting there, looking at my text message.

Now we're standing in Jake's living room, which doesn't have much except for a couple of bean bags in two of the corners, a scruffy couch, a computer system which all the guys share, a tiny kitchen area, and a few posters on the walls. Bill Monroe. The Carter Family. The old bluegrass greats. The Hickory Hollow Boys don't have a lot of money, but they're staying afloat, playing their gigs. The living room is the central portion of the apartment. There are three small rooms that branch out from it, each of which one of the guys uses as a bedroom. And there's a little bathroom, too, hardly bigger than a closet. But the apartment works for them.

He moves closer to me. I stand rooted to the spot, sizzling with desire from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I've never felt like this. We've never been so completely alone before, just the two of us, the whole night ahead of us.

“Turn it off,” Jake says gruffly.

What? I'm genuinely perplexed, but his intense, dark expression makes me realize that he's talking about my cell phone. Granville could call again, text again, whatever, and Jake doesn't want Granville to interrupt our evening.

I can't say I disagree. Granville missed the boat tonight. Maybe he always has. Maybe he never really had a chance as long as Jake was in the picture. And it seems that Jake is definitely in my picture, and not just as a friend. Mom notwithstanding. His insecurities notwithstanding.

I hope it can stay this way.

He takes another step toward me, and as he does, I become aware of what a big guy he is. He's a couple of inches over six feet, and I'm barely two inches over five feet. I pull out my phone and turn it off. He holds out his big hand, I put my phone into it. He tosses it over onto the couch, where it bounces once, then settles to the rear of one of the cushions. He takes another step toward me, then another.

“Is this what you want, Wildflower?” he asks, his voice husky and deep, his gaze seeming to burn me with its intensity.

“Oh, yes.” My heart, I'm sure, is in my eyes. I close the rest of the distance between us and rest my head against his chest. “I'm glad you're back. All the way back. I've missed you so much.”

“I hope we're doing the right thing,” he says. “I want the best for you.”

I nod.

“And it doesn't look like that other guy is good for you, after all,” he says.

What happened at the Old Grind wasn't Granville's fault, but of course, Jake associates it all with Granville. If it had been Jake up there with me, he would have thrown the mic down and immediately come after me once that girl had bumped me away, but then, most people aren't as emotionally raw as Jake. He makes choices more in line with his heart than his mind or intellect. It makes him passionate, but it can make him heedless, as well.

“Don't I get a vote?” I say, looking up at him.

“I want you to be happy,” he says. “At peace and happy.”

Neither Jake nor I have known a lot of peace in our lives, what with family stresses, difficult relationships with our parents, and hurtful, unreasonable expectations. Each of us is, in a way, a disappointment to our parents. But not to each other. Never to each other.

“I love you, Wildflower,” Jake says. “I've never stopped.”

“I know,” I say. “Somehow, I knew. I love you, too, Jake.”

A long sigh escapes him and somehow, in that sigh, he combines longing, joy, and sadness. He runs his fingers through my long hair, then moves them down to rub gentle circles down my back, then he cups my bottom.

I gasp at his touch there. “Please. I want...” I stop, shyness stopping up my throat.

Jake won't let me get away with that. “Tell me, babe. What do you want?”

“I want to...” Oh, I'm feeling so shy that it's hard to talk, but strangely enough, my body doesn't feel shy. I reach up and lace my fingers in his hair and pull him down to where I can kiss him. He pulls me up in his arms, making things easier for me, and feathers kisses across my forehead, then across my cheeks.

“Please,” I say.

“Please what?” His expression blazes not just with desire but also with mischief.

I grip his big shoulders and squeeze them. Then I press myself up against him and feel, outlined in his jeans, how very much he wants me. “I want you to make love to me. All night.”

He lets out a soft groan, then crushes me up in his arms and kisses me until I lose my breath. It's really going to happen. Tonight. When we dated, Jake and I did pretty much everything together but the main course, so to speak. His hands, fingers, and his mouth on me, everywhere on me, and even a little bit inside me, have always been both gentle and mind-blowing. But he's such a big guy, and I'm small and narrow. I've handled him with my fingers and thought about taking him deep inside me, and I've often wondered if I could hold all of him.

I've heard that when a woman wants a man with all her heart, mind, and body, she can hold him.

That's what I want. To hold him in all the ways I can.

He takes me by the hand and leads me into his bedroom. It's a simple room, just a bed and a dresser. Straightforward, like Jake. His guitars are propped against the wall along with his banjo and a mandolin. A musician's room. I wonder if he's ever had a girl in here before. Has he made love to any girls from his shows, while he and I were just friends? Maybe Jake's still a virgin, like me. I'd like to know, but I don't want to ask right now. There's time later to talk about those things. And I certainly don't want to contemplate the idea of him doing this with someone else.

I doubt he has. It's me he's loved all along, and Jake just isn't the type for one night stands.

We sit on the bed together. It feels strange, yet exhilarating. I keep wondering if one of his parents will come home or if one of his little brothers will start raising a ruckus. There was a huge limit to what we could do at his house when we were dating, or at my house, for that matter, since there was no way in hell Mom made things conducive for Jake and me to do much more than kiss, and she never wanted us to do that, either. We would go make out in his truck at the lake or other secluded places, though, and we'd steam up the windows plenty.

Now, we have all night, and this apartment, to ourselves. I can scarcely believe it.

This has turned out to be a good day, after all. Jake's love will eclipse the pain of my humiliation at the Old Grind.

He cups my face with his big hands. Then he leans in and kisses my lips gently, almost reverently. My lips part and our kiss deepens, becomes more forceful. He gently lays me down on his bed, then takes me in his arms and kisses me as though he's releasing all the passion he has stored and pent up over the last year. I'm kissing him the same way—everything I've held back, all the kisses I've wanted us to share. We're as hot as ever, even hotter. Our only fear should be that we might burn each other up.

He kisses my cheeks, my forehead, then my lips again. “You're beautiful, Wildflower,” he murmurs. “I love you.” I want to tell him I love him, too, but I can't speak because, paradoxically, while passion is consuming my body, shyness is stopping my speech. It's a good thing my body has a mind of its own because it wants to lose itself him and have him lose himself in me. I want to give myself to him completely.

We rid each other of our clothes. We can't get down to skin on skin quickly enough. I love the feel of his big, rangy body, and I love the feel of his arms around me. I feel sheltered from the rest of the harsh, critical world, in which I'm always and forever insufficient, never, ever good enough. In Jake's arms, I'm treasured, cherished, and adored, warm with his love. The love we share is our world within the world, in which we can find refuge and approval. In the warmth of our mutual love, we're both blessed.

As we're holding each other, kissing, the door to Jake's apartment opens, then closes. My heart flies up in my throat. I swallow the wrong way and choke on my own spit. Jake jumps up out of the bed as though he's been goosed with a hot iron.