Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Honestly, I thought I was going to be a therapist. I figured I’d study psych and become a shrink.”
“And that’s kind of what you are, River,” he says.
“I suppose I am. And I love it. Wouldn’t change a thing, even though, trust me, if you went back in time and saw me in high school, you’d have been shocked. I didn’t have a single date. Not one.”
Owen pouts in mock sadness. “Aww.”
“My school was so small and there were maybe two other queer guys, and they dated each other. But I had friends. Gobs and gobs of them. All the lesbians loved me.”
Owen cracks up. “Did they now?”
“Yes, true story. I mean, half my school experimented, it seemed. But that’s what being young is for, I guess. We were all coming out then. It was like a big Pride fiesta,” I say.
“It’s funny because I hardly remember a time before I was out, know what I mean?” Owen says. “But that’s what happens when you come out at fourteen.”
I laugh, ruffle his damp hair. “Same. We are such birds of a feather, aren’t we?”
As the bubbles churn, he hums thoughtfully. “We are, River. I definitely think we are.”
The last sentence comes out a little vulnerable and a lot sexy.
I want to curl up in it, and with him.
I’m not sure what’s happening to me, or to us tonight.
But it feels like someone’s cast a spell, and I’m terrified to break it, because this night, every minute, every hour, gets better.
So much better it borders on perfect.
I thought I knew Owen so well already. And I suppose I did. Eight years of friendship will do that to you. But even talking about high school tonight feels like we’re mining new territory. Like we’re climbing to another level.
Owen reaches for me, slides one arm behind my back, then grabs hold of my hips with both hands, scoots me over his legs and has me sit between them.
“Oh hello, hello. Let’s snuggle in a hot tub,” I say as I heat up more. Pretty sure it’s not only from the temperature of the water.
“Yes. Let’s.”
His hands coast up my back, gliding over my wet skin as he covers my shoulders with his palms. Owen dusts a tender kiss to my neck, and I shudder.
“Your lips,” I murmur as he sweeps another kiss onto my shoulder. “You.”
Then yet one more, and I can feel his smile against my skin. “This is what I wanted to do to you in the car, River, when you were all tense and wound up,” he says softly. He rubs his thumbs along my neck, massaging me, like he’s wiping away the last remnants of tension.
But they were long gone hours ago. Everything faded away when we talked it out. All the tension from the car ride dissipated as we cleared the air.
I feel zero tension between us.
Only this newfound closeness.
This nascent intimacy that feels more than physical, that seems to skate into the emotional terrain.
Where we do things like this. Quietly touch. Softly kiss. Share our stories. And find something in each other that wasn’t there before.
Owen’s strong hands work my muscles as his lips drift over the back of my head. He brushes kisses into my hair, proving that right now he’s everything he said he’d be.
Good to someone.
That someone is me.
And in this cocoon of Mother Nature’s making, a kismet of snow and circumstance, I don’t want to bring any more tension between us.
Maybe tonight isn’t the time for discussions, for what this is, for who we could be to each other. Tomorrow I will find the words to tell him how he’s making me feel. That I don’t want him on that app. That maybe, just maybe, I want to discover if I was wrong about Harry and Rod. If we can prove the opposite together.
For now, I’m choosing to bask in the quiet of a cold November night under the stars, a blanket of snow covering the ground, the constellations winking above us as my best friend’s hands graze along my shoulders and my neck. It just feels so good to be touched by him.
I let out a contented sigh and I rest my back against his chest, my head against his shoulder. Soon, he stops rubbing and slides his hands down my arms, clasps his fingers through mine, and then wraps both our arms around my stomach.
I’m pretty sure this is the most romantic way any man has ever held me.
Or ever will.
And maybe this is why I have to try. To see if we can have this when we’re not lost in the snow.
16
Owen
Clearly there is an agenda for tonight.
Tonight is going to be the ultimate snowed-in fantasy.
TJ would love this. I should tell him what we’ve been up to. Maybe it’ll be fodder for one of his books.