“I’ll be damned if I’m the reason you stay,” he says before killing the engine. “Don’t you dare go throwing your dreams away on my account.”
Wyatt Buchanan is a lot of things. Selfish is the least of them.
Reaching for the driver’s side door, he props it open, keeping it ajar with his booted foot.
“Who’s the quiet one now?” he asks. Nodding toward the line shack, he gives me a solemn-faced wink. “Now get your ass inside so I can show you how much I’m going to miss you when you go.”
I slide out, meeting him by the entry as he tends to the combination lock—his birthday, my birthday, and the day we first met. The door creaks open a second later, and he leads me inside by the hand.
In an instant, he backs me against the closest wall. His lips find mine in the dark, our peppermint tongues dancing. The man may not talk much, but it never keeps him from putting that mouth to good use.
Moonlight spills in through the western window, highlighting our silhouettes just enough to ensure we don’t trip over the rocking chair on our way to the bed. Scooping me into his arms, he carries me to the lumpy mattress as I slip his favorite old co-op hat off his head and run my fingers through his sandy blond waves. His daddy always teases him about his hair, pulling on the strands that curl around his ears and stop barely above his shoulders and calling him a “pretty boy.” And he is pretty—those blue-green eyes with the fringe of dark lashes, his dimpled chin and that jawline for days. He’s a sight for the sorest of eyes.
I imagine he’d have cut his locks by now had I not protested.
He leaves them long for me.
Wyatt does a lot of things for me.
Pinning me against the mattress, he slides a pillow beneath my head before trailing kisses down my neck and along the tops of my spilling cleavage. Shoving the hem of my tank top up, he moves for my stomach next. Dragging his tongue along my bare flesh, he breathes me in all the while working the top button of my jean skirt.
Staring at the black ceiling, I close my eyes and let my mind wander. It’s difficult to enjoy this, to be present for Wyatt, when our carefree days together are limited. It’s funny, when you’re young you think you’ve got all the time in the world. Then one day, you hit adulthood, you graduate from high school, and reality slaps you in the face.
These summer nights are all we have—and they’re numbered.
Lately I can’t stop thinking about what it’ll be like once I leave and come back. Will we still be us? Will it be strange? What if he meets someone who makes him feel all the things I make him feel and then some? What if I meet someone?
We’re both naked now, though I have no recollection of who removed which article of clothing and in what order—I’ve been too busy conjuring up a laundry list of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
His tongue snakes between my thighs, and I grab a fistful of his thick waves, trying like hell to focus and enjoy this. Crawling over me, his hardness presses into my inner thigh as his mouth and hands work my swollen breasts.
But just like that—Wyatt stops.
Climbing off of me, he lays on the empty half of the small bed, his head propped on his hand.
“What?” I ask. “Why’d you stop?”
He shoots me a look that suggests I know the answer to my own question.
“Come on.” I trace my fingers along his chiseled chest and scoot closer, and then I lift my mouth to his—only to be rebuffed. “Really?”
“You’ve been like this the last two times.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He drags an overworked hand through his messy hair. “Distracted.”
I sit up slightly, resting on my elbows. “Can you blame me?”
“No,” he says. “Not at all.”
My eyes rest on his, seeking refuge and basking in his understanding. Ever since my acceptance letter from New York Theatre Arts Academy arrived in the mail last fall, my dad and stepmom have been full speed ahead on Operation Move Blaire to New York. It’s everything I ever wanted, but it’s happening so fast.
“You’re leaving the only home you’ve ever known to go thousands of miles away and bunk up with people you’ve never met. It’s a lot to put on a person,” he says. “But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
For years, Wyatt has teased me about walking into a place full of strangers and coming out with a handful of shiny new best friends. In all honesty, I’m probably too friendly for a place like Manhattan, but I aim to use it to my advantage. The world of acting and theater is all about networking. You don’t make connections by being a wallflower.