Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

from the porch light. I can see he's stuck his hands in his pockets.

"What do you want to do?"

His voice is calm and even, Winch all buttoned-up again. I had him loose and free, and now I've pushed him back to buttoned-up and unattainable.

I kick my feet under the water and hold my leg out, stiff and hip-high in front of my body.

"I think it was that water, that cold water. I think it froze my heart a little. I think that's why I was such a raging bitch."

"You weren't a bitch."

Winch always says the right thing, the polite thing. Like a diplomat or something. I wish he'd argue. Growl. Grab me and kiss me hard, because I'd messed up so badly but he loves me. He does. He said it.

I let the towel slide down off my shoulders and hear the intake of his breath. I know it's just Winch appreciating my skin, but it makes me feel better. I close my eyes and wish he'd yell at me for being so awful before. But I know that when Winch is really hurt, he goes cold.

And it's feeling pretty frosty out here.

"I was a bitch. And I'm sorry. And I'm sad." I tilt my head back and look up at him.

He looks down at me, and his smile is indulgent, but guarded. He steps forward so his feet are on either side of my body. "Why are you sad?"

"Because you're dressed." When his smile turns into a chuckle, I push my luck. "But if you got undressed and got in the hot-tub, I'd be warm, so less bitchy, and happy, since naked is kind of a requirement for hot-tubbing."

"You're that desperate to see me naked?" He moves closer to my side, then sits next to me on the damp cement.

I walk my fingers to his hand and squeeze. "I may have played down just how spectacular you look. Naked. And otherwise."

"You freak me out a little when you're being nice, you know that?" He leans forward, and I half-pucker, sure I'm about to be kissed, but he swipes a fingertip gently under my eye and holds it up for my examination. "Eyelash."

I nod and choke back my raging disappointment. My fault, my fault, my fault. I asked him to open up, he did, I smashed him where he was most delicate.

"Or, you know, TV would be okay."

"Blow it." I raise both eyebrows into my hair, and his puzzled look twists into a chuckle. "Uh, not that. The eyelash."

It’s a little embarrassing that I’m half disappointed.

"Blow it?" I repeat.

He holds his finger closer. "Off the tip of my finger. And make a wish."

I level that little poke of black hair a dubious glance. "You want me to wish on a fallen eyelash? I never would have pegged you for such a romantic."

"You should stop trying to peg me at all." He gestures with his finger again. "And it's more superstition than romance. Blow and wish."

My dirty literal interpretation of his suggestion makes the blood run hot and fast all through me. I clutch the towel tighter to my chest, lean forward and pucker for the second time in these last few minutes. I close my eyes and wish, with everything in me, that this night will weave some kind of lasting magic. That we'll wake up with everything figured out, and we'll survive as a couple. That our relationship won't be a tug-of-war or bumper cars or a roller coaster or any other kind of fairground/theme-park analogy my brain can concoct. I blow, but before I can open my eyes, Winch's hand is covering them and his voice softly instructs me to blow again.

The second time, I blow harder, and, when he uncovers my eyes, his smile is just over the line of bashful.

"I can't walk under ladders, either. I avoid black cats like the fucking plague. And I never put new shoes on the table."

"What?" That one makes me giggle. "New shoes? Where else would you put them? I always put them on the table."

"If you have any feelings for me whatsoever, you won't freak me out by doing that. Ever. Even if you and I..." His words trail off and his eyes dart over to the softly lapping waves of the pool.

"You and I won't."

I don't go any further with my statement, because imagining life devoid of Winch is a specifically breathtaking kind of pain, and I don't have the courage to speak that possibility out loud.

"Shall we?" He puts a hand out and I stare at his inviting gesture while I untangle what he's asking.

"Go in the house?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Watch TV?" He pulls his hand back and takes his shirt off in one slow tug, gripping behind his neck and letting the cloth slide over his bruised skin and tight muscles. "Hot-tub?"

My voice is paper-thin, his zipper is a flash and whine diving down in the night, and I pull myself to my feet without waiting for his assistance.

Everything with Winch and me seems to take to be the double side of a coin flipping through the air, with no one sure which side it’s going to land on. When we're on heads, it seems like life is going in the right direction; it's all stolen kisses and that kind of deep and complete understand that you only ever get with a few people who truly know and...love you. But when the coin lands on tails, it's all freezing, shut-down, hopeless resignation.

Winch walks to the hot-tub, his shorts hanging half off his hips, and pries the cover off. I turn it on and he helps me climb into the bubbling, warm water before shedding his shorts and following.

In the cozy, warm rush of this soothing water, I wonder what the answer to our flipping coin relationship conundrum might be. Hope the coin always lands on heads? Stop flipping it? Melt it down and make a whole new coin, smooth with no sides?

"What