Twenty-Four. Lover Lay Down

TWENTY-FOUR

Lover Lay Down

Joe

I watch Maren walk out, my daughter curled in her arms, and notice another set of eyes following her. Anders.

He looks at me, worry written into his features. I pat the love seat next to me and he comes straight over. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, bud. I think so," I tell him honestly. "But if you want to check on her in a few minutes, I bet she'd like that."

"What's gotten into her?" Liam asks the room at large, his expression so clearly baffled, I'm tempted to punch him for being so dense. She literally just asked us not to talk about her and it's like the words rolled right off his stupid back.

I'm saved from responding by Jessica. "I think, dear husband, your baby sister is sick of your shit."

I grunt into my beer, finishing the bottle.

Liam scowls. "She's my sister. It's my job to harass her."

"I don't harass my sister," my son says simply. He looks put out with my oldest friend, and for the first time since entering the room, I want to laugh. Straight from the mouths of babes, or however that old saying goes.

Liam doesn't reply, but he does tip his head in my direction. "Have you really seen her videos?"

This I can answer. So I do. "Not in years, but I liked them when I was homesick and overseas. She filmed up here and it reminded me of what I had to come back to."

Liam blinks. Eventually, he says, in all sincerity, "I hadn't thought of that. That's cool, man. I'm glad you had them, then." And I want to wring his thick neck for the double standard. She's somehow asking for the negative attention for making the videos, but he's glad I had them when I was homesick. I try to remind myself of how he made home-cooked meals the entire two weeks he stayed with me after the divorce. Pots and pots of mashed potatoes for Lucy. The way he woke up early to get Anders to kindergarten when I was too hungover to move.

But the argument falls short this time. As much as I appreciated everything he did for me and my kids, he's failing his sister big-time and I'm over it.

I know I'm treading a fine line here. "They were nice videos, Lee. Classy. Cute. She knew her shit. Still does, if our record amount of guided tours this fall are anything to go by."

His jaw ticks. He probably wants to argue but doesn't dare. Not to me. It was my choice to join the Marines, sure, and I don't regret it, but we all know that while I was sweating my ass off and getting shot at and under threat of getting blown up in a desert on the other side of the world, Liam and our other friends were living the cushy frat life.

"I'm gonna go check on Maren," Anders says, pushing off the couch. He leaves and Liam watches me with another discerning look. I decide to let him wonder. I may not be ready to confess my feelings for Maren, but I'm not going to hide anything, either. Besides, Liam won't ask. He'll do backflips in his mind trying to figure out what's happening between Maren and me, but us being together wouldn't be on his radar. To him, it's more likely I'm a yeti and she's a Chupacabra and we're opening a mythological wine and cheese shop than us sleeping together.

"Your kids really like my sister," he observes. Jessica snickers into her sangria and I am positive she's caught on already. I'm also positive she won't say a word. She's having too much fun. She winks at me over her glass, confirming my suspicions.

"She's likable," I tell him. "Now. Another beer?"

Liam drains the last ounce in his bottle, holding it out to me. "Thanks."

It takes quite a bit of finagling to get Maren alone, but it turns out I have an ally in Jessica and even Maren's mom. I let it be known that I need to work at the bar the Friday after Thanksgiving, and they start planning their Black Friday shopping trip to Green Bay. My mom offers to take my kids along. Then Jessica asks if the bar will be busy.

"Probably," I tell her offhandedly. "It's a big snowmobiling day." (I have no idea if this is true, but it could be and that's enough.)

"Oh, man. Do you really need Maren, then?" she asks in a raised voice, putting on a pout as if I've just ruined her day. She's laying it on a little thick, but I appreciate the effort.

"Oh, um," I stutter, apologetically. "Yeah, I do. Sorry."

"Aw. I was hoping to catch up, but I understand," Jessica says, smoothly. "Maybe drinks tomorrow evening when we get back? Gosh, it'll be after dinner, though."

"Uh, that would be nice," Maren says, glancing at me.

"I'll have drinks ready," I assure them both. "You just call ahead, and I'll send the snowmobilers on their way."

And that's how I managed to get Maren alone, all day, the day after Thanksgiving. Or how Jessica managed it, rather. After everyone pulls out, a little after breakfast, I knock on her door, practically giddy. She throws it open, flashing me a bright smile, and wraps her hand around the back of my neck, pulling me against her. In no hurry, we make out against her door, and aside from the interrupted shower the other day, it's the best start to a morning I've had possibly in my life. Sure as hell beats anything I woke up to in the Marines, and while I love my kids more than air, Maren's soft curves are singularly incomparable.

When we break apart, breathless (her) and hard (me), I tell her to get her coat.

"Tell me we're not really working at the bar all day," she says, grabbing her jacket and slipping her arms in.

I pull the sides of her jacket closed and zip it up, tugging her so close my lips tingle against hers. "We're not. I have plans for you, just not here. Though"—I grimace—"I do have to open the bar later this afternoon. After four should do it." I had to make a compromise to add some validity to our story.

Maren beams up at me, her hazel eyes shining. "So I have six uninterrupted hours?"

"Oh, I plan to interrupt you," I tell her, touching my tongue to her lips and then nipping slightly. "Repeatedly."

"Close your eyes," I say, leading her by the hand into the boathouse. Well, it's not really a boathouse. It's more of an old, empty kayak and canoe storage space, but we've always called it the boathouse, the way we call the place where we clean fish the fish house. We walked here, so she has some idea of where we're going based on the amount of time I've had her crunching over the newly snow-blanketed path. "Stand right there," I say, stopping her just inside the enclosed entrance. "And give me one second."

The space is empty except for the large quilts and pillows layered on the compact dirt floor, four space heaters pumping out comfortably warm air, about a hundred unscented candles, and a picnic lunch. I start lighting candles, creating a cozy glow outside the bits of sunlight shining through the tiny cracks in the roof and walls.

"You aren't starting a fire, are you?"

"In fact, I'm starting a lot of them. Go ahead and open your eyes," I tell her. Then I spread my arms wide. "Surprise!"

"Oh my god," Maren whispers, her fingers pressed to her still kiss-swollen lips. "You made me a sexy picnic in the boathouse ."

I'm grateful for the dim lighting, because I'm positive my cheeks are red. I was going for effortless, but the amount of work I put in to appear like it wasn't that much work… well. Let's just say it's clear Anders isn't the only one smitten with Maren. "I did. Hopefully it's not too cold. This would probably be better in the summer, but…"

"But the bugs would be terrible," she finishes pragmatically, and I relax. Because of course she gets it. She spins slowly, taking it all in. "I should know," she tells me. "I spent many a summer day hiding in here. The spiders, in particular, are atrocious." Her face glows in the candlelight and steals my breath straight from my thrumming chest. "This is incredible. No one has ever… This is like my childhood dream come true. How did you know?"

"I pay attention. Growing up, if you weren't on Fost's boat, you were in here. I thought it might be romantic? Kind of? I'm out of practice."

She shakes her head. "Josiah Cole, I don't know what to say."

"Well, that makes the two of us. I'm always speechless around you," I blurt, feeling my face heat again. I clear my throat. "Want some wine? Leftover turkey?"

"Is there leftover pie? Really, I just want pie."

"Pumpkin and pecan. And I grabbed Cool Whip, though it might get melty."

"We should probably hurry, then. One of each, if you don't mind. I don't think I'm ready for wine yet. I had plenty yesterday."

"Coffee?"

She hums her assent and I pull out a thermos and pass it over.

Maren cracks open the thermos and inhales the steaming aroma with closed eyes. I cut us a couple of slices of pie, divvying them up on paper plates and laying them on the blankets. Then I walk over to the speaker in the corner and hook it up to my phone's Bluetooth, turning on some music. Something folksy, slow and melodic. We dive into our dessert and talk in low tones about yesterday's dinner, the bar, the resort, our families, my plans for the villas. Whatever comes to mind.

Time passes and we've crept closer, side by side on the quilts, both of us reclining on our elbows, barely a foot of space between us. The candles sputter and cast flickering shadows on the walls and the wind whistles through the cracks, but the heaters keep the space cozy enough that we've laid our coats aside. Maren listens intently to my daydreaming of what I want to do with my parents' legacy, occasionally offering her valuable opinions, because she knows these lakes and this area almost as well as I do. They mean just as much to her. It occurs to me I never had that with anyone else, outside of my family. Kiley liked it up here, but it wasn't ever special to her. It wasn't home, at least not any more than any other place the Marines moved us.

And when I ask Maren about her run-in with Bryce Callahan, she tells me all of it. The entire time, I have the primal urge to haul off to the hardware store and punch him square in the face, but I don't. I listen. She has enough people talking at her, telling her what she should and shouldn't do. I don't want to become another spewing voice. Firstly, what the fuck do I really know? It seems to me that she's worked it out for herself, and besides, she knows I have her back. If it came to that.

Which is why I ask, "Could I talk to him?" She blinks and I worry I've offended her. Dammit. "Not to threaten him or anything," I rush to clarify. "And not like you can't handle him. You absolutely can. But from what you're saying, it sounds like he freaks you out. I don't give a fuck about black olives, but clearly he shook you up."

She presses her lips together, and I can tell she's considering her words carefully. I'm about to take back my offer when she speaks in a quiet voice.

"Would you come with me?"

"Of course," I tell her without hesitation.

"You're right," she tells me, shaking her head with a sad kind of smile. "He freaks me out. It's probably nothing, but something about him makes my skin crawl. But if I send you to talk to him instead, I'll still be afraid to see him in town. I need to confront him, but I think it would help if you were there beside me. I'd feel safer and, I don't know, stronger."

"Any time. You say the word when you're ready and we'll go together."

What with work, her brother, and renovating and selling her inheritance, she doesn't need me to guide her hand. She's a powerful woman who knows her own mind and it's sexy as fuck. But there's a small piece of me, one I'll admit out loud only upon threat of death, that feels good knowing I make her feel safer. Stronger, even. Hell. My back is straighter just thinking about it.

I'm embarrassing.

Maren changes the subject, and we talk about Christmas, and she wiggles even closer, relaxing and leaning her head on my shoulder as we stare up at the flickering ceiling, whispering about what I want to give my kids.

Kiley and I married so young—met so young. She wasn't good for me, and I definitely wasn't good for her. I feel almost guilty now, because being with Maren doesn't feel like work. I don't have to learn how to fit with her. We just… are.

Is it too easy? Or is it just easy because for once I'm getting it right? Like running on a windy day, and you're struggling against hills and strong gusts trying to push you back down the hill, and suddenly you turn, and the breeze is against your back, carrying you along and cooling you.

My life turned and there was Maren.

"Oh! I love this song!" Maren says, jumping to her feet and scrambling to the speaker to turn it up. "Lorelai got me hooked on Gabby Barrett a while back." She turns to me, holding out her small hand. "Dance with me, Joe."

I pretend to think about it. "Is dancing in the boathouse part of your fantasy?"

"Only the literal culmination."

I get to my feet and like everything so far, we fit together so easily. Like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. She tucks her head in the space between my neck and shoulder, and I wrap my hands around her back, low. Her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of my neck and mine tangle in the hem of her soft sweater. I spin us slowly and she sways us side to side, our feet shuffling against the dirt floor in a quiet march that matches the thudding of my heart, the beat whispering to me in the dark.

Her arms tighten around my neck, ever so slightly, pressing her even closer against me. So close, I can feel her breaths mirroring mine. I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her hair, painting it in my memory. Another song starts and we don't stop. Nothing short of a train plowing through the walls could make me let go of her.

A door crashes open, startling us both.

A train or, apparently, Liam. He stands in the doorway, the bright light burning through the dim space and making me blink fiercely against watery eyes.

"Hey, man, I thought I heard something. Oh shit. Sor—Wait, Maren?" He starts to back out but, just as quick, steps in again, his brows crashing together. "What the actual fuck is going on here?"