It Takes Heart Page 14

  “All right. I’m gonna try to do it as good as you.” Brandon opened his cup. Little did his niece know that one of his favorite things to do in high school had been to sneak off campus to Wendy’s for Frostys and fries. The last time he’d had the treat—because it had been forever—was with Beatrice and Geneva.

  As he dipped the fry into his milkshake, something caught his eye from across the street. It was a flash of color next to a white van with a familiar logo.

  He lifted his shades. It was Geneva, as if conjured by his thoughts. It could’ve only been her: hair caught in the wind, that messenger bag wrapped around her body. And those Converse shoes. The storefront sign behind her was bold—CARVER’S BOUTIQUE—and she was next to someone in a yellow polo and jeans. He was loading a myriad of things into the back of a white van.

  Unsuccessfully, judging from the way they couldn’t close the van door.

  Then the boutique employee removed some of the items as if to start over.

  “Tito?” Izzy asked.

  “Hold on, Iz,” he said, fully distracted, and reached for his phone. The scene was humorous and spurred a memory of him helping to pack up Beatrice’s car for college, Geneva with them, filling Beatrice’s Honda sedan up to the top.

  He clicked to send a text: Looks like you need a pack master.

  After a moment, while mindlessly dipping his fry, finally, into his shake and eating it—because his niece was not backing down—he watched Geneva dig into her messenger bag to check her phone. She thumbed at it.

  He grinned as his phone buzzed.

  Geneva:

  We’re going to be here a while. Can’t figure out how to fit everything.

  Wait. Where are you?

  She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and scanned her surroundings.

  “What’s going on?” Gil asked.

  “I . . .” Compelled, Brandon stood and signaled with his arms. “Geneva’s across the street.”

  Geneva waved back, and Brandon climbed on top of the picnic table bench. His body was doing this automatically; his brain had zero control.

  “You’re acting like Tom Cruise, Bran. Quit it.”

  Izzy jumped up on the bench and followed suit.

  Brandon hopped down and hooked his glasses to secure them on his shirt. He popped the plastic cup cover back on.

  “Where are you going?” Gil moved down his glasses and peered over the top.

  “She needs help.” He was moving out of instinct.

  “Oh, really now.” Gil’s voice was coy.

  “Yep. We’re supposed to get together with the tiny house builder later on, but she mentioned trying to get ahead of everything before she leaves. I should help her, you know?”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “You can handle it, right?”

  “Are you really asking me if I’m capable of taking care of my own children?” He put up a hand. “Don’t answer that. We’ll be fine. Go help her. We’re all on the time clock, and Lord knows I can’t design worth a damn.”

  “Izzy?” His niece, Brandon knew, was the real person he had to ask permission from.

  Izzy leveled a serious gaze at him. “That’s fine, Tito Brandon. I understand. You like helping people.”

  “You are the greatest.” He bent down and blew a raspberry onto her cheek, prompting her to laugh.

  “But aren’t you going to bring Tita Geneva something?”

  “You’re so dang smart.” He spun to spy the line. “Ah, but there’s no time.”

  “Here.” She folded down the top of the bag of fries. “Bring this as a present. My mommy says food is the best pasalubong.”

  Brandon spared his brother a glance.

  Gil’s face dipped. “She’s right. I learned the hard way.” He gestured at the bag. “Take the fries. This milkshake is a meal in itself.”

  Brandon did what he was told and, after looking both ways, jaywalked across the street with half his milkshake and a bag of fries, sidestepping a truck that careened around the corner.

  And as he got closer and Geneva’s smile brightened, he found that it wasn’t just his milkshake melting. It was every part of him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Geneva fumbled at the lock of the warehouse door, as if she hadn’t fiddled with it more than a dozen times in the last four days. She was giddy, hyped from the moment Brandon’s text had come through at Carver’s Boutique.

  How did it feel seeing such a gorgeous man come for you, on his own, without prodding? It was indescribable. He’d had a smile that spanned from ear to ear, a bag full of hot french fries clutched in one hand, and a milkshake in another . . . what more could a woman want?

  And she hadn’t been a damsel in distress; she hadn’t needed his help. But somehow, he’d known what was going through her head at that moment. He’d been able to detect her rising impatience at the boutique employee’s inability to pack up the van and them losing daylight. And the fact that, unbeknownst to him, she couldn’t wait for the meeting with Lainey because it would be another opportunity to spend time together.

  Hence the shaking fingers and the excessive pulling of the lock.

  Finally, the lock popped open, and the door slid wide with a sigh. From inside came the smell of wood polish and metal, and she took it into her lungs as if she had been stuck underwater.

  To the left was a switch, and she flipped it up. The overhead lights flickered on.

  “Wow. You’ve got yourself a stash here,” Brandon said, voice echoing.

  The warehouse was marked with orange cones with the name of each tiny beach house. Ten areas of varying themes, inspired by either the name of the house or the house itself. Ten areas also with varying amounts of furnishings. “It’s coming along, don’t you think?”

  “Um . . . yeah. It’s only been four days, Geneva, and this is . . . a lot.”

  She beamed. “What can I say—I work fast.”

  “I don’t think it’s about working fast. You just know what you’re doing.” He left her side, and Geneva was thankful for the brief time alone, to take it in. To soak in the compliment along with the sight in front of her. The enormity of what she had accomplished thus far, and what she would be able to do the last ten days.

  She did know what she was doing. She had put her heart and soul into this business, and it showed in satisfied customers. Their happiness became fuel for her engine to push the goalpost further along.

  And yet, when she looked around, what she also saw was stuff. Just stuff. More than that, stuff for others, when she herself only had the things in her duffel bags. It was a disconnect she couldn’t shake.

  “Where do you want this?” Brandon clutched a lamp in one hand and a stool with the other.

  Geneva woke and cleared her throat. “Over to Halik.” But as Brandon took a step, she pulled him back by the elbow. It was a moment of weakness, to ground herself to someone, but also to explain herself out of her thoughts. “Do you see the little bits of red right here?” She pointed to the carvings at the base of the lamp, with its crevices delicately painted. “Reminds me of gloss. Perfect, right?”

  His eyes rounded. “Oh, I get it. Gloss like lip gloss, to kiss with. It’s subtle, but it works.”

  For a beat his eyes darted down to her lips and back up. Her mind flashed to a night when she’d caught him watching her swipe gloss on her lips before an evening out, and then promptly kissed it all off and decided to stay in instead.

  A delicious flush crept up her neck. “Never underestimate the quiet details.” She cleared her throat and gestured to the open area. “But yep. Right there.”

  “Got it.” Brandon set down what he had in his hands, and the muscles in his arms flexed. His shirt accommodated and grew taut over his pecs.

  Brandon didn’t have a range of outfits: a different set of shorts, basic shirts. He picked just the right kind of shirt, though, a little snug around where it counted. She bet it was jersey and ultrasoft . . .

  “Where do you want this?
” Holding up two nightstands with legs that flared out, like skirts on a dancer, one in each hand—when had he gone back for those?—he grinned.

  Busted.

  Her cheeks heated. “Uh, yes, over there, next to the rug for Sayaw.” She scoured her brain for the correct stream of thought, the kind that kept her imagination chaste. “I texted Sal on the way here to help out. We may need to rearrange some things around.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She willed herself to go, to be in the present. Perhaps a little physical exertion would keep her focused on work rather than play.

  Slowly, it did. With every item she brought in, her emotions leveled with her neutral thoughts of floor plans and timelines. Of colors and textures and themes. She assessed what she had and cataloged and arranged images in different drawers in her mind. Work pressed all the buttons in her body that made it want to sing. The puzzling together of resources and the anticipation of the picture that would emerge brought a reliable zen.

  After she’d made three trips back and forth from the van, her phone beeped. A text from Sal: Walking up from reception.

  “He’ll be a few more minutes,” she relayed.

  Brandon leaned another rug against the wall. “Okay.”

  “Actually, can you take that rug over to Tiwala and switch them out?”

  “Sure.” He wrapped his arms around the rolled-up eleven-by-fourteen-foot, handwoven blue-and-white rug.

  But as he walked it to the other side of the warehouse, the rope around the rug undid itself.

  “Oh, Brandon,” she warned, marching in his direction.

  The rug unfurled, and it tipped, right on Geneva.

  She burst into laughter as it unrolled itself completely on the warehouse floor.

  “Oh my God. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She patted back her unruly hair and was met by Brandon’s concerned expression. “It’s just another day moving furniture.”

  “Here, let’s roll it back up.”

  The rug itself was heavy, so it took the both of them to bring it to an area large enough to roll the rug uniformly. She knelt next to him.

  “I have to say, this is pretty rad,” he said, running a palm against the fibers. “Super soft.”

  “It is. I love the wood floors, but it’s always nice to have a rug to sink your feet into, don’t you think?” She mimicked his actions, the softness enticing. “It makes you just want to lie on it.”

  “Have you lain on it?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s do it,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but all this lifting is exhausting.”

  As he crawled onto the rug, Geneva grinned. “But it’s not our rug.”

  “I beg to differ. Am I not a Puso? And isn’t the rug’s bill going to a Puso?” He clasped his hands across his belly and shut his eyes. “Ahhhhh . . . this is comfortable.”

  “C’mon, Brandon, get up.” She reached over and tugged at his shirt, the soft cotton lengthening.

  He lifted his arm, and one eye opened. “Is there a bug on me?” He play pushed her arm away.

  Giggling at his touch, she shoved him with a little more force.

  “Bran.” Under her hands, his biceps constricted, his muscles tensing at her fingertips. Her heart leapt at the contact, at the excitement of the innocent moment. “If you don’t get off, I’m gonna . . .”

  Both eyes opened now in a playful dare, and a smile split his face. “You’re gonna what?”

  “I’m gonna tickle you,” she said, taking it right out of their playbook. She hovered above him, enticed by instinct and the echo of their voices.

  “No you won’t,” he dared, eyes alight. “No, no you won’t.” He held her wrists, though gently. “You know, Gen. You know.”

  Oh yes, yes, she knew. Brandon was strong, fast, lithe, but he hated to be tickled. “I know you become like a puppy that’s scratched at just the right spot. A maniac.” She placed pressure against his hands, as if she was going for his ribs, and he scooted an inch away, squealing in a high pitch.

  She hooted. “How could you be thirty-two and still be wary of the tickle monster.”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  She went after his ribs again, and this time, she beat him to it. Not only did she make contact with his sides and belly, but she was able to overcome and straddle him.

  Over him, she had absolute full advantage. As she tickled, his eyes shut. And though Brandon was cackling, she was imagining something entirely different.

  And she was definitely feeling something different.

  Her fingers slowed. Brandon opened his eyes, first in concern—yes, she was indeed on top of him—and a dark look passed across his eyes, and his gaze, which ran down her body, lit her on fire.

  Geneva’s breath hitched. His abdomen rose and lowered with deep, slow breaths, and his hands came to rest over hers, tentatively.

  The air around them crackled like the sound of film being passed through a recorder. With a blink, Geneva remembered all the times they had been in this same position, her core activated by his simple touch.

  Her fingers crawled up his abdomen to his chest. Through his shirt, she felt the grooves of his body, and she imagined her fingers on his warm skin.

  The pressure on her fingers increased as his torso rose, his elbows now bearing both of their weights. His face neared, lips coming closer, eyes canvassing her face before ending at her lips.

  “Geneva,” he whispered, and the sound of her name this time sent her spirits soaring. It was a plea, a need, and it was primal.

  Her instinct was to satiate it, especially knowing that she could. That she could take this spark between them and turn it into a bonfire that could be seen for miles away. Because it hadn’t been extinguished. What she had for Brandon was, after all, like the heat of the sun. It withstood time and distance.

  It drew her closer to him, and she shut her eyes in trust.

  At first, their kiss was like a feather across her lips. It was sweet, a memento of their very first kiss, sugar filled and spurred by an afternoon flirting at Eden and Chris’s wedding. But this one escalated quickly. This one, in this warehouse, alone, with its echoing acoustics, brought out the hunger she had pushed down and away so long ago in convincing herself that the two of them hadn’t been right.

  Right then, their bodies certainly objected to that notion. Their lips parted and moved and accommodated in a dance that they had perfected in their fling. There were no rusty moves to shed—they took turns to lead and follow; even their breaths fell into a rhythm meant solely for one another. And her mind . . . Geneva’s imagination strolled down a road that would take her to the lustful gutter. And she wanted it. Her body wanted it.

  She’d missed it.

  Off in the distance, the sound of a car door slamming halted her stroll, and it reeled her back from fantasy to reality. She opened her eyes as Brandon disengaged, head turned toward the warehouse door, which was wide open. As shadows darkened the doorway, reality came into full picture.

  “Oh my God,” she said at the same time Brandon said, “Uh.”

  Both of their gazes drew down to her skirt draped over both of their laps.

  Because she was straddling him.

  Straddling.

  Brandon.

  And there was no denying they both liked it.

  She crawled off him as a wave of shyness crashed over her. She had never been a prude, but it had been a while since her lust had taken over in such a way. Because this warehouse? On a job? With a man she used to love?

  Oh dear.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, offering his hand for her to stand, which she took without hesitation. “We can—”

  “Talk later.” She finished his sentence and watched as not only Sal but Rhiannon walked in while having a lively conversation.

  “I don’t know if I want to look at blood and guts all day,” the young woman said. “I thought blood wouldn’t bother me, but dissecting toads today made me ill.�
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  “You won’t be dissecting as a nurse,” Sal countered. “But at least you know now what you don’t want to do.”

  Geneva cleared her throat and straightened her dress, heart pounding. “Hey, you guys, we’re”—her voice cracked, and she tried again—“we’re back here.”

  Shadows rounded the corner, and Sal and Rhiannon appeared, each already with a load.

  “You guys can put that down there. We’re, uh, we’re just relocating some things,” she said, not meeting their eyes.

  “Did everything go exactly the way you intended, Ms. Geneva?” Sal asked, with what she could swear was a knowing grin.

  “I . . . what do you mean?” Her heart skipped.

  “The van. Your first time driving it.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Thank you for arranging for me to use it, by the way.”

  “What are y’all doing?” Rhiannon said, walking toward her. “Wow, that’s a nice rug.”

  Geneva was glad for the change of subject, and she took that moment to tear herself away from Brandon’s side, knowing full well that they’d both unscrewed and thrown away the lid to a whole can of worms. Now, they would have to decide if they had to cobble together a cover or simply allow their attraction to overflow.

  Four years ago, Brandon’s bed had been the ultimate escape.

  With him, Geneva was a kayak on the ocean, swept by Brandon’s goodness, his care, and the instinctive way he touched her.

  But unlike the ocean, Brandon was not the type to move with the weather; he didn’t go with the flow. Brandon was to his family and their home in Annapolis like the ancient southern oak trees were to the ground, rooted and unmoving.

  Geneva knew all this, and yet she’d allowed the kiss to happen.

  Why why why?

  She’d just compromised this precarious working relationship, perhaps the job itself, and even the Pusos themselves as a worst-case scenario. She wasn’t a math whiz, but by sheer numbers alone—from the Pusos’ four to her three, and even then, her parents were too far removed—Geneva had the most to lose.

  Geneva couldn’t even bear to think about it.