Embrace (Evolve Series #2) (12 page)

Pushing aside the tall grass and snipping off two
flowers, I tromp over to find her crawling around on her hands and knees, dirt
flying up around her.

“What are you doing?” I ask, dumbfounded yet amazed at
what I’ve stumbled upon.

“Digging you some more worms, of course.” She turns her
head to answer me, pushing the hair out of her face and leaving a smear of mud
across her forehead. “I’ve got eleven,” she says proudly, offering the cup to
me.

 I take the cup and trade her the two flowers with a
big smile. I look down—she really did find a whole pile of worms. That’s true
fishing dedication.

“Evan,” she snickers as she smells the flowers, “I
think these may be weeds.”

“Even if they are, you pretty ‘em up by holding ‘em.”

I gotta say—women look real nice in dresses, bikinis,
or of course less, but when a little blonde is on her hands and knees, her tank
top gaping down in the front, perky ass up in the air, her face smeared with
mud, AND she’s holding out a cup of worms she dug for you… This is the stuff
country boys dream about. I’m so turned on right now, I want nothing more than
to scoop her up and kiss the lips off her, but I just can’t. It might ruin
everything, and I can’t lose another great friend because I misread things. One
thing I’ve learned the gut-wrenching way—I’d rather keep the friend forever
than have a month of two of “more.”

I offer my hand to help her up. “This is a good look
on you, Whit. You may have to trade in those pretty nails and fancy clothes for
some cutoffs and boots.”

“I have a pair of boots,” she says proudly, “and
cutoffs. But I like my nails. Even though there’s dirt trapped under them right
now.” Her nose wrinkles just a smidge.

I can’t resist playing with her just a little. “Well
then, next outing, you’re wearing them. You owe me since you dressed me like a
preppy clown.”

“Deal,” she squeezes my hand, still holding hers for
some reason, “and I won’t do that again, I promise. I didn’t know a gathering
at Dane’s house would be so informal. For what it’s worth, I thought you looked
very nice.”

“I looked like Tyler.”

Why did I just say that? Here I am, deciding to stay
on the friend path with this girl, and then I go spouting off shit that makes
me sound jealous.

“About that,” she starts, dropping my hand and wrapping
her arms around herself protectively. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t feel
anything for Tyler, really. We were just talking and I drank too much. I know
it’s not a good excuse, but I just have a lot on my mind. Thanks for taking
care of me, though,” she lifts her head slightly from its bowed position and
smiles apologetically, “and I’m sorry.”

“Let’s talk about that.” I take her hand again, leading
her through the brush and back to the clear spot where our poles rest. I sit
down on the bank, pulling on her hand for her to so the same. “I know you’re
worried about your parents’ stuff, but you said some other stuff, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re worried about being able to afford
school, having to leave.”

“Oh!” she gasps and draws her knees up, wrapping her
arms around them. “I don’t want to leave Southern; I like it there.”

“You need to call your parents, Whit. Ask them about
it so you can stop worrying. Either way, it’ll be fine. It may not even be a
problem, and if it is, you could get student loans, a job; you’d have options.
But you just need to make the call and figure it out, clear your mind.”

She falls backs in the grass, laughing, her blond
hair splaying out around her.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” she answers simply. “You make everything so
easy. That makes perfect sense and I’ve been driving myself crazy for nothing.
From now on,” she sits up again, tapping the end of my nose with her finger,
just as I’ve done hers, “I’m just gonna run everything through the Evan Think
Tank before I get all worked up.”

“Brilliant plan,” I agree with a wink.

It’s dark when we finally leave, and that’s only
because Whitley can no longer see to dig more worms. I never brought up any of
the other stuff she had said the night before—about me loving Laney, or her
taking care of me… The line is dangerously close to blurry and doesn’t need any
help.

When we pull up to the house, it’s immediately
obvious Sawyer has company. I glance at Whitley, guessing she’s going to be
upset about it, but she just smiles brightly at me. I walk around and open her
door for her, then unload all the gear, stalling for time, apprehensive of what
we may be walking into; with Sawyer, you never really know.

Okay, so maybe not the worst possible case scenario,
but damn close. Sawyer is currently hosting Amber, Nikki, Sasha, Tyler…and
Portia. Awkward to have both “his girls” here? Not half as awkward as the fact
that all the girls are half-dressed. Looks like Sawyer finally got some takers
on his Strip Poker idea. And because
he
is completely naked, I’m thinking
he should pick a game he’s better at.

“Want me to make them leave?” I whisper to Whitley,
who’s grabbing my shirt and ducking her head behind my back.

“N-no, it’s all right. It’s Spring Break and all,
and I’m not their mother.”

“Oh, hey!” Sawyer finally notices us standing on the
outskirts, and all the other heads turn to us. “Where y’all been? You want
dealt in?”

“Fishing.” I reach behind myself with one hand and
find Whitley’s, heading for the hallway. “We’re beat. Gonna take showers and go
to bed. Don’t mind us, though. Carry on.”

“Wait, Evan!” Nikki runs up, pink bra-clad breasts
bouncing. “Come play with us. I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back.”

“Really?” Whitley’s sneer is hilarious, but I say
nothing, curious as hell what
she’s
going to say next. “He’s tired, and
we
have to take a shower. Run along,” she “shooes” Nikki with her hand,
“Evan’s too good for that.”

Alrighty then.
I follow Whitley’s lead and
turn, letting her pull me down the hall, leaving a gape-mouthed Nikki standing
alone, staring after us I’m sure. Whitley’s mumbling something about STDs,
desperate, and I think lopsided as she drags me along, finally letting go of my
hand at my door.

“Are you gonna go back out there, Evan?” she asks,
fighting desperately not to tug her lower lip between her teeth and not meeting
my eyes.

“Nah, I think I’ll clean up and go to bed. All that
fresh air, I’ll sleep great. You?”

“Me too,” her face lights up and she nods, “night.”

“Night, Whit.” And before I can help it, my lips are
on her hair, kissing the top of her head.

L
ast time I checked, I was still a
red-blooded American male, and part of me is dying to go out there and look at
naked chicks, but I remain in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The light knock
at my door better not be any of them, ‘cause I’m trying real hard to stay put
here and be the man my mama raised. When I open the door, the visitor is indeed
pleasant—dressed, for one thing, and looking subtle, classy…and sweet as sugar
in a light pink pajama shorts set, hair damp from her shower.

“Were you asleep?” she asks nervously, her eyes
locked on my bare chest.

I like that she’s looking; just another mixed up
feeling that I’ll have to talk myself out of later. And dammit, I all of kinds
of like the timid way she slowly lifts her gaze to mine, silently asking if her
looking was okay, if I’m going to invite her in.

“No,” I scoff. No way could anyone sleep with the
racket coming from the living room.

The silence now is palpable, she’s waiting for me to
step back and open the door wider, to ask her in. I’m waiting for her to
convince me that my doubts are okay and she wants to explore “us” anyway, see
how it goes, and that she’s positive it won’t hurt her.

Neither happens, and eventually our locked gaze,
blue on blue, becomes awkward.

She pulls her hands from behind her back, one
holding a bag of cookies, the other a DVD. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah,” I smile, moving back and opening the door
wider, “sounds great.”

I pull a t-shirt over my head quickly and fiddle
with the TV and DVD player, getting things ready as Whitley grabs extra pillows
out of the closet and situates them on the bed just right. I flip the lights
back off and tentatively climb back in the bed, making sure to leave space in
between our bodies. There’s an uncomfortable stiffness to the air as we lay in
the bed waiting for the movie to start, broken only when Whitley aims the open
bag at me.

“Eat a cookie and relax, Evan.”

It doesn’t take very long into the movie for me to
lose control.
What is this girly shit?!
I give it another ten minutes,
and then I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Whitley,” I turn my head to her,
the lights of the TV flickering over her profile, “what the hell is this movie
called?”

“
Moulin Rouge
. Don’t you love it?” her voice
is breathy and wistful.

“This isn’t even a movie, it’s a musical.”

“I know, aren’t the songs wonderful?” She still
hasn’t looked at me, unable to break her attention from the catastrophe playing
on the screen.

“No,” I grumble, “it’s driving me crazy, woman. One
more song with guys dancing around and it’s going off.”

“Evan Allen.” She pauses the movie and finally looks
my way, giving me a quick poke in the ribs. “Broaden your horizons a little!
This movie is artistic and wonderful.”

“This movie is noisy crap.”

“Fine,” she crosses her arms, “what do you want to
watch?”

“
Die Hard
.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she rolls her big blue eyes
at me, “I don’t have Die Hard. I have…” She climbs over me and walks to the
armoire, mumbling something about men not appreciating musical genius.

Maybe I’m spending too much time with Sawyer, or
maybe the Laney haze really has lifted, because I have zoned in, while in
almost complete darkness, and am positive she is
not
wearing panties
under those shorts.

“How about
Shawshank Redemption
?” She turns
back to me, and I jerk my eyes up to hers, praying I haven’t been caught, but
her smirk tells me that prayer was wasted. “That’s a good compromise. Will that
work?”

“Perfect,” I clear my throat, “that’s my favorite
movie.”

“I like it too.” Her warm smile is glowing even in
the darkened room.

“You sure about that? There’s no fairy dudes in
nightclothes jumping around singing.”

I duck just in time to dodge the movie case aimed at
my head.

“
E
van,” I hear a voice through a fog and feel
my body being shaken, “Evan, wake up.”

“Mhm?” I open my eyes, slow to realize where I am.
In bed. And Whitley’s snuggled up beside me. “What is it?”

“Your phone is going crazy,” she says. Her voice is
sleepy and raspy, her legs tangled with mine…and it’s
morning
, so my
body already has a head start on what my mind is registering. “I think you
should check it; seems important.”

I roll over, grabbing my phone off the nightstand,
and see that I have five missed calls from my parents, all just minutes apart.
Whatever it is, it can’t be good, and my palms sweat as I push the button to
call them back.

“Evan?”

“Hey, Dad, you called? What’s going on?”

“Ah, son,” he groans, “got some bad news.”

I sit up, my stomach clenching, throat tightening. “What
is it? Is Mom okay?”

“Your mom’s fine. It’s Dale. He’s gone, son.”

“Gone?” I croak out, feeling Whitley’s small, warm
hand move to my shoulder. “What’s that mean, gone? What happened?”

“Angie found him out in the field. Looks like he had
a heart attack. He passed, Evan. He’s gone.”

Dale Jones is, was, I guess, my best friend Parker’s
dad, and a helluva man. Parker, Laney and I were closer than close growing up,
practically raised on the Jones’ farm. Dale gave us each a calf every year as
our own to raise there. We fished every pond a hundred times. We had cow patty
fights. Dale taught us all how to drive a tractor. Parker and I put up hay
every year and Dale always paid us in crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills. I
know I’m crying, and Whitley can see it, but I don’t care. I’m fucking sad. I
loved Dale like a second father, an uncle, a mentor…and this sucks.