Page 73 of Good Directions

“When did Brenna say that?”

“The other night. She was over at your parents’ and we were sitting in the kitchen talking, and she invited me to have lunch with her, Dolly, and Margeaux.”

Narrowing his eyes, Anton leans in, squeezing my fingers in his. My pulse leaps, the little flutters in my veins increasing as he gets closer.

“That sounds like trouble.” His voice is barely above a whisper, his breath tickling my skin.

“Not any more trouble than you are, Anton Hayes,” I reply, trying to close the gap between us.

Time slows, everything around us hushing, dimming, as if the universe flipped a switch. Suspended us in air, holding right here, each of us waiting for the other to make that last little move. One we’ve made a hundred times over the last week.

Just not this publicly.

A jolt of courage hits me, pushing me forward. I inhale, starting to make my move.

“Kendall Farlow! In this family we don’t spit; we swallow!”

The sharp reprimand slices through the air, unflipping the switch and turning the world back on. Anton and I both look at each other, eyes going wide, and immediately burst into giggles.

Quickly glancing to my left, I spot the young mother wiping at her toddler’s mouth. That doesn’t stop my laughter though, especially once I turn back to the seriously good-looking man next to me. The one who is looking at me, like he’s thinking all sorts of extra dirty thoughts now.

Anton wraps his arms around me, tugging me into his chest, lining his mouth up to my ear. “That’s some solid advice there, Sawyer.”

I shiver, despite the summer heat, thankful to be in his arms. Nothing about what he said was particularly racy, yet it might just be the dirtiest thing anyone has ever said to me. And fuck if I didn’t like it.

If I don’t like him.

“Hey, you found it!” Cary greets, setting a large tote bag full of Tupperware containers on the blanket.

“I’d know this blanket anywhere,” Anton tells him. “There’s no missing that stain in the corner.”

“Uggggh,” Cary groans. “You had to mention that?”

“Mention what?”

Tizzy places a tinfoil-covered cookie sheet down, smiling from ear to ear, her wild strawberry blonde waves piled on top of her head in the messiest bun I’ve ever seen. She’s such a contrast to Cary—not only his darker features, but his serious, more put-together disposition—but somehow, they fit.

“The stain on the corner of the blanket,” Anton answers. There’s a glint in his eye that says he’s up to no good, the air shifting around us. “He ever tell you that story, Tiz?”

“About how you snuck up on him jacking off in the peach trees, scaring him shitless, resulting in him punching himself in the face, giving himself a bloody nose and leaving a bloodstain on the blanket? Yes, I have heard the story.”

She answers so calmly, like it’s a story about a fishing trip, that I almost do a double take. Excuse me?

“You actually told her?” Anton seems impressed.

“Of course I did.” Cary shrugs. “And it was the pecans, not the peaches.”

“Hold on…what?” I ask. “That’s horrible!”

I reach over, smacking Anton’s arm with the back of my hand. He laughs, as Cary holds out a fist for a knuckles high five, thanking me for the solidarity.

“To be fair,” Cary defends, “we were fourteen. It’s not like this was last week.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Anton explains. “I was trying to figure out where he was sneaking off to all the time, so I followed him. Saw him under the tree on the blanket, with a magazine, and figured he was just reading. Had I realized what he was also doing, I would have left him to it.”

“Besides, the stories I could tell about him,” Cary counters.

I perk up, looking between the three of them. Tizzy seems unbothered, unpacking the food, spreading out the assortment of meats and cheese, with crackers, chips, dips, breads, and even some olives, like a mini charcuterie on the go. Plus, the baking sheet of chocolates she brought from her shop, Cocoa Corner. The boys, however, are having a silent conversation—one I can’t translate.