Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

“Of course.” She gives him a look as if that’s the silliest question she’s ever heard, then heads to a door that I’m assuming is the laundry room. “There isn’t a stain I can’t remove.”

“Yes!” He does a fist pump and I laugh.

Jon leans close to me. “There isn’t much she can’t do.”

“Don’t be whispering about me behind my back, young man. I’m not deaf, you know.”

I bite back a smile. Should’ve used ASL, I sign.

I know, he signs back.

Ivy

Because it rained on the drive to Stella’s, we weren’t able to stop to take pictures. Now that we’re heading back, the skies are much clearer.

Misty patches of ocean show through the breaks in the trees. I point to a yellow road sign announcing a viewpoint turnout coming up in a few miles. “Want to stop there?”

“If you do, the answer is yes.”

Even though he’s driving, he’s letting me make the decisions. I like that. I pull out my camera and switch to a different lens.

“So, I’ve been wondering how you know ASL. Did you take it in high school as your foreign language requirement?”

He twists the woven leather bracelets around his wrist. One has a shell on the end and the other two have a colored bead. One green. One blue. “My foster brother was hearing impaired. He taught me. Guess you could say I have hands-on experience.”

“That’s cool. My knowledge is only from a classroom.”

I wonder if he made that joke to downplay the fact that he lived in a foster home. But then, he could’ve just said it was a guy he knew. He didn’t need to tell me it was his foster brother. Does this mean he wants me to ask about it? A huge part of me craves to know more about him, but I don’t want to push too much.

“Was that…tough?” I shoot a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his reaction.

He stares straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw flexes. “The foster homes?”

I nod.

“They had their ups and downs.”

“I’ll bet,” I say quietly.

He exhales slowly, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to say more. Regardless of whether he does or not, I want him to know I’m willing to listen. Now or whenever.

“I’m having a good time today,” he says. “With you. And thinking about that shit always brings me down.”

“I totally get that. In case you change your mind, just know that I’m here, ’kay?”

“Okay.”

I turn my attention to the camera in my lap. “So, do you even know what the assignment is?”

He shakes his head. “I’m totally clueless.”

“Good thing you have me to clue you in, then.” Pulling a folded sheet of paper from my pocket, I can feel his eyes on me. Even though I’m not looking at him, it’s impossible not to notice these little details when he’s sitting so close.

The paper crinkles when I smooth it out on my lap. “We need to pick three emotions from this list and depict them through the lens of our camera.”

“How many are there to choose from?”

I skim through it. Four columns with twenty or thirty in each. “I’m guessing a hundred or so.”

He groans. “Can you just pick mine?”

“What?”

“I have no idea what would make a good theme for a picture. You’re the photographer. You choose.”

I frown. “Don’t you want to choose ones that mean something to you? That move you in some way? Your photos aren’t going to be nearly as meaningful or impactful if I do it.”

“Told you, I’m not very creative. Besides, I’m not a deep guy. I don’t internalize much. If it’s not fact or formula based, it’s beyond my comprehension.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Maybe he doesn’t want to admit—either to me or to himself—that he has a deeper side, but he does.

Just around the next corner is the scenic viewpoint. Jon pulls the car off the road and parks next to the rock wall.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You’ve already picked your words and know exactly what you’re going to do.”

I give him a side-eye. “As a matter fact, yes, I’ve picked the ones I’m using. But I don’t know how I’m going to show them yet. I’m waiting to see what inspires me.”

“What are they?”

I look at the words I circled on the paper earlier. “Truth, respect, and compassion.” It occurs to me that I’d called him caring at breakfast this morning.

He nods his head thoughtfully. “What photo are you going to take that shows truth? It seems like such an intangible concept.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. The discovery is part of the process, though.”

“What are you going to do? Walk around up here and look for something truthful?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Far below us, I can hear the roar of the ocean as it crashes against rocky shoreline. I grab my camera and reach for the door handle, eager to get going before it starts to rain again.

“Hold on a sec,” Jon says, putting a hand on my arm. “Read a few that you think I might like.”

So now he’s suddenly interested in the assignment? I open the sheet of paper again. “Okay, here’s one you should be very familiar with. Stubborn.”

His crooked grin makes him look even more handsome and very kissable. Just like last night.

“You think I’m stubborn?”

“What I know of you, yes.”

He presses his lips together in a thin line and nods. “A fair assessment. Okay, keep going.”

I run my finger down the list. “No. No. No. Okay, here’s one. Apathetic.”

He faces me, his left wrist resting on the steering wheel. I can’t help but notice his bulky muscles, the tribal tattoo on his bicep, and the veins in his forearms. Like I said earlier, his casualness is so damn sexy.

Crap. I really need to focus.

“Seriously, Ivy? You think I’m an apathetic person?”

“Toward this assignment, yes.”

He puts a hand on his heart. “I’m hurt. Truly.”

I laugh. “You don’t have to use it.”

“And the last one?”

“Let me see.” I turn my attention to the paper again, and there it is—the perfect word. I literally almost pee myself.

“Oh great,” he says, seeing my reaction. “Is this going to be another assault on my character?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” I accidentally make an unflattering snort slash laughing sound. “Virginal.”

He chokes. “You’re kidding, right?”

My stomach is seriously hurting right now, I’m trying so hard not to laugh. Or snort again.

“Virginal? As in never having had sex before?”

“That’s the most common definition, yes.”

“Let me see that.” He tries to grab the paper from me, but I snatch it away. “I don’t believe you. That word is not on the list.”

“Think I’m lying?”

“Ivy on the Roof, the girl who values truth, respect, and…what was the last one?”

“Compassion.”

“Oh yeah, compassion. How could I forget? You are lying to me—the stubborn and totally apathetic Jon Priestly.”

“I don’t lie.” Well, not really. “I only fib occasionally.”

He lunges for the paper again. I shove it behind my back. Little good that does, because he reaches over and tries to yank it out of my hand. Laughing, I twist around, trying to get away, but there’s nowhere to go.

His face is so close to mine that I can almost feel the rasp of his stubble on my skin. His eyes narrow and then…then…

He’s tickling me. Everywhere. My ribcage. Above my knees. Under my arms. That sensitive spot just inside my hipbones.

I shriek and laugh so hard I can barely breathe. “Stop! Oh my God, stop.”

He does, but it’s more like a pause. A momentary hesitation. His fingers remain on my skin, waiting, just waiting to inflict more torture upon me. My whole body tingles with anticipation.

“Then give it to me.”

If I do, then he’ll stop. I grip the paper tighter in my fist and shove it under my butt. It’s probably in shreds by now. Raising an eyebrow, I dare him to continue. “No.”

His lips are inches away, his hair dangling in my upturned face. And then, with his body at an awkward angle because of the console between us, his mouth crashes over me.

He kisses are like heaven, his lips lush and insistent. The hand that was tickling me a moment ago is now gripping my hipbone. He inches up the hem of my T-shirt. His thumb, warm and slightly callused, caresses my skin right above my jeans. It almost, almost tickles. Heat burns between my legs and radiates to every corner of my body. I think I may have just moaned.

Out of habit, I go over the escape routes. The door handle is right here. The car isn’t locked. I could be outside in, like, two seconds if I wanted. Okay, I think I’m good.

He freezes. His hand, splayed across my ribcage, stops moving.

Did another car park next to us? That would be embarrassing.

He pulls away and clears his throat as he settles back into his seat.

My skin feels cold where his hand has been. I look around. There are no other cars. We’re the only ones here.

Why did he stop? What happened to the goofy mood he was in? Then it occurs to me. Could he have sensed my train of thought?

Goddamn it. He did.

I want to slap myself. I know he’s not Chase. He’s not.

There’s tension in his jaw, making his features look sharp and angular. “We should probably get started on the pictures. It could rain again soon.”