True Blue (Hubbard's Point) by Rice Luanne

Author:Rice, Luanne [Rice, Luanne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-07-22T04:00:00+00:00

THAT AFTERNOON, after Sixtus had sailed away, after all the neighbors had dispersed, Rumer let Zeb walk her home. They went up the hill, past the spot behind the garage where her father had worked on the Clarissa. Wood shavings and patches of varnish and bottom paint lay in the grass—remnants of the hard work he'd done to restore the boat.

When they went inside her house, the curtains were blowing wildly in the fresh breeze. The music was still moving her. The unicorn tapestries looked more vibrant and alive than she had ever remembered. Zeb was there, right beside her, and as she stood barefoot in the cottage, all she wanted was to dance with him again, moving together with the music, the wind, and all the spirits of the Point.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked, her pulse racing.

“Sure,” Zeb said, not taking his eyes off her. “That would be nice.”

Holding the kettle under the faucet, Rumer's hands were shaking. Noticing, Zeb stepped in to take it from her. Did he know that he was the reason? He placed the kettle on the burner and turned on the heat. She still had the shimmery feeling of his arms around her shoulders, dancing. Stirred by wild desire, she slowly turned to face him.

Zeb stepped forward, putting his arms around her. So strong and tan, he made her glow as his hands stroked her back, pulling her against his chest. She stood on tiptoe the way she used to when he'd danced with her at block dances down on the tennis courts, and she leaned into his body. She shivered hard, from top to bottom, feeling the full crush of Zeb's hard body against hers.

The teakettle hissed on the flame, and Rumer was afraid it would start to boil before she and Zeb figured out what was supposed to happen next. This was her childhood kitchen; Elizabeth had fried eggs on this stove. Her mother had cooked Thanksgiving turkeys in this oven. The Mayhews had come over for coffee a thousand times.

Images were flying through her mind: herself and her sister, padding barefoot across this floor with Santa mugs in their sticky little hands; herself and Zeb, as teenagers, filling plastic bottles with ice water for long sails across the Sound…

“Rumer,” Zeb whispered, his mouth hot on her neck.

“What are we doing?” she said, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair, trying desperately to push out all the messy memories and scruples as she tilted her head back, felt his lips just barely brush against hers.

The kettle began to boil. It wasn't a subtle sound; it pierced the air like a siren, breaking them apart. Zeb stepped back. Rumer turned off the burner. Her heart was pounding, and she felt as disheveled inside as out— when Zeb touched her shoulder, trying to turn her around, she couldn't move.

“Rumer?” he asked.

“Isn't this strange?” she whispered.

“I think it's…” he began. “It's amazing, it's wonderful.”

“It might be,” she murmured.

“But… ?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure.

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