I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 9 HOPE

Chapter 9

H OPE

After the boat tour, it’s still early, and I feel like I’m fizzy inside, seeing everything through rose-colored glasses. Life can be so beautiful. Maple Creek can be so amazing. The people here, like Rosemary and Marcus, are so kind.

Ben too.

Yeah, Ben’s great, and him serenading the sunrise was an experience I won’t soon forget, but I’m not focusing on that. I’m sticking to healing myself, digging out the shitty dirt my soul’s been planted in and giving it space to grow with new, healthy soil. Okay, so gardening’s not my thing, but the point stands.

New dawn. New day. New life. Nina Simone and Michael Bublé, eat your heart out.

I feel like I could tackle the wind, take on the world, and come out the victor no matter what.

“Let’s go to the beach!” I shout, suddenly excited about anything and everything.

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t swim.”

“How can you not swim?” I say automatically, then remember he said he was a city kid, so he might not have had access to water like we do here, where we learn by getting tossed into the lake as kids. “We’ll wade, then, but you need shorts.” I think there’s true fear I see blossom on his face. But why would he be scared of shorts? They’re just pants with a little less fabric. But that’s not what I say. Instead, I tease, “No shorts? Okay, a Speedo it is!”

I’m hustling toward the dock store, which sells all the goodies you could possibly need for a day on the water—bait, fishing poles, snacks, beer, sodas, and of course, swimsuits. Ben catches up to me in three long strides.

“No Speedos. No shorts. I’ll roll up my jeans or something,” he offers by way of compromise, but even that seems to make him uncomfortable.

I look down at his ripped faded-black jeans, plain black T-shirt, and the same brown, worn boots he had on when hiking. “Do you have any other clothes? Or is this the daily uniform?” Don’t get me wrong, he looks good in what he has on, but I don’t think I could wear the same thing every day. Even my scrubs for work are patterned and colorful.

“It’s an aesthetic,” he argues, raising one dark brow in challenge. “And it makes getting dressed easy.”

“Yeah, but goth isn’t the usual vibe for summer fun. And you, my friend, asked me to show you the Maple Creek experience, so water sports are happening. Let’s go!”

I swear Ben chokes on his spit, because he sputters, “Hope, water sports does not mean what you think it does. And they most definitely are not happening.” I don’t know what he’s talking about or why he’s fighting back a grin. And I definitely don’t know why he scrubs his hand down his face with a sigh.

“Water sports—like swimming, diving, Jet Skis, tubing,” I explain. “And yes, they are. At least swimming. Or swimming adjacent.”

He chuckles but, not accepting any more arguments, I enter the store. Immediately, I freeze, realizing how much I just fucked up.

I hadn’t thought about whether the people here would be Team Hope or Team Roy, and now it’s too late to backtrack.

I duck behind a rack of swimwear, peering over at the cash register. Ben steps up next to me, laying a lazy arm over the row of hangers and conveniently blocking me from view with his height. “How do we feel about the girl at the front? Need me to distract her with water-sport conversation while you make a run for it?”

I’m definitely looking up what the hell he’s talking about later because now when he says it, water sports sounds like something I definitely don’t want him discussing with the girl in the store. Arching a brow, I meet his gaze, but the tease in his voice doesn’t match the concern I see in his eyes.

I could run. It’d be easy, and Ben would cover for me. But I’ve done nothing wrong, and it feels important that I don’t act like I have.

Straightening my back to stand tall, I shake my head. “Nope, I got this.”

Behind me, I hear him mutter, “Yeah, you do.”

I work my way through the racks of souvenir shirts emblazoned with the Maple Creek city logo and get to the more functional clothing at the back, heading to the swimsuits. I grab a plain one-piece in a pretty baby blue I know will look good with my eyes, and then I turn to the men’s suits.

There’s a pair of solid black shorts that would probably be the best choice for Ben. But that’s not what I grab. Nope, if he’s stepping out of his comfort zone, we’re going all the way out, in style. So instead, I pick up a neon highlighter-yellow pair with pink flamingos on them. “Perfect!” I tell him, holding them up for his approval even though I know I won’t get it.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” he growls, trying to pull them from my hands. We tussle for a second, but I keep a tight grip on them, and when he begrudgingly lets go, I hold the suit up to him, the back of my hand brushing just above his waist.

I smile and flash puppy dog eyes at him. He shakes his head harder. I flutter my lashes. He crosses his arms.

I pull out the big guns: sticking my bottom lip out in a pout.

“Fuck.” He snatches the shorts from my hand, conceding this time, and I do a little victory dance, pumping my fists in the air and stomping my feet as I turn in a circle. “Don’t celebrate too hard. You picked for me, so I’m picking for you.”

“Wha—” I balk. “That’s not ... Nuh-uh.”

Ben arches a sharp brow my way. “Yes or no?”

He’s giving me a choice, an important distinction for a woman who has been going along with what everyone else wants. No, not everyone—Roy. But I can’t blame it all on him. I’m equally to blame, and should’ve listened to what my gut was screaming at me sooner.

Do it! Do it! Do it!

I’m not sure if it’s a devil on my shoulder or just Joy cheering me on. But I decide to listen either way.

I roll my eyes, lifting a shoulder like this is no big deal. “Fine.” I don’t think there’s anything too wild anyway. A bikini? I’ve worn those roughly a bajillion times. I even special ordered a teeny-tiny one for my honeymoon, so anything in this store will be perfectly reasonable.

Ben scours the racks, teasingly holding up everything from knee-length skirted numbers to ones that basically amount to a collection of spandex strings, measuring them all against my body like he’s picturing me in each one.

I pose sassily with a hot-pink two-piece, one hand on my hip and my head tilted jauntily. “This one? It matches your flamingos.”

Ben stares at me for a long moment, his eyes dripping over the suit. Over me. The silly fun we’ve been having evaporates, leaving something else that’s entirely unexpected, something heated that steals my breath away. I swear I can feel his gaze on my skin like an actual physical touch, especially when it lingers over my breasts and explores every inch of my bare legs.

His voice rough, Ben growls, “The blue one’s fine.” He jerks his chin toward the one-piece I originally selected and then spins around, giving me his back.

What just happened?

I’m not sure, but I follow Ben, who seems to be running to the register or away from me. Or both. The girl—Maddie, according to her name tag—scowls at me. “Who’s this, Hope?” she asks as she looks Ben up and down, her nose crinkled and lips twisted in a sneer as though he smells like rotten catfish bait.

“Family friend,” Ben answers for me, leaning down so he’s eye level with Maddie. “You got a problem with that?” His jaw is clenched, his eyes stone cold, and his entire demeanor has gone fuck around and find out . It’s like the many faces of Ben Taylor: there’s the helpful, friendly, nice guy; the silly, fun jokester; the no-nonsense defender; and then the full-on monster. I’m not sure which one I like best, because he always seems to use them for my benefit.

“Oh, uh ... I haven’t seen you before. Thought maybe you were a tourist or something,” Maddie says, making tourist sound like the equivalent to shit on my shoe .

Maple Creek has a long-standing and complicated relationship with tourists. We need them to survive. Visitors are the bread and butter that keep the town and many of our businesses afloat. But they also tend to come in and take over, thinking they’re special and that locals are here to be at their beck and call. So some people—like Maddie, apparently—prejudge and shoot themselves in the foot.

“Mm-hmm,” Ben hums, still glaring coldly at Maddie.

Choosing to bypass the big, scary adversary, she turns her attention back to me, adopting a conspiratorial tone like we’re long-lost besties. “What happened with you and Roy, girl? It’s true you’re pregnant, isn’t it? You can totally tell. But is it really someone else’s baby and not Roy’s?” She looks like she’s ready to hear the juiciest, freshest gossip she’s ever had the chance to spread.

“What? No!” I screech, garnering the attention of the few other shoppers in the store. Patting my flat belly, I snap loud enough for them all to hear, “Not pregnant. Why does everyone think that? And definitely not with someone else’s baby!”

Maddie tilts her head, obviously not believing one word of that. “Suuure. If you say so.”

Ben holds up the two suits between me and the counter because there’s a very real chance I might go over it and show Maddie just how not-pregnant I am ... with a fist to her jaw. Shepherd taught me how, so I know how to throw a solid hook even if I’ve never actually hit anything worse than one of his hockey gloves held up as a target.

“We’re taking these. Here ya go.” He throws a bill on the counter and wraps his hand around my upper arm, essentially holding me back and guiding me away. “Let’s go swimming, Hope. Yeah?”

I scowl at Maddie one more time but let Ben lead me out the door before I explode. “What the hell?” I shout. “Does everyone ... Why would they think ...” And finally, quieter, I ask, “Do I look pregnant?”

Ben chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “No, Hope. You look beautiful, sexy, and right this moment, a little crazy, but not pregnant.”

For a second, I’m almost offended by the crazy part, but truthfully, I kinda like that description too. I straighten my T-shirt with a jerk, standing up straighter. “That’s right. Thank you.”

“We still swimming?” he prompts.

A few minutes ago, he was anti-swimming. Now he’s raring to go. And I am too. Even if it’s to get away from rude shopworkers who think they know my business when they don’t.

The water is perfect—sun-heated, but not like swimming in bathwater with other people, because that’s gross. But Ben was right. He cannot swim. At all.

“Come out farther. You can still touch,” I say, trying to entice him. He’s in waist-deep water, the neon of his suit still visible beneath the surface, which laps at his belly button.

“Says the girl swimming like her life depends on it.”

At best, I’m paddling around lazily, but because of the look on his face, I plant my feet on the dirt below. The water reaches up to my chin, which means it’d be chest-high on Ben. “See? You can do it. Baby steps.” I hold my hands out and wiggle my fingers like I’m tempting a child to come to me. “C’mere! Just a little deeper,” I say, throwing my voice high and saccharine sweet.

“Don’t ever say that in that tone of voice again,” Ben says, seeming fully serious. But I’m catching on to that glint in his eye when he’s joking.

“Huh?” It takes me replaying my own words to hear what he’s talking about, and when I do, I splash water his way, drenching him. “Gross! I didn’t mean it like that. I meant deeper in the water.”

He grins and I realize that without me even noticing, he’s several steps closer now and water is running down his chest and over his shoulders. “I know, but dirty talk and baby talk should never be one and the same, in my book.”

“What if they are in mine?” I counter, daring him to argue with me.

I don’t have a book. And I’ve certainly never dirty-talked or baby-talked, so even if I did have one, it wouldn’t be in there. What would be? Normal things, like missionary sex three times a week, a couple of minutes of snuggling afterward, and then going about my daily business. Why do I feel like those things aren’t even included in Ben’s book? And why do I feel like maybe I’m missing out on a lot of things I’ve never considered?

“Um, so what is in your book if it’s not dirty talk or baby talk?” I venture, swimming a circle around him.

He doesn’t spin around, but rather turns his head, following my progress with dark eyes. “I didn’t say those things weren’t there. I said they’re not the same thing. You gotta use them for different purposes.”

I feel like he’s educating me, or at least coaching me, on a whole new world. When I act like I’m writing that down, storing that tidbit away on page one of my newly imagined Book of Sex-crets , he grins. But it’s not his friendly smile. No, he—and that grin—look dangerous. They make me feel ... gooshy inside.

“Different things. Dirty talk: one thing; baby talk: another. Check. What else should I know?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “Hope ...”

The warning is drawn out, almost a groan, but I want to know what I’ve been missing. All of it. “Ben, tell me. Please.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s fortifying himself, and continues, “Say what you like and don’t like. Anybody you’re with should be willing to listen because you know your body better than anyone. If he doesn’t, don’t fuck him. Explore, experiment, try new things, but only if you want to. There’s never pressure to do something you don’t want to do.” Ben slices his arms through the water, creating waves that lap at my skin, which is suddenly oversensitive and hyperaware of every sensation.

I don’t dare look away when he says, “He should recognize that he’s a lucky fucker for getting to be between your thighs, so he should worship you, making sure you come as many times and as hard as possible. And only then—when you’re hot, wet, and ready—should he fuck you. Then he should watch to see how you want it. It’s okay to like soft and sweet, face-to-face with eye contact and love-filled kisses. It’s okay to need hard and rough, your ass slamming back into his hips with your hair wrapped around his fist and his teeth on your neck. It’s better to get both when you want them, sometimes even in the same night. Or in the same session.” He’s definitely giving me his full attention right now—measuring my breathing, tracking the rising flush I can feel turning my cheeks a rosy pink, and looking at my hardened nipples through the thin fabric of my suit.

I lied. This water is hot—burning hot. It must be because my body is on fire, liquid boiling up inside me like lava.

“I feel like that was a lesson in dirty talk,” I whisper in the space between us.

Ben laughs low and quiet. “That was the tip of the iceberg of dirty talk, Hope. If you like that, you’d probably love a guy telling you how good you feel wrapped around his cock, how pretty you are while his face is buried against you and he breathes you into his lungs, and that he’s gonna fuck you until you drench him.”

Ooh-kay. So that’s dirty talk. That’s ... what that is. Nope, definitely never heard that before. Roy’s the only guy I’ve been with, and while he’s not silent, he’s more of a grunter, and only when he comes.

“I’ve never ...” I trail off, not sure how to explain the things I haven’t done now that I’m suspecting there’s a lot of them.

“That’s okay. Now you can,” Ben says. “If you want to.” With that decree, he dunks himself under the water fully, soaking his hair, and comes up shaking like a dog, showering me with droplets.

“Hey!” I shout.

Ben’s other smile is back, brighter and lighter at having gotten me the way I splashed him earlier. But when he runs his hand down his face ... over his chest ... and down the flat of his stomach, I wonder ... is he as affected by the things he said as I am? Was that dunk to cool off from the words, the sexy thoughts, or me?

I’ve never felt like I’m sexy. Pretty, sure. I mean, I see what I look like every time I look at Joy, but I don’t have that confidence that oozes sex appeal. I never have.

But maybe . . .

“Wanna play Titanic?” I ask. Is it shitty of me to use him for an ego boost? Yes. Am I doing it anyway given my current state of self-doubt? Also yes.

“Is that where I die of hypothermia because you won’t scoot the fuck over on the door even though there’s obviously plenty of room?”

I laugh because he’s totally right. What the hell was Rose thinking? She could’ve saved Jack if she’d wanted to, or they could’ve died together like the other couple who went to bed holding hands and waited to sink with the ship. That’s romance! That’s love!

“No, like this.” I take a few steps back to a shallower point in the water, and Ben follows me. “Now, squat down a little, and I’m going to stand on your knees.”

His dark brows jump up, and he says wolfishly, “Facing me? I think Titanic is my new favorite game.”

“No!” I swat at his shoulder, which is hard beneath my fingers. “Facing away from you.” I hold up a finger at the considering look on his face. “And also, not like that.”

Is this flirting? I’m not sure I’ve ever done that, either, though I’ve seen girls flirt with Roy, sometimes while I’m sitting right next to him. This feels kinda like that.

He shrugs, not mad at the possibility either way, and I turn my back to him. My suit has straps that loop over each shoulder, but there’s a deep scoop that exposes my entire spine, all the way down to just above my butt. I could lean back and feel Ben’s chest against my skin, and I almost do it, but I chicken out. Instead, I place my left foot on his left thigh as I explain, “We used to do this as kids. It’s fun.”

“If you say so,” he mutters from beneath me as I stand fully, both feet on his thighs. With his long arms, he’s able to reach up and hold my hips to keep me steady.

I’ve done this dozens of times and it’s never been anything other than a kid’s game, but now it feels entirely different. Especially as Ben’s big hands nearly wrap around my hips and butt. If my suit were any smaller, he’d be touching my skin.

Shoulda gotten one of those string bikinis, the devil inside me—the one who’s just started to speak up more often, it seems—whispers. But my butt is already nearly in his face, so thank God for tiny expanses of fabric or else he’d know how wet I am. And I’m not talking about lake water.

“Move your hands to my shins. I’m going to lean into them,” I tell him. He slides his hands down my legs inch by torturous inch while I close my eyes, memorizing the feeling of someone different touching me in such an intimate way. It should feel wrong, I shouldn’t like it, I should tell him to stop or stop this insanity myself. None of that happens, though.

I enjoy the roughness of his palms on my thighs. I let his thumbs brush over the backs of my knees. And when his hands rest on my lower legs, I throw my arms wide in a T and tilt forward, trusting that he’s got me. And he does, balancing me by leaning back instinctually.

“I’m flying!” I shout into the nonexistent wind.

I hear his laugh, and then I’m pushing off his legs to dive into the water. When I surface, I wipe my eyes and find Ben staring at me in surprise.

“A little warning next time? I thought you were falling,” he says, but he’s smiling.

Maybe I am. A little.