Love Me Crazy (35 page)

“What… what is this?” I step closer to the setup but am distracted by the line of candles leading away from it.

Little flames of hope outline the entire space and sit atop mossy ruins. A sun-bleached chimney, half eaten by time and the elements, sits alone and floats against a background of shadows. A fire blazes within it and smoke curls out the top, just like a fairytale.

Quinn dangles an envelope in front of me. I open it, a grin on my face, and read:
Warm kisses as gentle as a summer’s breeze . . . touched my lips, painted my skin. Grazed my heart. I thank my lucky stars that someone as perfect as you, blessed my soul.

Quinn wraps his arm around my waist and brushes a kiss over my cheek. “Happy Anniversary.”

The
words he’d written wash over my heart and bathe it in a warm, brilliant, fuzzy light. I could’ve spoken those same words . . .not so eloquently, but everything he said, is exactly how he makes me feel. I don’t know if he’ll ever realize how deeply I love him.

“That’s beautiful, Quinn.” I nuzzle closer to him. “But it’s not our anniversary.”

“Birthday then?”

I shake my head. “I think love has you all screwed up in there.” I tap his temple, then slip my hand down his cheek to his chin, enjoying the transition from smooth to stubble.

“But it
is
the anniversary of our gallery opening.”

I peer around again, amazed at such a celebration for something that was unsuccessful. If you didn’t count the Covington posse who came out to support us, we had three visitors. Three. And two of them just happened to be walking by. That left us with tons of uneaten food, an obvious need for a marketing plan, and making a desperate call to a plumber when Hayes stuffed the toilet with party napkins to make “rainbow soup.”

“You want to remember that? It was awful.”

“I want to remember our failures because it makes our successes, no matter how small, shine.”

I smile, turn and jump up to hug him. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you, Quinn. You’re amazing.”

“And . . .”

“There’s more?”

He sets me on my feet, pulls me toward the blanket, and gestures for me to sit. I drop to my knees and lean into my hands. What else could there possibly be? I’m so happy. So settled.
This
is so perfect and it’s with him. Because of him. He squats beside me and waves his hand over the blank space.

“Think of this as your canvas.”

“Huh?” I squint through the growing dark.

He pulls out a tube of papers from the basket, unrolls it, and sets a candle in the center. “This is ours, Cassie. All ours.”

“We aren’t meeting clients?”

He shakes his head.

“No commissioned work?”

He taps the ground.

I look at the paper . . . the plans for a house. “You bought this?”

“For us.”

A smile works its way across my face. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop imagining what we could do here. The possibilities are endless and for once, I have no idea which route to take. I’m always so sure of how I want things to end, but Quinn, he changed that want. I love not knowing. I love discovering with him, and this will be a huge freaking undertaking.

“You designed a studio.” I follow the outline of the architectural rendering. A stone facade, a porthole window above a grand doorway. A long, covered porch spanning the entire building. With two swings. I trace their outlines. “No rocking chairs?”

“Swings. One for us. One for Hayes.” He unrolls another sheet. “There’s room for a studio on the second floor and a darkroom in the basement. Here’s our bedroom. And this room is for Hayes when he visits.”

I
roll forward and pitch myself against him. He falls back on the pillows. “I love you, Quinn Covington.”

“You’re growing on me, too.” He rolls me over and hovers above me.

“Come here, you.” I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him against me. Kiss him hard. Kiss him fully. I give over to him everything in my power.

His hands track under my shirt, across my stomach. His fingers comb along my ribs, following them to the center of my chest. I untuck his shirt, fumble with the buttons, and when I can’t release them, pull. Hard. A button pops off and he stops kissing me.

“Down, girl.” He leans up and pulls his shirt over his head.

“No problem,” I say. I grab his waistband, undo his zipper, and shove his shorts down over his rear.

I crawl to my knees and push him back until he’s settled on the blanket. His boxers give easily as I tug them down and slip between his knees. I start to lower, but he’s watching me so intently, I pause.

“What is it?” I ask.

“You’re beautiful. I don’t tell you enough, but you’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Because I’m between your legs.”

“Because you’re you. Because you’re mine. But, yeah, I think you’re quite a sight between my legs, too.” He reaches for my hand but I push him away.

I rest my fingers on either side of his throbbing cock. “Right now, Mr. Covington, you’re quite a sight.”

I bend closer, drag my hair across his abs, seduce his skin with my breath, and tease his cock with my lips. He moans when I take him deep. Curls his fingers in my hair. I work him
slowly,
like I do my masterpieces. With precision and attention to details. I love the way his breath stutters when I flick my tongue just below the ridge crowning his tip. The way he tremors when he gets close to release. The way he pulls me in and wants to hold me forever against him.

He thrusts deep into my mouth, but pulls out quickly. He leans his head back, bites his lip, and I smile, seductively, because I did that. I move up to straddle his hips, remove my shirt and unfasten my bra. I brush my fingers over his hardened nipple, then lower to take his lips into my mouth.

“Cassie,” he breathes. He rolls me quickly, tops me, and pushes my skirt up. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

“You tend to have that effect on me.”

He smiles. “I think it’s just your thing.” His tongue meanders from my ear to my collarbone.

I pull him against me to stop the shiver moving over my skin. His fingers graze me lightly, then rip my panties down. I help remove the obstruction and pull him over me.

“Make love to me, Quinn.”

“Any day.
Every
day.” His tip presses against me. His mouth devours my breast, teases my nipple as his teeth graze over my skin.

I arch toward him, wanting him to claim all of me with his beautiful mouth. I claw at his side like he’s all that’s left between me and freedom. He’s so strong. So giving. Gentle. So mine.

He pushes past all my barriers—physically joining me, mentally coveting me, and emotionally opening me. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and savor his entry into my heart. Into my soul. Into me deeply. I inhale briskly, enjoying how it feels to be so close to someone. To want that person to know every part of you, inside and out. And he does; he knows me so well.
Our
breaths align, our kisses smother, and God, the feeling. I push into my hands, lifting me toward him. He wraps his arms around my body, shifts to his knees and pulls me against him, holding me close as we find success. Together.

Our bodies collide in passion and heat. One final stroke pushes me up, up, up into the trees. Past the mossy tendrils, past the clouds, right up to the stars. I call out his name, quiver around him, lock against him. Biting my lip, I wish for this to never end. Together, we ease back, still connected. Together we roll to our sides, still connected. Together we are at our best. A connection neither of us can deny.

This man, I love. As much as I’ve hated in the past, I love him more.

“Quinn,” I whisper as I paint his features with my fingertips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses my nose. Kisses the heart-shaped freckle over my brow. “I love you like Sunday. The day after Ellie’s wedding. You in my arms. You staying. Forever,” he says.

“That’s it?” I tease.

“I love you like Saturday. Dancing the waltz.”

I shiver and bury into him for warmth.

“I love you like Friday. Spoons and vodka and staying in my bed.” He draws out all the memories of how we became us.

I wrinkle my nose. “Sex in your bed would’ve been better.”

He laughs. “I love you like Thursday, making love to you whether you’re indigo or not.” He kisses my lips, tucks his hands around my ass, and absorbs me. “And I love you like Wednesday when I revealed my tattoos and my secrets. And Tuesday, the day you threatened a
turkey
and landed in my life. And today, Monday. Any and every day you’re with me, I love you, Cassie.”

I drift my gaze over his chest and tease the corner of my mouth with my teeth. I follow his barbed vine tattoo to the speared heart and trace the indigo wings he’d chosen to camouflage the arrows. He said he didn’t need a reminder anymore. He said his heart was whole again.

“Like pecans and peaches and huge live oaks,” I say as I take his hand from my hip. “Like Spanish moss, magnolias, and cheese grits. Secret gardens, poetry, and indigo.” I cuddle up to him. “Like fireflies over the swamp and gentle sweet lovemaking. Both just. Like. Fire.”

He strokes my back with his fingers and I close my eyes. Completely happy to stay in his arms like this until the sun comes up. Until the day after. The year after that.

I press my lips against his dimple. “I love you, Quinn. I love you irrationally and completely and obsessively.”

He lets out a lazy laugh. “I love you crazy, too.”

Acknowledgements

This story came about because of my move to New England and the southern traditions, hospitality and lifestyle I took for granted growing up. Though I make it home several times a year, I miss certain aspects terribly. I thought, what if the tables were turned? Cassidy, that lucky-duck, gets to experience and appreciate what I miss most—warm nights, lightning bugs, swaying Spanish moss, the most delicious foods, farmland for miles, and the friendliest, kindest, most welcome people in the world, and some that aren’t, but every barbecue has a little sour sauce.

That being said, Cassidy and Quinn’s story wouldn’t have been possible without the many people who welcomed them like family. Never have I ever wanted to thank so many wonderful people at one time. I am forever grateful!

My family deservers 200% of my gratitude for the many times I said, “Just let me finish this page,” no matter how many times I repeated it. So, kids, let me finish
this
page so I can thank you for it! To my husband for taking on early morning kid duty and bringing me multiple cups of coffee, and grocery shopping, and making sure we eat, and keeping me sane—I love you crazy! To my parents, thank you for your support in every “passion” I’ve taken up; I think this one will stick. If it doesn’t, maybe I’ll finally put my college degree to use...

To my agent, Jessica Sinsheimer, thank you, thank you, thank you for the check-ins when I’ve gone into silent-writer-mode, for your words of encouragement and advice, for humoring my need for Type-A charts and color-coded notes, and the many shared cyber-chais! Thanks to my publisher, Bloomsbury Spark, and their wonderful team, for loving this story as much as I do.

To my editors... Meredith Rich, thank you for knowing what to cut when every word seems so dang important, and when to expand for the sake of Cassidy and Quinn’s relationship. To Hannah Milton, if I hide a needle in a haystack, I’ll bet on you being the first to find it! Thanks for your attention to detail and consistency. To Juli Barbato, thank you for keeping all my commas under control. And to the talented team behind the cover, including the artist, Jenny Zemanek, thanks for allowing me to be a team-player. Your dedication and patience deserves applause!

To my critique partner, I’d like to say: thank you for the years of support, helping me avoid the hokey-pokey and for being ready and available when I send chapters your way. Most of all, thanks for enhancing my life with friendship, GIFs (Oh, Yes I Did!) and nonsense texts about conferences, mom-jeans, men-for-hire (or not), duct tape to keep you quiet and, of course, plotting.

Thanks, also, to my Beta Babes. Y’all. Are. The. Best! No one is more deserving of infinity hugs and thanks! D.H. from Sea Island Indigo, thank you for being so receptive when I dropped a billion questions about indigo in your lap.

And Charleston, dear, sweet, beautiful South Carolina...
Dum spiro spero
. Always!

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York, Oxford, and Sydney

Copyright © 2016 by Camden Leigh

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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This electronic edition published in 2016