That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(8)

A second tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away before leaning forward and placing another kiss on their gravestones. “I love you both, miss you terribly, and will keep working hard to get what I want like you always taught me. Hard work and determination, right, Dad? It might have taken me seven years to get to the point of finally graduating from college—with a broken dream under my belt already—but I wouldn’t have changed the path I took because it meant spending more time with you two, and it gave Eric the opportunity he needed to pursue his goals, at least try to pursue them. And don’t worry, I’ll spruce up these headstones once spring comes.”

I give them a quick wink even though they can’t see it and wipe away one more tear before straightening up. With a brief wave, I turn around and almost jump out of my skin when I find a man leaning against my car, hands stuffed in his worn jeans pockets, a flannel shirt hugging his massive shoulders, and a baseball hat hiding a pair of brilliantly blue eyes I’ve known ever since elementary school.

Reid Knightly.

The sadness of the day, the tearful conversation I just had with my parents, and now seeing Reid standing there, waiting for me—it’s all too much. A wave of emotion hits me as I walk toward him. Burying my face in my hands, I step up into his open arms and let him pull me into a calming embrace, his arms like an impenetrable shield protecting me from the outside world.

One arm is wrapped around my back as the other grips the back of my head, keeping me in place as tears stream down my face and onto his flannel shirt, sorrow and relief escaping me all at once. Sorrow for losing two of the best people I’ve ever known, relief for not having to do this alone.

“Shh,” he says softly. It’s rare that Reid shows an ounce of sensitivity. Going through life with a chip on his shoulder—a rather large one—he’s a sarcastic ass who spends his days mouthing off and hiding behind his jokes. But today is different; this moment is different. “I’m here, Eve,” he whispers into my ear, sending an onslaught of chills down my right arm.

Fresh from the shower, he smells like soap with a hint of sandalwood, a scent I’ve grown to associate with his adult self. When he was young, running around the backyard with Eric and getting into every bit of trouble they could find, he smelled like a sweaty boy having entirely too much fun. Back in middle school, when he and Eric really got into cooking, he constantly smelled like garlic, his favorite food to work with. And in high school before they left for culinary school, he smelled like Axe body spray because at that point he realized smelling like a douche was better than smelling like garlic.

But now . . . now he smells like a man.

Calming myself, I lift my head off his chest and look up at him. The bill of his hat throws a shadow over his eyes, but this close, those blue irises still sparkle. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was right for you to be by yourself.”

“How did you know?”

“I knew what today means, and I knew you’d be here . . . and Eric wouldn’t.” He reaches down and brushes away the tears that have pooled under my eyes. “You would do the same if it were my parents.”

I would.

“Well, thank you. It means a lot to me.”

“I also thought it would be a great opportunity to squeeze a hug out of you—you know, since you’re vulnerable and all.”

And there he is.

Scoffing, I push at his chest, trying to put some distance between us, but he just laughs and pulls me in closer. “Oh yeah, give me the good stuff. Just like that, run your hands up my back.”

“Shut. Up,” I say, a laugh popping out of me.

“All this wiggling is getting me hot and bothered. Want to do it in your car?”

“You realize you’re sick, right? A sick bastard taking advantage of a grieving daughter.”

“And as the scum of the earth who is well aware of that, if you need me to hold your boob in this time of need, I can lend a hand . . . even two.”

Impossible.

Stepping away and crossing my arms over my aforementioned chest, I say, “You wouldn’t even know what to do if I said yes to that offer.”

“How little faith you have.”

I shrug. “Word on the street is you fumbled so badly with Lydia Samson that you thought her armpit was her vagina.”

“Jesus Christ,” he moans, dragging his hand over his face. “Can you stop bringing up Lydia Samson? It was dark, I was drunk off my ass, and she kept saying, Yes, right there, right there. She was the sick fuck, letting me pump my dick into her armpit. We were in a closet on a boat, for fuck’s sake.”

I burst out in laughter at the infamous story, which I got secondhand from little old Mrs. Davenport of all people.

He points his finger at me, a stern look in his eyes. “You see? This is why I don’t do nice things, because ungrateful people like you bring up situations like Lydia Samson.”

“You tried to screw her armpit, Reid. That will go down in history as the best story of my life.”

“Then you need to get out more, because that shit is stale.”

I shake my head. “Never. All I have to say is Lydia around our friends, and everyone laughs.”

“Because they’re all sick fucks like you. I was sixteen, it was the first time a girl told me to push my pants down, and I was a little overzealous. Everyone should just be happy I was out of my room at that point.”