Elements of Chemistry (Part 2) HEAT (2015)

Chapter 10. Multiple Bonds

THE SKY WAS overcast when Martin woke me up with kisses and bites on my shoulders. He insisted we go for a swim right then just in case it started to thunder or rain.

I later found this was also a slick kind of strategy because he jumped into the ocean naked.

I did not.

I dressed in the string bikini, daintily dipped my toes in, and then climbed down the ladder at the back of the boat. Martin eyed me over the gentle waves for about ten seconds while he treaded water. Then he lunged at me, chased me, caught me, easily discarded my bikini, and proceeded to feel me up.

We didn’t make it as far as the bed. Instead, both of us feeling an irrational sense of urgency, we attacked each other in the water, then on the ladder leading to the deck, then on the deck. He pulled me down to his lap, straddling him, as he sat on the cushioned bench at the end of the stern. My breathing and movements were frantic, erratic, and when I came down on him we both cursed.

I’m not going to lie, it still hurt at first. But something about being naked under the sky, sticky and wet with sea water, learning each other, seeing the love and lust in his eyes, lubricated all the right spots. He guided my hips until I found a natural rhythm.

But I was distracted by the soreness between my legs and how my breasts bounced and swayed as I moved, until Martin leaned back on one elbow, his thumb moving to my apex, his eyes devouring me, and growled his appreciation. “This, you, here, now—hell, Kaitlyn. This is it, this is everything.”

I did my best, but I wasn’t proficient in the art of man-riding. I knew I was driving him crazy because he’d closed his eyes, obviously trying to hold off for as long as possible, his brow wrinkled into a severe frown of concentration which I would forever think of as the don’t come don’t come oh God, don’t come face.

I’d been close for a while, but I was frustrated with my body’s lack of accelerative progress. It was starting to feel nice, but I wasn’t going to climax. Therefore I leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t worry about me.”

His eyes flew open and he stared at me with a ferocious kind of challenge. “What the hell does that mean?”

I lifted myself up then came back down, enjoying the sexiness of the act but somehow resigned that this time was going to be another miss.

He must’ve seen something in my eyes he didn’t like, because before I could explain my meaning, he surprised me by standing, picking me up with him, and carrying me to the table.

“Lay down,” he commanded.

I did.

He pulled out, spread my legs wide, knelt on the ground, and proceeded to have me for breakfast. It didn’t take long before I was near spiraling, my lower belly tight with the promise of sweet, torturous relief. My hands gripping the edge of the table.

And I started chanting, “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

And I came.

But then before I’d quite crested the wave, Martin stood and filled me, his thumb still circling my clitoris mercilessly in rhythm with his thrusts. And I came again—harder, better, faster, stronger—the rhythm of my blood thundering between my ears. The soreness between my legs adding a layer of exquisite pain to our combined pleasure…intensifying it. My mind was lost to everything except the sweet, overwhelming searing sensation.

I think I actually screamed, or yelled, or yodeled. I don’t know what I did, but my throat hurt from the effort afterward. I hoped it wasn’t an unsophisticated squeal.

He came a very short time later, looking overwrought, confused, and spent. Again he fell forward like a force other than gravity brought our bodies together. But this time he held himself up with bent arms and kissed my neck, chest, and shoulders.

My nerve endings felt fried so I let him play with my body, lick my skin, nip my nipples, and tongue my belly button as he slipped from me. His breathing returned to baseline after three or more minutes.

Then he said against my right ribs, “I love you. You’re the most beautiful thing…so perfect.”

I huffed a laugh, my hands reaching for, finding, then playing with the damp hair on his head. “I’m not perfect, but I’m glad you think so.”

He brought himself back over me, so we were face to face, his gaze both curious and irritated. “Why do you do that? Why do you shrug off compliments? You are fucking goddamn gorgeous, Parker. You. Are. And you are a fucking goddamn musical prodigy. The fact you’re not making music every day is criminal.”

I gave him a sideways look and a small smile, wanting to choose my words carefully because he looked like he was considering some method of torture in order to push me into admitting my amazingness.

“I love that you think so, Martin.”

“Kaitlyn—” His tone held more than an edge of warning.

“No, listen.” I framed his face with my hands and lifted my head to rub my nose against his. I left a soft kiss on his lips and said, “I am glad you think I am all those things, and I believe you. But I’m not going to magically think I’m beautiful or perfect or talented just because you do. I have to get there for myself. I have to believe those things for myself—not because I have a boyfriend who values me and thinks I invented airplane neck pillows. If I base my self-worth on someone else’s opinion or view of me, then I will also base my lack of worth on that person’s opinion as well. And that has the potential of tearing me to pieces.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, but I saw reluctant understanding ignite behind his expression.

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what? Brilliant?” I teased.

“Yeah…brilliant.”

***

I CAUGHT MARTIN staring at me no less than twenty times during the next few hours. And each time he looked a little dazed, like he was caught in the web of his own imagination. Sometimes I’d stare back, narrowing my eyes and administering a mock suspicious look. He’d smile—slow and lazy and sexy—then kiss me.

One thing was for certain: Martin Sandeke was using his big brain to work through an issue of enormous proportions.

Meanwhile, I worked on my last term paper in between conversations with Martin. He told me about his vision for the future of telecommunications and how satellites were going to play an essential role.

Science may not have been my passion, like I was wondering if music truly was, but I had a great deal of interest in science related topics. He told me all about the seventeen—SEVENTEEN!!—patents he held. Although, when I’d asked him if he was going to use the money from his inventions as the source for the sixty million he needed for the venture capitalist project, he’d laughed.

Inventing stuff, he explained, was fun. It was his hobby, but none of his inventions would ever bring in enough money.

When I asked him what he defined as enough money, he responded grimly, “Enough will be three times whatever my father is worth at any given time.”

Seeing as how his father was a billionaire, this answer struck me as supercilious and off key. Making enough money sounded like an unhealthy obsession and dissonant with happiness.

I didn’t voice this opinion.

By mid-afternoon the boat was ensconced in a torrential downpour, I’d grown used to his dazed stares, and—sadly—it was time to head back to the island.

We weren’t going back to the big house, as we were going to the aforementioned cottage on the opposite side of the island, where Eric and Sam had been since Wednesday. I hoped she wasn’t too irritated at me for my lack of communication…

I felt guilty about it, like a bad friend.

At present, Martin was in the captain’s chair, steering us back, and I was trying to catch him unawares by lobbing rapid-fire questions at him, attempting to get him to admit something embarrassing.

“Favorite movie?”

“Wall Street.”

“Favorite food?”

“Black licorice.”

I paused, his answer surprising, but then pressed forward. “Favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

I thought about this, then asked because I felt compelled, “How can it be black?”

“Most people’s favorite color is black, but they’re too fixated on what others think to admit the truth, even to themselves. Think about it, what color is represented in your closet more than any other? Is it blue? Green? Red? No. It’s black.”

“But black is depressing, it’s the color of funerals and dark rooms and despair.”

He gave me a half smile and almost rolled his eyes, but not quite. “In Japan, the color associated with funerals is white. Dark rooms can be fun. Also, black feels like something new to me, like the sky right before dawn.”

“Martin Sandeke, that was almost poetic.”

“You’re easy to talk to.” He didn’t sound precisely happy about this.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be. I say things to you I’ve never said or told anyone.” He looked serious as he admitted this, gazing down at me with either resentment or longing, I couldn’t tell which.

So I tried to disarm the sudden tension by saying, “That’s because you loooove me.”

He rolled his eyes. But he also smiled.

***

“SPILL IT.”

“What?”

“Everything.” Sam elongated the word, over-pronouncing each syllable. “Spill it all. Spill it all over the place. Dump it out—on the floor, on the ceiling, on the duvet—spew it all, every last bit of it, because I am so far past interested, I’ve entered the neighboring territory of obsessively curious.”

I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She was staring at me, wide-eyed, mouth in a tight line, jaw set. It was her game face. She meant business.

It was nearly dinner time. We’d arrived about a half hour ago. Martin had anchored the boat and tied it to a small wooden dock adjacent to the cottage, then we’d raced through the rain to the cottage.

The cottage was actually everything I thought of when I thought beach cottage. It was cozy and small, had two bedrooms and one bathroom, a postage stamp kitchen with a breakfast bar, and a combined family room/living room. The place was also decorated in nautical themes. Crafty mosaics of sea glass and shells lined the walls, and a big, rusty anchor hung above the front door.

Sam and I were currently in my room—well, the room Martin and I would share for the night—and I was going through my things. Sam and Eric had brought most of my stuff from the big house, but several items were missing; so far one of my textbooks, a folder of class notes, and several shirts. The textbook and the shirts were no big deal, but I needed the folder.

Also, it gave me an excellent excuse to postpone responding to Sam’s questioning.

“Kaitlyn…you’re stalling.”

“I’m trying to figure out if all my stuff is here.”

“You’re stalling.”

I huffed, turned to face her, and threw my hands in the air. “Yes. Yes I’m stalling.”

“Why are you stalling?”

“Because I don’t know how much I’m ready to share with you. I haven’t decided.”

“How much? How much?” she sputtered for a moment, her eyes sweeping up then down my body. “Well, how much happened?”

“A lot.”

“Are…” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she considered her words. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you and Martin okay?”

My serious face slipped as an involuntary and dreamy smile arrested my features. “Yes.”

Her eyes went wide again. “Are you and Martin officially together? Like girlfriend, boyfriend, committed exclusive relationship, I’ll go bat-shit crazy and burn all your stuff if I find you with someone else together?”

“Yes.” I sighed as I said this, and it was a girly, wistful sigh.

However, Sam’s expression was growing more anxious, pensive. “Did you…?” She licked her lips then nibbled on the bottom one, not finishing her question. Yet, the implied meaning was there. It hung over us both, the word sexin capital letters followed by a giant question mark.

I nodded, shifting my weight between my feet, unable to stand still.

“Oh my God.” Her eyes lost a bit of their focus briefly and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Then she blurted, “Please tell me he used a condom.”

I felt a niggling bit of guilt or regret, which I pushed away immediately, instead deciding to roll my eyes. “Sam…”

“Kaitlyn, don’t you Sam me. Please tell me you were safe.”

“I’m on birth control,” I whispered. I didn’t know why I was whispering.

“So? Birth control doesn’t stop genital warts.”

“Sam…” Apparently my only defense against her commonsense facts was to roll my eyes.

“Kaitlyn, you are not stupid. So why are you acting stupid about this?”

“I trust him,” I said without thinking, and shrugged.

Sam’s eyes widened then closed, her chin dropped to her chest; I heard her exhale then say to the floor. “You think you love him.”

I didn’t respond. At my silence she lifted just her eyes. She looked sober, concerned, bracing.

I shrugged because, though I could guess the source and reasoning behind her anxiety on my behalf, I didn’t share her worry. My feet were too far off the ground. I was basking in post-boat bliss. Martin loved me. I loved him. And the genital wart-covered world could go hide itself in a chemistry lab cabinet for all I cared.

“I do. I love him. I’m in love with him.”

“Oh.” She tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Well, that’s…great.”

I laughed at her effort to be supportive. “I know what you’re going to say—”

Really, there were so many warnings she might give, concerns she might voice given the situation and how little she knew about Martin.

But instead she held up her hands to keep me from continuing. “I’m not going to say anything. Other than I hope you know that I will always be here for you should you ever need anything. Anything at all. Anything. And that includes a visit to the gynecologist or the name of a hit man.”

I smiled at my friend because there was no doubt in my mind that she did love me. “You’re a good friend.”

She returned my smile, but worry still rimmed her eyes as she spoke, “You too, Kaitlyn… And you deserve the best, especially from Martin Sandeke.”

Sam crossed the room and pulled me into a hug, and added in a whisper, “Never accept less than his best.”

***

DINNER WASN’T UNCOMFORTABLE at all. It wasn’t. Really, it wasn’t.

Sure, Sam gave Martin the I will cut you glower at random intervals, but all in all, our foursome got along quite well. Her periodic awkward stare-downs were actually kind of funny because she’d typically pair them with ominous statements and dubious double entendre, like:

“Are you going to use the mustard, Martin? Or do you not use condom…mints?”

Then she’d lift her eyebrow meaningfully.

Another of my favorites was when we were discussing travel, places we’d like to go. Eric said he wanted to go to Australia and Sam blurted, “How about you Martin? Ever gone Down Under? Or is south of the equator not to your tastes?”

I noticed that Eric had to hide his smile and/or laughter behind his napkin on more than one occasion.

Martin didn’t smile. Instead he’d answer her questions plainly, as though they were just normal questions; but I could see through his poker face that he thought she was equal parts funny and irritating.

After dinner and dishes were done, Martin pulled me away from Sam’s suggestion that we play a game, setting his arm firmly around my waist.

“We’re tired,” he said.

“We are?” I glanced at him beseechingly, then back to where Sam was setting up Risk. Man…I loved board games. Especially games of world domination.

“We are.” Martin narrowed his eyes at me and I wasn’t so oblivious to realize he wanted more alone time.

I sighed my disappointment, then turned back to Sam. “I guess we’re tired.”

Her mouth was pinched and her eyes—appraising and unhappy—were moving between us, like she wanted to say something, but was quite literally biting her tongue.

I felt a small pang of guilt and mouthed, I’m sorry.

She gave me a small smile and shrugged as she packed up the game. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe you can play another time…when Martin isn’t so tired.”

The pang of guilt blossomed into something else, something resembling unease. I didn’t respond. Partly because I wasn’t sure what to say, and partly because Martin was already leading me out of the room. But I finally found my voice when we made it back to our bedroom.

“Are you tired? Because I’m not actually tired. And, something you may not know about me, I really enjoy a wholesome game of vicious world domination every once in a while.”

“I’m not tired.” Martin pulled me into the room, shut the door, pushed me against it, and moved in for a kiss. His hands were already everywhere, like an octopus with opposable thumbs.

I turned my head at the last minute, bracing my hands against his chest. His lips landed awkwardly on my jaw, but he wasn’t deterred by the misfire. Improvising, he kissed a wet path down my neck while his deft palms massaged my breasts through my bra.

“Hey, you.” I tried to keep my tone light and conversational. “Maybe we could, um, slow down a minute and have a discussion regarding your feelings on world domination.”

Martin’s thumb swept over my nipple then he pinched me, hard. It felt good, sending spikes of Martin-juju-arousal-fog to the four corners of my body, but it also felt like a punishment, or retaliation.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

The back of my head fell against the door and I huffed, liking everything he was doing, but disliking how single-minded he was being. In attempt to get his attention, I pinched the skin over his ribs.

“Ow!” He flinched a little, then laughed. It was a low, rumbly, sexy sound. Not at all the outcome I was going for. “Do you want to be rough?”

“No.” I pushed that alluring thought away with all my willpower. “I want you to listen to me.”

“And I want to bite you and lick you and fuck you and make you come.”

“Ah, Martin—”

“Kaitlyn, stop talking.” He moved his mouth to my ear and bit me before whispering, “I need to be inside you.”

My body trembled with a little pleasure earthquake as his hands slid to the band of my shorts and down into my underwear, stroking me. I began to melt against him. My objections—and whether I actually had objections—grew muddled and distant. But then as he pushed inside me with two fingers I felt more than a twinge of soreness. I winced in response to the discomfort and I shoved at his chest.

“Wait. Stop, that hurts.”

He stilled immediately, removing his fingers but not withdrawing his hand. Martin lifted his head and stared down at me, his green-blue eyes searching.

“That hurts?”

I nodded, swallowing before rushing to explain. “My pants aren’t used to frequent invasions, or any invasions. It’s been a busy week for my pants. As such, my pants need time to adjust, acclimate. My pants still like you a lot, but I think my pants need a rest.”

He was so close, crowding me against the door. I could’ve counted his eyelashes.

“Your pants?”

I nodded.

“We’re calling your pussy, ‘pants’? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“No. I mean, we can…I guess. But ‘pants’ doesn’t necessarily conjure the most alluring images. I’m open to other names if we have to name it. Why do we have to name it?”

His hand in my much-discussed pants slipped around to my bare bottom, caressing and squeezing. “We don’t have to name it. I just thought you were naming it.”

“No. I’m not naming it.” I shook my head. “I was just saying, or trying to say, that the area in my pants that is required for sexual intercourse is—”

“You mean your pussy.”

“Yes.”

“Then say it. Say, my pussy.”

I scrunched my face at him even as his hands continued to glide over my body and his hips rocked into me, making me feel muddled all over again.

“What? Why?”

“I just want to hear you say the word.” Martin unclasped my bra.

“Why can’t I say vagina?”

“No.”

“Vag?” I tried, half serious.

He made a face then shook his head, pulling my shirt and bra from my body.

“How about my nether region?”

The side of his mouth quirked just before he took a step away to discard his own shirt, his fingers then moving to unbutton his jeans. “No.”

“Dewy petals?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

“Ugh, what the fuck does that even mean?” He stepped out of his jeans, leaving his long, lithe, fine form in nothing but black boxers. He reached for me, and I let him.

“I have a ton of these.” I grinned at his reaction. “I play this game, really it’s a strange coping strategy, where I repeat synonyms for words—”

“I know. I told you, I heard you do it all the time during lab.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I know lots of euphemisms for the female anatomy.”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Martin turned us, marched me backward until my legs connected with the mattress, then eased us down using one arm wrapped around my middle and a single knee on the bed.

It was an impressive display of upper body strength and core muscles. In other words, it was hot.

“Just one more?”

His hand slid from my collarbone, between my breasts, and down my abdomen; he hitched two fingers into my shorts at my hip and paused.

“Okay, just one more.”

“Meat curtains.”

He frowned in a way that wasn’t a frown, pressing his lips together valiantly before speaking mostly to himself. “This is what I get for falling in love with a girl who hides from me in lab cabinets instead of someone who wants to use me for my money.”

Martin’s eyes were bright with teasing, but they were also hot and focused. I could see his intentions before he licked his lips, his attention moving to my mouth.

So I blurted, “I need my vector calculus folder!”

“What…” He frowned at me, plainly confused, then asked, “Right now?”

“No. Not right now, but before we leave. I think I left it at the big house. I need it, as it has all my notes from this semester.”

“Ah, well…I’ll call tomorrow before we leave, see if Mrs. Greenstone can find it and bring it to us at the marina.”

“Why don’t we stop by on our way in the morning? I’m not one-hundred percent certain where it is.”

“No. We aren’t going back there.” Ice entered his words; his declaration was almost hostile.

“But what if Mrs. Greenstone can’t find it?”

“I’ll call tonight. If she can’t find it, I’ll go over there by myself.”

“That’s silly. I’ll be able to find it faster.”

“If I can’t find it then I guess I’ll just have to tutor you in vector calculus.”

I grimaced. “Seeing my own handwriting takes me back to the moment when I took the notes and the lesson. It’s the only way I can study. I have an unhealthy attachment to my class notes.”

“Hopefully you also have an unhealthy attachment to me.”

“So, how do you feel about me using you for your brain instead of your ties to massive wealth or the magnificence that is your body? I’d like to use it, often.”

“What do you mean? Use what often?”

My back was resting on the bed now and he was over me, his bare chest against mine. I wasn’t going to be able to think in this position, especially since I could feel his erection against my hip, so I smiled hopefully and pushed him until he was lying on the bed and I was hovering at his side.

“Listen, I don’t want to mislead you. I do want to use you for your body, just so we’re clear. But I’d also like for you to put that big head of yours to use.”

He stared at me, and I realized too late that what I’d meant to say was brain…not head. Not. Head.

Martin fought a smile, and just looking at his handsome face made my stomach do a sudden backflip. He said smoothly, “Tell me more about what you’d like me to do with my big head.”

I scowled at him. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel a huge amount of embarrassment, just slightly flustered.

“Quit your backtalk or else I may have to pinch you again.”

“I wouldn’t mind, as long as I get to pinch you back.” His hand moved to my breast and he fingered my nipple, making my breath catch and his already stiff erection tent his boxers.

“Stop it for a minute, I want to talk to you. I’m trying to be serious.”

Martin’s heated stare turned into a petulant glare and he removed his hands, sighed, and folded them behind his head. He blinked at me once, then moved his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

I didn’t roll my eyes at his somewhat dramatic withdrawal, but I wanted to. Instead I pushed myself up and sat on the bed facing him, hugging my knees to my chest and started again.

“What I’m trying to say is that…I like you, Martin. I like your brain.” I blurted the last part, not knowing exactly what I was about to say.

Just his eyes slid back to mine, the lines of his face thawing as he searched my face.

I tucked my hair behind my ears then rested my arms on the top of my knees, heartened by his open interest. “I like you. I like you for who you are, even though you’re callous and don’t quite know how to treat people. You’re clever and funny. I admire the way you move and how you can’t help but lead. I like how driven you are, and passionate. It’s fun to watch. I also think there’s a good heart in there, but I feel like it might be bruised and neglected…”

After I said the words I knew it was true. His heart was bruised and neglected. He needed mending, care, and comfort. He needed someone to trust.

I shook myself, realized I’d trailed off and we’d been sitting silently for a long moment, and turned my attention back to Martin. He was peering at me, waiting for me to continue.

I took a deep breath before speaking. “The thing is, I’ve been wanting to tell you this since Sunday. You have a friend in me. No matter what happens between us, I want you to know that if you ever need me—as a friend, as someone you can trust—I’ll always be there for you. I’ll always be your safe place.”

Martin considered me for a moment, his gaze flickering over my face as though searching, before saying, “I don’t think I’ll ever want to be friends with you.”

I must’ve made some outward expression that mirrored my inner surprised hurt because he gripped my leg to keep me in place and rushed to add, “I mean, I don’t think I could ever be just friends with you. I could never be disinterested enough.”

“Disinterested? You think friends are disinterested in each other?”

He half shrugged, his eyes moving to the right. “Yes. I have friends, but I’m not interested in them.”

“Do you have any female friends?”

He nodded. “Yeah. My business partner is a woman. I’d consider her a friend and I couldn’t care less who she’s out with. But with you, I don’t think I’d be able to see you with someone else and not go crazy.”

“So, what? If we break up then you’ll just cut me completely out?”

“I would.” He nodded, looking very serious.

“Because you think you’ll never be disinterested?”

“I know it.”

“And by stating that you’ll never be disinterested in me, you mean that you’ll always want to…” I waved my hand in the air to finish my sentence.

His eyes moved back to mine and he grinned. “I’ll always want to…?”

He was being obnoxiously obtuse, trying to force me to use his language.

“You’ll always want to have intimate relations with me.”

He shook his head like he thought I was cute, and clarified using his own vernacular, “Yeah, I’ll always want to fuck you.”

I scowled at him. “You know, it’s one thing to use that word when we’re,” I waved my hand through the air again, “when we’re in the middle of copulation. But it’s completely different when we’re sitting here and I’m trying to have a conversation with you about serious matters.”

“Why? Why does it make any difference?”

“Because, it’s crass and ungentlemanly.”

“Ungentlemanly?” He looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

I increased the severity of my scowl. “Yes. Ungentlemanly. How you speak to me during everyday discussions matters because it’s a direct reflection of how you see me and whether or not you respect me. Using bad language—yes, bad language. Don’t give me that look.”

He’d rolled his eyes and ground his jaw, like he thought I was being ridiculous. So I pointed my finger at him and wagged it.

“Using bad language tells me you don’t have enough respect for me to use good manners or think about the implication of your words before you say them.”

“Kaitlyn, you know I respect you.”

“Yeah, you respect me so much you want to fuck me—not make love to me, not be intimate with me. Fuck me.”

He grew still, the amusement and rebelliousness waning from his features, and he studied me. Though I got the impression he only half saw my face, and was mostly lost in his own thoughts.

At last he said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But it’s what you said.”

His jaw ticked as he processed this information. A calculating gleam entered his eyes and they narrowed. “All right, how about this. I’ll use more gentlemanly language during our everyday conversations if you use more badlanguage while we…during our periods of intimacy.” He said this last bit in a flat tone, like he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it in place of his favorite four-letter “F” word.

I considered his terms for less than five seconds. Really, there was nothing to consider. Using his bad language during lovemaking made sense…might even help me loosen up. Therefore I nodded and stuck my hand out for him to shake.

“Deal.”

He smiled, fitting his hand in mine. “Parker, I love you.”

“Sandeke, I see your love, and I raise you a secret handshake.”