The Rebel Daughter. Lauri Robinson
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stand losing something else. Yet, with the way he said it, with such meaning and implication, something jabbed at Twyla. Something invisible, but with as much power and pain as anything real could ever have.
Forrest climbed to his feet and used one hand to push aside the wayward hair that had flopped over his forehead. “Is that what you want, Twyla? To be a speakeasy doxy?”
He made that sound immoral, which added to the sting inside her. Twyla spun around, not liking the hint of disgust in his eyes. “No, and I’m not a doxy.” Twisting back around, she added, “But I am twenty-three. Too old to be told what to do and when to do it.”
He stepped forward, and for a moment Twyla couldn’t move, was barely able to breathe. There was a glimmer in his eyes, a faint, enticing shimmer that held her attention. When he took her hand and squeezed it gently, her knees quivered. Years ago he’d looked at her like that once, and it had frightened her. Not tonight. This time it made other things happen inside her. She felt anticipation. Excitement. All the things she’d longed for, and still did.
“I have a feeling, Twyla,” he whispered, “age has nothing to do with it.”
A knot formed in her throat, preventing her from responding. Not that she had a reply. Her mind had gone uncommonly empty. Because she knew what was about to happen.
He was going to kiss her.
Forrest was going to kiss her.
Her.
The knot in her stomach disappeared as a great sense of exuberance rose up. Her heart started racing and she had to part her lips in order to breathe.
Her lips quivered as Forrest leaned down. He tugged on her hand, forcing her to lean toward him. For a split second Twyla feared toppling to the ground.
That couldn’t happen.
Could.
Not.
Happen.
Not when she was this close to experiencing paradise.
It didn’t.
She didn’t topple.
But as relieved as she was, Twyla was so overly disappointed her shoulders slumped clear to her elbows.
Forrest’s lips had barely brushed against her forehead.
“Thanks for the party, doll,” he said, letting loose her hand.
Never one to give up easily, Twyla’s wits returned, at least partially, before he was completely out of arm’s reach. She stopped herself from grabbing his arm, but did ask, “You’re just going to leave me out here?”
That wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t very well beg him to kiss her. Not when he’d always been in love with her sister.
Turning to glance over his shoulder, Forrest said, “You’re in your own front yard.”
Inhaling through her nose, she insisted, “I know.” Pulling up a bit of charm that never failed when she wanted her way, she tilted her head and twirled an earring with one finger. “But it’s dark.”
He laughed. A joyful trill that echoed in the night air.
She dropped her hand and cast him a glare.
“I don’t remember you being afraid of the dark.”
“I’m not.” A great desire to pout rose up in her and she wanted to ask if he remembered how years ago, he’d always chosen her to be on his hide-and-seek team for that very reason. She certainly remembered.
With little more than a nod, he turned and started walking again. “Walter’s standing next to the first boathouse. He’ll make sure you get back inside safely.”
Twyla let out a growl instead of screaming as she really wanted to do, and kicked at the grass, now slick and damp with dew. One shoe went flying. She barely caught herself before going down. As Twyla stood there wobbling, to her utter dismay, her shoe landed in the water fountain. How Forrest knew that—he hadn’t turned around so he hadn’t seen it—she wasn’t sure, but his laughter said he knew her shoe was submerged in the bubbling water.
She stomped—well, hobbled—to the fountain, retrieved her shoe and, wet or not, stuck it back on her foot. Forrest disappeared around the side of the resort, and Twyla instinctively knew this time he was leaving for sure. She also knew she was no closer to—and perhaps even further away from—hating him than ever.
* * *
Forrest stopped in the shadows on the side of the massive three-story resort building and watched to make sure Twyla did indeed make her way back to the balcony stairs. The plunk of her shoe hitting the water had left a grin on his face, and despite all, it felt good. Her temper hadn’t lessened over the years. Considering there were no rocks on the highly manicured lawn, he’d assumed the plunk and splash he’d heard was her shoe. She wasn’t wearing anything else heavy enough to throw. He should be glad she hadn’t thrown it at him. Maybe she had.
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