Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie

Nineteen

Chase

Maggie’s folks’ home reminds me of the house from Father of the Bride, a movie I saw ages ago when my mother and sister tag teamed and forced me to watch a classic. It’s a two-story, white clapboard home, with a black asphalt driveway on the side. A basketball goal rests at the end of the driveway. Cars are parked all along the street, and little signs direct us to the back yard.

I don’t miss our friends’ reaction to me holding Sydney’s hand. Smiles and smirks. Yes, I’ve been telling them there’s nothing between us, but that was when I didn’t think Sydney had any interest in me. I still think she’s way out of my league, but that kiss. It was even better than the one at the club.

Damn. If we didn’t have a prior commitment, we would still be in that room.

And after? I felt like I scored a home run and the stands erupted in applause. Like I scored the winning goal in the last two minutes of a soccer game. Like I made the shot from the three-point line. That kiss showed me I have a chance with Sydney Frost. From here on out, I’m putting on my A-game, and I’m going for it.

We follow Sam and Olivia into the back yard. White foldable rental chairs are lined up on each side of the aisle. There’s a wedding arch set up at the end of the chair-created aisle, wrapped in sheer white fabric with a green and white flower arrangement looped through the curve of the arch. Buckets of daisies mark the end of each row of chairs.

Sam leads us to the groom’s side, and our crew fills up an entire row of chairs. Sam disappears to find the rest of the wedding party, as he and his brother Ollie are both groomsmen. Even though they’re groomsmen, their matching ties are the only indication. I told Sam he’s a lucky bastard. When I think back on some of the weddings I’ve participated in, where I had to wear the penguin suit and be in attendance hours before the ceremony, I just shake my head. Maggie is one low maintenance bride.

The afternoon sun is setting lower, beginning to duck beneath the canopy of trees, but it’s still strong enough to make me wish I wasn’t wearing a suit jacket and tie. There are times when the ladies don’t know how good they have it. But when I look at the bombshell seated next to me, I don’t mind the suit so much. A-game, after all.

I sit back, relaxing my arm possessively around the back of Sydney’s chair. She leans into me as she and the ladies chat about the flowers and how beautiful they think the back yard looks. I keep my cool, but I want to reach over to Jackson and tap him and say, Do you see this? She digs me!

The acoustic guitar is joined by additional musicians, the music transitions, and the groomsmen walk down the aisle. They’re followed by Yara, Maggie’s old roommate, a pretty cool chick I’ve hung out with several times, and Zoe, Maggie’s sister. Zoe holds her daughter's hand but drops it midway down the aisle when the toddler insists on scattering some daisies along the way.

The music transitions into a tune I recognize from my childhood. It’s Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I’ve heard this played at a wedding or two before. Sydney holds her fingers over her lips when Maggie exits the back door. She’s wearing a simple white dress and has flowers in her hair. I lean down and press a kiss to the back of Sydney’s head. I do it without thinking and freeze when I realize what I did and how it might come off. But she burrows against me and reaches for my hand, as if it’s the most natural thing. We’ve gone from a kiss to touching each other, leaning against each other, and linking hands.

Sam’s father, Mr. Duke, is serving as the officiant. He speaks of love and what love means. I’ve never put a lot of stock into the concept of love. I’ve never been one to really listen during wedding ceremonies. But today, I listen. I even chuckle when Jason dips in for a kiss before it’s time and he’s reprimanded by Mr. Duke.

Jason and Maggie have been through so much. I know most of their story. Best friends turned lovers. Her first love was his best friend. He died. They moved from college to New York together. In some ways, grew up together, if you consider you’re still growing up in your twenties. There’s a lot there that’s evident in all the emotion going on in their words. As I watch them, for the first time during a wedding, I find myself thinking, I want that. I want what they have. I want someone to look at me the way Maggie looks at Jason. The single life I’ve clung to feels hollow.

After the service, we all stand and slowly disperse farther into the back yard. They’ve set up a small bar to the side, but there’s also a table with pre-filled iced tea and iced water in mason jars. The bridal party has gathered at the end of the yard, and a photographer is snapping photos and shouting orders. The DJ takes over the music, and the photographer’s direction intermixes with the hum of conversation and the acoustic numbers I’d guess Maggie hand-selected.

I leave Sydney to discuss the wedding with the ladies and head over to get us both some iced water. When I return with her glass, the others comment they want one too and drift away from us to the beverages.

“What did you think?” I ask her, stepping close.

“It was beautiful. Touching.”

“Are you glad you came?”

“Very.” She looks me in the eyes when she says it, and vibrations flow up and down my spine. A part of me resets, like a software program with an update. For all my hype about being the single guy, I’m absolutely okay with putting those days behind me. It’s life altering to come to that realization, to know I’m okay with handing in my single card.

I strum my fingers along Sydney’s back, and she steps closer, wrapping her arm around my waist. I place a kiss against her silky hair, and this time, it’s right. She feels right. It’s way too early in the game to call it, to say Sydney’s the one. But there’s a possibility. And I’ve always been intrigued by possibilities.

Maggie’s father steps up to the microphone. He thanks everyone for coming and informs us that Maggie and Jason are about to take the floor for the first dance, and they would appreciate everyone joining in.

The Luckiestfrom Ben Folds Five streams through large black speakers, and Maggie and Jason take their place beneath a canopy of twinkling lights.

Sydney watches with a tender smile.

“May I have this dance?”

Her smile widens, and I take her water glass and deposit it on the edge of a nearby cocktail table, then lead her to join others already dancing. I’m not a particularly mushy guy, but all sorts of things are going on in my chest and my brain.

“I’ll always remember this,” I share.

“What?”

We’re almost eye to eye. She’s several inches shorter than I am in her flats, and I hold her close as we sway to the song, her cheek close to mine.

“I’ll remember our first dance, to a song called The Luckiest. And I’ll remember the feeling I have right now, that I’m the luckiest guy in the world.” I lean down and place my lips on hers. A soft peck to share my emotions. I keep it appropriate to show her respect. And I hold her as close as I dare.

“You barely know me.”

“Yes. But I like what I know. You’re intelligent. Independent. A good person.”

She steps back, not out of my arms, but creates some separation between our bodies, which I suppose is appropriate.

“I like what I know about you, too.”

“Tell me some things I don’t know about you, Sydney.”

She doesn’t say anything, just gazes up at me. I don’t know if she’s lost in the music or debating what to share.

I prompt her by asking, “What’s something about you that would shock me to learn?”

“I’m a skilled marksman.”

“Marksman. You mean like with a gun?”

She giggles. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her make that sound, and I dig it.

“Yeah. With a gun. But I’m not bad with a bow and arrow either.”

“Not gonna lie. Didn’t see that coming.”

“You don’t like guns?” My expressions sometimes do give me away.

“City boy, right here. We tend to frown on guns. Mass shootings, school shootings. We view those as bad things. Thugs have guns. Where did you say you grew up?”

“My dad likes guns.”

“Does he hunt?”

Lines ripple across her forehead then flatten as she answers, “Yes. What about you, what would surprise me to learn about you?”

I twirl her around to buy me some time to think about what I want to share.

“I played soccer at the University of Minnesota.”

“Really?”

I nod. The ladies love the sports shit. Well, some do. Some want the always successful guy, the leader, the MVP. I don’t stand out as any of those things.

“When I was younger, like elementary and middle, my goal was basketball. My knees are mangled with scars.”

“From basketball?”

“Yeah, it’s a tough sport for the short kid. I can’t even count the times I went sailing across the asphalt, arriving home with bloody knees.”

She makes a giggly sound again, a light laugh, enough to let me know I’m entertaining her. I inch closer, holding her in my arms as we slowly step back and forth to the music playing in the background. Her hands lightly rest on my back, and I feel every place she touches me, my skin sensitized. The lights overhead grow brighter as the sun sets over the fields that Maggie’s parents’ back yard backs onto, and we’re one of maybe three other couples swaying to the music.

The music transitions to another acoustic song, and before she can ask, I twirl her around and pull her back to me, careful to keep several inches between us, mindful others might be watching us, and not wanting to embarrass Sydney in any way. After all, the median age of most of the onlookers, sitting in chairs watching the dance floor, I’d guess is sixty-plus.

“So, you wanted to be a basketball player but ended up a soccer player. And I’d guess you were pretty good if you played college.”

Here goes. “I only played my freshman year. I wasn’t there on a sports scholarship, so it didn’t matter to my parents if I played or not. And I wanted a normal college experience, you know? When you play college sports, it’s still college. Your team becomes your family, and you get great experiences, don’t get me wrong. But I wanted the experiences of a normal college kid.” The overhead lights reflect on her dark mahogany irises, creating a shimmering effect. She’s gorgeous.

“Didn’t like getting up at five in the morning?” she teases.

“Nailed it.” I grin. She did and she didn’t. But if she wants to tease, that works.

Her fingers graze the back of my neck, and goosebumps spread all across my body. I inch closer, close enough that if I leaned forward, our cheeks might collide.

“I understand.” Her fingers venture higher, into my hair, forcing me to close my eyes to rein in my body’s reaction. “I wanted a normal experience at university, too.”

“Did you not have one?” There’s a sadness to her tone that prompts my question, a glimmer of a past experience she’s considering sharing, and then a wall rises. Teasing Sydney returns so quickly I can’t be certain if she ever left.

“Completely normal. So, what else, Mr. Wannabe Basketball Player? Anything else that would surprise me?”

“I’m learning Mandarin.” Languages come easily to me. I didn’t go to school on a sports scholarship, but I did go on an academic scholarship. Being fluent in three languages out of high school definitely helps. Fluent if you consider scoring a three, or professional level, to be fluent.

Her right eyebrow raises, and I know I made an impression. Maybe a bigger impression than when I shared my athletic prowess.

“Your turn, Ms. Frost. Tell me more about you. What was little girl Frost like?”

The corners of her full glossy lips lift, maybe in amusement. What I would like to do with those lips.

“She was pretty determined. Focused.”

“No. I don’t believe it. You? Serious?”

She steps forward, closing the distance between us, close enough her curves brush my chest. We are aligned, and her lips are close enough to my ear that when she speaks, our cheeks brush and the warmth of her breath tingles.

“I always knew what I wanted to be, and I had a singular focus.”

“And what did you want to be?”

She takes a step back, and I miss her warmth. She removes her hands from my back and places them lightly on my shoulders, assuming a more distant position.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad. What did you want to be? A singer? An actress?”

“I am what I want to be.” There’s an edge to her tone I don’t quite understand.

“Wait? You’re telling me you wanted to be an accountant when you were a kid?” Now that shit does not add up. I’ve never met anyone who wanted to…unless? “Were your parents accountants?”

“My dad. I wanted to be like my dad.”

“Ah. Do you ever thank him?”

This time she laughs. A full-on belly laugh. The song ends, and Maggie’s cousin announces dinner is now ready. We’re having a buffet dinner outside by candlelight, augmented with white Christmas lights hung almost anywhere they could find. There’s a tree line that backs up along the end of her parents’ property, and then there’s a large field that goes on, almost as far as the eye can see. It’s not her parents’ property, but they know the owners and received permission to use the edge of the field tonight.

The centerpieces on the tables in the reception mimic the daisies in glass mason jars, wrapped with tiny golden lights. We’ve fallen in line behind pretty much every other person. I’m not in a rush. I have Sydney to myself like this. The people in front of us in line are strangers. I reach for her hand and place a kiss on her knuckle.

There’s surprise in her expression, and I lift my shoulders and search for something to distract her from my impromptu action.

“Are you one of those girls who thought about what kind of wedding she wanted when she grew up?”

“No.” She shakes her head slowly as she draws out the word. “You?”

“I was never a little girl,” I point out.

“No, I mean, when you were a little boy, did you think about what kind of wedding you wanted?”

“Oddly enough, I guess yes, to some degree. My family tends to throw big weddings. Cocktail hour. Menu options. The second round of desserts sometimes late at night. Groom’s cakes. I guess to some degree I’d think about what I liked at a wedding and what I didn’t. I’m a big fan of groom’s cakes.”

The light melody of her laugh wraps around me. It’s a sound I like. A lot. I’ve always been the jokester. Laughter pumps me up. Her laugh…it’s captivating.

“I don’t think Jason has a groom’s cake,” she says, a tease in her expression.

“No. I wouldn’t think so. I’m pretty sure he chopped off his balls in exchange for Maggie wearing his ring.”

She rolls her eyes as we step forward onto opposite sides of the buffet table. I load my plate with lemon chicken that’s doused in a creamy sauce, white rice, long french string beans that I suspect have seeped in butter, and I lift a buttery roll from the basket on the end. I bypass the cheesy vegetarian pasta option and the salad. I plan on leaving plenty of room for cake. I’ve already seen the cake, and it’s not one of those perfectly crafted cakes that looks gorgeous but you know the icing’s gonna taste like sugar cardboard. No, you can almost see the knife marks from where the icing was spread on this one. It’s gonna be moist and taste like it came out of someone’s grandma’s kitchen and will be worth every single calorie.

Sydney’s plate, meanwhile, is half salad and a small scoop of cheesy pasta and a large helping of green beans. I make a mental note to be sure I grab her slice of cake. Otherwise, she’ll probably grab the thinnest slice they cut.

Seats at the tables are first come first serve, and Sydney and I end up seated at a table of Maggie’s family. All our friends are interspersed among the tables. There’s a low hum of conversation, and the sound of crickets chirping rises to a staccato, competing with the acoustic music in the background.

Uncle Theodore and Aunt Dottie introduce themselves as they are sitting at our end of the table. A younger kid, maybe fifteen, nods but centers his focus on his phone that’s lying flat on the table, his posture and attitude making it clear he’d rather not be here tonight. I don’t blame the kid; I’ve been in his shoes.

We learn from Uncle Theodore that Maggie’s parents bought this land over thirty years ago for almost nothing. Over the years, a neighborhood sprung up around them, and everyone fears the farmland supplying our dinnertime view will one day be sold. Theodore and Dottie’s home is about a mile away, but it also backs onto parcels of this same tract of farmland. Some years they use it for corn. This year they planted soybeans.

The music shifts, and I immediately recognize what’s about to happen. Miley Cyrus shrieks through the speakers, far louder than the acoustic beats from before, and the younger ladies all rise.

“Sydney, come on,” Anna calls from a few feet away. And this is the part of the night where I need a refill and to find a good spot to sit and watch.

I say my goodbyes to Uncle Theodore and Aunt Dottie, clear our plates, and join the growing line in front of the bar table. Jackson nods and, without my saying a word, passes me an ice-cold glass beer bottle, dripping in condensation. It must have been lifted from a watery cooler.

We find a little section beside the makeshift dance floor and stand like middle school boys watching the action. The girls sing out the lyrics, forming their own circle beneath the trees. We leave the chairs for the older guests.

Of all the women, Sydney glows. Maybe it’s the long-ass bike ride we took earlier today, but she has a healthy sheen, flushed smooth skin, and her lustrous dark hair swings around like a veil of silk as she dances. She’s in a demure sundress, not meaning at all to be sexy. But she is. The light fabric drapes against her curves, leaving room for the imagination to roam. And boy, does mine gallop away as I watch her for what feels like hours.

All of us stand there gawking as we make mindless jokes and jabs. Every now and then Jason steps forward and whisks his bride into his arms. When a slow song rotates through, all the men step forward to hold their women. And yes, I hold Sydney. Every. Chance. I. Get.

Not long after the cake is cut, people trickle out. Jason and Maggie become busy as each guest attempts to hug them and wish them well. After the buffet dinner has been cleaned up, I join Jackson in helping some of Maggie’s cousins fold chairs and stack them for the rental company to pick up in the morning.

“You boys don’t need to do this. We have help coming. You all must be so tired. Traveling from so far away. And it’s late in your time zone.” She pats us while simultaneously urging us to, well, head on back to the hotel. It’s pushing nine, so not that late, but I expect she’s probably exhausted.

“Thank you for having us. It was a beautiful wedding.” Maggie’s mom is an older version of our friend. She reaches out and makes a point to touch each of us. Her dad looks on, watching his wife. He’s had an emotional night. No one missed his tears during the father-daughter dance.

All the guys say something similar in thanks, and then Sydney joins me. Her fingers slide into mine, and when we gaze at each other, awareness rises. We’re going back to the hotel together. And things are going to happen. Things I want to happen are going to happen.

We’re all quiet as we ride back in the back of the limousine. I wrap my arm around Sydney as she absentmindedly toys with my fingers in my lap. I have an urge to brush a kiss across her cheek, but Anna’s gaze on us stops me. She’s resting her head on Jackson’s chest, observing us, as he places a soft kiss on the top of her head. She’s an old friend, and I know without a doubt she’s going to have a lot of questions—or, well, her version of hazing—after this weekend.

When we arrive at the hotel, Sam’s words jolt me out of my stupor.

“You need help, man?” he asks.

I scan the back of the limo then laugh. Delilah is passed out, mouth open, emitting a slight snoring sound, as her head rests on Mason’s chest, her blonde hair flowing all over him. She’s using him like a BarcaLounger. The man looks down on her with so much love even I can see it. Word on the street is he proposed and she said no, yet you’d never know it looking at the two of them. Not sure I’d be able to still be with a woman if she declined my marriage proposal. I don’t totally get them, but different strokes and all that. And his kid is super cute. I’m rooting for the three of them.

“No, everyone, gather near them. Don’t wake her up. I want photos.” Olivia instructs us all, and we gather on both sides, crowding in awkwardly. Her phone flashes, and Delilah covers her eyes with one hand, and Mason leans over her, protective.

Sydney and I are the first to exit the limousine. Main Street, Cedar Falls, is quiet, especially compared to New York City. Most businesses are closed, including Cup of Joe across the street. A few restaurants and bars remain open, and golden lights from those locations flood onto the street. We all slowly file into the hotel, coupled up.

“Anyone up for a martini?” Sam calls.

I don’t slow. I barely glance back to see who’s going to join him.

“I’m tired. You?” Sydney matches my pace step for step as we make our way to the elevator. In reality, tired is not an accurate descriptor. With each step, I become more and more awake. Energy radiates through every muscle, an awareness I’m about to have this gorgeous woman alone, in our hotel room. And this time, we’re not just friends. She kissed me, and we’ve been touching all night.

And now I want to kiss her. All over. The elevator door closes, blocking out the rest of the world. I press our floor number and step forward, crowding her up against the wall, my body pressed to hers, like I wanted to do all night. This woman is intoxicating. I have the smallest of tastes, dipping my tongue, testing the waters, before the elevator jolts and the doors open.

We stumble out together, laughing, but by the time I’m turning the key in our door, there’s no humor between us. No, we both know what’s coming. There’s been a current of energy between us the whole night, with every soft touch, every glance.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to reassure her that we can go at her speed. To tell her I don’t have any expectations, just because we’re sharing a bedroom. To tell her I don’t want to do anything that makes her uncomfortable when she closes the distance between us.

Our lips smash together, and she pushes my jacket off my shoulders. Our kiss is manic, hot, an explosion of all the energy that’s been simmering between us. She backs me toward a bed, ripping at my shirt, pulling it out of my pants. It’s a fucking dream.

Her hands are on my belt buckle as I grip her ass, rubbing her against my wicked hard erection, when she pauses to ask, “Do you have a condom?”

Hell, yes. I always do. It’s the way of the Boy Scout.

I grip her dress and lift it. She understands and raises her arms. I toss the dress across the room and sit back on the bed, my pants unbuckled and unzipped, my cock standing at attention through my boxers.

Sydney stands before me in a black lace silk bra and the sexiest matching black thong I’ve ever seen. Her stomach is flat, taut, and her breasts curve, round and erect. I fist them, dipping my head to suck and nip, making her moan. Her palms press hard against my chest, and she shoves me back on the bed. I lift onto my elbows to watch as she grips my trousers and boxers and pulls them off. They get stuck on my damn dress shoes, but it’s not a problem because within seconds she’s slipped them off and I’m naked except for black dress socks. She climbs up on the bed, straddling me, and she’s looking at me like I’m the slice of cake she refused to eat but really wanted at the reception tonight. And I like it. I like every single thing about this.

She falls on top of me, mouth on mine, frantic, hungry. Her slender fingers grip my cock with a strength that has me grunting and flipping her over. I love that she wants this, but if I don’t take control, this is gonna be over before I’ve had a chance to slip inside that tight pussy.

She bounces slightly on the mattress and lights up.

“You like it rough?’

She smiles then reaches between us for my cock.

“I want this.”

“Oh, you’ll get it. I promise. But we’re gonna take this slow.”

I swear…she huffs.

I lower my body onto her, cradling my arousal between her legs, against her center. Her thin lace panties are the only separation between us, and fuck if it doesn’t feel good when she thrusts her hips up over and over. She’s seeking friction, and I’ll give it to her. But first, I need to explore.

“Patience,” I command.

With one twist of my fingers, I unsnap her bra, slip it off, and send it sailing. I close my mouth over one of her perky, dusky rose nipples and suck hard, then bite.

“Fuck, yes,” she cries as her nails dig into my back, urging more. This woman is on fire.

I glide down her body, kissing and savoring as I go, then drag the thin black material to the side and venture further, tasting her. She grips my hair, directing me to continue.

“Right there. Yes, harder.”

I find her clit and hammer my tongue against it as she mewls her approval, then ease two fingers into her wet channel and lightly bite. Her whole body rises forward as she orgasms, whimpering. It’s the knife’s edge of pleasure, and I just discovered a pleasure point.

I trail kisses along her hip, and her belly, and over her breasts. She’s quivering below me.

She kisses me. Deeply. It’s as if she’s tasting herself, and it’s a flavor she likes. I pull back, breaking our kiss, breathing heavily, and look at her, long and hard, eye to eye.

Her long legs wrap around my waist, and her hips rise, welcoming me. I’m on the verge of sliding home when I remember.

“Fuck, condom.”

I jump off her and hunt around the room for my pants and my wallet. Two in my wallet, more in my suitcase. Not that I was hopeful, but I’m always prepared. Like a good Boy Scout.

When I climb back onto the bed, Sydney takes the condom from me and rips it open with her teeth. Holy. Fuck. She’s aggressive, and it’s hot as all get-out. She slides the condom on, pushes me back onto the bed, straddles me, positions the tip of my cock between her folds, and slides down, taking me in, tilting her head back, looking to the ceiling, moaning. Her breasts are perky and bounce as she moves up and down, using me to take what she wants. I caress and massage her breasts, loving the tight feel of her around me, watching in awe as she rides me to bring herself closer to another climax. She’s in complete control, and it’s hot, and she’s close, but she’s gazing up, and I don’t know where her mind is, and the first time she comes with me inside her, I want to know she’s thinking of me.

I flip her onto her back once more and claim her, the sounds of my body slamming against hers and our loud gasps for air the only sounds in the room.

“You want to fuck me, huh?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Look at me. I want you to look at me when you come. Are you coming now?”

I slam against her, then slow and rise, using my thumb to stroke her clit, to bring her to the edge with our gazes locked on each other. She moans and arches her back. “Right. There.”

A thin layer of perspiration coats her skin, glistening in the streetlight through the window.

“Are you coming?”

And then she breaks with a quiver, milking my cock, and I let it go, never breaking my gaze, memorizing her face as it distorts in ecstasy, her lips open, whimpering.

I collapse onto her and kiss her, enveloped in her warmth. It’s a slow kiss, a grateful kiss. I’m in awe. For it being our first time, and for us barely knowing each other, sex with Sydney was pretty fucking stellar.

“Please tell me you want to do that again.”

And there’s that sound again. Her giggle. Giggle might not be the right word. It’s light. It’s real. It’s the sound of her coming out of that frosty shell. And I fucking love that sound.