“You already saw me today, at the lake. I have a sunburn to show for it.”
“I wanted to see you again,” Ambrose whispered. “I can't seem to stay away.”
Fern blushed, the pleasure of his words washing over her like warm rain. She wanted to be with him every minute, and to think he might feel the same was mind-blowing.
“You should be exhausted,” she said, always the nurturer and she pulled him toward her bed and urged him to sit.
“Working nights at the bakery makes it so I can't sleep, even on my nights off,” Ambrose admitted. He didn’t elucidate on the bad dreams that made it even harder. After a brief silence he added, “Care to share any more fantasies while you've got me here? Maybe tie me to your bed?”
Fern giggled, “Ambrose Young. In my bed. I don't think my fantasies can top that.”
Ambrose's eyes were warm on her face as he studied her in the shadows cast by her small bedside lamp. “Why do you always say my full name? You always call me Ambrose Young.”
Fern thought for a moment, letting her eyes drift closed as he drew circles on her back with gentle fingers. “Because you were always Ambrose Young to me . . . not Ambrose, not Brose, not Brosey. Ambrose Young. Super-star, stud-muffin. Like an actor. I don't call Tom Cruise by his first name either. I call him Tom Cruise. Will Smith, Bruce Willis. For me, you have always been in that league.”
It was the Hercules thing again. Fern looked at him like he could slay dragons and wrestle lions, and somehow, even with his pride tattered and his old image torn down like the toppled statues of Saddam Hussein, she hadn't changed her tune.
“Why did your parents name you Ambrose?” she asked softly, lulled by his stroking fingers.
“Ambrose is the name of my biological father. It was my mom's way of trying to make him acknowledge me.”
“The underwear model?” Fern asked breathlessly.
Ambrose groaned. “I'm never going to live that down. Yeah. He modeled. And my mother never got over him, even though she had a man like Elliott who thought she walked on water and would have done anything to make her happy, even marry her when she was pregnant with me. Even let her name me after Underwear Man.”
Fern giggled. “It doesn't seem to bother you.”
“No. It doesn't. My mother gave me Elliott. He's been the best father a kid could have.”
“Is that why you stayed when she left?”
“I love my mom, but she's lost. I didn't want to be lost with her. People like Elliott aren't ever lost. Even when the world tumbles around his ears he knows exactly who he is. He's always made me feel safe.” Fern was like Elliott in that way, Ambrose realized suddenly. She was grounded, solid, a refuge.
“I was named after the little girl in the book Charlotte's Web,” Fern said. “You know the story, right? The little girl, Fern, saves the little pig from being killed because he's a runt. Bailey thought my parents should have called me Wilbur because I was a bit of a runt myself. He even called me Wilbur when he really wanted to bug me. I told my mom they should have named me Charlotte after the spider. I thought Charlotte was a beautiful name. And Charlotte was so wise and kind. Plus, Charlotte was the name of a Southern Belle in one of my all-time favorite romances.”
“Grant had a cow named Charlotte. I like the name Fern.”
Fern smiled. “Bailey was named after George Bailey, from It's A Wonderful Life. Angie loves that movie. You should hear Bailey's Jimmy Stewart impression. It's hilarious.”
“Speaking of names and all-time favorite romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been really curious about that.”
Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist toward Bailey's house. “Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen.” She looked at Ambrose with trepidation. “You are going to think I'm some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and I was a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed.”
“With what?” Ambrose was confused.
“With you,” Fern's response was muffled as she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her. He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. “I still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name.”
Fern sighed. “It's Amber Rose.”
“Ambrose?”
“Amber Rose,” Fern corrected.
“Amber Rose?” Ambrose sputtered.
“Yes,” Fern said in a very, very small voice. And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time. And when his laughter rumbled to a stop, he pressed Fern back against her pillows and kissed her mouth gently, waiting for her to respond, not wanting to take what she didn't want to give, not wanting to move faster than she was ready. But Fern pressed back ardently, opening her mouth to his, small hands sliding beneath his shirt to trace the contours of his abdomen, making him groan and wish for a bigger bed. His groan fired her own response, and she tugged his shirt over his head without missing a beat, eager as she always was to be as close to him as possible. Her ardor had Ambrose losing himself in her scent, her soft lips and softer sighs, until he smacked his head against her headboard, knocking a bit of sense back into his love-drunk brain. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his shirt from the floor.
“I have to go, Fern. I don't want your dad to catch me in his daughter's room, in his daughter's bed, with my shirt on the floor. He will kill me. And your uncle and my former coach would help him. I am still afraid of Coach Sheen, even though I'm twice his size.”
Fern mewled in protest and reached for him, snagging him by the belt loops to pull him back. He laughed and stumbled, reaching out to steady himself on her bedroom wall, and his hand brushed a thumbtack, the kind that has a peg, knocking it loose. The pushpin fell somewhere behind Fern's bed and Ambrose grabbed at the paper so it wouldn’t fall too. He glanced at the sheet and his mind gobbled up the words before he had a chance to wonder if it was something he shouldn't see.