Remember When 3: The Finale Part 11

When we finally came up for air, I saw the huge grin he was wearing on his face. I was sure I looked just as dorky, smiling back at him. There was a huge part of me that still couldn't quite believe I was there with him, playing house, tangled in his arms. But I didn't question it. For the first time in my life, I'd gone for it. And the payoff had been even greater than I could've ever imagined. More importantly, Trip was happy, too.

Most importantly, we were happy together.

I looped my arms over his shoulders and asked, "How was your day?"

His perfect, white teeth were still grinning at me, his eyes squinting from the sun. "It was good. Except that I missed you."

"Awww."

"The meeting took forever. Man, that guy can talk."

I knew his meeting was with some industry people that had been wooing him to be a part of their next production, but Trip didn't tell me much more beyond that. He was trying to focus more on his upcoming hockey film, and he was more irritated than flattered that they required his attention in the days leading up to it. Guess they wanted to nail him down as early as possible.

I knew the feeling.

"How'd it go?"

"Alright, I guess. I'm not the biggest fan of the director they've got lined up, but the script is pretty phenomenal. It could be big. I don't know." He released his hold on me to lounge out on the steps, his elbows thrown over the edge of the pool. "I told them I'd think about it in any case."

He seemed almost embarra.s.sed talking about it. I guessed he was still getting used to the idea that he was so actively pursued by people other than h.o.r.n.y women.

Although, I was one such h.o.r.n.y woman at the moment. He wasn't quite out of those woods yet.

I sluiced through the water to where he was sitting and straddled him against the steps. "I'm guessing you've got time on this. You still have an entire movie to film before you could even commit to starting it, right? Did they say they'd wait for you?"

I lowered my lips to his neck. I couldn't help it.

I felt his throat vibrate against my mouth as he answered with a contented, "Hmmm."

"Was that a yes?"

He put his hands at my hips and squirmed a little underneath me. "Babe? You really think I've got my mind on work right now?"

Before I knew it, he'd wrapped an arm under my backside as he grabbed for the railing and hauled us both out of the water. I was giggling, my legs locked around his waist as he walked the few steps over to a chaise and laid me down on it, settling himself between my knees and lowering himself on top of me.

He kissed his way down my body and back up to my neck again, pulling my wet bikini top to the side of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Release the hounds!

He kissed me there, too, before trailing a line of kisses down my stomach, over my sides, his hair trickling droplets across my skin. He hooked his fingers into my bikini bottoms and slid them off... and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about the wax job on the way home.

His jaw gaped slightly as he stared at my nether regions, ironing a palm across the smooth skin at my pelvis. His eyes met mine in wonder. "Holy s.h.i.t."

I laughed, but Trip looked rather serious, immediately pushing my thighs apart and closing his mouth over the s.p.a.ce in between, as if he couldn't wait another second to lick me into oblivion.

Which he did.

Twice.

After a considerable amount of time spent making beautiful mouth-love to me on my pinkest parts, I lay there, my legs shaking, begging for him to stop. One more Tripgasm, and I was sure the neighbors would call the cops on us for disturbing the peace.

Because pieces of me were rather disturbed, let me tell you.

Ba-dum-dum. Tsss.

He was rather pleased with himself, sliding his body back up the length of mine, a wide, proud grin on his face. He raised an eyebrow and noted, "You were speaking Swahili there for a second." He sat back on his feet, cupping the front of his shorts with an expectant smirk. "Now what are we gonna do about this thing?"

I didn't wait to be asked twice. I threw him onto his back and barely made with the preliminaries. I may have landed a few kisses down his torso on the way to his shorts, reaching in and pulling him out. I know the typical b.l.o.w.j.o.b 101 Handbook recommends starting with some ice-cream-cone maneuvers, but I didn't bother with such trivialities. I opened my jaw over that thing and took him as far as my mouth would allow, sliding my lips back up as I suctioned my cheeks, gripping him with my hand at the base.

"What the... Wha- f.u.c.k! Lay!"

Ha! I repeated the motion, and Trip almost floundered off the chaise. I saw his fingers in a white-knuckle grip against the cushion, felt his hips rising to match the movements of my mouth. He was hard as a rock, that beautiful, magical limb of his pointing north like a sundial. I estimated it to be close to six o'clock.

My body was still Jell-O, but I guess I had some strength left in my mouth. I worked that thing with more determination than a shop-vac on Tool Time.

Every downstroke of my hand was closely followed by my lips; every suck on the way up had him begging for mercy. My other hand wrapped around to mind the stepchildren-You. Must. Mind. The Stepchildren-and the groan he let out just then made me want to high-five myself.

He clenched his teeth, sputtering out a string of half-words and addressing our Lord and savior in a most sacrilegious way before letting out with a booming growl as he lurched, practically folding in half over me as he shot to the back of my throat, his throbbing c.o.c.k pulsing against my tongue.

That's when I remembered I wasn't a swallower and had to pull a Blink 182 naked run for the outdoor bar sink. Cla.s.sy.

I washed up and rinsed out, then wrapped myself in a towel. I darted into the house to get dressed and check on dinner, then came back outside to Trip, who'd managed to pull up his shorts before pa.s.sing out in the sun. I took a moment to appreciate the dazzling G.o.d lying there. He was so beautiful and perfect, even while practically snoring away like an actual mortal. It was hard to remember that he was, in fact, human. That gorgeous crop of golden hair, that chiseled body, those inviting, full lips just begging to be kissed... d.a.m.n. I'm so wrong. Please disregard what I just said about him being human.

I went in the house to get dinner finished and plated. By the time I brought everything out, he was awake and doing laps in the pool. You'd think by looking at him that he was just born that beautiful. And he was. Genes definitely were very generous to that man. But the truth was, he worked really hard to look that good. A body like that doesn't come naturally. Even back in high school, hockey kept him in shape during the winter and jogging kept him fit the rest of the year. I stood there for a moment and watched him, pushing himself to go faster, harder. Testing his body to its limit. I knew he must've spent a fair amount of time in his private gym downstairs-so I apologize if I'm shattering any myths about him right here-because no one looks that good by accident.

He hauled himself out of the water, gave a shake to his head, and dried off with a towel before throwing on an Atari T-shirt and meeting me at the table. I'd made a London broil and a mesclun salad with some new potatoes dressed in a dill vinaigrette and a side basket of "homemade" biscuits to round it out. (Okay, fine. They were from a can.) He appraised the spread on the table and gave me an enthusiastic, "Wow, this looks great!"

Then the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d announced that he was heading inside to grab the ketchup.

He came out, the bottle swinging triumphantly from his fingers as I warned, "You are not putting ketchup on that meat."

He just ignored me, singing "You're So Vain" as he slathered a dollop on the side of his plate.

"Ummm... wrong song, f.u.c.ktard."

I was stunned, watching as he sliced off a hunk of London Broil and dipped it into the glob before looking right into my eyes-a victorious gleam in his-as he chewed.

"I don't know if we can stay together anymore," I busted. "Ketchup on steak? That just might be a dealbreaker."

Chapter 16.

SHOW ME.

The next morning, I had barely opened my eyes when Trip came busting through the door whistling some unrecognizable tune, and I couldn't quite find it in me to raise my head yet. Even though I rarely slept-in, it still normally took me a few minutes to ease into my morning. But it looked as though Trip was apparently an even earlier riser than me.

Based on that circ.u.mstance, our future together did not look promising.

"'Morning."

I rolled over at his greeting and saw him grinning ear to ear, holding a mug of coffee and wearing nothing but a pair of cotton PJ bottoms. Yum.

I supposed I could overlook the morning person problem.

"Mmm. Good morning," I answered back, fluffing the pillows and sitting up in his bed.

He put the coffee on the nightstand. "I guessed cream and sugar. 'Suppose I should find stuff like this out."

I was touched by his thoughtfulness. "Cream and sugar is perfect. So are you."

He gave a shy smile and then pulled something out from behind his back. "Hey. Check this out. I'm going full-on John Lennon with the peace crusade, baby. I just had this made." He snapped a T-shirt out toward me and I saw the motto for his Earthling Rights Foundation across the front: LOVE.

W I L L W I N It was a song from the band Slanker Knox, and Trip had adopted it as the theme for his charity. What started out as a crusade for human rights had soon evolved into an all-encompa.s.sing organization, benefitting not just people in need, but animals, communities, and the environment as well. ERF helped military families, a.s.sisted children's groups, and aided in disaster recovery. It gave tons of money to the ASPCA and funded various movements directed toward improving education and medical research.

It was really pretty amazing.

He flipped the shirt around to the side, and I saw the extra hit he'd had customized on the sleeve: earthlingrights.org It looked really good. So did he. "Nice."

"You'd better get up. CNN will be here in about an hour."

There was a camera crew on its way over to set up for a taped interview. Trip was excited to have a chance to plug his philanthropic venture to such a large audience. He'd founded the organization soon after he'd gotten out of rehab, but it took a couple years before it grew legs.

After reports came back about our under-protected soldiers in Iraq, ERF sent over a shipment of bullet-proof vests. After that tsunami ravaged the Asian coast, Trip's people hand-delivered a shipment of goods and helped to care for the displaced citizens of Indonesia.

His charity was basically a group of real-life superheroes, coming to the rescue of any fellow humans that were in need. I was really proud of him for the time and money he devoted to it.

I stopped daydreaming and hauled myself out of bed, slammed down the coffee, and got my b.u.t.t in the shower. By the time I made my way into the den, Trip was pacing the room. I watched as he futzed with the pillows on the couch, changed the angle of the side chair, and picked a non-existent piece of debris off the floor. I swear, he was being even more OCD than me.

"Trip! Stop. The place looks perfect." And it did. I'd seen with my own eyes the considerable amount of time Mrs. Elena had spent in that very room, readying it for the day's filming.

He stopped his pacing to look at me and say, "I don't know. You think we should do this outside instead? This room is too... serious."

I'd already taken note of the framed artwork Trip had chosen for his walls. Most were enlarged photographs or prints of various landscapes. But upon closer inspection, I realized they were tagged with the names of some of the places he'd visited over his lifetime: Lagos, Nigeria. Cairo, Egypt. Antananarivo, Madagascar. It was as though he were trying to constantly remind himself of all the people who didn't live in such grandeur.

"Your charity is serious. Stop second-guessing yourself. Once your face shows up onscreen, no one will be looking at the room, anyhow, studm.u.f.fin."

He gave me a durr-hurr face and threw one of the couch pillows at me.

I laughed and put it back on the sofa.

And then Trip rearranged it.

The film crew finally showed up then, taking over the house. Sandy was there, greeting everyone and directing the setup. I was panicked at the thought that the beautiful tile floors would be scratched by the wobbly wheels of the equipment dollies. I was too preoccupied with that spectacle to be nervous for Trip, who spent his time vacillating between gracious host and nervous wreck. This was, by far, not the first interview he'd ever conducted, but I guessed he was a little freaked out because it was the most important. Of course his charity was reported on and he was normally asked a few questions about it on talk shows, but this was the first time ERF was going to be the main focus of a full-length interview on a major news network.

After everyone had bagels (I will refrain from tearing California bagels a new a.s.shole here) and coffee, it was time to film the interview. Perry Kingston settled himself in the chair, while Trip took a seat on the couch. A tech got them mic'd up as Sandy went over the line of questions, schmoozing just a bit with Perry. The man was a known egomaniac, and Sandy made sure to give him the proper attention to which he felt he was due.

Another tech checked the lighting with some hand-held electronic gizmo, readjusted the umbrella things, and checked the lighting again. It was pretty interesting, watching the behind-the-scenes production of a TV show.

Sandy finally made her way over by me, and the two of us claimed our spot out of the way, but with a good line-of-sight to Trip. He looked adorable with his hair all combed and lying flatter against his head than usual. I guessed he was going for a more respectable look. He'd even paired his rockin' tee with a black sportcoat, the lapels of which he was picking invisible lint from.

The crew did a few test takes before they were ready for the real interview, and soon enough, it was underway.

Perry debriefed the audience, starting out by asking Trip about his latest film projects. After a few minutes of friendly chitchat, he directed the conversation toward Trip's foundation.

"So, Trip, Earthling Rights Foundation has recently been recognized by Charity-Navigator-dot-org as a four-star organization, and it ranks in the top ten on their 'Celebrity Related Charities' list. Have the accolades brought any new attention to ERF?"

Trip had turned into him, but managed to answer with genuine humility. "It certainly has, Perry. The success of an organization like ours depends on making the public aware that we even exist. Catching the eye of the preeminent not-for-profit a.n.a.lysts over at Charity Navigator has been a huge boost for our exposure."

"I suppose having the name of an Oscar-winning celebrity at the helm didn't hurt matters, either."

d.a.m.n. Perry was good. Watching him smooth his way from one question to the next was pretty impressive. I had a brief pang of longing, thinking about my abandoned journalism career.

Trip gave a chuckle. "I like to think so, yes. Only because I have a built-in audience to speak to. But it's not about celebrity. It's not about me. It's about a group of individuals helping as many people as we can. We have hundreds of in-house volunteers; kind, generous people who just want to spread a little love where they can. They make ERF happen." He turned his eyes toward the camera and added, "You do."

Perry took note of Trip's tee, acknowledging it with a nod of his head. "You mentioned that ERF is all about 'spreading the love,' and I'm guessing that's where your T-shirt comes in."

"Yes, Perry. Slanker Knox kindly let me steal their song t.i.tle for ERF. They've generously agreed to donate a portion of the profits from sales of their alb.u.m Patched Soul, so make sure you buy it, kids." At that last part, he smiled that spellbinding grin directly into the cameras which, I was sure, would have everyone running for the nearest music store.

All hail the hypnotoad.

Perry chuckled jovially at Trip's blatant plug, asking casually, "And do you believe that? That 'a little love' can make a difference?"

Trip's mouth quirked into a tiny, calculated grin. He tipped his head slightly, checking himself out in one of the monitors, as he deliberately adjusted his blazer over his T-shirt.

It took me about a split second to realize what he'd just done.

His alteration blocked out some of the lettering, leaving only: LOVE.

L W.

visible between his lapels. He must have seen my shocked face, because he raised his lip into a half-smile before answering Perry's question. "Yes, Perry. I do believe love can make a difference. It can change the world, even. Heck, it worked for me." Then his small smile turned into a huge grin as he looked past the cameras and right at me.

I almost died. There was Trip, announcing that he loved me to the freaking world.

Well, to the room, anyway. It's not as though a respectable news station like CNN would bother reporting on the person behind the initials branded across his chest.

A few eyes swung in my direction, and I hoped my face hadn't turned bright red. Perry had actually twisted in his chair at that, trying to get a better look at the woman who had stolen the infamous Trip Wiley's heart.

Then again, I couldn't very well steal what was rightfully mine.