I’d been looking forward to a weekend away from William—a weekend away from the home that suddenly didn’t feel very welcoming anymore.
I’d been looking forward to it until I saw Carson King on the beach this morning.
I can’t stop thinking about him in his running clothes.
He wore running shorts and a white t-shirt that stuck to his skin with sweat. The shirt barely contained hard cuts of muscle that made my mouth water, and his shorts were a little…tight across the front. I forced my eyes to his face, but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t notice the huge bulge begging for escape.
I was focused on my run. Justin Timberlake rocked in my ears, the water rolled up the shore to my left, and the sun was just peeking through the morning cloud cover. I saw a man running toward me, but I wasn’t wearing sunglasses and didn’t want to make eye contact. I didn’t want to encourage attention when I’m already overwhelmed by two very different choices, so I ignored him even though I felt his eyes on me.
I never, not in a million years—not in a billion years—would have ever, ever imagined it was Carson who was running toward me.
Of course he’s been on my mind. It’s been a week since I last saw him, and I’ve thought about him every single day. Sometimes it feels like I think about him every second of every day. He’s embedded himself into my thoughts after one night—what does that tell me? And more importantly, what—if anything—does that mean?
It means I should have opted out of this weekend I don’t even want to attend.
A friend from college, Josie, is getting married in a few weeks, and she invited me to the bachelorette party in Napa Valley, close to where she lives now. We’re not even that close anymore. We talk once in a while, but honestly, my best friend Raquel is much closer to her. Unfortunately, Raquel is currently in London on business for the next two months so I feel like I have to go to represent the college friends, but I won’t know anybody else there.
My little musings this morning after my run are getting me nowhere. I’m stuck going out of town while Carson is here in town.
It’s for the best. This way I’m not tempted away from the man I’m seeing. I’m mad at him, sure, but it will pass…eventually.
Though I have to admit, the thought did cross my mind that I could tell William I’m in Napa while I actually get a hotel room here in San Diego and take Carson up on his dinner offer.
That’s as good as cheating, though, and I won’t do it.
I turn the shower water as hot as it will go to warm it up faster, and then I step in and turn it to cool to try to bring down my body temperature after my run. I’m not just hot because of the physical activity, though; I’m hot because of my little run-in with Carson. I’m hot because I’m not getting anything from my boyfriend at the moment—admittedly through my own choosing, but I’m still so angry that I don’t even want to look at him, let alone have sex with him.
Despite all that, though, something is sparking a rather lusty emotion in me this morning, and as much as I refuse to admit that it could be Carson who’s inspiring this extra dose of desire, I have to do something to take care of it. What better place than the shower, where I’m naked and wet and alone with my thoughts and the scorching image of a sweaty Carson King running on the beach mere minutes from my own home?
I start by squirting shower gel onto my loofah and soaping my entire body, and then I run my fingertips along my breasts. They slide slickly across my nipples, and the whisper of a touch immediately sends a throb of need through my core. I tug roughly at the tight buds, and then I keep my left fingers clamped on one as the fingers on my right hand trail down, down, down as I think about Carson.
I press one finger softly to my clit. My body begs for more, and I move my finger down until I slide it inside of me, wishing it was his finger and not my own. I add a second, gasping at the pleasure of my own touch. I move my fingers in and out, wanting so badly to pull them out to stroke my clit because I know that will send me into immediate relief, but I don’t. I torture myself for a few glorious moments, applying more pressure to my nipple, before I finally can’t take it anymore. I pull my fingers out of my heat and rub furiously at myself, and it’s only seconds before I shatter into an explosion of relief.
* * *
“What time are you leaving?” my dad asks.
I glance at the clock. “Soon. My flight’s at four, and everything I need is in my car.”
“Have fun, sweetheart. Behave yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “I always do, Daddy.”
“I know you do. Just be safe.”
“I will.”
“I’ll call up Cletus to give you a ride.”
“That’s not necessary. I can park at the airport.”
“I know, but I’d feel better if you didn’t leave your car there.”
“Fine,” I say, knowing there’s no arguing with him. I rummage through my purse and dig out my keys before tossing them over to him. “In case you don’t want me to leave my car here, either.”
He chuckles. “I’ll make sure William gets them.”
“William? Why?”
“So he can get your car home.”
“He won’t care where my car is.”
My dad shoots me a strange look, but I leave it at that. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain to my dad what’s going on with William—especially because the whole reason I’m pissed at William has to do with my dad.
“Have fun, Sylvie.”
“You too, Dad.”
He nods and leaves my office then I wrap up my work for the week. I’m leaving early, which means I’ll have additional work to do next week. There’s always work to do, though.
I arrive at the airport with my suitcase. I check in and get through security in record time, and I still have an hour to burn by the time I get to my gate. I decide to head over to the airport Starbucks because coffee is always a good way to kill time.
I study the people at the gate next to ours. It’s fairly empty since their flight to Houston doesn’t leave for two hours. The next gate’s flight goes to Los Angeles at five, and there are a decent number of people milling around. The next gate goes to New York, and I can’t help but think of Carson. He might’ve been right in this very spot just yesterday as he got off the flight from New York. I wonder how many times he’s been right here, how many times he’s visited San Diego. With both business and family here in town, I imagine he’s here often. I wonder if he likes to fly, or if he hates it as much as I do.
The thought has me reaching for my bottle of anxiety meds in my purse. The only time I take them is when I have to fly somewhere.
Just as I tear my eyes from the New York gate that’s starting to board, I feel a hand on my arm.
“We meet again.”
I recognize the voice before I look up into the hypnotic, dark eyes.
It feels a little like fate. It has to be fate. How else would this guy who lives in New York continue to cross my path here in California? It makes no sense.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, shaking my arm out of his grip. I immediately miss his touch when he lets go.
He nods to the gate. “Flying home.”
“I thought you were here for the weekend.” I grip the bottle of Ativan in my palm. My doctor told me they would calm my fear of flying, and usually they calm me enough to be able to focus on something other than the crippling fear that the plane is going to crash to the ground. It’s worth it, even for the short, ninety-minute flight to San Francisco.
He shrugs, and those dark eyes pin me to the spot. “Something came up, so I’m heading home.”
Home.
I can’t explain the little sadness that darts through me knowing he won’t be here in San Diego—even if I’m not here, either.
“Have a safe flight,” I say, and I turn to go to Starbucks because, just like this morning, I’m afraid if I stay and engage in conversation with him, I might start to like him. I can’t like him. I’m supposed to hate him—not just because he’s a persistent jerk, but because he’s a shrewd businessman who’s taking something that isn’t his to take.
His hand grips my arm at the elbow. “Wait,” he says.
I turn back to him. “What?”
“Have a coffee with me?”
I shake my head and laugh. “God, you really don’t give up, do you?”
He smiles. “No, I really don’t.”
“Don’t you have a flight to catch?”
“I do, and I don’t really drink coffee, but they’re just starting to board, and Starbucks is right there.” He nods to the booth across the terminal from us.
“I was just heading there anyway,” I say. “I guess it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you walked there with me.”
We fall into step together as we head over, and he nods toward the bottle in my hand. “What are those?”
“That’s a little nosy, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s completely nosy, but you’re gripping the bottle like your life depends on it.”
“Anxiety meds. I hate flying.”
“Do they work?”
I shrug. “It shuts my brain off enough to allow me to relax.”
“Can I try one?”
“Are you serious?”
“I fucking hate flying,” he confesses, and I can’t help my giggle.
“So do I.” I uncap the bottle and hand him a pill despite everything I’ve ever been taught about sharing medicine with someone when they haven’t been prescribed the drug.
“Thanks,” he says as I press the pill into his palm. I ignore the rush of feeling I get when our hands touch. It was nothing.
I pull my hand away like his is on fire as he slips the pill into his pocket, and then we’re suddenly at Starbucks. We wait in a short line.
“What do you get here?” he asks.
“A nonfat cascara latte.”
“What the fuck is that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a coffee drink.”
“What would you get if you didn’t drink coffee?” He stares at the menu like he’s reading a different language, and I can’t help my laugh.
“Their peach green tea is really good.”
“Green tea?”
“Get it cold.”
I place my order and pull out my wallet to pay, but he beats me to the punch. He orders his iced tea and pays for both our drinks.
“Thanks,” I say as we make our way to the end of the counter to wait while the barista gets to work on our order. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You won’t let me take you to dinner, so the least I can do is pick up your coffee.”
“So what called you home so quickly?” I ask, going for conversation. “Everything okay?”
“Careful, cupcake, you actually sound like you care.”
“I don’t.”
He laughs. “Everything’s okay. I just…didn’t need to be here anymore.”
I want to ask why. I want to ask if it had anything to do with the fact that I won’t be here, but it’s such an egocentric idea that I can’t even believe it entered my head.
Yet there it is.
We find an empty table and sit once our drinks are ready.
I take a sip of my coffee. “Got all your business taken care of?”
He nods. “Something like that.” He sips his tea. “Wow. You’re right. This is really good.”
I tap my temple. “Smart.”
“I already knew that.”
He grins, and my face warms.
“How long has your brother lived here?” I ask, changing the subject.
“A couple years. He was out here looking at houses when he met his wife.”
“Meant to be?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you believe in that stuff?” I’m not sure why the question slips out. I don’t care what he believes in. It’s none of my business.
But fate…
Fate somehow led me to him today—or led him to me. I’m not sure what fate’s doing, exactly, but things are getting intense.
He raises an eyebrow. “It worked for Carter, I guess.”
I nod. That didn’t answer my question, exactly, but I don’t know if I believe in meant to be, either. I did—when William and I got together, I thought it was fate intervening on our behalf. We’d worked together for four years, I always thought he was cute, we flirted in the most professional manner, and then he finally asked me out. It seemed like we were drawn together from the start.
Yet I’m feeling a much stronger pull to someone who isn’t William. Is that fate?
“This is the final boarding call for flight seven-sixty-three into New York.” The loud voice over the speaker cuts into our conversation.
Carson rolls his eyes. “I guess that means I should go.”
I clear my throat. “I guess so.”
“Walk me to my gate?”
I nod. “Sure. I should head back to mine anyway.”
“Thanks for the unexpected coffee date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I protest.
“Sure. Okay. You’re right.” He nods with a dose of sarcasm.
“It was a coffee business meeting.”
“So I can write that off, then?”
I laugh. “I guess we didn’t really talk business, did we?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, and I didn’t even have coffee.” He shoots me one more panty-melting grin and then turns to board his plane.