AUGUST 28, 2015
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST A week since that day at the diner.
I drove past it countless times while heading out to explore, but something told me to keep driving. Maybe it was the embers in my belly that reignited every time I thought about his eyes. Or the slow burning desire to turn back every time I passed it.
But a smart woman knew when not to play with fire, and I’d learned from the best.
Gathering up my filming gear, I tried to push away thoughts of Hudson. The lingering curiosity traced the edges of the slumbering butterfly’s wings deep in the pit of my stomach. Why couldn’t I forget his eyes? A reflective blue, like staring into a lake on a cloudless day.
I thought about the countless men who’d passed through my life. They were a blur of tousled sheets, amber-filled glasses, and bad decisions. When was I going to break the cycle? Would I ever find someone who stole my heart and refused to give it back? Did I want that?
Those were thoughts I’d never given floor time to before, so why now?
A cold shiver ran down my spine as the weather shifted, the palm fronds singing a song of warning in the breeze. Holding down my sun hat, I tilted my head up to the sky. Angry tufts of clouds were rolling in with an alarming fury, like a thundering herd of wispy white stallions. I learned that in Florida it rained at nearly the exact same time every day, as if the weather followed a set schedule. Sometimes it would rain across the field I was shooting scenery images of, but never touch where I stood. Just a looming veil of gray in the distance I tried so hard to capture on camera.
There was a beauty to the storms that I’d never experienced elsewhere. They had personality. A symphony of bright flashes of light followed by deep waves of sound. It was exhilarating and intimidating, and I’d become obsessed with capturing it.
Thankfully, I had collected the last bit of film for my portfolio for the day. I figured I should capture some footage, even if I didn’t have an exact idea what I wanted to do with it. The sunlight felt so much brighter there. Thicker, as if I could taste the golden rays as they wound around the swaying palms.
Setting my equipment outside the bus, I unlocked the side door and then slid the gear in. A few cars passed by on the highway, the breeze pushing in hard off the bay. Reaching for a water bottle, I pressed it to my lips just as the first drops of rain started to fall. I turned back to my bus to make sure everything was secure. Smiled at the many pictures I’d drawn along the walls of the bus—sketches of all the places I’d been. It was a collage of memories, reminding me of my vow to myself.
Never root yourself to one place.
Like being in a relationship, staying in one place meant losing that new, exciting feeling. It would grow old. Become too familiar as I stained it with my dark parts. I only ever stayed long enough to soak in the heart of the city, and then moved on.
I hopped in just as the sky opened. Turned the engine, waiting for her usual purr, only to get a stuttering cough. Eyebrows furrowing, I twisted the key again and again and again, only to get the same sputtering pulse.
Shit.
I was drenched by the time I made it to the back of the bus. After popping the hood, I peered in, checking the battery. There was an unhealthy amount of corrosion built up around the connections, so I hurried to the side, searching for something to scrub the mess away with.
All I had was an old T-shirt. It’d have to do. It took a few minutes of scrubbing to clear away enough to satisfy me, but once it was done, I got back in and tried the engine again.
Still the awful stutter. I sat back, staring through the rain-soaked window at the hood, wondering what it could be. Was the battery bad? The alternator? Maybe I could flag someone down for a jump. Hopefully, a passerby would stop. Although with the way the sky looked, I doubted anyone would want to.
When I got out, I realized someone was jogging toward me. Relief spread through my veins.
Until I realized it was Hudson.
“Hey,” he said once he was within earshot, water streaming down the sides of his face, beading along the edges of his beard. He glanced behind him to the main road, and then back to me. “I saw you. Thought maybe you’d need a hand.”
In the rain, his eyes churned like wild river rapids.
His white shirt was soaked, hugging his defined abdomen. His tousled hair was shades darker, like a velvet night sky supporting two bright stars I found myself lost in. He was more handsome when doused with water, as if the element itself was made for him.
I blinked through the rain, trying to tame the dizzying feelings rushing through my veins, jump-starting my heart to life. Sure, I’d seen plenty of hot guys before, but there was something deeper that happened to me when I looked at him. A cosmic aligning that felt like a thousand stars bursting behind my skin every time his dark gaze found mine.
And I hated that I felt that. I purposefully avoided the diner so I wouldn’t feel it again, because those feelings are what inspired the word danger, and I didn’t need any more run-ins with it.
“Yeah,” I said, reaching to wipe the water from my eyes. The lost words I’d been searching for were slowing returning, rolling in with every blink. “Normally, I uh… I can get myself out of these situations, but I think I need a jump.”
He moved around me, his proximity zapping every one of my senses awake. What was that scent he carried? Sandalwood and spice? It was heavy and rich, even in the rain, and it made me want to curl up in a blanket next to a fire with a good book and a hot cup of cocoa.
“You have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, don’t you?” I thought about that day on the beach. “First you save the girl… and now me?” There was something about a man with a hero’s heart that hit a woman in all the right spots. A primal, instinctual feeling that couldn’t be overlooked, even when every fiber in my being was trying to.
I thought the corner of his mouth lifted a little, but it was too slight to tell. “I guess I do,” he said, his tone somewhat guarded.
Turning toward him, I watched as his hands dug into the engine like he’d done it a time or two. “We keep bumping into one another like this, and I might think you’re a guardian angel in hiding,” I teased.
He tensed. “I’m far from being considered an angel.” He was messing with something I couldn’t see. Seconds swam between us before he added, “I’m not… I’m not good at this kind of thing.”
A warm flush built behind my skin. I shouldn’t engage. I should pretend I didn’t understand what he meant and change the subject, but I couldn’t stop myself. I leaned in, feeling brazen, intoxicated by his presence. “And what thing would you be referring to?”
When he moved to face me, I felt the way he looked at me in the pit of my stomach. He was a to-the-point kind of man. No games. No tiptoeing. His eyes dipped, skimming over the lace of my bra showing through the white shirt clinging to my skin. I drank in hearty gulps of the water carving creeks through the muscles of his stomach. When our eyes connected, it felt like a snapping of the fingers, waking me up to the heated feelings I’d been running from for what seemed like my whole life.
I wanted him. Badly.
And he wanted me, too.
The air around us throbbed with that intoxicating, hungry feeling that took reservations and threw them out the window. It seemed to catch us both off-guard, because a moment later, we took a small step back from each other, as if distance alone would dampen what I no longer wanted to avoid.
I wanted him to continue looking at me like that… like he’d give anything to know every part of me. Mirroring the feelings whirling like a tornado inside me, set on a path that could only lead to destruction.
I tried to clear my throat as he turned back to the engine. “You didn’t… you didn’t scare me off,” I said as my heartbeat threatened to break my eardrums. “I’ve just… I’ve been busy. Exploring. Collecting footage.”
“Footage?” His voice was as uneven as mine. Realizing that only poured fuel onto the ache simmering in my lower stomach.
I nodded my head, though there was no reason for me to. My nerves were getting the best of me. “I’m a film editor,” I said, resting my hand on the edge of the bus, trying to level my voice. “I do a lot of freelance work, but I’m currently sort of on a creative pause, so I’m focusing on building my portfolio.”
My eyes grazed over the small birthmark on the back of his neck, visible only because his hair was held back in a bun. It was an asymmetric circle, jagged like the banks of a lake.
“Are you from Florida?” He kept his gaze intent on what he was working on.
My stomach fluttered, lifting the corners of my lips. He noticed. “No. I travel a lot in my line of work, so keeping a home base is kind of pointless.”
There was a long moment of quiet before he said something again. Long enough I felt words pushing their way up my throat to avoid the awkward silence. But then he squashed them back down when he asked, “How long are you here for?”
I wasn’t sure why that question made my skin turn hot. Maybe it was how he asked it. Or maybe it was the implication that could have been behind it… but inside that question, I saw a flash of us in the midst of a passionate afternoon. Arms and legs tangled as fingers grazed skin and lips tasted each other’s pain.
I must have gotten lost in that fantasy, because when I realized he had stopped and was staring at me, I quickly readjusted my stance and said, “Oh, umm… I rented a small place. It’s a week-to-week thing. I’m giving myself two months, but it honestly depends on what project pops up next. Like I said, it’s hard for me to stay rooted in one place before the need to travel claws at me.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “That’s a shame. I think Florida would be lucky to have you.”
A rich shade of red blossomed in my cheeks.
He didn’t have any other questions after that.
“Is it the battery?” I tried to see over his looming shoulder when I couldn’t take the silence any longer. “I tried cleaning off the connection.”
He didn’t say anything. Just kept tinkering, keeping his words and his thoughts to himself. Moments later, he grimaced, and then there was a popping sound. I waited for him to say something… anything, but he was as tight-lipped as ever.
“You’re not a man of many words, are you?”
That got his attention. He stopped moving. Pondered the thought, face unmoving, before he answered, “I guess not.”
I leaned closer, leaping on the small window of conversation. “I think I talk too much. Especially when I’m nervous.” I waited a beat, chewing on my lip before adding, “You’re not a big flirter either, huh?”
I noticed his shoulders tense up ever so slightly. I never feared being blunt. Or being the first to engage. If I saw something or someone I wanted, I went after it. Life was too short to follow the rules of formality. I made my own rules, and I stuck by them when it came to men and sex. Three to be exact.
1. Don’t ever let a man make me feel less than I am.
2. Don’t wait around for a man to make a move if I’m into him.
3. Don’t fall in love. Ever.
“There, I think I got it.” He cranked a bolt into place. Apparently, he wasn’t going to answer my question. He pointed to the inside of my bus, telling me without words to start the engine for him as he used his other arm to wipe some of the water from his face.
He was glorious when soaked to the bone, somehow seeming larger than life.
With a small sigh, I left him and hopped into the front seat, swiping the rain from my face before turning the key over. A few stuttering clicks happened, and then the engine roared to life. “Yessss,” I said, smoothing my hands over the steering wheel. “Who knew all you needed was a little masculinity under your hood to get your engine going,” I whispered to her as my cheeks went pink.
Hudson closed the hood and then turned, heading back to his car parked a few feet away.
He wasn’t going to say bye?
A frown crossed my lips. “Wait,” I called out, jogging over to where he stood. He was already reaching for his door handle when I asked, “Can I buy you a coffee or something? As a thank you?”
An agony I couldn’t understand swam within his eyes. “Hartley, I can’t.”
The way he said my name was a punch straight to my heart. Like he had rehearsed the way he wanted it to sound falling off his lips until it was a perfect syllabic blend of vowels and consonants.
I swallowed the fist rammed in my throat. “You can’t drink coffee? Or you can’t drink coffee with me?” I pushed, the rain pelting down on us from all sides.
Torture invaded his dark eyes.
I softened my tone, but kept my resolve. “It’s just coffee, Hudson. Nothing more.”
His eyes found mine, and the bright shock of fear and pain felt like a knife through my soul.
No. He can’t drink it with me. His answer was there like a brick wall between us.
Someone or something had damaged him beyond anything I’d ever encountered.
I planted my hands on my hips, determined to get some kind of reaction out of him. Just for kicks. “Well, are you at least going to let me thank you before running off?”
His eyes stared past me, past where we were, as if there was a ghost of pain looming in the hazy distance. When he finally lowered his head to focus on me, he said, “You just did. Don’t mention it.”
He was in his car the next second, leaving me standing there in the rain as confused about him as ever.
THE SCENT OF LEMON CLEANER reminded me of heartache.
That was what I returned to when I went home. The house I’d rented for the past week reeked heavily of it, dredging up old feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge. I tried lighting a candle to erase the scent, but it didn’t keep the memories anchored to that smell from surfacing. The images of that night when I found my mother in the kitchen on her hands and knees, strawberry red from scrubbing the pristine tiles in fervent circles, coming up to haunt me.
“Mom?”
I remembered calling her name as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, but she couldn’t hear me from wherever she’d gone in her mind. She liked to clean whenever she was stressed, but it was different that time. There was a madness in her circular movements. Angered stopping and starting as she repeatedly dunked her hands into the bucket of scalding water, as if she could scrub away the hurt ripping at her soul.
Our home suddenly felt unfamiliar, as if I had stepped into a stranger’s house.
I remembered the way the tears sloped over the hills of her cheeks, and then splattered against the porcelain. I’d never seen her cry before. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen an adult cry, and it made my stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. I wanted to reach out to her, but there was an ocean of tile between us I wasn’t allowed to cross.
When she finished, she peered over at me hiding in the corner, her syrup-brown eyes wild and brimming with pain. Her voice, raw and angered, crawled up from the depths of my mind. “No man can ever make you truly happy, Hartley. Not a single one. They will only break you. You hear me?”
I was twelve when I had my first sample of what a broken heart sounded like. It was spite and anger and a suffocating hollowness.
Dad didn’t come home that night, or any night after.
From then on, she built a fortress of cynicism around us that towered up into the clouds. Its walls were constructed out of lies and regret. Surrounded by a mote of mistrust no man could ever cross.
I tried everything I could not to think about Hudson and the buried look in his eyes, but it was of no use. I was drawn to him in a way I’d never been with anyone else. As if my soul recognized his, and that was dangerous, because no man was worth getting lost in.
Not even the kind that saved lives.