LYRA

07.12.15

“You do realize you’re not on the track anymore, right?” I joke as I glance over at the dashboard of Tavian’s rental, pretending I know how to convert the speed from kilometers to miles in my head.

The image of him from yesterday, climbing out of the cockpit and taking his helmet off after handling that F1 race car like he’d been born with a steering wheel in his hand, pops into my head and my thighs impulsively clench together. Holy rings of Saturn. Even though he was a sweaty mess, it was the sexiest I’ve seen him, and considering I’ve been treated to the sight of his naked abs a few times already, that’s pretty much impossible. The way he exuded command and control over the powerful deathtrap-on-wheels then stalked toward me like the badass he is… yeah, I had to chant “Unavailable, unavailable, unavailable,” over and over in my head to keep me from flinging myself at him.

“You do realize I’m the driver, right? And if my memory serves me correctly, I’ve done a pretty damn good job of keeping you safe and sound so far on this trip, especially considering how we started.” He glances over at me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And to add to that, I think you’re having a much better time than you thought you would. Dare I say, despite your claim that you don’t ‘do people,’ you might even like getting to know one of your subjects. Namely, me.”

I turn to watch the groves of olive trees lining the Italian countryside whiz by out the window, hiding my grin. He’s right. We’re six days and three countries into this journey, and he’s done nothing but take care of everything, including me. From insisting I sleep in the bed while he took the couch in Barcelona, to always letting me choose where we go sightseeing and the restaurants we eat at, to cheering me up the minute he notices my mood turning gloomy, Tavian West is everything I could ask for in my first real adult friend… and more. I can’t deny it any longer. I’ve got a full-blown crush on the guy.

One that will stay my little secret.

“You’re all right,” I deadpan, trying hard to keep my face straight. Even though I’m not facing him, I see him staring at my reflection in the window.

“All right, my ass!” He grabs hold of my thigh, a few inches above my knee, and squeezes with moderate force, enough to get me to swing my head around and yelp with surprise.

Exactly the reaction he’s searching for.

I jerk my leg, trying to break free, but he doesn’t let go. “Tavian, stop!” I half laugh, half yell. “Pay attention to the road!”

“Admit you like me and I’ll let go.”

“Let go now!” I giggle helplessly, flailing around in the seat.

His fingers release my leg for a split second, tricking me into thinking I’ve won, only to regrip tighter and higher, up near the seam of my black shorts. If his hand were to slip a few inches… “Tell me, Lyra. Tell me what I want to hear,” he orders, a wicked gleam in his eye.

I try—and fail miserably—to escape him, as tears of laughter roll down my cheeks. “Okay, okay,” I choke out, holding my hands up in surrender. “You’re more than all right. I like you… a tiny bit.” I hold up my fingers an inch apart to demonstrate.

If he only knew I dream about him at night, snuggled up in the T-shirt I still haven’t given back, clutching one of the spare pillows between my thighs.

As promised, he lets me go, but not without a smug smirk firmly in place. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I grumble an incoherent answer that sounds a lot like “whatever,” and he throws his head back, howling with amusement. Warmth bubbles up inside me, his delight infectious.

“You need to learn I’m right over ninety-eight percent of the time. I’ve got statistics to prove it.” He snickers at his own brainy joke about his degree. “And for that official record you keep, I like you, too, buttercup.”

The rest of the drive is enjoyable but rather uneventful. A couple hours later, we eat the best bread known to man—focaccia al formaggio—with our lunch in Genoa, and then stop a few times so I can photograph the charming villages we pass through. During the long stretches of road in between, I play DJ, mixing music from both of our phones—discovering he wasn’t lying when he said he loved Johnny Cash—to keep us entertained while we talk casually. We mostly discuss our favorite books and movies, and debate who the better director is: Kubrick, Scorsese, or Tarantino. Tavian, the old soul, argues for Kubrick, but my vote still stays with Scorsese, even though Pulp Fiction is my number one movie of all time.

The closer to Florence we get, however, the more withdrawn I become, the realization of what I plan to do there sinking in deeper than I’ve allowed before. Mindlessly, I shift one of my feet closer to my backpack on the floorboard and rest the toe of my sandal against where the wooden box is situated inside the bag.

I’m not sure I can do this. I don’t want to say goodbye.

“You got quiet on me. Falling asleep?” Tavian nudges my knee with his hand, pulling me from my subdued state.

“No, just lost in thought,” I reply honestly.

“Doesn’t look like happy thoughts, so I’m gonna tell you about your surprise now,” he announces matter-of-factly.

“Surprise?” I perk up, head cocked to the side. “What surprise?”

He clears his throat, a rare moment of uncertainty flashing in his eyes. “When you said you wanted to stay close to the observatory in Florence, I took that to mean you wanted to visit the place, so I booked us a private tour for tonight.”

I jolt up in my seat, spine ramrod-straight. “T-t-t-tonight? Why tonight? We can’t go tonight!”

No! I thought I had at least one more day. I’m not ready.

“Isn’t nighttime when you want to visit an observatory? So you can see everything through the telescope and stuff?” he asks, clearly confused.

“No… well, yes, but—” I stumble with my words, not sure of how to answer.

Tavian’s frustrated brows pinch together, and he abruptly steers off the road and slows to a stop. Shifting the car into park, he twists toward me and pins me in place with his penetrating gaze. I can’t look away from him no matter how much I want to.

“But what, Lyra?” he demands. “It’s why you wanted to come here, right? What is it that turns you from hot to cold so fast? I don’t get it. Please help me underst—”

“I came here to bury my parents!” I shout, cutting him off, unable to keep it all bottled up anymore. “And I’m not ready tonight. I thought I had more time! I need more time. Do you understand that?”

He flinches like I just slapped him. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over instantly as the bitter aftertaste from my words lingers. We sit motionless and stare at each other for seconds that bleed into minutes. I want to tell him, tell him everything, but I’m scared. Scared of always running out of time.

“Bury them? What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?” He finally breaks the silence, his voice a hoarse whisper as he reaches over and wipes the wetness from my cheeks with his thumbs.

“Not”—I shake my head, weeping even harder—“not actually bury them. They were killed two days before my eleventh birthday in a car accident. I brought their ashes with me to scatter in the hills near Florence, where they dreamed of retiring but never had a chance.”

I’m not even aware of it happening, but the next thing I know, my safety belt is off and I’m being hauled over the middle console onto Tavian’s lap. He cradles me up against his solid chest and strokes my hair while I sob, soothing me while I breakdown for the first time since the day they died.

He doesn’t offer empty promises or try to give sound advice. Instead, he simply holds and comforts me with his tender touch, patient as I work through the hurt on my own. I close my eyes and hide my face in his soft T-shirt, drowning in his masculine scent—a blend of sandalwood, clove, and sanctuary. His arms provide a refuge I never knew could exist for someone as messed up as me. Now, I’m not sure I ever want to leave.

When my eyes eventually dry up and my chin stops quivering, I pry my eyes open and lean back slightly. The empty ache in my chest is still there, but the depth of loneliness and desolation isn’t bottomless like it was before. Like a little bit of pain seeped out in each tear that rolled off my face.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I never… I don’t talk about it,” I mumble as I attempt to scoot over into my seat.

But the bands of Tavian’s arms around my ribs never falters, and I can’t budge from his embrace. I lean back instead, trying to put some measure of distance between us. He cups my jaw and drags my gaze back to his. His breathtaking blue eyes burn with intensity, his numbers all but gone. “Don’t you dare apologize. Not for that. Not ever for that. You got me?”

My throat clogs with emotion, this time with humbled appreciation for this incredible man in front of me, and I nod my agreement.

“Let me be here for you, Lyra. Use me. I won’t let you fall.” He tilts his forehead and rests it on mine, our breaths becoming one. “Letting go of the pain doesn’t mean you love them any less. They will always be your parents, and you will always be their daughter, but it’s time you stop hiding behind your camera and start living. I want to help you do that.”

“Why?” I whisper. “Why me?”

“Because, buttercup.” He smiles, his eyes sad, and kisses the tip of my nose. “We aren’t an accidental meeting of souls. Trust the timing of your life.”