Frankie
Mmm, last night was just…mmm.
I stretch my naked limbs in Darian’s bed, hyperaware he’s not in it, and make sheet angels in the cool cotton. A stupid grin unfurls on my face, and I’m a little relieved he isn’t here to see it. Did he say he had to work today? I don’t remember a thing after “stay with me tonight.”
I push myself up against the headboard and clear the sleep from my eyes as Darian’s room comes into focus. The walls are painted the same creamy white as downstairs and the bed and windows are dressed in a mix of grays. It’s just as lovely as the rest of his house, but as I suspected, it’s just as bare. The only personal items I can see from this vantage point are his glasses on the nightstand and his watch on the dresser.
I shake off the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. Darian’s Ramones T-shirt is still draped over the lampshade where it landed last night.
Convenient, I think as I pull it over my head. My clothes are still outside.
I find Darian in the kitchen, hunched over a cup of coffee. His gaze briefly meets mine before it slides down my body, over his shirt, and along my bare legs. One corner of his mouth lifts, and by the time I get to him, he’s sporting a full-fledged grin. He takes my face in his hands, bends as if he’s going to kiss me, and pushes his fingers into my hair.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Nice shirt. Good thing Gloria isn’t here.” He brushes his nose against mine. “You’d have given her a fright.”
“Maybe you should consider that the next time you want to disrobe me in the backyard.”
“Next time…I like the sound of that.”
He kisses me, and I taste the rich flavor of sweetened coffee on his tongue as it sweeps inside my mouth. His teeth pull at my bottom lip, sending heat curling down my spine. I wind my arms around his neck and melt against him. Then the kissing stops, and I hear the faint buzzing of a cell phone set to vibrate.
“What now?” His tone is gruff. He steps back, pulls his phone from his pocket, and narrows his eyes at the screen. “Sorry about that,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He tosses his phone on the island with enough force to send it skating to the other side. “Where were we?”
“I think we were about to have sex in your kitchen,” I say, sidestepping him for the refrigerator. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing.” He waves off the question with a flick of his wrist.
I pull out a Diet Coke and rifle through his utensil drawer for an opener.
“Next one over,” he says. “And we can still have sex in my kitchen.”
“You keep your bottle opener with the oven mitts? Because that makes sense.” I pop off the cap and take a long pull. I love that he got me glass bottles. I don’t think I’ve ever had Diet Coke in a glass bottle before yesterday. “You got up early this morning.”
“Someone was snoring,” he says, arching his brows. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I give him a pointed look. “Whatever.”
He jerks his chin in the direction of his office. “I had a few e-mails to get out.”
“You don’t need to go in today?”
“Not today,” he says. His smile is suspicious.
I cross my arms. “What are you up to?”
He disappears into the family room and returns with a sizeable box wrapped in silver paper. He sets it on the counter beside me. “I did a little shopping while I was downtown yesterday.”
“What is it?” I ask, my voice hesitant.
“It’s a surprise. Sort of. Well, those are clothes,” he says, nodding toward the package, “but where you’re going in them is a surprise.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes. And because of our talk last night, I have a feeling you’re going to fight me on them, but please don’t. Just let me do this for you today.” His eyes are intent on mine until I nod, and then he takes his mug to the sink and pours out the last dregs of his coffee. “I have a few more things to do this morning, so go get dressed and meet me back here in”—he peers up at the clock—“forty-five minutes?”
“I’ll be ready.”
Darian grabs his phone off the island, slides it in his back pocket, and turns toward the door. “Don’t overthink it, Francesca.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already gone.
“Okay, Darian. What am I not supposed to overthink?” I whisper before tossing back more of my Diet Coke.
Excitement and apprehension knot my stomach as I pick up the box. It isn’t as heavy as it looks, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I carry it upstairs and sit beside it on Darian’s bed, staring at it hard enough to melt the paper. I’m not used to gifts, and Darian’s already given me more than any man has ever come close to.
Stop overthinking it, Frankie.
I tear off the wrapping and lift the lid. Buried beneath layers of tissue paper are two smaller boxes. In the first, I find a pale pink bikini and a matching pink halter dress. Relief softens the hard edge of my anxiety. It’s just a swimsuit. A gorgeous swimsuit, a tiny swimsuit, but just a swimsuit.
I dig out the second box. It’s a shoebox, red, with Valentino printed on the top.
Holy shit. This is not just a pair of shoes.
My hand flies to my chest as a piercing laugh bursts out of me. I take off the lid, and my heart hammers in my ears as I pull the drawstring on the little red bag inside. Using only the tips of my fingers, I carefully take the first shoe out, as if actually touching it will damage it somehow. It’s a black sandal studded with little silver pyramids. It’s absolutely stunning. And way too much.
I glance at the clock on Darian’s nightstand. I’m down to twenty minutes, and I haven’t even started getting ready yet. I take an impressive five minutes to shower and shave my legs. I choose sunscreen over makeup and scrunch my damp hair into beachy waves. At three minutes and counting, I get dressed. Everything fits, even the shoes, which I promptly take off.
My ears perk up as I open the door. Darian’s voice, hushed but clipped, echoes from downstairs, and he’s not alone. He’s arguing with a woman I hope I don’t have the pleasure of meeting; she’s loud, and she doesn’t sound very friendly.
By the time I reach the bottom step, the exchange has become heated. Darian’s tone is on par with the woman’s, and without the buffer of carpeting, the effect is jarring.
I crane my neck to peek over the banister. Animated shadows battle it out on the limestone floor in front of the kitchen and grow larger as the voices near. I jerk back against the wall with the sandals dangling from my fingers, hoping to remain unseen.
“Yes, I agreed to handle things when I thought you were still in Austin, tying up loose ends,” the woman says. “Then I find out you left days ago and you’ve been shacking up with some bottle-blonde adolescent. You have commitments, Darian, and you need to honor them.”
Bottle blonde?
“Adolescent?”
“She’s a kid. I saw your picture on the S&S website.” Her voice advances and then retreats as her shoes click back and forth across the tiles.
“That’s right, Amanda,” Darian says, his voice steady. “I am committed today. Just not to you. I’m sorry you’re having so much trouble with this, but I think you’re forgetting who cuts your check.”
Steady but pissed.
“That’s fine. You two have fun playing Sharks and Minnows and I’ll handle the showcase.”
“Thank you for being so amenable. The kid’s name is Francesca, and I think Marco Polo is more her style. But I’ll keep Sharks and Minnows in mind.”
Nice.
“Fuck you, Darian.” The click, click, click of her shoes grows louder with each step in my direction.
It’s too late to bolt. I hug the sandals against me and the heels dig into my stomach.
“You must be Francesca,” she says when she spots me. Her lips are drawn in a smirk. “I’m Amanda.”
She extends her hand, and I have half a mind to leave it hanging…but I don’t.
“Please, call me Frankie.”
Frankie? That was stupid. Way to go, kid.
Darian sighs, defeated. “Francesca, this is Amanda Harris, my COO. Amanda, Francesca Valentine.”
“Francesca Valentine, your…”
“My date,” he says.
“For Marco Polo,” I add.
Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Frankie.
Her keys rattle in her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Frankie,” she says, over-articulating my name. She turns toward Darian. “See me out?”
Their back and forth banter tells me there’s more to their relationship than boss-employee, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t bother me. Plus, she happens to be a knockout. Ms. Miami Beach in business wear and heels, Darian’s COO is tall and tanned with long, dark hair that almost reaches her tailbone. Darian’s too smart to be cliché, so I know she must have a brain in that perfectly symmetrical head of hers, and somehow that makes it worse.
I sit on the bottom step with my elbows propped on my knees and the sandals hanging between them. I hear the door close, then more arguing, and then the door opens.
Darian marches toward me with purpose, his grin wide. “Oh, Francesca,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
He does, and it makes this morning’s kiss pale in comparison.
“What was that for?” I ask, my grin matching his.
“For being you.” His gaze falls to the shoes in my hand and he takes them from me. “You ready to go?”
“Darian, about those…”
He stops me with the touch of his thumb to my lips and then kneels on the floor in front of me. “The label’s co-sponsoring a spring break party at the Clevelander in SoBe…South Beach. Lift.”
Holding his shoulders for balance, I pick up my left foot, and he slides on a sandal.
“Several of our top bands will be performing. Lift,” he says again.
I pick up my right.
When he’s finished buckling the straps, he stands. “Including Cross to Bear.”
I grab his hands. “Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea it was spring break.”
“The spring break show is Amanda’s thing. I usually back her up, but it’d completely slipped my mind until I went in yesterday. I’ve been a little preoccupied,” he says, his lips curving into a smile. “That’s one of the reasons she’s so pissed.”
“One of the reasons?”
“With Amanda, it’s complicated. She’s been with me—with the label rather—since the beginning. We don’t really have the typical boss-subordinate relationship, if you didn’t notice. Oh, I almost forgot. I made pancakes. You eat while I finish up, and then we can go.”
The grin splitting my face gives him pause.
His brows draw together. “What?”
“It’s just been a really good day.”
“How so? It’s barely ten and you’ve already been boorishly affronted by my COO.”
“Well, despite her, you dressed me like a supermodel, you’re taking me to see my favorite band, and you made me pancakes.”
Darian smiles. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
“I feel beautiful. I’d like to say it wasn’t necessary, but if this is what people wear in South Beach, you were right in assuming I didn’t pack anything even close.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “I just wanted to treat you. I like making you happy.” Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against my grin. “And call Jane to let her know about the show. It’ll be live on WMN.”
“Is that that new one? World Music Network?”
“That’s the one. Now go eat before it gets cold.”
I wait for Darian on the front porch with my purse hanging on my shoulder and a pair of wide-framed sunglasses perched on my head. I hear the metallic clank of a garage door opening, followed by the smooth purr of an engine. Darian’s car edges past the side of the house, and my eyes double in size. An electric-blue convertible, the color brilliant beneath the Miami sun, turns the corner and then rolls to a stop in front of me.
“Wow,” I say as Darian opens the door and steps out. “What’s that?”
His smile is wide. “She is a Maserati GranTurismo.”
“She?” A grin breaks over my face as I cross the pavement to the passenger side. “Does she have a name?”
“Not yet,” he says. “Maybe you can come up with something.”
He holds the door open for me and I climb in, dropping my purse on the floorboard by my feet. I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and tilt my head back against the headrest.
“I haven’t been in a convertible in ages,” I say.
After Darian buckles himself in, he leans over me and pops open the glove compartment. He takes out a pair of shades and puts them on before pulling out a scarf. “For your hair,” he says, setting the scarf in my lap.
“Really?” I shoot him an amused look. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?”
“You keep a scarf on hand for all the girls you drive around in your come-fuck-me car?”
A laugh bursts from his throat. “Come-fuck-me car?” His hand smooths over the dashboard with reverence. “I think Francesca just named you,” he says to her before turning to me. “Are you jealous?”
“No!” I say a little too loudly. “I’m just making fun of your communal scarf.”
Darian bends over the wheel, his head buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Why is this so funny?” I ask, leaning against the door with my arms crossed.
He rolls his head to the side and lays his shaded eyes on me. “This overreacting thing you do? It’s fucking adorable.” He sits up. “Francesca, look at it. It matches your dress. I bought it for you.”
“Then why was it in the glove compartment?”
“Because I bought it after I had your box wrapped. I threw it in there so I wouldn’t forget to give it to you.” He holds up his hands. “Simple as that. I swear. And by the way, you are the only girl I’ve ever driven in my come-fuck-me car. You also happen to be the only girl who’s ever been to my house—aside from Gloria, obviously, and Amanda. And until today, she’s never made it past my front office.”
I sit tall in my seat and pull on my seatbelt. “Really?”
“Really.” His fingers brush my cheek. “Francesca, I wasn’t lying. It’s been five years.”
What the hell, Frankie?
“Ugh. I know. I’ve never doubted you either.” I turn my face toward the window. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “For what? Not being an asshole?”
“That too.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wrap my hair in the scarf and tie it tight at the back of my neck. Darian shifts into drive and we coast slowly down the long driveway, coming to a stop at the gate.
“You really thought I had a communal scarf?” he asks, incredulous.
I shrug. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
As the gate slides open, Darian picks up my hand and caresses my knuckles. My stomach flutters.
I am overreacting. More than normal. My age, his guest room…a scarf? I sure hope it’s fucking adorable because I’m turning into a crazy person.
I glance at Darian through the dark lenses of my sunglasses. He squeezes my hand, then brings it to his lips and kisses it.
“How about some music?” he says, turning on the radio.
Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” fills the open air of the car, and I bite back a laugh.
This man is going to crush you into a million little pieces, Frankie, my subconscious warns.
I lean forward and change the station. Not today.
My head perks up when Darian pulls into the valet area at The Ritz-Carlton. “I thought we were going to the Clevelander.” I slide my sunglasses down my nose and turn sideways in my seat.
“We are,” he says, giving me a sly smile as he puts the car in park.
A valet attendant opens his door. “Checking in, sir?”
Checking in?
“Yes. Darian Fox,” he says, glancing at his watch as he gets out of the car. “Please see to our luggage, and we need a lift to the Clevelander.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fox.”
A second attendant opens my door and I step onto the sidewalk, a huge grin spreading on my face as Darian makes his way around the car. “We’re staying? Here?”
“We’re staying here.”
I push up on my toes and throw my arms around his neck. He bends, meeting me halfway, and laughs softly against my lips.
“It’s okay, baby,” he says. He pulls off his sunglasses and hangs them on the neck of his T-shirt. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
Baby?
My feet fall flat and we break apart.
Did he just say baby?
His eyes narrow. “I was joking, but if you don’t want to stay…”
Oh thank God, he was joking.
I wait for relief to flood me, but it never comes.
“No, um…” The words dissolve in my throat as a white stretch limo pulls in behind the Maserati. My eyes snap to Darian’s. “Is that for us?”
“I guess so. Shame we’re only going down the street.”
The driver, a tall, dark-haired woman in a chauffeur cap and aviator shades, steps out of the car. “Mr. Fox?”
Darian nods. “We’re headed to the Clevelander.”
“Yes, sir.”
We settle into the car, and a smile pulls at my lips as I extend my legs in the open space in front of me. I can’t believe I’m taking a limo to a spring break party in South Beach. To see my favorite band. Who happens to be signed to my unconventional friend’s record label. A couple of weeks ago, true excitement came in the form of a Netflix marathon and a package of Oreos. This is a little surreal.
Even at this early hour, the city is one big ball of energy, but inside the car, it’s peaceful and silent. Darian scrolls through his messages while I stare out my window at the row of hotels lining the street. After a few blocks, he slides his phone in the pocket of his shorts and picks up my hand.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he says.
I angle my body toward him and lace our fingers together. “Just sightseeing.”
“Not a lot to see on Collins,” he says. “I need to take you down Ocean.”
“I’d love that.” My head rests against his arm as I look out the window on his side. “Everything is so white. This is nothing like Texas.” The architecture is stunning, and I can only imagine what it looks like at night, all lit up.
Another block passes as we sit in silence. We stop at a light, and Darian brushes my hair back from my face.
“Should I have asked you?” he says, drawing my gaze. “About staying? I wanted to surprise you, but maybe I should have asked.”
“No, I’m happy we’re staying.” I turn, tucking my feet beneath me, and rest my knees on his thigh. “Wait,” I say, pushing my sunglasses on top of my head, “you did bring my bag, right?”
Darian laughs. “Sorry, babe. After this party, you’ll be in clothes-free territory. All you’ll need is a toothbrush, and I’m sure the hotel will have one.”
I smack his arm. “Very funny.”
“I didn’t bring your duffel, but I grabbed your makeup and toiletry bags. I promise you’ll want for nothing else.”
The car slows and moves into the turn lane.
Darian bends to look out the window. “It’s going to be a madhouse,” he says. “You ready?”
I nod, a nervous excitement building in my stomach as we pull up to the Clevelander. The driver opens my door and I slide out, followed closely by Darian, into a dense crowd of people. I slip my hand in his as we navigate through them.
“Where are we going?” I ask, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me.
“Roof deck.” He laughs. “If we can get to it.”
I peer down at the gorgeous pink silk dress I’m wearing and stand a little taller beside him. Even in swimwear, South Beach women are impeccably dressed, and thanks to Darian, I don’t feel as out of place as I thought I would. South Beach guys, on the other hand, are much more casual. Darian’s sporting gray hybrid shorts and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. I tug at the hem.
“You own a record label,” I say. “Has it ever occurred to you to advertise the bands you’re trying to sell?”
He scoffs. “You sound like Amanda. I told her I’ll do it when she does.”
“Wow. What are you, five?” I’m gifted a boyish grin, and I have my answer. “Will we see her today?”
“Not if I can help it,” he says. “Today’s about us. I’m not Darian Fox, CEO. I’m Francesca’s Marco Polo playdate.”
I swallow hard. First, baby, and now, us.
They’re only words, Frankie. Get a grip.
“I bet that’s why she’s pissed,” I say. “She has to work and we’re having fun.”
“Blondes do have more fun.” He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me against him.
“Bottle blondes.”
“Oh, Francesca, I think I’ve seen enough of you to know you are definitely not a bottle blonde.”
The ocean-scented air is thick with humidity when we get outside, and the wall of people block both the breeze and the view. Skipping makeup was one of my better ideas, but I wish I had worn my hair up. The scarf was fine for the car, but it isn’t suited for South Beach.
Darian lowers my glasses over my eyes and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “It’s miserable down here,” he says, “but we’re going up.”
We come to a set of stairs. Darian releases my waist for my hand and climbs ahead of me to the roof deck. A hostess greets us when we reach the top.
“Mr. Fox, so nice to see you again,” she says. “Right this way.”
We’re escorted to a reserved table, close to the edge with an unobstructed view of the ocean. Even with the chaos of spring break, it’s breathtaking. I follow Darian’s gaze to the stage below.
Another unobstructed view, I think, smiling. I give him a questioning look.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re playing the VIP card,” I say as I push myself onto the bar-height chair. “I thought you weren’t Darian Fox, CEO, today.”
He leans over the railing and shakes his head. “I’m also not twenty-one with finals next month.”
I cross my arms at that, eyebrows raised.
“Nineteen. I’m not nineteen.” He laughs. “It’s hot as hell down there and there’s a high possibility of being vomited on.”
“Valid reasons.” I wrinkle my nose. “Graphic but valid.”
A server appears at our table with a beverage cart, and Darian takes his seat.
“I also appreciate bottle service.” He picks up a sprig of mint from the cart and rolls it between his fingers. The fresh scent permeates the salty, sticky air. “I believe I promised you mojitos, Ms. Valentine.”
Two bands and two mojitos in, I’m kicked back with my feet resting on Darian’s lap. There’s just enough of a breeze to make it bearable and I’m beyond grateful he played his VIP card.
“You’re smiling,” Darian says.
“I am? I guess I’m happy.” I pull off my sunglasses and set them on the table. “I liked that last band. Who were they?”
“Ela-ment,” he says.
“Element?”
“Kind of. It’s Ela and ment. Ela-ment. It’s a play on the lead singer’s name.” He rolls his eyes and I laugh. “It was a battle I chose not to fight.”
“That’s the one,” I say, pointing to his chest. “That’s the T-shirt you should start with.”
He juts his chin toward the railing. “I think you’d have a better chance of getting me to wear this band.”
The familiar intro of Cross to Bear’s opening number rises from the stage below and the same giddy expression I wore in Austin returns.
Darian laughs. “Come on,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
I jump down from my chair, and he cages me against the railing.
“I can get you to the stage if you’re interested,” he says.
“You’d risk sorority-girl vomit for me?”
His smile is sincere. “Without question.”
The seriousness of his tone gives me a shiver. I smooth my hands over my arms and settle against his chest.
“That’s okay,” I say with a grin. “I’m good here.”
We stay just like that for the entire set. CTB finishes with an acoustic version of The Doors’ “Love Her Madly.”
Darian lowers his lips to my ear. “Aside from their encore genius, what is it about this band you find so appealing?”
I tilt my head back and peer up at him. “Shame on you, Mr. Fox. You represent them, and you don’t know?”
“I know all I need to know; they’re a lucrative asset.”
I give him a glare and his face breaks into a smile.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “The truth is, the label’s been doing some restructuring and CTB is Amanda’s find. I gave her free rein.” He slides his arms around my waist. “But I asked why you liked them.”
I turn back to the stage. “It’s their lyrics. Their music feels light on the surface, but their lyrics are anything but.”
“Amanda says they’re unapologetic.”
“She’s right. Their melodies give nothing away and they don’t explain themselves. They sing to their fans, even now with their newfound fame.”
“Finally, someone who gets it.” Amanda’s voice is unmistakable as it creeps up behind us like a lioness stalking her prey.
I knew avoiding her would be impossible. Darian and I slowly turn around. Our matching grins are forced.
“I’ve been trying to explain their appeal to Darian here for some time now,” she says.
“Amanda.” Darian’s tone borders on curt, but his smile remains. “Everything running smoothly?”
I take my seat at the table to watch the back and forth, but my eyes stay fixed on Amanda, on her perfect hair and her perfectly made-up face. Aside from the occasional gust of wind, it’s hot—really hot—and her makeup isn’t even running.
She called me a kid so I have to assume she’s closer to Darian’s age than mine, but she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. Her golden-brown skin is flawless and not a single strand of her long, silky espresso-colored hair is out of place. She’s still dressed in the same business attire she had on earlier—a fitted black skirt that hits just above the knee and a sleeveless ivory blouse. Her long legs are toned and end in the same pair of four-inch heels that clicked around Darian’s house. I shake my head. Who wears four-inch heels to the beach?
She’s stunning, and I can’t help feeling just a little bit jealous. Despite Darian’s obvious irritation with her, they have a history. Bickering aside, I get the sense he cares about her.
“Of course everything’s running smoothly,” Amanda says. “I’m here. What did you expect?”
Darian sits across from me and rubs his fingers over his jaw. “You’re right, Amanda. I dumped this in your lap and I’m sorry.”
“Will you be back in the office on Monday?” she asks. Her voice softens, like she feels bad for hounding him. “We need to talk about Flight Risk.”
“I’ll be in on Monday.”
I take a long sip of my watered-down mojito. Amanda’s gaze shifts to me, and I can feel the jab before it comes.
“You two have a great time. And beware of the mojitos, Frankie. They do have alcohol in them. They’ll sneak up on you if you’re not careful.”
“She’s fun,” I say to Darian as soon as Amanda’s out of earshot.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s got a stick up her ass.”
“Why is that exactly?”
Darian stands to signal our server, and I lean forward, my arms resting on the table.
“Darian, seriously. Did something happen between you two?”
He heaves a long sigh as he lowers into his chair.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my—”
“It was a long time ago, Francesca. I already told you part of it…the girls? Amanda, well…” He pauses, tracing his finger around the lip of his glass. “She was the one who—she helped me.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and he turns his head away from me. “Let’s just say, I owe her a lot.”
“Did you have feelings for her? Do you have feelings for her?” The words sound brittle as they leave my mouth, and I immediately wish I could take them back.
“No, Francesca, it wasn’t like that. I swear to you nothing’s happened between us in five years. And nothing’s going to. I was a mess back then.” He looks down at his fingers now steepled on the table. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. We’ve both moved on.”
“I’m not sure she has,” I say gently.
“You’re the first girl I’ve brought around. She might be a little jealous; I don’t know. But if she is, it’s only because she’s used to having my full attention, and lately, she hasn’t had it at all.” He lifts his head, and his eyes briefly meet mine before he shakes open his sunglasses and slides them on. “She doesn’t understand we’re just hanging out, having a little extracurricular fun. She’ll have me back soon enough.”
I think he means to comfort me, but he manages to do the exact opposite. His emotionless words and their easy delivery sting, and all I’m left with is a reminder that this is temporary.
We’re temporary.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Darian says, pushing to his feet. “You ready?”
When I go back to Texas, he’ll go back to normal, but I don’t think anything will ever be normal for me again.