Frankie
“So, Ms. Valentine,” Darian says, “it’s only six and our dinner reservations aren’t until nine. What should we do with all this free time?”
His eyes sparkle with mischief and his smile is hard to resist, but our last conversation still smarts like a fresh wound.
I rummage through our suitcase at the foot of the king-size bed. “Actually, I’d like a bath.”
He saunters toward me. “I’m up for a bath.”
“Rain check?” I ask, pulling out my toiletry bag. “I just need…”
“No, of course. It’s okay. Rain check.”
I can’t believe I just turned down hot bathtub sex. And this bathtub is big enough to get dirty in. It’s bigger than the one at The Mendón, which I struggle to believe even though I’m sitting in it.
I lie back against the sharp-edged marble and grip the sides to keep my chin above the bubbles. The position I’m in strains my arms and the vanilla scent of the hotel’s body wash is cloying.
I laugh at the absurdity. This is the most anticlimactic bath I’ve ever taken, and it’s my fault because I just had to take it alone.
You are alone.
I blink the thought away. I’m just…out of my comfort zone. Strange place. Strange man. Strange feelings swirling inside me.
“She doesn’t understand we’re just hanging out, having a little extracurricular fun. She’ll have me back soon enough.”
Darian’s words affect me on a level I don’t understand. He’s clearly not interested in her; I have no reason to be jealous.
“Don’t let her get to you.”
She’s not, but something is.
My eyes and throat ache. I actually feel like I could cry right now, which is completely ridiculous. It’s been ten years, and there’s absolutely no indication he’ll ever be ready for—
Fuck.
The tub turns into a wave pool, water splashing over the side as I jerk forward. I pull my knees to my chin and fold my arms around them. My heart pounds so loud in my ears, everything else goes silent.
Are you in love with him?
Everything but that.
Wrapped in plush terry cloth, I stand on the balcony overlooking the Atlantic. The full moon casts a pale yellow ribbon across the water, and if I had a pair of earplugs to block out the noise, it would be idyllic.
“How long have I been asleep?” I hear Darian say, chasing his question with a yawn.
“Almost two hours.” I walk inside and sit on the edge of the bed. “I was about to wake you.”
He kisses my cheek, and then he stands, stretches, and yawns again. “Mojitos,” he says, making a face. “The irony of Amanda’s warning is not lost on me. I’m gonna grab a shower. There’s a dress for you in the wardrobe.”
“A dress? Darian…”
“Francesca…” He holds his hands to his temples and blinks his eyes closed. Mojitos, he mouths as a reminder. “I skipped the pancakes this morning and I’m paying for it now. So please, please don’t…with the dress.”
“Can I get you anything? Some aspirin maybe?”
He smiles. “I’ll be fine. Just need to wake up.”
The dress is burgundy-pink leopard print with a fitted bodice, belted waist, and a full, short skirt. It’s gorgeous, and the insta-love I feel for it borders on maternal.
Don’t look at the tag, Frankie. Don’t look at the—son of a bitch. Doesn’t anyone shop at Old Navy anymore?
The fabric is heavy but smooth against my fingers as it slides from the hanger. I carefully pull down the zipper and step into it, letting it balloon around my body while I strap on my sandals. I style my hair in ringlets that hang in layers down my back and paint my eyes a little darker than usual. And, because I plan to make up for all the kissing I missed out on today, I leave my lips bare.
Darian stirs behind me, and I glance at him over my shoulder.
“Feel better?”
“Much, I…” He pauses. “You look…”
“Help me with my dress?”
“I’ve been dying to see you in this,” he says.
He gently tugs at my zipper, then pulls it up so slowly I swear I can hear each tooth catch. I turn around and he takes a step back.
“You’re…” His words melt away again and he just stares.
I laugh. “Striking, exquisite, splendid, magnificent…”
“Yes.”
The look in his darkening eyes, the intensity, the intent—it steals the air from my lungs. I step around him, crossing the room for our suitcase, and needlessly dig through it while I wait for my breath to return.
“Well, I love it,” I say at last, turning to face the mirror. I meet his reflection with a curious smile. “Tell me the truth. You picked this out?”
He comes up behind me and places his hands on my waist. “It was all me,” he says. “I might have had help with the size, but I picked it. You really like it?”
“I really do.” I turn around. “Thank you. But, Darian, this is it, right? No more lavish gifts, okay?”
“Okay,” he says. “But only because it makes you uncomfortable. I’d buy you a million dresses if you’d let me.”
A warm flush sweeps over my cheeks and a smile breaks between them. “Should we go?” I ask. “We should probably go.”
“We should go.” Darian pulls a sport coat out of the wardrobe and puts it on.
And then I see him, really see him, somehow for the first time tonight, and I have to find my breath again. He’s dressed in a fitted black suit with a light-pink shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, that just happens to go perfectly with my dress. He looks…wow, and he smells…mmm. Like a beach in the Mediterranean. Not that I’ve ever been to the Mediterranean, but if I were to go, I bet this is what it’d smell like.
“New cologne?” I ask.
“It’s Versace. Do you like it?”
Do I like it? I could lick it off him. “If we don’t leave this second, you’ll find out.”
“Point made. Shall we?”
We have dinner in a small Cuban hideaway a few blocks from our hotel. It’s dark but candlelit with a live band and a black and white checkerboard dance floor. We finish our meals, and as the last few dishes are removed Darian pushes back from the table.
“Francesca,” he says, standing. He holds out his hand.
Darian warned me there would be dancing, but I guess I thought a full stomach might change his mind. It hasn’t, and I find myself being lured from my chair by a firm grip and a sexy smile.
“I’m afraid I’m going to embarrass you,” I say.
“Impossible.” He pulls me against him, one hand holding mine, the other flat against my back. “All you need to do is hang on.”
Easier said than done, I think to myself, but before I can say the words out loud, we’re gliding across the dance floor.
The man can dance, and somehow, with him leading me, so can I.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” I ask.
He pulls me into a spin and I follow easily.
“My mom loved to dance,” he says, “and she made it her mission to teach me. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember.”
The song is beautiful even if I can’t understand the Spanish lyrics. Darian lowers his mouth to my ear and translates them for me. It’s about a woman who moves on from a failed relationship and a man who can’t.
Will that be us one day? I’ll eventually move on, and Darian—no. I’ll never be the girl he can’t overcome.
Wow, Frankie, what’s happening to you?
I close my eyes and lay my head against his chest. The tempo is quick, picking up speed as the song progresses. Darian leads me effortlessly, his arms guiding me as he shifts his weight with each deliberate step. Not an inch of the dance floor is spared.
By the time the song ends, Darian’s heart is hammering beneath my ear and mine is matching it beat for beat. I step back to suck in a breath, and our gazes lock. His eyes are dark and glistening, his lips parted. He clears his throat, and it makes a deep, raspy sound.
“Francesca…”
“Darian, I think we should…”
“I’m on it.”
Darian pays the tab, and then we’re out the door, racing toward our hotel. The sidewalks are thick with late-night spring breakers. We weave through them, laughing, as the neon lights of South Beach zoom past us in a blur of color.
“Wait, stop,” I say, tugging on Darian’s hand. I pull off my shoes and curl my fingers around the straps. “Okay, I’m good.”
He smiles. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
We arrive red-faced and winded. The doorman flashes a knowing grin as we rush inside, and I swear a hundred eyes follow us across the lobby.
“It’s like they know,” I whisper once we’re in the elevator.
Darian laughs. “They can’t possibly know what I’m going to do to you once I get you alone.”
“We’re alone now.”
His lips curve into a grin as he drives me against the back wall of the elevator. His fingers trail up my thigh, beneath my dress and just inside my panties.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he says. His voice is a growl against my neck, and his warm breath tickling my skin makes my body shudder.
My forehead falls against his chest and I moan softly. “Why can’t we be in the room already?”
“Fuck, I know.”
The elevator stops eight floors too soon. Darian jerks his hand away and I straighten my dress. The doors slide open, and an older couple wearing bathrobes and water shoes steps inside.
“Are you going down?” Darian says through a clenched jaw. “Because we’re going up.”
The short, copper-haired woman waves a dismissive hand. “We don’t mind, dear. We can go up first.” She pokes her head in the bag she’s carrying and comes back with a tube of lipstick. “You two been here long?” she says. “We just got here today.”
The bearded man beside her nods. “We’re on our honeymoon. We eloped. You married?” He glances at my hand. “Don’t see a ring.”
“Maybe they’ll get engaged while they’re here,” the woman says, her eyes widening. “Or married…on the beach. Wouldn’t that be lovely? We got married in Vegas”—she clutches her chest, placing her impossible-to-miss sparkly diamond on full display—“by Elvis.”
Darian winces, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing.
I slide my fingers through his. “Congratulations.”
The woman paints her lips fire-engine red and then drops the lipstick back in her bag. “Where are you kids from?”
Darian opens his mouth, then shuts it when I squeeze his hand.
“We’re from Texas,” I say in my best southern drawl. “Here for the big South Beach Bull Ridin’ Championship.” I nudge Darian’s arm. “Buddy Lee here is a real live rodeo clown. Ain’t that right, Buddy Lee?”
The elevator dings, and Darian yanks me forward. “It was real nice meetin’ y’all,” he says as the doors open.
Laughter bursts out of me the second they close. “You have the worst accent ever.”
“Yours is pretty fucking hot.”
Darian tightens his grip on my hand and pulls me down the hall toward our suite. His feet work in long strides, and I wonder if it would be easier if he just carried me. When we reach our door, he digs the key card out of his pocket and tries it four times without success before I take it from him.
“What the hell is wrong with our key?” he says, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“You can’t force it.” I gently swipe the card. The green light comes on and I open the door. “See?”
“I didn’t force it.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair.
“I think you forced it a little, Buddy Lee.”
He laughs. “Rodeo clown? Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Rodeo clowns are hot.”
Darian unbuttons his shirt as we move toward the bedroom. “You sayin’ I’m hot?”
A giggle climbs up my throat, but I swallow it down when I feel his hands on my waist. He spins me around and pulls me flush against him. His erection is hard against me as he walks me backward the rest of the way.
“I’ve been waiting to help you out of this dress since the moment I helped you into it,” he says, his voice gravelly and deep.
My calves hit the bed and I go for his belt, quickly unfastening it before moving on to his pants.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to fuck you right now?” He reaches behind me and unzips my dress. “How hard I want to fuck you?”
The loud thrumming in my ears is muted by his moans, by his lips against my neck as he brushes the straps from my shoulders. My dress drops to my feet and he turns me around.
“Get on the bed, Francesca,” he says. “Knees and elbows on the mattress.”
Anticipation and desire flow through me like lava in my veins. I do as he says.
“Now spread your legs.” His command is a whisper against my spine. He slips his fingers inside the waistband of my panties, and I feel the cool air kiss my bare skin as they come off. “You’re so fucking hot right now,” he says, leaning over me. His warm breath tickles my ear as his hand clutches my waist. “You might want to hold on.”
Darian slams into me with such force, I’m propelled forward, my arms flying out from under me. I push onto my elbows and grip fistfuls of the bedding for support. He doesn’t hold back. He fucks me. Hard. It isn’t romantic. It isn’t patient or sweet. It’s just sex…and I like it.
See? You’re not in love with him. You’re just attracted to him.
We collapse on the bed, breathless and sated.
Darian works his fingers through my dampened hair. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I didn’t mean to be so rough. I got caught up in the moment.” Holding his hand to my jaw, he leans in and kisses me. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He returns with a warm, damp washcloth and gently cleans me up before getting into bed. It’s a gesture that’s the opposite of rough; it’s almost…repentant.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Of course.” He smiles. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
We both lie down and he pulls me against him, his arms wrapped tightly around me, our legs intertwined. The room is dark but for the faint glow of the alarm clock. I can still make out his face, his pinched features, his wrinkled brow. He looks anxious. And he’s watching me like he’s afraid I might break.
I promise, Darian, I’m fine.
“What is it about you?” he whispers.
“What do you mean?”
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, then closes his eyes. “Nothing. Goodnight, Francesca. Get some sleep.”
Get some sleep?
At almost four a.m., it’s become clear I’m not getting any sleep. You can’t say something like that to a girl—especially this girl—and follow it with ‘nothing.’
Well, Frankie, Darian just did…three hours and twenty-six minutes ago.
I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the sliver of light cutting across the ceiling. My mind spins with maybes until the throbbing in my head syncs to the pounding in my heart.
Maybe he literally meant nothing.
That’s the most likely scenario, I think as I roll on my side to face him. We’re just temporary.
As if he knows I’m there, Darian inches closer. My whispered name spills from his lips and a smile tugs at mine. He’s dreaming about me.
Maybe we’re just temporarily temporary…
“Of course I want her to end up with Blane, but every girl across the globe knows she should pick Duckie,” I proclaim from the top of my Pretty in Pink soapbox.
“But she doesn’t love Duckie.” Darian sifts through our bowl of popcorn for the perfect piece to throw at me. “She’s willing to wait. For him.”
I pluck the popcorn out of my hair and throw it back. “Obviously this is a movie, but in the real world, Blane will always be Blane. She needs to give up on him and fall for Duckie.”
Darian squints at the midday sun coming through the balcony doors. He climbs off the bed and walks toward them. “I used to be Blane,” he says, drawing the drapes closed. The room darkens and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I watch Darian’s face as he returns to the bed expecting to see a smirk or a grin, but his expression is serious.
“Hold up.” I roll onto my stomach with a pillow tucked beneath me. “What do you mean you used to be Blane?”
“I was that asshole in high school.” He lies down on the bed, stretching on his side to face me. “My parents enrolled me in private school and it molded me into an arrogant prick.” The look he shoots me says, Hard to believe, I know. “My mom was always throwing parties and charity events, and she used the same florist for all of them. The owner’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Julia, worked there part-time, and my mom became very close to her. She even tried to set us up once, but I refused.”
“Julia, Julia?” I say before I can stop myself.
Darian smiles. “Julia, Julia.” A long swallow slides down his throat and his gaze falls to the bed. “I wasn’t about to be seen with a working girl without a pedigree,” he says, pulling at the sheet, twisting it between his fingers. “I totally disgusted my mom. She was convinced it was the private school’s influence so she yanked me out and threw me in public school. Julia’s school. To say I was pissed would be an understatement.” He looks at me then. “And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, summer came along and Mom got me a job with the florist making deliveries.”
“Sounds like you had a good mom.”
Darian rolls onto his back, his arms folded beneath his head. “I had a great mom,” he says. “She was perfect.”
The movie plays softly, like white noise in the background. It’s the scene where Andie’s father gives her the dress.
“I promise to do better than that,” my dad once said to me.
Little did he know, I thought Andie’s dad was perfect. I thought my dad was perfect too.
“Jules was impossible not to fall for,” Darian says gently. “Believe me, I tried. She was everything I wasn’t—kind, funny, good.” He laughs. “And she wasn’t intimidated by me at all. We both fell, hard and fast, but I was torn between my fucked-up pride and my feelings for her.” He turns his head toward me and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “She loved me though, and she waited. Eventually I came to my senses and married her. I’m glad she didn’t give up on me. I’m glad she didn’t settle for Duckie.”
I curl into Darian’s side. He closes his hand over mine and holds it against his heart.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I whisper.
“Andie knows her happiness lies with Blane,” he says, “even if he never comes to his senses.”
Never?