Frankie
Two whole days in South Beach, and we never once stepped in the sand or stuck our toes in the water. Not that I minded. A day in bed with Darian at The Ritz-Carlton was a nice alternative. Still, he’s determined to make it up to me with a sun-filled day by the pool.
“I’m waiting, Francesca! One more minute and I’m throwing you in!”
“Keep your trunks on, Fox! I’ll be right there!”
I exit the house in my new bikini with my sunglasses low on my nose. Darian blows a whistle through his teeth.
“I have impeccable taste,” he says from behind the grill.
The smoky scent fills the patio and makes my stomach rumble. “How are the burgers coming?” I ask. “I’m starving.”
“Patience, babe. You can’t rush perfection.”
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is almost directly overhead. It’s warm but not quite as humid and sticky as it’s been. Darian pulls off his T-shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow. His chest is golden and glistening.
“Come here and check these out,” he says. He pulls his shades out of his back pocket and slides them on.
I smile. “I’ve seen burgers before.”
“Then come here and let me check you out.”
My smile blooms to a grin as I walk toward him. He picks up the remote sitting on the counter beside the grill and aims it toward the music system. The Doors come on.
“All Doors, all day, baby,” he says, holding out his hand.
I take it and he spins me once before pulling me into his arms, serenading me with “Light My Fire.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him sing, and it does something low in my belly that makes me want to skip lunch and go straight to dessert. I circle my arms around his neck and push up on my toes. “I love your voice.”
He bends to me, our noses barely touching, and continues to sing. I stop him with a kiss. His hands slide down the bare skin of my back to grip my ass through the stretchy fabric of my bikini bottoms. He moans against my mouth and my lips part—an open invitation for his tongue. The stubble on his chin chafes my skin in the best possible way, and I’m eager to feel the sensation between my thighs.
“Maybe we should save the burgers for later,” I say. “Like tomorrow. Burgers are better for breakfast anyway.”
“Oh shit, the burgers.” Darian wrenches away from me and turns back to the grill. “You little seductress.”
I shrug. “Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“John and I got a good thing going on over here,” he says, tapping the side of the pit with his spatula. Then he points it at me. “Don’t Yoko this band.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Paul,” I say over my shoulder as I take off toward the pool. I dip my foot in the cool water and gradually ease in until I’m standing waist-deep, walking on my toes toward a lounger.
“Back Door Man” follows “Light My Fire” and the backyard comes to life with a little bluesy southern sin. So does Darian’s foot, tapping away as he sings into his spatula.
“And I thought you were starving,” he says over the music. “Breakfast is forever from now and it’s”—he scrunches up his nose—“breakfast. No one eats burgers in the morning.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“Fine,” he says, holding up his makeshift microphone. “Sometime soon I promise we’ll have burgers for breakfast. Deal?”
“Deal.”
He returns to his band. The boy plays a mean air-guitar, and his voice, raspy and growly and just plain sultry, is affecting me in much the same way his fingers did in the elevator of the hotel. I can only imagine what he must have been like onstage, and I’m sure, when I’m back home, alone in my bed, I will imagine it often.
I climb onto the lounger and paddle to the edge nearest the outdoor kitchen to watch my dancing, singing, burger-flipping Adonis.
“I can definitely eat,” I mumble to myself. Floating in the pool, watching Darian cook for me while he puts on a mini Doors concert, makes me hungry for a lot of things.
The loud thump of the lid slamming shut interrupts my ogling.
“Now we wait,” he says.
I prop myself up on an elbow. “Wait? Why? You’re making burgers, not brisket.”
“Never question the master,” he says, eyeing me over the rim of his sunglasses.
He walks to the far end of the pool and, with a running start, jumps onto the remaining lounger. He surfs halfway to the other side before falling in. When his head pops out of the water, he shakes it hard enough to splash me.
“You are seriously going to hurt yourself,” I say, clearing the water droplets from my shades and then putting them back on.
Darian swims toward me. “Are you worried about me?” His smile is a playful smirk.
“I just mean…at your age.”
With raised eyebrows, he submerges the side of my float and I roll into his arms. “Are you calling me old?”
“I’d never,” I say with a teasing grin.
I laugh and splash and wiggle as he carries me to the deep end, but as hard as I try, I’m no match for him as he throws me into the water. By the time I make it back to the other side, he’s hijacked my float. I shoot him a threatening look.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says.
I don’t. Instead I climb onto his pretend surfboard and paddle to him. He reaches for my hand. We float beside each other with laced fingers as Morrison sings to us beneath the Miami sun.
I tilt my head to Darian. “I’m so happy I came.”
And it’s going to hurt like hell to leave.
He smiles. “Me too, Francesca.”
“Oh, baby. Hold on. Let me help you,” Darian says in the early morning as he tries to untangle me from the bedding. “Didn’t you use sunscreen?”
“Yes I used sunscreen.” Once. The sight of my lobster-tinted arms makes me queasy. My skin’s on fire and everything aches. “I guess it wore off in the pool.”
“I should have said something. That coastal breeze can be deceptive.” He balls up the comforter and tosses it on the floor, then loosely covers me with a sheet. “Just try not to move.” His voice rings from the bathroom. “I’ll take care of you.”
I notice the sheet marks embedded in my arm and sigh. “I look like I just woke up from a nap in an incinerator.”
Darian clears his throat to suppress a laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Here, take these,” he says, pulling back the sheet I’m trying to hide under. He hands me a couple ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Francesca, you could be green and covered in scales and you’d still be beautiful.”
I blush, but who can tell?
Darian reaches for the hem of my shirt and I freeze with fear.
“I’ve got aloe,” he says, pointing to the bottle on the nightstand. “I promise not to attack you.”
I curl my lip. “I hate aloe.”
“You need aloe.” With careful hands, he smooths the sticky green gunk over my burn, beginning with my forehead and ending with my toes. “Can you roll over?”
I do, and he gets my back.
He tosses the bottle on the bed and fans the sheet over me. “It’s not so bad when it’s dry.”
I shiver, but aside from the initial chill, it makes me feel better.
He’s so sweet, I think to myself as he lies down beside me and combs the tacky strands of hair away from my face.
But then he slides his hand in his pocket and, with a smug smile, pulls out a remote. He presses a button and the room fills with “Blister in the Sun.”
“Really?”
“I’m sorry. That was mean,” he says, turning the volume down a notch.
He carefully wraps his arm around me and I snuggle into him. Just as sleep begins to pull at me, the Violent Femmes are replaced with Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”
I elbow Darian in the gut.
He laughs. “Are you hungry?”
I ignore him.
“I’ll feed you.”
I perk up.
Welcome back, sweet Darian.
Darian makes it so easy to get swept up in the fantasy of being here, I tend to ignore the reality of going home. But it still gnaws at me—like a little voice in the back of my mind warning me not to get attached. And standing here in the guest room closet with my gaze fixed on my duffel, I realize just how attached I am.
My dad used to say, “Get out while the gettin’s good.” But the last time the ‘gettin’ was good’ was the day I left Austin.
“I want to move your things upstairs,” Darian says, the sudden sound of his voice jerking me from my thoughts. “I was going to do it yesterday, but I got distracted with your sunburn.”
I step over my bag and lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed. “It’s okay. I don’t mind coming downstairs. It’s not like I’m going to be here that much longer anyway.” The words spill from my lips before I can stop them, and the look on Darian’s face makes me wish I could take them back.
He sags against the wall and rakes a hand through his hair. “You’re leaving soon?”
“Not right this second, but I can’t stay forever. Besides, you have to work this week, and I should at least pretend to.”
“Do you want me to take off? Is that it?” He paces back and forth in front of the door. “I will if—”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It hasn’t even been a full week.”
“It will be tomorrow.” My eyes are drawn to his feet, to the heels of his Chucks kicking at the wall behind him.
“Do you want to go?”
“No.” My voice splinters. “I don’t.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “Go take your shower. I have a few things to take care of down here and then I’ll be up to smother you in more aloe.”
His smile is seductive, and I wonder if maybe he said chocolate and I just heard aloe. Crossing my fingers.
After grabbing a few things from my bag, I head upstairs for a lukewarm shower and then slip into a baggy T-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. When I step out of the bathroom, I notice my clothes are stacked in folded piles on Darian’s bed. He’s at his desk, a small secretary in the corner of the room, plugging in my laptop.
“You can work in here this week. The entire property is set up with wireless, so really you can work anywhere, but if you’d like an actual workspace, you can use this,” he says, never lifting his head. “I got you some notepads and pens. A stapler, paper clips…can you think of anything else you might need? I can hook up a landline if you want. Oh, you’ll need a mouse.” He turns toward the door. “I think I have an extra one in my—”
“Darian, wait. This is fine. Thank you.”
“It’s absurd for your stuff to be down there when you’re up here,” he says. “I meant well, but I don’t know what I was thinking.” He moves to his bed, collects my clothes, and carries them to his closet. “You only had a few things left in the bathroom. I put them on the dresser.”
Part of me wants to do cartwheels through the backyard, but the other part of me wants to hide in the closet right along with my clothes. I know it’s just stuff. And I know it’s only for a few more days, but the gesture feels…
“You’re set up to work, and everything you need will be right here. There’s no reason not to stay a little longer.”
Confusing. I think we’re back to confusing.
“Now lose your clothes and hop on the bed,” Darian says, holding up a bottle of cocoa butter.
I feel like I’m teetering on a tightrope and I’m not sure which way I’m going to fall, only that I will.
“No aloe?” I ask.
He smiles. “No aloe.”
Then hold on tighter, Frankie.
Darian’s doing everything he can to make me stay. He wants me here, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.
What’s so confusing about that?
I take off my shirt, quickly crossing my arms over my bare chest. I lie down on top of the covers, wearing nothing but my underwear.
Darian climbs on the bed and straddles my thighs. He sets the bottle of cocoa butter on the nightstand and pumps a little into his hand.
“The red’s fading,” he says, gently rubbing the lotion into my forehead and cheeks. He continues down my neck, paying special attention to my shoulders. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he peels my arms from my chest. “No hiding.”
No hiding.
I laugh as he spreads lotion over my completely sun-deprived breasts.
“Sorry, Francesca, I can’t help myself. Coincidentally, the fun parts are all burn-free.”
The morning sneaks up on me, and I’m pulled from perfect sleep by Ellie Goulding belting out “Burn” through Darian’s alarm clock. It’s still dark. I can’t see him, but I can feel him chuckling beside me.
“It wasn’t me this time, I swear.” His arm slides around my waist and he carefully pulls me against him.
“Are you saying Mr. Classic Rock keeps his alarm preset to a pop station?”
“It’s the only thing awful enough to make me want to get out of bed.”
I laugh. “At least it isn’t Kenny G.”
He buries his face in my hair and presses a smile against my healing shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” I say. “But can you do something about Ellie?”
He leans away from me, his hand flailing behind him until the song is silenced. “Ten more minutes.”
I roll over and curl into the hollow of his chest. I can still smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin from yesterday’s shower. His stubble scratches my forehead as he kisses it, and he’s warm. His body against mine is like my own personal furnace. Waking up with him is even better than falling asleep with him, and though my head is telling me it’s time to go, my heart begs for more mornings like this.
“I can’t bail on Amanda today,” he says. “God I want to, but I can’t.”
“I know. I’d never ask you to.” I find his hand and twine our fingers. “I have stuff to do too. Real world and all.”
We lie just like that for another ten perfect minutes until the morning Miami traffic chimes in to ruin it.
Darian makes a grunting noise as he pulls away from me. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Go back to sleep.”
His bed feels vast and empty without him, much less appealing than it was only minutes ago. I kick off the covers and sit on the edge of the mattress, my hand fumbling clumsily for the lamp switch. Darian’s Pantera T-shirt is on the floor by my foot. I pull it over my head and then dig through his drawers until I find where he put my underwear.
The house is dark and unfamiliar this early in the morning as I pad down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen. The sun is just beginning to rise and the moon is in its final hour, illuminating the sleepy backyard in wan light.
I turn on the Keurig and rummage through the freezer for Gloria’s premade breakfast tacos. I heat two in the microwave, and I’m wrapping the second one in foil when Darian finds me. He’s dressed in slim-fit light gray pants and a deep purple dress shirt.
“You look nice,” I say over my shoulder as he walks toward me.
His eyes roll up and down my body in a way I will never tire of. “Mmm, so do you.” He turns me around to face him, slips his hands beneath the hem of my T-shirt—his T-shirt—and cages me against the counter. His lips meet mine in an eager but brief kiss that ends in a lazy smile. “What’s all this?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
He unwraps the taco I’m holding and takes a bite. “Thank you. I’m starving,” he says, a hand over his mouth as he swallows.
The Keurig gurgles to life, and I fill his travel mug with fresh coffee. “I’m not sure how much milk…”
“None actually,” he says. “Café con leche is a little rich for me this early. Please don’t tell Gloria.”
A frown pulls at my face. “We’ve spent weeks together now. How did I not know that?”
“Always on different schedules, I guess,” he says, spooning a little sugar into his cup. “I don’t drink coffee all the time, but when I do, just a little sugar, no cream.”
I smile. “Sugar, no cream. Got it.”
“I’m not placing an order,” he says, laughing. “I just wanted you to know something insignificant about me.”
“Nothing about you is insignificant,” I say aloud even though I only meant to think it. I turn abruptly to the refrigerator and take out a Diet Coke.
“I like being on the same schedule as you,” he says. “But you don’t have to get up with me. The sun isn’t even up yet.”
“I don’t mind.” I pop open my soda, take a long pull, and then set the bottle on the counter. “When’s Gloria coming back?”
“Not until I ask her to,” he says. “I told her to take some time off—unless you want her here?”
“I don’t mind her here at all, but I’m totally fine on my own.”
Darian screws the lid closed on his travel mug and picks up his second taco. “I should get going. Call me if you need anything, okay?” He gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Okay.” I follow him as far as the family room and lean against the sofa with my arms crossed. “Have a good day, dear.”
I grimace. Really, Frankie?
Darian turns, and it’s happiness, not amusement, I find in his smile. “You too.”
Frankie: I like him, Jane.
Jane: You more than like him. You’re in love with him.
Frankie: I’m not in love with him.
Jane: Are you sure about that?
“Damn, Francesca. It smells amazing in here,” Darian calls from the family room.
I set my pen on the mess of paperwork in front of me and rotate my barstool toward his voice. He appears in the kitchen, carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.
A smile spreads over my face. “Hot date?”
“The hottest,” he says, striding purposefully toward me. He sets the wine and flowers on the counter and draws me into a slow, mind-numbing kiss. “I missed you today.”
“I missed you too.”
My legs circle his waist and my fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him back to me. His mouth opens in a smile against my lips and I slip my tongue inside. He leans closer, a gruff moan vibrating from his throat, and dinner is all but forgotten.
By me anyway.
Darian pulls back and his eyes cut to the stove. “I think something might be burning.”
The smell of scorched tomatoes wafts through the air and I bolt from the barstool. The sauce is bubbling over the side.
“Oh no!” I turn off the flame and grab the wooden spoon off the counter to test the bottom of the pan. “Thank God.”
Just the splatter that leaked onto the burner is burned; the sauce is fine. I smile in relief and then look up to find Darian watching me with an amused smirk.
“It’s your fault,” I say. “You distracted me.”
“If I remember correctly, it was your tongue working its way into my mouth.”
“Semantics.”
He comes up behind me, snakes his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. I dip the spoon in the sauce and give him a taste.
“I thought you couldn’t cook,” he says.
“I don’t cook very often, but I can. My dad cooked some, and I spent a lot of time at the diner as a kid. Much of it in the kitchen.”
“I’d say it paid off. This sauce is fantastic. Spaghetti?”
I nod.
He steals the spoon from me and takes another bite. “So what did you do today besides slave over the stove?”
I shoot a glance at the stack of papers on the other side of the island. “I started working on an Easter brunch for an old client.”
“Consulting?”
I smile. “I quit for a while, but I miss it.”
“Good for you.” Darian starts toward my spot at the bar. “Can I see?”
“Sure. I don’t have much. Just some break-the-ice party game I’m toying with.” I open the cabinet beneath the stove, looking for a spaghetti pot but find sheet pans and baking dishes instead. “Where’s your—”
“Try the one on the right.” He sits on the barstool, hunched over my notes, his chin resting on the back of his hand.
“My client has kind of an uptight family, and most of them don’t drink. We have to come up with creative ways to get everyone to loosen up.” I take the spaghetti pot to the sink and turn on the water. “Booze is best, but when that fails, give them games.”
“How do you play?”
As soon as the pot fills, I set it on the stove to boil and walk over to him. “Those are prompts,” I say of the list he’s holding, “and they go inside plastic Easter eggs to be drawn and answered at random.”
Darian sits back in his chair and studies the page. His stern expression makes me anxious, especially since this is the first consulting project I’ve attempted in almost a year. I lean over the counter, my elbows propped on the granite.
“Huh,” he says.
“Is it lame? I was just brainstorming. I might—”
“Not at all.” His eyes trail his index finger down the page. “Favorite color…last thing that made you laugh…books or TV—that’s obvious…” He stops and a smile tugs at his lips. “Here’s one,” he says, glancing over at me. “Favorite movie.”
My cheeks heat. Now it’s Pretty in Pink, but I’m not about to admit it. “Dirty Dancing,” I say, then wince at my lack of originality.
Darian grins. “I actually like Dirty Dancing. It’s one of the only chick flicks Drew can get me to watch.”
“Wait…Drew makes you watch chick flicks with him?”
“Drew thinks chick flicks and romance novels give him an edge with the ladies. It started as research, but now he’s a die-hard fan.”
“So this works for him? This misguided insight into the female psyche?”
Darian cocks his head. “I don’t know that I’d call it misguided. He’s rarely free on a Saturday night, if you know what I mean.” His lips curl into a devilish grin. “So what about me? Do you think I’ve learned anything by association?” Before I can answer, he slides off the barstool and circles back to the stove. “Water’s boiling. You ready to eat?”
“I’ve got this,” I say, opening a package of spaghetti. “You do the wine. And don’t leave me hanging. What’s your favorite movie?” My hand juts out in front of me, stopping him. “Wait, don’t tell me. I saw a lightsaber in your office.”
He grins, and I know I’ve got him.
“Star Wars,” I say, dumping the pasta in the boiling water.
I love that he’s as unoriginal as I am. Every girl’s favorite movie is Dirty Dancing, and every boy’s is Star Wars—or so I hear.
“Not just any Star Wars. The Empire Strikes Back.”
“Please. Same thing.”
The cork makes a faint pop as he opens the wine. He begins to pour, then stops and sets the bottle down. “Did you just say, ‘same thing’?” His pupils stretch wide and he points to the door. “Get out. Get out of my house until you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I think your buns are wound a little tight there, Princess Leia.” I grab the bottle and pour my own glass of wine.
I’m not going anywhere.
Yet.
The next morning, it’s Miley Cyrus who drives us from the bed.
“Ellie’s one thing,” I tell Darian while pulling my T-shirt over a pair of shorts. “Miley’s another. I was kidding yesterday, but if I wake up to Kenny G tomorrow I’m confiscating your clock.”
He shoots me a mock glare as he passes me for the bathroom. “Shouldn’t you be making breakfast or something?”
I laugh. “Hungry for anything in particular?”
“Francesca,” he says. “I was teasing. You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I like cooking for you. It’s cooking for myself that gets old.”
Darian turns around in the doorway and leans against the frame. “Well, when you put it that way,” he says, grinning. “Something sweet? Your Easter project has me craving Peeps.”
“I don’t think I can top Peeps, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“This is nice,” he says.
“What’s nice?”
“Waking up with you.”
I smile. “Yeah, it is.”
I head downstairs into a very quiet, very dark kitchen. The sun hasn’t even begun to rise. I flip on the light and the Keurig, then stand in the pantry with my arms crossed.
Something sweet. Hmm…
What’s sweet that doesn’t have to be made from scratch?
The only thing that stands out to me is a loaf of bread.
When’s the last time you had cinnamon toast, Darian?
After rummaging through rows of spices, I finally find the cinnamon hiding behind several cans of misplaced peas on what appears to be the small appliance shelf.
When’s the last time you had cinnamon?
And directly behind that, I find a pink Minnie Mouse PEZ dispenser.
Oh my God. It’s so cute. Jacob would flip if it were Mickey.
I pick it up and blow off the dust. It’s filthy. What is that, mud? “I think you need a bath.”
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus, Darian,” I say, my heart thumping in my ears as I spin around. “You scared the shit out of me.” I hold up the PEZ dispenser, a wide smile spreading over my lips. “Check this out. I know you wanted Peeps, but look! PEZ! Did you even know you had this?”
Darian’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He slips his hand inside and the vibrating stops.
“It’s a little gross right now,” I say as I examine it, “but if you have an old toothbrush I can…" I quit talking, and my smile slides off my face as my eyes meet Darian’s hard stare. Then it hits me.
It’s Anabel’s.
I look from Darian to the toy and then back again. My body freezes in place, my grip tightening around the grenade in my hand.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean…”
Darian blinks, then clears his throat. “Sorry for what? I don’t even know where it came from.” His phone vibrates again. He ignores it. “Just throw it away. If you’re into PEZ, I’ll get you a new one.” He smiles thinly. “Clean with edible candy.”
I don’t move. My eyes begin to water. It’s hers; I’m sure of it.
Then why would he keep it in there?
“Francesca, throw it away.” His voice is stern this time and it makes me flinch.
“Okay,” I whisper. I uncurl my fingers, and the toy falls in the waste bin. “I was…um…thinking of making cinnamon—”
“Actually, I’m not that hungry,” Darian says, stepping into the pantry. He bends to kiss me. It’s quick. “I’m going to go. I’ve got a meeting I should prepare for.”
“Okay,” I say again.
He adjusts his tie and then grabs his suit jacket from the island. “I shouldn’t be late.”
As soon as I hear the door to the garage close behind him, the tears I was holding back spill over. I slide down the wall of the pantry until I’m on my butt, and then I close my eyes and lean my head against a shelf. Anabel’s sweet cherub face flashes in my mind, just before my father comes into view.
“Frankie, why do you have that, honey?”
I looked in the mirror. Dad’s reflection stood in the doorway of my bedroom holding a cup of coffee. “Have what?”
“That.” He nodded toward the newspaper clipping sitting beside me on the dresser. “A picture of that girl. The one from the crash.”
My heart rate spiked. I didn’t mean to leave it out.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I put on my pink, shimmery lip gloss, the only makeup I was allowed to wear, and smacked my lips together. “I found it in my school stuff. Thought I’d put it in my scrapbook.”
Dad sighed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Frankie. You’re finally doing better. What if the nightmares come back?”
They never left.
“It’s not a big deal, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll just throw it away.” I felt this strange sense of guilt, like I was doing something wrong, but the relief in Dad’s reflection told me I wasn’t. I picked up the newspaper clipping and dropped it in the trash can beside my dresser. “Better?” I asked, turning around.
He smiled. “Better.”
But it wasn’t, not for me anyway, and as soon as he was gone, I took the picture of Anabel out of the garbage and hid it away.
Dad wore worry like a second skin that year, and I blamed my doctor. She convinced him that I’d linked the crash to my mother’s death. She even had a name for it—Grief Transference or Grief Displacement. Grief Something.
It wasn’t any of those things.
The crash was tragic. I was young. End of story.
I hated that woman. She made my dad anxious over nothing. The day I noticed that the bags under his eyes matched my own was the day I miraculously healed. The nightmares “stopped,” and we never spoke of them again.
I dry my eyes on the hem of my shirt and get up off the floor. The same sense of guilt I felt all those years ago returns. I retrieve Minnie from the waste bin and put her back on the shelf she came from. Right behind the cinnamon. Right where Darian wanted her.
“Francesca?” Darian calls to me from downstairs and the apprehension I’ve felt all day swells to nervous worry. The tension rolling off him this morning was practically palpable, and I haven’t spoken to him since.
“Upstairs!”
I considered calling him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Have you been up here all day?”
He pulls off his tie as he walks into the room. He comes straight to me, leans over the small desk I’m using, and kisses me. It’s a much different kiss than the one he left me with this morning.
“I’ve been up here for most of it.” I close my laptop and push back in my chair. “How was your day?”
“Better now that I’m home,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt as he takes off toward the closet. “Are you done?” He’s acting so normal it’s hard to believe this morning even happened.
Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he was telling you the truth.
“All done.”
He crosses from the closet to the bathroom, wearing jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. “Good because I have a surprise for you.”
My smile is hesitant. “A surprise? Wait…what kind of surprise?”
Darian cocks his head. “It’s dinner. Am I allowed to surprise you with dinner?”
“Dinner’s allowed.” I peer down at my haggard appearance. “I need a few minutes though.” Maybe more. “Are we staying in or going out?”
“Staying in,” he says. “Take your time. I’ll be setting up.”
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I head downstairs. The blazing fire in the courtyard catches my eye as I circle the banister at the bottom of the staircase. I find Darian outside sitting on the wicker sofa, cursing a…hanger?
“What’s this?”
He looks up at me, a smile chasing away his scowl. “Hot dogs and s’mores,” he says, holding up the hanger. “God willing.”
I take the hanger from him and easily straighten it. Darian shakes his head.
“You gotta bend it first,” I say with a shrug. “Years of practice.” I set the hanger on the cushion next to him.
“Are you cool with this?” he asks. “I hope I didn’t set your expectations too high with the word surprise.”
“This is the best surprise. My dad…” I flinch at the word, the memory of this morning flashing in my mind.
“Your dad what?” Darian asks. He reaches for my hand and pulls me onto his lap.
“My dad used to do this for me.” My eyes begin to blur. “Now Jane and I do it for Jacob.”
“You talked to her lately? I know you must miss her.”
“We’ve been texting. She’s a worrier and too intuitive for her own good.” Too intuitive for my own good. “It’s better if I don’t actually talk to her until I get home.”
Darian’s jaw clenches. “Speaking of home, I know you must miss that too.” He leans to the side and pulls the ever-present remote out of the pocket of his jeans.
I make a face. Really?
He laughs. With the press of a button, he takes me home to my backyard in Texas as a cacophony of cicadas and whip-poor-wills flood the courtyard. “I spent the last two days trying to think of ways to convince you to stay, but then it occurred to me you might just be homesick.”
My throat tightens and I close my eyes, unaware of the few tears that dot my cheeks until he wipes them away.
“Although in retrospect,” he says, “this might have had the opposite effect.”
“No. It’s perfect.”
We sit quietly for a moment, just listening, and then Darian lifts his gaze to the sky.
“Francesca…what the hell is that whistling noise?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Whip-poor-wills? They’re birds. I love that whistling noise. It’s haunting, isn’t it?”
“Creepy is more like it.” He takes my hands in his and glides his thumbs across my knuckles. “I want to take you away this weekend. Someplace without scary birds. Will you stay a little longer?” When I don’t answer right away, he adds, “Someplace important to me.”
I nod. “I’ll stay.”