Frankie
“I’m aware we’ve mostly talked about me today,” I say to Darian as we wander the woods behind my cabin.
The air has a bite to it, and despite the cloudless sky, it smells like rain.
“You think so?” He pulls me against him. “Your arms are cold. Is this normal for March? Do you want to go back and get a sweater or something?”
“It’s not so bad,” I say, enjoying the heat radiating from his body. We turn a corner and arrive at the bench, which is actually just the trunk of an old tree we lost several years back. I stop and gesture to it. “Mind if we talk about you for a minute?”
Darian braces beside me, his arm becoming stiff around my waist before he drops it to his side. “I prefer to talk about you.”
I lace my fingers with his and guide him to sit. I’m quiet for a moment, my eyes aimed at two squirrels chasing each other up and down a giant oak. They disappear beneath the underbrush, and I turn my head toward Darian.
“I Googled you,” I spit out and then wait for his reaction. He doesn’t give me one, other than sitting stoically and tightening his grip on my hand. “I wasn’t snooping…exactly. It’s just…I knew you owned the record label, and I was curious.”
His gaze veers to his feet, which are now stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He lets go of my hand to pick at the frayed denim on his knee.
“I’m sorry,” I say, watching the threads fly from his fingers in the breeze. “I wish I hadn’t done it.”
A loose hold on my chin, he gently guides my head until our eyes meet. “Don’t be sorry, Francesca. You have every right to know who you’re getting into bed with, so to speak.”
“Maybe I should have said something sooner,” I say. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”
“It’s okay.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him over the rustling leaves.
The wind is bitter now that we’re sitting still. I fold my arms across my chest and peer up at the sky. The sunset peeking through the branches looks like stained glass, but beneath the canopy of trees, it’s already dark.
“Come here,” Darian says, wrapping his arm around me.
I curl into him, tucking my head in the crook of his neck.
“It’s not your fault my past is broadcast all over the internet. I wish I could keep my private life private. And I do now—for the most part. But back then…” His words die on his lips as he lowers them to my forehead. He kisses me softly just above my brow, but before he pulls away, I feel his smile against my skin. “I Googled you too,” he says. “And I was snooping.”
I perk up, pulling my knees to my chest. “Me? That must have been uneventful.”
“On the contrary. Your social media is very enlightening.”
“How do you know I have social media? I only use Twitter, and it’s anonymous.”
“I have my ways,” he says. “And FYI, at FrankieDawnV is not anonymous.”
I furrow my brows. “What could you have possibly learned on Twitter?”
“I learned that if given the opportunity, you would, without a doubt, attend the Stoli and Seventh party, which you did,” he says through a smug grin. “I wanted to see you again, and there you were.”
My feet drop to the ground with a thud as my head snaps sideways. “I was staying next door to you. You could have just knocked.” A smile threatens to surface, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Yeah but where’s the fun in that?”
“There’s quite a bit of fun in that, if I remember correctly.”
His confession staggers me. Not that he stalked me—which, clearly, he did—but because he went above and beyond to be with me.
“So, the badge…”
“Bait,” he says simply.
“And Cross to Bear?”
“Not scheduled to appear. I flew them in early that morning and did some juggling with the other acts. It was worth it to see the look on your face. Much like the one you’re wearing now.”
I blush, knowing I must look like a fool with my mouth gaping open, yet I can’t seem to close it. “I can’t believe you did that.” For me. “Wow.”
“You were right,” he says. “They never tour Texas, and a girl should get to see her favorite band.”
I watch as Darian’s expression goes from self-satisfied to sincere, as a smile replaces the smirk, as the pride slips from his eyes. He holds his hand to my jaw and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. He seems taken aback, and it makes me wonder if my happiness affects him more than he expected. The thought causes me to shiver, and he notices.
“You’re cold; let’s go back,” he says, pushing to his feet. “You can show me the creek another day.”
Darian stops on the patio to build a fire in the rusted-out barbecue pit. He leans over the barrel, assessing the damage, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “When’s the last time you used this thing?”
“It’s been a while.”
His gaze travels the line of my cabin—from the far corner of the patio to the far edge of the house—until it lands on a water hose coiled in the grass. I walk to the faucet, turn it on, and close the valve on the nozzle.
“You think we’ll need this?” I ask, smiling nervously as I pull it toward him. I let it fall beside his feet.
He shrugs. “Better safe than sorry, right?” He closes the lid and then lifts it open again. It makes a terrible screech. “You want to check on the steaks and I’ll try to get this thing going?” he asks, his smile tight.
“Two New York strips, coming up,” I say, turning toward the kitchen. I slide open the door and step inside.
“It’s about time.”
Jane’s voice comes at me from across the room, and I’m lucky I don’t slam my fingers between the glass and the frame.
“Jesus Christ, Jane!”
She stands with her back to the sink, arms crossed and eyebrows arched. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. Opens it again. My chest tightens. Suddenly I’m fifteen and just got caught with a boy under the bleachers. I stop moving and wait.
“He’s here?” she whispers loudly, her eyes doubling in size.
The corners of her mouth lift slightly, and I relax, a wide grin breaking on my face. I look over my shoulder to make sure I closed the door all the way.
“Jane, he just showed up here this morning. Like, out of nowhere. I was thinking about him, and, poof, there he was.”
“Poof?”
“Poof!”
“Why?”
“I think he felt bad for standing me up last night.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t a date.”
“You know what I mean.” Obviously she doesn’t, but she has the good grace not to say so. “What are you doing here?”
“Dropping off pizza and leaving,” she says, jerking her head at the oven. “Your text kinda worried me, but if I called, I knew you would’ve told me not to come.” She looks past me to the patio, her face brightening. “I guess you would’ve had a good reason.”
My mind replays my day with Darian. We never made it past second base, but, God, I hope we do tonight. Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks. I know there’s no hiding it, especially from Jane. I quickly turn away from her, but I’m too late.
“Oh shit,” she says from behind me. “You’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.” I walk past her to the oven and crack open the door. The distinct scent of Gabriel’s deep dish permeates the kitchen. “Salami and smoked provolone?”
“You do too. Look at you. You’re candy-apple crimson right now.”
I glance at my flustered reflection in the oven door as it closes. “Oh stop. I’m not candy-apple anything,” I say as I turn around. “How’s Jacob? Is he feeling better? You didn’t have to come babysit me, you know.”
“He’s good. Really good actually. Mom took him bowling.” Jane tilts her head to the side, her soft eyes studying me. “Frankie, it’s okay if you like him.”
“Well, I don’t. I mean, I do, but not like that.”
“If you say so.” She grabs her keys off the counter and slides her purse on her arm. “I guess I should go,” she says, moving toward the door. Her feet drag behind her in an arduous shuffle, and I struggle to hide my amusement. “Call me tomorrow?”
“I will. Thanks for the pizza.”
“Anytime.” She reaches for the knob and makes a show of turning it, as if it’s the most difficult task she’s ever carried out. “You kids have fun.”
“We will,” I say, biting back a grin. “Drive safe.”
“Okay…well…bye.”
The door closes behind her, and I count to ten. The door swings open.
“Really, Frankie?”
Laughter erupts from my throat. “I knew you weren’t going anywhere. Open a bottle of wine while I grab the steaks.”
“Steaks too? This is right up your alley, isn’t it?” She pats her stomach. “I’m going to eat myself into a food coma.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re my best friend and I love you. But the second dinner’s over, you’re out of here.” I check the steaks to make sure they’re thawed while Jane digs for a corkscrew. “Better take it easy on the wine too.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
With the lights on in the kitchen, the golden glow of the fire is barely visible through the glass. I move toward the door until my reflection fades and Darian comes into view. With my arms crossed over my chest, I lean against the side of the refrigerator and watch him work. He seems comfortable here, at ease, and that warms me in a way that’s unfamiliar.
“Are we hiding this bottle?” Jane asks, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
“Hiding?”
“Your three-dollar merlot.”
“No,” I say, shooting her a glare. “It’s fine. Darian’s not like—oh whatever. Just stick it under the sink.”
I turn back to the door just as it slides open, a burst of cool air rushing in.
“The fire’s about ready,” Darian says as he steps inside. “But you’re going to need a sweater.” His nose and cheeks are red from the cold.
I hold my hands against his face. “You’re freezing. Did you bring a jacket?”
“You can keep me warm,” he says, a seductive smile teasing his lips.
I slide my arms around his neck and lift up on my toes. “I can do that.”
He lowers his head until our noses brush together, and our lips—
“Oh gross. I should have left when I had the chance,” Jane’s voice calls behind us.
I fall flat on my heels, laughing against Darian’s chest. “Oh yeah, Jane’s here. Darian, meet Jane. Jane, Darian.”
“So, Jane,” Darian says, reaching for a slice of pizza, “what do you do?”
“Web design,” Jane mutters over a mouthful of steak.
“She’s a writer too,” I say.
Darian leans in. “Really? What do you write?”
“Nothing and everything,” she says. “Mostly nothing.”
“Jane’s amazing.” I give her a hard glance. “She just lacks focus. She’s—”
“She’s on borrowed time,” she says, her eyes fixed on Darian. “Enough about me. We’re talking about you.” She rests her elbows on the table, hands drawn to her chin. “Tell me everything—ouch!” She winces as my toe digs into her ankle and then follows it with a smirk. “Starting with your favorite sandwich.”
Darian grins. “My favorite sandwich? That’s easy. My buddy Drew’s famous BLT.”
I look up from my plate. “Yum. I love BLTs.”
“What’s so great about his BLTs?” Jane asks.
“Brie,” he says. “Best hangover cure ever.”
“Are you prone to hangovers? Dammit, Frankie!” Jane says, rubbing the foot I just toed again. “That was a fair question.” This time, she glares. “Fine. Movies or TV?”
“Books.”
“Good answer,” Jane and I say in unison.
Jane takes a bite of her pizza, allowing Darian a brief reprieve as she chews. Taking a slow sip of wine, I look over to him, and our eyes meet. We both smile. Darian returns to his steak, and I sink back in my chair.
A cool breeze blows across the patio, setting off my old rusted weathervane. It makes a loud, familiar creak only I seem to notice. The wind has died down from earlier, but it’s still a bit nippy. I hug my sweater closed, happy we didn’t sit inside. The Texas Hill Country is crisp and fresh this time of year, and with the cicadas and the stars and the lingering scent of smoke from the grill, it’s worth it to weather the cold.
I stab a piece of steak into a piece of salami and swirl it in melted cheese as Darian watches with amusement over the rim of his glass.
“Pizza and steak should totally be a thing,” I say, my eyes rolling back as I take a bite.
“Frankie has a weird obsession with foods that shouldn’t go together. Exhibit A.” Jane waves her hand over the table. “I’d say she was crazy, but she’s usually right.”
“Usually?” I say. “Try always.”
Jane looks at me with mock irritation. “When chicken and waffles became popular, I thought this one was going to lose her shit.”
“That was totally my idea! Burgers and waffles too, but that one hasn’t caught on yet.”
Darian grins and then tips back the last of his wine.
“So how do you like the merlot?” Jane asks him, sliding her feet a safe distance away from me.
“It’s, um…fruity,” he says, turning his attention toward her. He holds his empty glass to the light, pretending to study it. “I taste plum.”
“This steak is cooked perfectly, don’t you think, Jane?” I cut off another bite, then turn to Darian. “Jane and I tend to get sidetracked and overcook…well, pretty much any type of meat.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Jane says, picking off a piece of provolone and popping it into her mouth. “Frankie can cook when she wants to. She just never does.”
“I live alone,” I say in my defense. “It’s not worth the hassle.”
“Darian lives alone,” she says. “Don’t you?”
Darian clears his throat and smiles. “I do. And I cook a little. Gives me something to do.”
“What’s your favorite thing to make?” Jane asks, then holds up her hand. “Sorry, new question. What are your intentions for my girl?”
My head snaps sideways. “Jane!”
Still wearing a smile, Darian sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes slide from Jane to me and then back to Jane again. The air thickens between them. I hold my breath, wondering if I should save him, but the truth is, I want to hear this.
“I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but I don’t have one. All I know is, I like your girl a lot.” Leaning forward, he pushes his plate aside and trails his fingers along the base of his wine glass. “I’m not going to pretend you don’t know my story. You’d be a terrible friend if you didn’t.”
I look from Darian to Jane. Her expression is unreadable, her features schooled but soft.
Darian reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Francesca makes me smile, and I don’t do a lot of that. I think sometimes I make her smile too.”
Jane’s poker face begins to slip, her eyes growing wide and curious. I know from experience, her mouth will follow.
I push back loudly in my chair. “We need more wine. Jane? Wine?”
Her gaze is glued to Darian. “None for me, thanks. I have to drive.”
“Jane, I need help with the wine. Please.”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
My fingers prodding her back, I usher her inside, sliding the door closed behind us. “Jane, before you say—”
She kisses my cheek. “I’m gonna go. For real this time. Tell Darian it was nice meeting him.” She grabs her purse and keys. “I love you, Frankie, and I’m here. Always, okay?”
“Okay?” I laugh, quirking a brow in confusion. “You’re acting weird. You’re good to drive, right?”
“Yes, Mom. Obviously you were too preoccupied to notice, but I only had water tonight.” Her keys jingle from her fingers as she steps onto the porch. Closing them in her fist, she turns around. “I like him, Frankie, and I can tell you do too. Just be careful, okay?”
I wave to Jane as she settles into the driver’s seat and wonder what the hell got into her. Be careful? I’m always careful. Usually.
I hear the sliding glass door open and close behind me. The breeze from the patio charges in ahead of Darian, chilling the back of my neck.
“Damn wind can’t make up its mind,” he says over the rumble of Jane’s engine starting up in the driveway.
I close the door in front of me and turn around just as he passes with a tray of dirty dishes.
He sets them on the counter by the sink and glances out the window as Jane’s car backs onto the street. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say, sidling up beside him. I turn on the faucet and hold my hands beneath the stream while waiting for the water to warm. “I wasn’t expecting her, although I guess I probably should have after coming home a day…” I feel Darian stiffen beside me, and I let my sentence fall away. “Anyway, she needed to get home, but she said to tell you it was nice meeting you.”
I slowly lift my head, and our eyes catch in the window.
“After coming home a day early,” Darian says somberly. He takes a step back and leans against the edge of the table. “Francesca…”
“Don’t. You apologized, and I forgave you. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Once the water begins to warm, it gets hot quickly. Balmy steam rises from the sink and fogs up the glass, our reflections disappearing beneath a layer of condensation. Darian stands behind me, his head downturned, his breath warm on my neck.
“Leave this,” he says, reaching around me to turn off the faucet.
His lips vibrate against my skin, and I can feel it in my toes. He slips his fingers inside the neckline of my sweater, sliding it off my shoulders and onto the floor. I kick it away as I turn around.
Fighting a smile, he unbuttons the bodice of my dress.
“What? No teeth this time?” I tease.
Amused eyes briefly cut to mine. “My mouth is better suited for other endeavors.”
Heat spreads from my cheeks to my core as lavender linen balloons around me, hanging by a single spaghetti strap to my shoulder. Darian brushes it off with the tips of his fingers, and the dress plummets. I’m left in only my panties and sandals, and Darian’s still fully clothed. I reach for the hem of his T-shirt, but he stops me, returning my hands to my sides. He shifts closer to me, pressing the small of my back against the edge of the sink, and I can feel his lungs expand and contract against me, his erection pushing into my stomach.
“Just you right now, okay?” A soft whisper, a request, before he slides his fingers inside my panties and between my legs.
“Just me. Okay. Just…ahh…” My words latch on to labored breaths, slipping away with each feathery stroke. I clench my legs together, thrust against his hand.
Fuck.
He’s barely touching me, and it’s making me crazy.
He pulls his hand away from me, curls his fingers into the band of my panties, and pushes them down my legs. They catch at my ankles, and I have to be told to step out of them, to relax, to breathe.
Darian lifts me onto the small strip of counter bordering the sink and reaches for the shelf above the window, pulling down an unopened bottle of mandarin-infused olive oil. A million thoughts spin in my head, not the least of which is, Shit. That’s a really expensive bottle of olive oil.
Darian’s darkening eyes capture mine and hold them as he slowly twists off the cap. He slides off my sandal, cups my heel, and straightens my leg. He drizzles a thin line of oil from my foot to my hip and massages it into my skin. A low, throaty moan builds inside me at the feel of his fingers working their way up my leg.
The mandarin bouquet is erotic, and my only lingering thought is, I wonder if I can buy this stuff by the case.
I kick off my remaining shoe as Darian repeats the entire act on leg number two. He pours the oil and rubs it in. I squeeze my eyes shut as he lowers his lips to my ankle, and when his tongue flicks against it, I throw my head back.
He draws his tongue up my leg, and I suck in a breath, holding it tight in my chest. He gets close, so close my body goes rigid and my stomach knots in anticipation. But he doesn’t do what I think he’s going to do—what I want him to do—and when I feel his lips begin their descent back down leg number one, I blow out an involuntary sigh.
Darian’s smile is so wide, his cheeks expand against my thighs. “You don’t want me to cheat this leg, do you?”
His lips graze my skin and his words vibrate against me. I grip the counter with white knuckles.
“Francesca?”
“Don’t worry about that leg. That leg’s fine. Just—”
Oh holy fuck.
He dips his tongue inside me and takes one long, slow drag. “I need you to lean back,” he says, his voice muffled. When I don’t move, he chuckles, straightens, and brings his mouth to my ear. “Francesca, can you lean back?”
I move my hands behind me and lean against them. I’m suspended over the sink, the rough edge of the windowsill jutting into my spine. It’s not the ideal position, but I manage, and as soon as I feel more oil pool beneath my belly button and trickle between my legs, I decide I can handle the discomfort.
Darian crouches down, pushing my knees apart, wedging himself between my thighs. His hot breath against the cool oil is maddening. He blows softly, and my desire fuses with overripe oranges, intoxicating the air around us.
“Goddamn, Francesca.”
I can’t remember ever wanting anything more than I want his mouth on me right now. I want to wind my fingers in his hair and pull him closer, hold his head between my legs and guide his tongue.
If I didn’t need my arms to hold me up…
Instead, I arch my back, pushing my body forward. I’m met with a tender kiss and a smile against my inner thigh. Darian drapes my legs over his shoulders and takes hold of my hips. I expect him to tease me with his tongue or torture me with his fingers, but I get his mouth, hungry and impatient, devouring me in a way that has me convinced he read my mind.
I can’t help but to writhe against him, and the movement causes me to slip toward the sink.
“Stay still,” he says.
Mother of God, Darian Fox is fucking me with his face.
Lips, tongue, teeth, stubble. Even his nose is brushing against my clit.
Stay still? Is he serious? Okay. Try to focus. Focus on keeping your ass out of the sink. And maybe focus on not popping his head like a balloon between your thighs. Hey, is this how Suzanne Somers invented the Thigh Mas—
“Dariannnnnn…” His name bursts from my throat in a garbled cry.
Then I lose focus. On everything.
I feel weightless. Limbless.
Darian catches me just as my arms begin to give. I nestle against his chest, a giddy, drunken feeling coming over me as he carries me to the bathroom. He returns my sated smile with a grin of his own as he puts me down. I don’t even care that I’m naked.
“Happy?” he says, squatting beside the tub. He pushes in the stopper and turns on the faucet.
The faded cotton of his T-shirt shifts with each movement, and I long to slide my hands beneath it, to feel my knuckles brush against the fabric while my fingers dance over his skin.
“Never better.”
Darian’s smile is triumphant as he straightens and turns around. He gestures to the tub. “I can’t very well send you to bed covered in olive oil, now can I?”
“Oh, sure you can.”
He lets out a sharp laugh, rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and offers me the other. “You’re killing me right now,” he says, steering me to the tub.
I get in, sliding forward to make room for him, my knees pulled to my chest. In my peripheral, I catch him watching me, his arms crossed as he stands—still fully dressed—in the doorway.
“I know it’s small, but I’m sure we can make it work,” I tell him.
His smile tightens. He glances at his watch and then shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m guessing there’s nothing open this late,” he says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We, uh…never quite made it to the store today.”
“The store?”
“Condoms.”
Oh.
The need lying low in my belly flutters back to life. “Darian, there are other things—I mean, we don’t have to have condoms to…” A sheepish grin chases the words from my lips. “I’m such a moron.”
Darian gives me a blank look.
“Jane gave me condoms. In Austin.”
“We’ve had condoms all day?”
“Yep,” I say, drawing the word into two syllables. I slide my hand along the curled lip of the tub. “So you might as well join me, you know, now that you don’t have to hunt down a twenty-four-hour quickie mart.”
Darian slides off his watch and sets it beside the sink. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.” He takes off his shoes, his socks, his T-shirt, and while his eyes are locked on mine, my eyes travel his body shamelessly. “And you are impossible to resist,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them.
My gaze follows them down his legs and then back up, back to his…
Smiling-taco boxers?
My shoulders shake with laughter. “You, Mr. Fox, are impossible to resist.”
He kicks out of his shorts and the laughter stops. Desire swells inside me. Hungry sighs rise in my throat, but I swallow them back.
“Are you making fun of my underwear, Francesca?” Darian asks, sliding into the tub behind me, his legs on either side of mine.
“No way. I love happy food.”
His muscled arms close around me, holding me tight against his chest. I turn my head, pressing my nose into his neck, and breathe in the masculine scent of his skin mixed with a lingering trace of orange. My body relaxes into him as the silky water rises around us.
“This is nice,” I say. “I hate that you have to go home tomorrow.”
Darian turns off the faucet with his foot and the room falls silent. He picks up my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it softly. “I want you to come with me.”
“What?” I sit up, drawing my body into a ball. “You want me to go to Miami?”
“Just for a week or two. I’ll take you salsa dancing and feed you mojitos.”
He pulls my loofah down from its hook and fills it with body wash. He dips it in the water before sliding it over my back, my shoulders. It feels like heaven, and the thought of Darian not being around to do this—to do anything with me—sends a sharp pain to the back of my throat.
But I can’t go with him. I can’t just take off work with no notice and go with him. Can I?
“I’ll take some time off,” he says. “We’ll spend our days by the pool and our nights—”
“Darian, my job…”
His hand stills at my neck, and he gives the loofah a final squeeze before hanging it up. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he says, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out. “I’m just not ready to be away from you yet.”
I’m not ready to be away from you either.
Darian lies back, and I ease onto him, resting my cheek against his chest. He combs his fingers through my hair, working out the tangles.
“She’d let me have it,” I whisper. “Lucy, my boss. She’d give me the days off.”
I can’t believe I’m even considering this. Jane’s words come back to me.
“Maybe you’ve changed.”
“Are you serious? You’ll go?”
“I didn’t say that. Darian, have you even thought this through?” I ask, tracing my finger over the water beading on his skin. “You have commitments waiting for you. I’ll just be in the way.”
“I promise you won’t, Francesca.” He tucks his finger beneath my chin, drawing my gaze. “I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
I moan as his hands find my shoulders.
“We like spending time together, hanging out…among other things,” he says, digging his thumbs into my back, his fingers into my collarbone. “It’s as simple as that. Come with me.”
God, I want to. I really want to.
But there is nothing simple about Darian Fox. Or the way I feel about him.
Frankie: He wants me to go with him to Miami for a little while.
Jane: The plot thickens.
Frankie: What’s that supposed to mean?
Jane: It means I’m worried about you.
Frankie: We’re just friends.
Jane: You don’t act like friends.