Frankie
Darian hires a car service to take us to the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. The perplexity of last night along with my healthy fear of flying have my nerves on overdrive. I’m anxious about flying. I’m anxious about Darian. I’m anxious about flying with Darian. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I try to relax. I bounce my foot and pop my knuckles.
Chill out, Frankie.
I hate it when people pop their knuckles, yet I can’t seem to stop. I glare at my hands and will them to stop. I could use a manicure.
I wonder if the airport has a salon, I think absently as I pick at a hangnail.
I glance up to find Darian’s eyes on me, his brows knitted.
“The weather’s been great, hasn’t it?” I ask.
Hey, Frankie, we had a ridiculously strong and potentially damaging storm last night. Idiot.
He chuckles, clearly amused with me. He turns sideways a little and props his ankle on his knee. His laughter settles into a smile. “Yeah, Francesca, awesome weather.”
“How’s the weather in Miami this time of year?”
“Much more pleasant than it is in August.” He reaches for my hand. “Are you okay?”
The car veers to the right as we exit the toll road. I look up just in time to see the airport sign looming in front of us like an omen.
“I’m okay.” I’m so not okay. “I’m just worried about what to tell Jane,” I lie. Nope. That’s not a lie. Now, I’m anxious about that too.
Darian cocks his head. “You haven’t told her yet?”
I shrug. “It’s safer this way. We’ll be airborne before she can kill me.”
“I don’t know,” he says, snorting a laugh. “I wouldn’t put anything past that one.”
He turns his attention to the driver, and I turn mine to my phone, my fingers flying over the screen in a series of texts.
Frankie: I’m on my way to the airport.
Jane: What?
Frankie: I told you I was probably going.
Jane: No, you told me he invited you.
Frankie: Same thing.
“Well?” Darian says. “What’s the verdict?”
“Too soon to tell.”
We ease into the turn lane. The rhythmic click of the blinker sounds through the car. It’s unusually loud, but no one else seems to notice.
Jane: Do you even have Xanax?
Frankie: All major airlines have booze. I’ll manage.
We turn left when the light changes. The blinker stills and peaceful silence returns to the car. I stare blankly out the window as we coast down a long stretch of road. This airport is smaller than I expected, especially since the word International is in its name. So far I’ve seen nothing but a row of planes behind a chain-link fence. No parking garages, no buildings.
Jane: It just seems fast. Couldn’t you have planned a trip? For like…later?
And give myself time to change my mind?
The muffled rumble of takeoff quickly grows into a crescendo of roaring jets the closer we get. I keep my head down, my eyes on my phone. The little dots dancing on the screen tell me Jane’s typing, but the text never comes through. She’s waiting for me. As I begin to reply, the car slows and then stops. The driver cuts the engine, and my fingers still.
I lift my head. “Where are we?”
“Tarmac,” Darian says.
No wonder it looks different.
I turn to look out my window and I see a small jet, dark blue and silver with burgundy trim. The paint looks new, and I wonder if the plane is new or if it just got a fresh coat. Is that even a thing? To paint old planes so they don’t look so terrifying?
My phone vibrates in my hand and I drag my gaze back to the screen.
Jane: Ignoring me now?
Darian kisses my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
He gets out of the car, and I watch as he walks across the pavement to a man standing beside the plane. They shake hands. Darian speaks to him, his arms crossed, his thumb propped at his chin. The man replies and Darian’s head falls back in laughter. He turns to look at me, nods, and then turns back to the man. They shake hands again.
“I’ve only flown commercial,” the driver says, pulling my attention to his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are bright and carry a subtle optimism I wish I shared right now. “I can’t even imagine how nice a private jet must be. What about you, young lady? This your first time?”
Oh holy fuck, I’m flying on that thing.
The air escapes the car in a big whoosh, and it’s replaced by a sort of loud silence, thick and heavy and suffocating. I nod my response, but my head feels like it’s stuck in a vise and I’m not sure it even moves.
Frankie: WTF!
Jane: Don’t get pissy. I’m just worried about you.
Frankie: Not you. Darian! He has a private jet!
Jane: Oh shit.
I glance back at the driver. He says something, but the words don’t register. Smiling tightly, I turn back to the plane. My stomach churns.
Frankie: It’s so small.
Darian opens my door and leans in. “You ready?”
I swallow a sharp gulp of air. “You have a plane?”
“Don’t you?” His lips quirk up in a playful smirk. “It’s chartered. I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”
“I…”
“Look,” he says, his smile fading, “I don’t want you to think I’m some pretentious plane snob, too good to fly commercial, but I do go to great lengths to avoid it.” He glances over his shoulder at the small jet and then back to me. “It’s not even the planes. It’s the airports. Specifically the one we’re flying into. That’s the last place I—anyway…” His voice softens and his eyes hold mine in their olive-green depths. “It’s better for me if I don’t have to go inside.”
I feel foolish for freaking out. It’s just a plane.
A private plane.
I don’t know the statistics, but don’t most crashes involve private jets?
Good Lord, Frankie. Just stop.
I step out of the car and wrap my arms around his waist.
Giving me a tight squeeze, he lowers his mouth to my ear. “This phobia charges by the hour, so we should probably get going.”
I relax slightly as we board the plane. With the absence of screaming kids and irritable passengers, it’s hard not to. The interior is decked out with cream-colored leather chairs and glossy wood-grain tables. The walls are trimmed in the same wood-grain with leather accents.
Darian rests his hand on my back and guides me to our seats. A bottle of champagne awaits us, and I grit my teeth when I see it. The champagne, the private jet, the car service…it all feels so fancy, and I’m dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie.
I elbow Darian’s arm as we sit. “I think I missed the dress-code memo.”
He laughs and thumbs the V-neck of his white undershirt. “Technically this is considered underwear, but it was all Rose had in my size.”
“She tends to cater to old ladies.”
Darian eases the cork out of the champagne with a subtle pop. He pours two glasses and hands me one.
The bubbles go straight to my head as I take a sip, and I savor the sharp tang that’s left behind on my tongue. “This is perfect. Oh, we should toast.” I raise my glass. “To living a little.”
Darian’s enthusiastic grin exposes his dimple as our glasses clink together. “I think that’s a good plan for both of us.”
The pilot and copilot enter the cabin, and there goes my smile. Dressed predictably in crisp white shirts beneath navy-blue blazers, they’re an unfortunate reminder that we’re about to be airborne. I focus on my champagne and let their voices slide over my head. I take a large swallow, which results in an empty glass. I place the stem between my knees and let it rest there. My hands are damp from the condensation, so I wipe them on my cotton pants before clutching the armrests. We’ve yet to move, but I can already feel my stomach crawling up my throat. The pilots turn toward the cockpit, and I turn toward my window, tightening my grip on the smooth leather.
“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” Darian says as he pries the fingers of my left hand free. “I hate airports, and you hate flying.”
“Is it that obvious?” I close the shade, but I continue to stare in its direction.
Darian takes the empty glass from my lap, refills it, and nudges my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the champagne with a timid smile. “But I’m okay. Really.” The plane begins its taxi to the runway, and I squeeze my eyes closed without ever taking a sip. “Or at least I will be in a few minutes.”
Darian trades my glass for his hand, and I practically crush it when the plane picks up speed. I hold my breath until the nose lifts off the ground, and once we’re airborne, I only loosen my grip enough for Darian to stretch his fingers.
“The odds of dying in a plane crash are, like, one in eleven million.” The words roll off his tongue in a whisper so soft, I question who they’re for.
I look up at him and expect to meet his gaze, but his eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip. I rest my cheek against his arm, and he exhales a long, shaky sigh.
“It’s not a mantra or anything, if you’re wondering,” he says gently, “just a fact. One I tell myself all the time.” He faces me then, his smile cautious. “I thought maybe it would do you well to hear it, but…”
“It’s okay, Darian. I’m okay, I swear.”
“I guess facts don’t hold much weight coming from their exceptions.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I just want you to know it can’t happen. It won’t happen again.”
They’re reassurances. Ones he makes to himself, only now, he’s sharing them with me.
“I know.”
The plane jerks as the wheels draw in and I gasp, a shrill, uneven sound that makes us both laugh.
“And when facts aren’t enough,” Darian says, handing me my champagne, “there’s alcohol.”
We land in Miami just before five o’clock. I step off the plane and the humidity hits me like it’s swinging a bat.
A Mercedes SUV sits on the tarmac, its shiny black surface capturing the low-hanging sun and deflecting it in beams of blinding light.
I cast a squinted glance at Darian. “Still trying to impress me?”
“Is it working?” A smile slides over his face. “It’s a service, like the one I had in Austin.” He throws my duffel and laptop bag over his shoulder and grabs my hand, gently squeezing it before we set off toward the car.
The driver rounds the back of the SUV, popping open the hatch on his way to us. He extends his hand to Darian, but his gaze is aimed at me.
“You must be the lovely Ms. Valentine,” he says in a botched Irish accent. “Name’s CJ, milady, and today I’ll be playing the role of the handsome driver.”
A giggle bursts out of me and any leftover tension I carried off the plane melts away. “Nice to meet you, CJ.”
He opens the back passenger door and waves me inside. “In you go,” he says, grinning. “Unless you want to run away with me. In which case, hop in the front.”
Darian clears his throat with a chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah. Welcome home, Fox,” CJ says, accent-free. He glances at my bags still slung over Darian’s shoulder. “You mind?”
With a good-humored groan, Darian hauls them to the back of the SUV and stows them inside. “You want me to drive too?”
Leaving the boys to banter, I settle into my seat and power up my phone. The air is thick with the scent of leather—masculine and earthy—and if I give it half a chance, it will easily lull me to sleep. Darian climbs in beside me and slips me a curious glance as my phone buzzes with Jane’s texts.
Jane: How small?
Jane: Frankie?
Jane: Text me the second you land!
Frankie: We’re here.
Jane: And?
Frankie: Wasn’t too bad.
Jane: Tequila?
Frankie: Champagne.
I breathe a long-awaited sigh as the car rolls toward the exit. All things considered, the flight was uneventful. Once the champagne kicked in, I relaxed, and shortly after that, I slept.
“Everything okay?” Darian asks.
“Better than okay.”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and draws his palm down the side of my face to rest beneath my jaw. “Happy to have your feet back on the ground?”
I smile and give his hand a squeeze against my cheek.
I don’t think my feet have been on the ground since the day we met.
It’s a quiet ride to Darian’s place, which is in an upscale Miami neighborhood called Coral Gables. To someone like me, Miami is the epitome of upscale, so this Coral Gables place must be lined in gold. Where I’m from, upscale just means you don’t have a recliner on your front porch.
I turn to ask him about it, but the content look on his face drives the thought away. His head is tilted back against the headrest and his eyes are closed, but the slight curve of his mouth tells me he isn’t asleep.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask as I curl into his side.
He doesn’t answer, nor does he open his eyes. But his smile stretches wide across his face, and for the first time today, I feel at peace with my decision to come.
Despite the jetlag trying to pull me under, I stay awake for the drive. Everything is shiny and new, and I scan the unfamiliar landscape with a child’s eyes, full of curiosity and awe.
“Traffic is at its worst this time of day,” Darian tells me.
But I don’t mind. It just gives me more time to digest it all.
Urban becomes rural, and buildings become homes as we close in on Darian’s neighborhood. Excitement builds inside me at every turn, and by the time we pull up to his gate, I’m ready to hop the fence and run inside.
“We’re here,” Darian says in a singsong voice.
I can tell he’s happy to be home.
CJ punches a code in the keypad and the ornate wrought iron gate opens before us. I sit taller in my seat, craning my neck in every direction to look out the windows. The driveway to Darian’s house is laid in cobblestone and bordered on both sides with palm trees. It culminates in a big, circular forecourt surrounded by lush greenery.
CJ parks the car, and I tell him goodbye as I hop out, my attention already lost to the structure in front of me.
“Wow, Darian,” I mumble under my breath.
The house is plantation-style but modern, painted stark white with black shutters, and has a large, columned front porch. It’s lovely and not at all what I expected.
“You want these upstairs?” CJ asks.
“No, man. I got it.”
My eyes roam the exterior of the house while Darian finishes up. He returns with my bags hoisted over his shoulder and a set of keys in his hand.
“I kind of figured it would have a keypad or something,” I say as we scale the steps.
“Nah, I’m old school.”
The heavy wood door looks ancient and even sounds ancient by the loud creak it makes when Darian pulls it open. I walk in ahead of him and stop to wait in the foyer. It’s modest with a round cherry wood table in the corner. A large delft vase sits on top, and I wonder if it’s ever seen fresh flowers.
“This way, milady,” Darian says in an even worse brogue than CJ.
With a dramatic bow, he takes my arm in his and guides me through the house with our elbows linked together. We pass a glass-walled office, a formal dining room, and a freestanding staircase with a set of double doors tucked beneath.
“Keep going,” Darian says. “The kitchen’s straight ahead. I’ll just drop off your bags and then I’ll be right there.”
The walls are painted a creamy white, similar in color to the polished limestone floor. Black beams crisscross the ceiling and match the exterior shutters. The glass light fixtures add bursts of color and look like they’re handblown. The house is stunning, but it doesn’t look lived in.
I may not have been the one to decorate my cabin, but my entire life is still present in every nook and cranny. Darian’s house is…empty. So far, I haven’t seen anything personal—no photographs, no mementos, no books, nothing.
“They came with the house,” Darian says of the massive oil paintings I’m staring at in his kitchen. “Haven’t gotten around to replacing them.” There are two that flank a mahogany range hood, both of undeveloped coastline.
“Why would you?”
“I don’t know,” he says as he sidles up beside me at the island. “They’re not really my style.”
“What’s your style?”
He leans forward against the granite, his eyes fixed on the oils. A deep laugh rumbles in his chest, and he wears a smile when he turns to look at me.
“That’s a good question,” he says. “I haven’t thought much about it. I just moved in and unpacked my toothbrush; that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“So you haven’t been here long?”
“Almost ten years.” Darian pulls out a barstool. “Make yourself at home. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
I’m too anxious to sit, so I wander along the trio of French doors on the back wall of the kitchen and peer into the backyard. It’s completely private, enclosed in the same dense jungle of vegetation that borders the forecourt. The doors open to a covered patio, and just beyond that is an impressive rectangular pool.
“This might be a little sweet. It’s homemade,” Darian says as he slides a glass of white wine across the island. He watches me as I look around, as if he expects me to say something.
I’m kind of speechless. “It’s just—”
“Not what you expected?” he asks.
I take a seat on the barstool he pulls out for me and rest my back against the wooden slats. “No, not at all. It’s gorgeous, but it’s not pretentious. Not that I thought it would be. I actually envisioned you in a high-rise. It’s smaller than—okay, now I’m babbling.” I pick up my glass and take a long, slow sip. “The wine’s good. It’s homemade?”
Darian laughs, his eyes glinting beneath the pendant light that hangs above him. “Yes, Gloria made it. It’s her new thing—making wine. You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s my, um…how does one explain Gloria?” He raps his fingers against the granite, his lips pursed. “She’s like an overbearing mother who stops in unannounced and does things without being asked.”
“And she forces her wine upon you,” I say.
“And she forces her wine upon me.”
“She sounds terrible.”
He smiles. “She’s the worst.” His cheeks redden the tiniest bit, and I can tell he’s very fond of her. “Speaking of,” he says as he opens the door to the fridge, “she texted me earlier that she left some marinated, uh…something and asparagus in here…somewhere.”
“Mmm, I love marinated something. Do you grill that?”
“Hold on, smart-ass. Give me a minute.” He rummages through a stack of plastic containers, takes one out, peels off the lid, and sets it on the counter. “Marinated snapper, and yes, I can grill it…I mean, if you like seafood. You like seafood, don’t you? But if you don’t, that’s fine; we can order in. Or go out if you’re up to it.”
“Snapper sounds great, but I’d like to freshen up and check my e-mail first.” I hop off the barstool and head toward the door. “Is my stuff in your…”
“Right down the hall,” Darian says. He puts the container back in the refrigerator and closes it with his foot. “Let me show you.”
I follow him to the set of double doors we passed earlier.
An odd place for a master, I muse, noting its proximity to the dining room.
“Here we are,” he says, standing against the door to hold it open. He jerks his chin at my bags sitting on the bed, atop a pink floral comforter folded over the foot.
With my back to Darian, my eyes sweep over the details—the perfectly fluffed pillows, the uncluttered nightstands, the empty closet—and then burn with realization. The room is beautiful. It smells like lavender and fresh linen. It’s decorated like a five-star suite—formal but comfortable. And not his.
He put me in my own room?
“There’s a private bathroom with a Jacuzzi I thought you might like,” he says, still leaning against the door like he’s afraid to let it go. “I’ll get the grill fired up. Take your time, and if you think of anything you need, just let me know.”
I need to be with you. In your room. In your bed.
The heavy door crashes against the frame when it closes and makes me jump.
Welcome to your dungeon, Frankie.
Under different circumstances, I could really dig this. Every piece of furniture is oversized and nothing looks cramped. I doubt I could fit this stuff in my entire cabin, much less my bedroom. There are doors that lead into the backyard, which I already know accommodates a pool fit for a resort. And Darian did say Jacuzzi…
There are worse dungeons.
I don’t want to overthink this, but my mind is reeling and there’s no stopping it now. He kind of freaked out last night. Maybe this is his way of putting on the brakes.
Maybe it isn’t personal.
I drag my fingers along the smooth beveled edge of the dresser, catching sight of my appearance in the mirror as I pass. My hair looks like I slept on it all day, which I suppose I did, though my puffy, blood-shot eyes and sallow skin would beg to differ.
Maybe it is personal.
I pull my toiletry bag out of my duffel and take it into the bathroom. Except for the almighty tub with jets, it’s not that fancy. The lighting is better, and that’s all I really care about right now. My hair still screams light socket, but my face doesn’t look nearly as wasted as it did under the unforgiving lights of the bedroom.
After a five-minute shower and a change of clothes, I exit through the patio doors in my room and walk barefoot across the cool stretch of flagstone to the barbecue area at the opposite end of the house. Darian’s head whips around as I drag one of the heavy black iron chairs away from the table. The man is a paradox. The smile he gives me suggests nothing of the last thirty minutes, and for a brief moment, I almost forget I’m upset.
Are you upset? It’s just a room.
“I poured you another glass of wine,” he says with his spatula pointed toward me.
I open my mouth to speak and then close it. You’re such a wuss, Frankie. “Thanks,” I mutter instead as I sink into the cushion.
“Fire’s almost ready. It won’t take long after that.”
The far corner of the patio houses an outdoor kitchen complete with a built-in gas grill, and directly in front of it sits a black charcoal pit with smoke rising from the coals. It’s just a basic barrel with a grate, like something you’d find in front of a grocery store. Like the one I have, only safer.
“Fire’s good,” Darian says, striding toward the kitchen door. “Let me just grab the—hey, are you okay? You don’t look well.”
My eyes flick to his as he pulls a chair next to mine and sits beside me. His smoky fingers run the length of my hairline, tucking the frizzy pieces behind my ear that have taken to blowing in my face.
Here’s your chance, Frankie. Say something.
“Why don’t you use the gas grill?”
Seriously?
He sits back in his chair with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Never been a fan of gas, I suppose.” His head slants to the side, like he’s studying me. “I’m not used to having company. If you want anything at all, please…is it the wine? This batch is sweeter than normal. I can get—”
“The wine’s perfect. I’m just…”
Tell him what’s bothering you. Drink a glass of wine. Eat dinner. Have lots and lots of sex.
I stare at the rivulets of condensation as they trail down the side of my glass. Darian moves it out of his way and reaches across the table to take my hand. I only let him hold it for a second before I pull it back and tuck it in my lap.
“I’m just worn out,” I say.
Darian leans forward with his elbows propped on his knees. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like eating. Or do you want something else?”
“No. Thank you. I’m not very hungry. I feel terrible though. Gloria went to all that trouble, and you—”
“Haven’t done a thing. It’s okay, Francesca. Really.” He rests his hand on my knee. “It’ll keep. We can have it tomorrow, and on my way home, I’ll stop and pick up a few things to go with it…like chocolate.”
“Fish and chocolate. Now that’s a combination I haven’t considered,” I say with a hesitant smile. “On your way home?”
“I need to drop by my office in the morning, but I shouldn’t be long. And Gloria will be here.”
Darian stands when I do and reaches for my arm. I think he might try to kiss me, but he doesn’t.
“Take your time,” I say as I wrangle my chair under the table. “I still haven’t checked my e-mail, and I’m sure there are a few things that need my attention.”
With a single nod, he pulls open the kitchen door and extends his hand. “Then come with me, milady.”
I try to smile, but his enthusiasm has a sharp edge that’s beginning to cut. I think the only thing worse than having my own bed is that he wants to tuck me into it.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say as I turn toward the patio outside my room. I make it a whole two steps before my eyes begin to burn.
You’re just tired. Get some sleep.
“Francesca?”
I stop. Clear my throat. “Yes?”
“Nothing. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I open my eyes in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and to my surprise, relief is the first thing I feel. Relief that Darian’s at work and I don’t have to face him just yet…and relief that he won’t catch me in his Doors tee that I slept in last night. I trade his shirt for one I actually own, but I stay in my fuzzy monkey-print guys-suck pajama pants, which, thankfully, I had the forethought to pack.
The second I open my door, the irresistible pull of bacon wraps around me and lures me toward the kitchen. I poke my head around the corner and watch Gloria conduct breakfast like it’s a symphony. A short, slightly plump little thing with a head of graying curls, she scurries from the stove to the sink to the pantry to the fridge and then back to the stove where her gaze finds me.
“Ms. Valentine, good morning,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron.
She rushes toward me, and I brace myself for a smothering hug, but she pinches my cheeks instead.
“I am Gloria, Darian’s, uh…Darian’s Gloria.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Gloria. Please, call me Frankie.”
“Yes, Ms. Frankie.”
She smiles brightly, and her unflinching gaze follows me to the other side of the island where it lingers on me for long seconds before it falls away. Heat rises in my cheeks from the attention.
“Darian says you’d be hungry this morning, so I fry up bacon and eggs to go with tostadas. You sit.” She points to a barstool, and I do as I’m told. “You sleep good, Ms. Frankie?” she asks, turning back to the stove.
She bends to check the flame and then glides across the limestone to the far right cabinet for a glass. I’m so amused by the way she darts around the kitchen, I fail to answer her, which is evident when she turns to face me, hand planted firmly on her hip.
“Yes?” she says. “You sleep good?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
Now bent over with her head in the freezer, I struggle to hear her muffled voice above the clanking of ice.
She shoots up and stares at me again expectantly. “Yes? Texas?”
“Texas, yes,” I say, fingers crossed I heard her right. “Outside of Austin.”
She grabs the milk from the fridge, takes a mug from the stand on the counter, and then turns on the Keurig. It gurgles and hisses as the rich scent of fresh coffee wafts toward me.
“You don’t have much of an accent, Ms. Frankie,” she says. “Unlike me.”
She breaks into a fit of giggles, and it’s impossible not to join her.
“Not really. It only comes out when”—I drink tequila—“I’m tired.”
She sets a cup of heavily creamed coffee in front of me. “Café con leche. Strong coffee and milk. Darian says you like Coke Light”—she pours a miniature glass bottle of soda over ice and places it beside the mug—“but café con leche is traditional so you have that too.”
“Thank you.” I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but no way in hell am I arguing with her. “So how do you know Darian?”
“Oh, that boy. I changed his diapers.” She waves her hand in the air as if to downplay their relationship, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in her eyes and a hint of pride in her smile.
It’s clear she’s just as fond of him as he is of her, and for some reason, that thought comforts me.
“I used to work for his mama,” she says as she flutters about the kitchen. “But then, you know…” Her head tilts from side to side and her eyes widen. “Wait, you do know, yes?”
I nod over the rim of my mug. “About the accident? Yes, he told me.”
“Well, the dummy decided he had no use for me after that, but I knew better. Can you believe he tried to fire me?” She pushes a basket of grilled buttered bread toward me. “Tostadas,” she says, gesturing toward the coffee I’m holding. “You dip.”
I nearly choke. “He what?”
“Men are loco, Ms. Frankie,” she says. She transfers bacon and scrambled eggs to a plate, slides it to me across the island, and then leans back against the counter with her arms crossed. “Half the time, they don’t know what they want, and when they do, they don’t know how to ask for it. He needs me; I stay. Simple. Plus, I’m a lonely old lady. I make him play cubilete with me.”
I pick up my fork. “What’s cubilete?”
“Oh, Ms. Frankie,” Gloria says, flashing the biggest grin I think I’ve ever seen. “You eat up and I show you.”
Gloria is a wonderful distraction. She regales me all morning with stories Darian would probably wish she’d kept to herself. I laugh so hard and for so long my stomach muscles ache. She seems thrilled that I’m here, like I’m the only living proof she has that Darian exists outside these walls. We munch on tostadas, drink mug after mug of café con leche, and play countless rounds of the Cuban dice game. At a quarter ‘til noon, my phone vibrates with a text from Darian, and Gloria stands.
“You take that, Ms. Frankie,” she says, patting my shoulder. “I need to get to this mess anyway.”
My brows furrow. “Absolutely not,” I say. “You made me an amazing breakfast, and I’m cleaning up.” I hop off the barstool and make for the sink while Gloria stares after me. “Besides, it will give me something to do while I wait for Darian.” I glance at my phone, to the text that tells me he’s going to be late. “And it looks like I’ll be waiting a while.”
It’s strange being alone in someone else’s home. You get this sense of who they are, and it’s usually vastly different from the person they claim to be. But as I wander through Darian’s house, I get nothing, except what I already know—that he’s incredibly private. Other than his mail stacked on the kitchen counter, there isn’t a single thing that suggests he lives here.
The home’s plantation-style is in the details; the layout itself is much more modern. Each room leads to another, so if you keep walking in the same direction, you’ll end up right where you started. It’s one big square, and in the very center is a courtyard, which is where I spend most of my day.
Despite the constant humidity, it’s surprisingly cool, and the four walls that enclose it don’t do a thing to stop the breeze blowing in from the gulf. It’s furnished with black wicker couches with cream-colored cushions and a teak dining set. Giant turquoise planters of yellow lantana adorn each corner, and a stone fire pit sits in the center. It’s hands down my favorite part of the house.
I bring my laptop outside and work from the dining table beneath the generous shade of an umbrella. Party-planning is a get-what-you-give kind of business, and maybe, if I gave a little more, I’d feel better about eventually quitting my day job. It’s easy to sell prepackaged boxes. It’s also incredibly boring. My heart is in consulting, but ever since my father died, I’ve lost interest. There’s nothing worse than helping other people celebrate while you’re grieving. But the truth is, some part of me will always grieve him, and I can’t keep pushing everything else aside because of it.
The table rattles beneath my vibrating phone as “Pony” by Ginuwine blows up the quiet courtyard. With my thumb hovering over the Answer button, I stare at Jane’s smiling face until the call goes to voice mail. It’s safer to text her. That girl is like walking truth serum, and the second she hears my voice, she’ll know something’s off.
Frankie: Hey!
Jane: Too busy to talk to your BFF?
Frankie: Sorry, bad signal.
Jane: So? How’s Darian? How’s the house?
Frankie: Darian’s good and the house is amazing.
Jane: Is it weird being surrounded by his family?
Frankie: I’m not. I haven’t seen a single picture.
Jane: Nothing? Not even Anabel?
Frankie: Nothing.
Jane: I was worried her pictures might trigger your nightmares.
Frankie: How’s Jacob?
Jane: He keeps asking if you’ve met Mickey Mouse.
Frankie: LOL. Tell him he’ll be the first to know.
When the sun dips below the walls of the courtyard, I close my laptop and head inside, but as I reach the double doors to my room, my eyes lift to the staircase that frames them. I set my laptop on the floor at my feet and circle around the banister.
I’m not snooping; I’m exploring, I tell myself as my feet navigate the steps.
The staircase culminates in a rectangular landing flanked by two more sets of doors. The one on the right is ajar. I poke my head inside and find a small library with floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with more books than I could ever imagine a personal library to hold. Unable to resist the pull, I step over the threshold and drag my gaze over the hundreds of titles.
I take it back. This is my favorite part of the house.
Darian has a little of everything—from English lit to true crime—but science fiction is the clear front-runner.
Finally. Something personal…and something he would’ve shared with my dad. The thought warms me, but at the same time, a wave of unease crawls over my skin because I know I shouldn’t be up here.
As I slip out of the library, I come face to face with the only other room making up the second floor, and it’s hidden behind a set of closed doors. My heart aches to learn the secrets that lie within, but…
“Now is not the time,” I whisper to myself as I head downstairs.
A faint rap on my door pulls me from my book. I look up as Darian pokes his head inside. Apart from the dim light that spills from my Kindle app, the room is dark. I push myself up against the headboard and fumble for the lamp on the nightstand.
“You can come in,” I say when I realize he’s still standing there, waiting.
He’s dressed in ripped jeans and a Ramones T-shirt. His hair is damp, and as he sits beside me on the edge of the mattress, I notice he smells faintly of soap.
“How long have you been home?” I ask, drawing my knees in to give him more room. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He lies sideways across the bed, his body held up by his forearm. “Maybe an hour? I thought you were asleep and I wanted to clean up and get dinner going before I woke you.”
“I was just reading,” I say. I hold up my phone as evidence. “How was work?”
He shrugs, and his gaze dips to my ankles, to the hem of the pajama pants I never bothered to change out of. A small smile plays on his lips as his fingers graze the fuzzy fabric. “I like these,” he says, looking up at me. “Work was work. I’d rather have been here.”
I wrap my arms around my legs, hold them tight against my chest, and rest my chin on my knees. My hair falls forward, forming a curtain over my face. Darian sweeps it back behind my ear, and his fingers linger there.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I sit up a little. “Just hungry. Gloria made me a feast for breakfast, but I got distracted and haven’t eaten since.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have sent something over.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” I lean back against the headboard and narrow my eyes at him. The corner of my mouth lifts in a half-smile. “I mean, as long as you remembered to bring home chocolate.”
Darian laughs. “I got ice cream. Will Rocky Road work?”
“Rocky Road is my favorite.”
I send Darian ahead, and I stay behind for a shower and a change of clothes—a pair of black leggings and a gray chevron tunic. Then I set off to find him. I go through the house this time, to the kitchen where all three French doors are open to the backyard. Classic rock filters in from the patio and I follow it outside. Darian’s at the grill with his back to me. He doesn’t hear me come out, which is good since the look on my face is probably not the one he’s expecting.
The same table we sat at last night is set. Dressed in a white tablecloth and topped with tea lights and a small vase of assorted roses from his garden, it’s romantic. Really romantic.
And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it.
Darian doesn’t want to share his bed with me, but he does this? I know we’re technically just friends, and I suppose, as such, a friend would have her own room. Except we’re fucking friends, and logistically speaking, not sharing a room is just stupid. But this? Friends don’t have candlelit dinners with wine and roses. They eat Chinese takeout on the floor in front of the TV.
Jane’s text flashes in my mind. You don’t act like friends.
“Perfect timing,” Darian says, walking toward me with a platter of grilled fish and asparagus. He sets it on the table beside a bowl of pasta salad. “This stuff is craveable. Drew turned me on to it.”
“The pasta?”
“Yeah. Wait ‘til you try it.” He pulls out my chair as if he’s done it a thousand times. “There’s some secret ingredient we can’t place. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
I feel a twinge in my chest. Darian sits next to me, and the ache spreads to the pit of my stomach.
He always sits next to you. What’s the big deal?
Darian’s hand slides over mine and the sudden contact gives me a jolt. My eyes dart to his. He looks as confused as I feel.
“Sorry, I’m—”
“Hey, I think we—”
“A little out of it,” I finish. I reach across the table for a serving spoon.
Darian sits back in his chair and silently watches me as I transfer pasta salad to my plate. I scan the table for a pair of tongs but come up empty. I’m about to stand when I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist.
“I was just going to get some tongs or something for the asparagus,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the table. “And I guess a spatula for the fish would be good.”
“Can it wait a second?” Darian turns in his chair until his knees brush the side of my thigh. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong? I can tell something’s bothering you. I just don’t know what it is.”
I lift my eyes, slowly meeting his gaze. “You gave me my own room.”
“Was I not supposed to do that?”
“No, it’s…I thought maybe you did it because of what happened the other night. Like you were just setting boundaries or something, and I totally get that. But then tonight, I come out here and see this romantic”—I wave my hand over the table—“spread, and I realize…that can’t be it.” My throat tightens. “You don’t want to share your room with me, but you do…this? Candles? Flowers? I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it; I’m just saying it’s confusing.”
Darian sinks back in his chair. “I didn’t think of it like that. I left you here all day by yourself. I felt bad. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“And I love it; I do. But you’re drawing a line with one thing and crossing it with another. I don’t know what to think.”
He leans toward me and reaches for my hand. “I gave you your own room because I wanted you to be comfortable. I didn’t want you to feel pressured and I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” His thumb grazes my knuckles and he lets out a deep sigh. “You didn’t say anything so I figured I’d made the right decision.”
“I know,” I say. “I should have just asked.”
“And I should have talked to you about it instead of assuming.” He lifts his hand to my jaw, his long fingers tangling in my hair. “This is new territory for both of us, and I think we can agree sex blurs the lines a little bit. The last thing I want to do is confuse you. I’m trying like hell to do the right thing, but I don’t always know what that is.”
I scrunch my face. “I guess that makes two of us.”
“I admit our friendship is a little…unconventional.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “That’s one way of putting it,” I say as my eyes roam the table. “Yes, sex blurs the lines, but so does holding hands and kissing…and this.” I point to the vase of roses and then pluck one out, bringing it to my nose. “It feels like we’re dating.”
Darian stiffens beside me, and my gaze drops to his fingers wrapped tightly around the armrests.
“We’re not dating,” he says, his tone brisk.
“I don’t mean it like we’re serious or anything.”
“Because, Francesca, I…can’t.”
I put the rose back in the vase. “I know.”
We both fall silent as the angry thrashing of drums in Led Zeppelin’s “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” fills the backyard.
Darian pulls a remote out of his pocket and aims it at the house. The music fades. “What do you say we try this again?” he says, looking over at me. His lips curve into a half smile. “Open the wine? Have some cold snapper?”
An uneasy feeling flits in my stomach, then flutters away as I smile back at him. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He reaches across the table for the chardonnay and sets it between us. “So will you stay with me tonight? I want you to stay with me. Please.”
“I’d like that too.”
I’d like that a lot.