"I'm going to start a bath for you," Cal said the moment they stepped foot into his apartment.
His first words since the I love you. Not the words she wanted, but she had to face facts. Or not. She was consumed with the selfish notion she needed to hear him say it back.
She simply nodded her approval, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. By the time she entered the bathroom, steam had fogged the mirrors and much of the surrounding space. After undressing, she stepped into the warm bubbles while Cal remained seated at the edge of the tub, fingers in the stream, watching Annie.
Neither of them spoke.
Annie focused on the sound of the rushing water as she sank into it neck-deep. She could feel his eyes entering her skin, but she wouldn't meet them. She skimmed her palms over the foam and closed her eyes.
Cal moved to the rear ledge, washcloth in hand, and pressed it to her shoulders.
Her eyes popped open at the contact.
Instinctively, she sat up, leaned forward, and hugged her knees. She could only imagine what he was seeing as he dragged the soft cloth over the entire length of her sore back. It went on for several minutes. The tender washing, the unspoken sentiment. Tears built in the corners of her eyes, and love caught in the tangled net inside her throat.
It couldn't last forever.
Nothing did.
Cal finally stood. And as Annie watched him undress, she admired his form. Tall and strong, defined back muscles, rock-hard hips, a posture an artist would beg to sculpt. Every inch of his physical body was an open book.
Why couldn't his heart be the same?
He entered the shower because, of course, it would be too intimate to join her in the bathtub, especially after tonight. But what was with the washing? It had been intimate. He was still ever the enigma she’d encountered that very first fateful night.
What had she done? Had she made a mistake? Was there such a thing as a mistake? Timing, Cal had always said, emphasized. Timing and choices.
Annie hadn’t planned on saying I love you in the alley. The non-planning daydreamer relying on feelings.
But he had to know.
She could no longer deny it, and she didn't want to. He needed to know before she left.
No mistakes. No denial.
It had to be said. Expressed. No matter the consequences — he won't say it back — she didn’t regret telling Cal she loved him.
* * *
After his shower, Cal lingered in the kitchen, sipping whiskey, while he waited for Annie to finish her bath.
Unbeknownst to him, she had finished and now stood near the mirror over the bathroom sinks, drying off alone. She glanced over her shoulder and tried to look at her backside. Surely there would be bruises or marks.
Seeing the proof of their connection, their joining, the pleasure they took in hurting, she closed her eyes and recalled the frenzied moment leading up to her confession…
The warmth and the tingling, the sweat and the need. Why was it all such a need? And now it was still a need, and it stung, stinging her like a wasp, leaving her feeling a different kind of warmth. A chill, really. A feverish chill slowly warming her, poison creeping into her veins. She was reliving it again and again and again, the push of him inside her, pushing for life, for death, for reason, his breath on her skin, the way he’d held her up and gripped her as if it was both an end and a beginning.
The chill climbed the ladder of her heart.
The poison was a high.
She caught her eyes in the mirror, turned around, stepped closer, and peered at her reflection.
Awakening replaced innocence.
Freedom replaced prison.
She’d come to South Beach for herself and had found some missing pieces. Where would she go from here? Home?
Home was in his smile…
Would he ask her to stay? To move? Was it the end?
She didn’t want to feel, but she did. Numb was over and done.
You have loved.
Annie looked away from the woman who had changed, who loved, who lived, who didn't give up, and she grabbed Cal's robe from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. She tied the string around her waist and took a deep breath. His smell encapsulated her more than the material. His scent was time in bed on a rainy day under the covers with a book or a movie — time without worry.
Could she fit his robe in her suitcase? Or him? She could box him up or tuck him into her sleeve.
The wasp poison in her veins moved to the pit of her stomach and stayed. Rocks rolling around in her gut. Unsure. Sure. A hope. Everything she did in her life stemmed from hope, didn't it?
She went into the empty room, lay down in bed, and within minutes, fell asleep — Cal's scent both a protection and barbiturate.
* * *
Cal entered the dark room wearing a pair of comfortable sweat pants and no shirt, the nightlight in the bathroom barely giving it a glow. The smell of rose bubbles still permeated the air, the soap he knew Annie preferred. It couldn’t mask her natural scent — orange blossoms, tangerines.
Oh … Annie.
Cal leaned against the dresser, ankles crossed, ruffing fingers over his chin, watching her sleep.
Was she really asleep? Or was she pretending and avoiding and running? They’d both done enough of that. He should’ve known better than to have allowed it all to happen. The summer spent with a woman twenty years younger. Age didn’t matter, but it would once her clock began to tick.
Walking over to the bed, he sat on its edge next to Annie. His breath caught in his throat as he wiped a palm across the entirety of his face. He still couldn't breathe as he watched her dream…
…shading her in and etching her into the corners of his mind.
She was asleep and beautiful and his. Smart and strong and talented and … what? A comfort. A place to keep his secrets and hang his head. Was she even ready for all that bullshit? Was he?
What would Constance Prescott think of Annie Baxter? He laughed. If only they could meet.
They could not.
His mind clouded. Gray and black, ominous cumulonimbus collided.
His first responsibility would have to be to his mother. Right? He’d avoided Constance for too long. Too many selfish years. The strength he normally drew upon to handle most every situation in his life seemed weak. Annie couldn't see him weak or his mother sick or the life he had to lead. Summer had been like vacation. What would reality do to them?
Destroy, flatten, and change their relationship. An atom bomb exploding over loveliness.
Calvin Prescott … falling in love with a girl of only twenty-five. What was his excuse? Misguided loneliness. Excuses weren’t for him. He made things happen. He controlled his destiny.
Besides, he’d known it would happen. He’d known it was unstoppable. He could decipher lust from connection. The night he’d met her, his throat had turned raw. His mind had gone into hyperdrive. She had never been a conquest or a fling. She’d never left his thoughts. She made him better. Stronger.
Then why was he weak?
Because he wouldn't allow her to tie him off.
He hadn't summoned the courage to be the man she needed — the one he needed.
What could he offer her? Twenty or thirty good years. No children. He had done nothing to stop any of it except live in denial. Maybe he could still do that. Sure, he could be with her and fuck her and hang out with her, and he could even talk to her — although he still held back in that department too — except she was leaving and deserved more.
Fun and summer vacation were one thing, but taking care of her, being responsible for her, stealing her youth away … they were other things entirely. Did she even understand what that would mean? A life with him. The things she would give up. The sacrifices.
His pride told him he should push her away, do what was best for Annie in the long run, but his heart — his fucking heart — had fallen in love. Hard.