Something happened between us while I was on that ledge. I didn’t feel it fully because no matter how much he did to distract me, I couldn’t forget that I was a few feet away from falling off. But now that I’m safe and in his arms, I’m catching up. And my body is buzzing for an entirely different reason. I smile up at him, bright and wide with my perfectly straight teeth that my mom always called God’s apology for fucking up everything else in my life.
“I’m so glad you followed me out, even though it was your fault. You kept me from going crazy,” I say softly. We’ve run the full gamut of emotions, and we’ve ended up intrigued and much more than interested.
He leans in slightly—his eyes are open and on mine. My heart is thudding like I’ve just sprinted for a mile. My face is tingling. His fingers move in slow, small circles at the base of my neck; his thumbs massage the muscles that are clenched in my jaw. My head falls back and his fingers slip into my hair and cup the base of my skull. He cradles my head like it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever held. I’m liquifying. The adrenaline is mingling with lust, and I’m turned on in a way that I’ve never been before. What they say about near death experiences making you horny is true. His fingers caress my scalp and send chills through me that curl into heat-seeking missiles that turn my entire body into an erogenous zone.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs and leans forward to brush a kiss on my mouth. But my lips want more and they cling to his greedily. Kissing him is like being hit with a thousand lightning bolts of full-blown pleasure. He feels like the most worthwhile regret I’ll ever have. I want to make this count.
I sink my teeth into his lower lip and tug. He hisses, but he takes control of the kiss and covers my mouth with his. And then he kisses the shit out of me. It’s so perfect that it feels like I fell off the edge of the cliff just so this could happen.
His lips are soft and demanding. I could get addicted to this man—really fast. My body is singing like it’s just had that first, singular hit of its new favorite drug. He pulls back after one of the men working on my harness coughs loudly. I hold onto his lips until simple biology makes it impossible for me to hold on anymore. We smile like lunatics at each other. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning and that’s exactly how I feel. When they pull the harness off me, I know two things for sure. One, this was just the first of many kisses I’m going to share with him. And two, that I’ll never forget him or this trip as long as I live.
“I still don’t forgive you,” I remind him.
“I want to make it up to you.”
“Okay,” I whisper when he leans away.
“Hell yeah, TB!” Cass calls from over Hayes’s shoulder.
The harness loosens and the men crouched in front of me working it loose all stand. Hayes lets go of me, and I drop my leg back down for balance. I immediately regret my decision because pain—almost blindingly sharp—shoots up my leg from my ankle.
* * *
We’re in my bed. The EMTs decided my ankle was only sprained. They put me in a soft knee length boot to mobilize it. Considering that I fell down that ledge, I’m amazed I walked away with that being the only thing wrong. I also walked away with the most unexpected, beautiful surprise. Hayes Rivers. He’s still mostly pretty rude, but he’s been attentive and tender. And I can’t keep my hands off him.
“So, tell me, what’s TB mean?” he asks. His breath is warm and tickles the fine hairs near my temples.
“Turd Blossom,” I say, and his chest tightens against my cheek.
“What in the world is that?”
I laugh hoarsely and pat his chest softly. “And you call yourself a Texan,” I say.
“Is knowing what a turd blossom is a prerequisite for being a real Texan?” he asks.
“No, it’s not a prerequisite, it’s a requirement. To call yourself a real Texan, you’ve got to have had some shit dumped on you and come up smelling like roses,” I tell him.
“And how do you know so much about being a Texan?”
“I went to college in Texas,” I tell him.
“UT?”
“Not UT, I couldn’t afford that. I went to Texas State in San Marcos. It was like Paris, France compared to Amorel,” I say and laugh as I remember how googly-eyed I’d been for the first couple of weeks.
“Where’s Amorel?” he asks.
“It’s where I’m from. Right in the armpit of Arkansas, just across the Tennessee border, and along the banks of the great Mississippi River.”
“Is it a small town?” he asks.
I laugh. “That would be a generous description. We have one road running through town and really, it’s just there because the railroad tracks need a place to cross.” I laugh.
I wiggle the toes of my healthy foot along his shins. “It’s why my feet are extra wide.”
He laughs. “This because of your childhood? Or is this a random Confidence fact?” he asks.
“My childhood,” I clarify. “I was barefoot all the time. Walking on hard ground with no shoes makes your feet spread and hardens them.” I miss the springy, fertile, cool soil of Amorel beneath my feet suddenly.
“I played barefoot all the time,” he says
“I didn’t play barefoot. I lived barefoot. I even went to school without shoes. And so did a lot of the other kids.”
“Barefoot? Were you …” He trails off like he doesn’t want to say it.
“Was I poor?” I ask and laugh. “It’s not a dirty word. I’m not ashamed of where I come from. Because look where it got me,” I tell him.
“Well.” He hums low in his throat like he’s thinking deeply. “I think you defied the odds, getting out of there to where you are now.” He leans back and looks down at me. “I have a feeling you left a string of broken hearts in town when you left, and I’m sure half of them never managed to make it out and come after you,” he quips.
“Yeah, no.” I laugh out loud at the idea. “There was nothing romantic about my existence. It was a hard life, but my town did everything they could to make sure I got out. And, there was no string of broken hearts.” I nudge the center of his chest with my nose. “I was too busy doing chores, hunting, cleaning, going to school, and reading everything I could get my hands on.”
“See? You did what it takes to get out of there and your family helped you,” he says.
“Not by myself. And not because of my family. At least, not my blood family. It was the sheriff, my school librarian, the woman who ran the food market. Family, for me, isn’t because of blood. It’s because we decided to be each other’s support system.”
A strange expression crosses his face. “What? Does being a trust fund baby negate the need for family?” I ask.
“Of course not. And I don’t like that phrase. I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of being idle. I’ve worked since I left university. My brothers are the same way. We all have professions,” he says.
I pull back, “Profession? That sounds fancy. What did you do?”
“Nothing as fancy as a big firm lawyer,” he drawls. “I’m an accountant. Or I was,” he says and for some reason it tickles me to death. I laugh.
“You’re an accountant? You look like James Bond, the superhero version. I would never have guessed,” I tease. Kinda.
“Yeah, and I worked for my family’s company for a while. I’m the first Rivers in two generations to do so,” he says with pride.
“But, I think that if I didn’t have the benefit of all that money, it would have been a lot harder.”
I shrug, unimpressed.
“Sure, having to work a second job while going to school full-time meant college wasn’t a barrel of laughs. But, you know what?” I ask him.
“What?” he responds with an indulgent smile.
“I don’t even remember the hard work. I just know it’s paid off. So, yeah, I come from one of the poorest places in the country. But, I can also tell you that the more successful I become, the more terrible the people I meet are,” I
say.
“Oh, come on.”
“It’s true. There are five hundred people in my town. They’re all like my family. They say good morning and they mean it,” I say.
“Hmm, sounds nice.”
“It was. That entire town raised me. When I left for school, over a hundred of them drove down to Memphis to hug me at the airport. They couldn’t give me money, but they gave me the work ethic to fuel my ambition just because they love me. Now everyone around me wants something in return.”
“Maybe. But I still think you defied the odds,” he says.
“So did you,” I throw back. “If you have disposable income, good health insurance, and job security, then you’ve defied the odds. Do you know how unattainable that is for so many people? The odds are stacked against most of us,” I tell him.
“Honestly, I have no idea. I’ve never had to think about any of those things,” he muses like he’s never considered the mundane aspects of life.
Lucky him.
“Do you volunteer?” I cock my head at him.
“Like, you mean … my time?” he asks like it’s the most far-fetched thing he’s ever had.
“Yes, your time. You know, in your community? Worked in a soup kitchen, repaired a roof, cut grass, read to someone who couldn’t read to themselves?” I ask.
“No … I support those things financially,” he says.
I shrug. “Yeah, that’s great. And we should all do that if we’re able. But if you don’t interact with the people you’re writing those checks to support, you’ll never see them as anything but poor. Which, contrary to popular belief, is not a character flaw.”
He doesn’t respond, and after a full minute of tense silence, I can’t stand it anymore.
“I’m sorry. I’m just passionate about … well, about everything,” I admit.
“Everything?” He laughs and it rumbles around his chest and rolls over me like thunder. I snuggle closer to him.
“Well, yeah—everything I do, anyway. I don’t see the point in doing something if I’m not all in. It’ll take the same amount of time to do it whether I’m enthusiastic or not. And I’ve found my greatest passions that way. What you give is what you get … I acquired lot from my experiences, so I know that means I’ve got to give them my all, too.”
He doesn’t say anything and I start to feel uneasy. Me and my oversharing big mouth. “Did I just scare you off?” I press my forehead to his chest and close my eyes. “I’m a little neurotic,” I say.
“Where did you come from?” He drops his chin onto the top of my head and pulls me close to him. He smells so good.
“Did you fall asleep when I was talking? I just told you. I’m from Arkansas—”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, I didn’t know people like you existed ...” He pulls back so he can see my face. I flush at the awe in his eyes.
“Oh, come on. I’m a clumsy, country redneck with a law degree and a nice ass,” I quip to hide my embarrassment.
“Yeah, I can only agree with the nice ass part and I guess I believe you’re a lawyer, but I need to see a diploma.” He slides his hands down and cups the cheeks of said ass in his strong hands. “I’m sorry for what I said to you. You’re incredible. I have never met anyone like you, and I’ve never wanted a do-over so badly in my life.” He rushes the words out in a clumsy, halting sentence. I school my smile before I tilt my head up at him. His eyes are so beautiful and they’re fixed on mine in an open, honest, slightly vulnerable way.
“My mother told me that we speak from our brains, but we hear from our hearts,” I say.
“Meaning you know bullshit when you hear it?” he asks with an amused smirk.
“I know bullshit when I hear it,” I confirm. “And that’s the only reason I’m forgiving you. I can tell you’re really sorry. Also, it sucks that you have such shitty people in your life that you’re walking around expecting to be used,” I say honestly. He tenses again.
“I don’t know that they’re all shitty people. My brothers aren’t. My aunt isn’t. But otherwise, in my circle, money is more than just what you use to live. It’s your armor, it’s your power, your weapon—”
“You make life sound like a war,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
“I mean, I don’t think so and I’ve had some battles, but no. In general, I’m just trying to do better than the people before me so that the people after me have something worth taking care of, too,” I say.
“That’s all I want, too,” he says and runs an absent hand up and down the small of my back. His hand is heavy and warm, and I start to feel the first call of sleep.
“The lady at the table told us your family is a big deal in Houston. What for?”
He takes a minute, his hands tightening their grip on my body. He hums contemplatively and sighs deeply before he speaks.
“I’m very wealthy. I have been since I was twenty-five. That alone makes me someone whose name people know. My father died when I was fourteen, and I went to live with my aunt.” His lips twitch slightly like he’s in pain.
“Was this in Texas?” I ask him gently.
“No, it was in Positano.” He runs a hand through his thick, curly hair.
“Where’s that?” I ask.
“Italy,” he says.
My fingers drift down his face when I see the flash of pain in his eyes that the memory of it brings.
“That’s a long way from home,” I say.
“It was. And when I got here, I was so angry. At everyone. I didn’t really know my aunt, and I resented having to come and live with her. I behaved like such a jerk. She sent me to a boarding school after I broke a window in her neighbor’s house and refused to apologize,” he laughs.
“She kicked you out?” I ask
“Yeah.” He scratches his chin; the scrape of stubble under his nails vibrates against my ear, and I snuggle closer to him. His body is so hard, but it yields where I need it to, and I’ve never been more comfortable in my whole life. “We were at real odds with each other. She didn’t know what to do with me, and I didn’t know what to do with all of my anger,” he says.
“How was boarding school?” I ask.
“Hell. I didn’t speak Italian well; I was a loner, and the upperclassmen smelled blood in the water. And almost right away, they tried to make me their grunt. And that wasn’t happening,” he says coldly. I like that rough edge in his voice. I shiver and move closer to him.
“So, what’d you do?” I ask.
“The first one who got close enough to me got a bloody nose for his trouble,” he says with grudging pride.
I nudge him and tighten the hands that I have wrapped around his waist. He’s talking about it like it was no big deal. I can tell that now, it’s not. But I can’t imagine what he must have been feeling then. My heart aches for him. How can someone have so much and yet …
“So, you fought your way through school?” I ask him.
“Didn’t get the chance. I was expelled when I broke the French ambassador’s son’s cheekbone,” he says grimly.
“Holy shit.” I grimace.
He starts to pull his hand back.
I hold his arms in place to stop him. “Please don’t stop touching me; I like it. A lot,” I say quietly.
His arms tighten around me, and I relax again.
“Did you hear about my ex? I’m assuming that gossip has made its way here,” he says.
I nod.
“What did you hear?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe it,” I tell him.
“Why not? Because I was nice to you tonight?” he asks in a voice that reeks with skepticism.
“Don’t be a jerk,” I say.
“I’m not being a jerk,” he pushes back. “I just know what people say. ‘Guy his size …’”
“Well, my father was five foot, five inches tall, 140 pounds, and he’s the most vicious human being I’ve ever met. He beat my mother until the day he died. His size had no
thing to do with it. And it doesn’t have anything to do with my brother who’s the same size and just as brutal. I was bred by a violent man. I lived with violent men. I can smell it. My skin tingles.” I look down at my arms. “The only tingles you give me are the kind that feel really good.”
He nuzzles my hair with his chin.
“But … how did you end up in such a bad place with your ex?” I ask.
He stiffens and then clears his throat.
“I was living in New York after college, away from my family and with my brothers. All four of us in one city. It was … amazing.”
His sigh is full of nostalgia and I can hear the smile the memory has brought to his face. “I feel a but coming on,” I say when he pauses a beat too long.
“But, I was also in a really dark place. I was almost twenty-five. My inheritance was vesting and yet I still couldn’t go home. I’d have the money, but none of the responsibility that made it mine. And I was obsessed with being ready to take the helm. My aunt always takes blame for introducing me to her. But if I’m honest, I thought finding a wife was the most important thing. Combine that with alcohol, youth, and more money than sense … and you’ve got a perfect storm.
“I married the wrong woman. We divorced. She moved on. I moved back to Europe.
“Five years later, her luck ran out and she was trying to get more money out of me. She came to my house one evening and I refused to let her in. She banged on the door for an hour. She only left when I told her I was calling the police.”
“Why didn’t you call them the minute she showed up? This sounds insane,” I ask.
“Because I was, as always, thinking about what that would look like for the family. It ended up being a disaster anyway,” he says.
“So, you’ve been in the position for how long?”
“Since I turned thirty, two months ago. It’s been a total disaster. My uncle and stepmother have spent the last sixteen years making a mess of it. So, first order of business is trying to climb through all the shit they’ve piled on top of us.”
Beach Reads Box Set Page 23