I chuckle, grab her face, and plant a kiss on her mouth. “You’re golden, babe.”
Realizing I’m not going to continue what she started, she grudgingly eases back to lie on me. Vicky leans her chin on her hand that’s resting on my chest, narrowing her eyes at me.
I tip my head to kiss her forehead. “We’re going to make this thing work.”
She looks at me and says, “We need to keep it under wraps, not only because of your contract but for me too. If photos of you with others start popping up everywhere and people know we’re togeth—seeing each other, I’ll look like a complete fool.”
I hate that there’s logic in her request. I understand. It would be hard enough to explain this to one person, let alone all our friends and family . . . unfeasible.
She’s spread on top of me, her eyes trained on mine, a soft smile on her lips. If I could have my way, I’d have her like this forever.
“We can go out, once or twice,” I think out loud.
She shakes her head. “I’m a private person. I don’t even have social media accounts, at least not under my real name. There’s a certain façade I’d like to keep, especially with my line of work. I can’t have my picture on some tabloid. It’s hard enough keeping my reputation in the business spotless when there are too many people waiting to see me fail.”
“I won’t do anything to hurt you in any way, Vic. Ever.” I brush a strand of her hair behind her shoulder. “For the time being, we’ll keep this to ourselves.” I inch up to leave a kiss on her lips. “It doesn’t mean that I don’t want to take you out or spend as much time as I can with you.”
We’re quiet for a few silent beats till Vicky breaks it with a question. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“With you.”
She scoffs. “No, I’m serious.”
I lean up to kiss her lips. “I am serious.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile on her lips makes my heart sing. “Okay then, what else?”
I shrug. “Release a couple of albums.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. Make music, tour, buy a house, get married.”
“And?”
I narrow my eyes, gauging her. “Babe, what are you asking?”
“Most people say they want kids,” she says casually, yet I don’t miss the edginess fleeting across her features.
I watch my tattooed fingers as they trail over her smooth, milky skin.
“It usually comes with the marriage-house package,” I say.
“Not everyone wants to go the traditional route,” she replies. “I, for one, like my life just the way it is. I don’t want anything to change.”
She frowns at me, seeming to withdraw once more. Opting to shift the conversation, I blurt out whatever jumps to my mind. “I met your mom and sister but I’ve never heard you mention your dad.”
Vicky lifts those enchanting blues to me. “He’s not around. He went back to Denmark when I was ten. He couldn’t see himself here, in the States, for the long term . . . with us. So he left.”
“He’s out of the picture?”
“In a sense, yes. There are the occasional birthday cards, a call from time to time, and I’ve visited him a few times. We don’t keep much in touch, but I sort of like visiting with him. He has a farm in Jutland. It’s such a wonderful place. Simple, country life surrounded by a stunning landscape.”
I chuckle softly, remembering something. “The place from the infamous wish list.” I refer to Vicky’s superb wish list on Alexa, where sleeping with me was at the top.
Vicky grins. “Same one. It’s magical during winter. I’ve been there a few times, and I want to go back sometime.” She then asks, “What about your family?”
I tell her about my family. My mom, who owns a vintage clothing shop, and my older brother, who joined the family business as an accountant, to my father’s delight. I even tell her how my father kicked me out when I declared my MBA in finance a waste of time and refused to follow in my dad and brother’s footsteps to join the family business.
Vicky’s eyes widen. “You have an MBA in finance?”
“Shocker, ah?” I chuckle. “An educated punk.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She frowns at me. “Just surprising.”
I grin at her. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Are you not in touch with your family then?”
I exhale. “We didn’t speak for a while after my dad told me to find my own place if I wanted to waste my time on a pointless hobby. But my mom wouldn’t let it stay that way. A few good months later, she orchestrated the ultimate Christmas Hallmark family reconciliation.”
“Smart woman,” Vicky comments.
“That she is.”
It’s dark, and it’s intimate, and our quiet conversation draws us closer. We talk about nothing and everything while I draw small circles with my fingers on her warm skin. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it feels like we talk for hours till Vicky falls asleep on my chest. For a while, I just hold her and then carefully move from under her. I cover her with a comforter, leave a gentle kiss on her cheek, and turn to do something I’ve never done before.
Bracing my elbow on the low table, I lean my temple on two fingers and gaze at the piece of paper before me, somewhat mesmerized. My fingers crawl toward a pen; I roll it under my open palm on the table, forward and back, processing the whirlwind of words and tunes whirling in my mind. I shake my head a tad bewildered, and with a start, grab the pen, and before I know it, what I’m feeling inside turns into lyrics.
After a while, the page turns into a brutal battlefield with my scribbles, crossed-out words, and rewrites. All my attention is trained on the page as I’m itching for my guitar.
“Hey.” Vicky’s sleepy voice yanks me out of my concentration. I turn to look at her. She smiles at me, lying on her side, her cheek resting on her hand. “What are you doing—writing?”
I nod, returning her sleepy gaze. My lips twitch at the sight of her, so incredibly sweet with a sleep mark on her pinkish cheek.
“What are you writing?”
I play with my necklace between my fingers. “A song . . . I think.”
Vicky’s lips curve into a smile. “What about?
I mirror her smile. “You. An ode to you.”
We chuckle in unison at the cheesiness.
She fully beams at me now. “Read it to me.”
A devilish smirk takes over my lips when I clear my throat and pretend to read what I wrote. “Babe, you’re golden. Your orgasms are my scripture.”
She frowns first, and when she realizes I’m messing with her, she throws a pillow at me.
I chuckle, catching the pillow before it lands in my face.
“Wait, you’re not going to read it to me?” she asks.
“Not yet. I need to tinker with it some more.” It’s my first attempt at writing a song. I’m too self-conscious to share it with anyone yet, even her.
She hugs the comforter to her chest, asking, “Did you sleep?”
I shake my head, drinking her in.
“Don’t you want to try to get some sleep?”
“Don’t think so.” I’m too hyped, knowing full well that sleep won’t even touch my eyes anytime soon. And I don’t want to slide into bed with her. Scratch that. I want nothing more, but I keep my distance. As much as I want to plant myself between her legs, I also think that prolonging a break with the physical thing is a good idea when it comes to my girl. Holding sex back feels like a major milestone for us. We got even closer tonight, and she didn’t clamp up or pretend she wasn’t as into me as I’m into her. As I told her earlier tonight, the next time we get physical, it’s going to mean something. We still have a long and rocky way to go, and even though our sex is explosive, it won’t help us get there. It might even hinder us. For now anyway.
“What do you want to do then?” Vicky questions.
“Let’s go for a ride, catch the sunrise.”
“Scoot forward,” I tell Vicky as I climb off the bike and hang both helmets on the handlebars.
Vicky slides forward to the front saddle of the bike. I watch her for a silent beat, frame her face with my hands, and touch my lips to hers. I urge her to open for me and resume kissing her slowly and profoundly, basking in the gentle sounds of pleasure she makes. I ease back from our kiss and trail kisses down her neck. I nuzzle the nook of her neck, taking a lungful of her heady scent, before climbing on the bike. I settle behind her, wrapping her in an embrace with my lips hovering over her hair. She mellows into me in true surrender—I hug her closer, trapping what I’m feeling inside. I know if I utter what I’m feeling right now, even though she might feel the same way, she will run for the hills in a blink.
“It’s so beautiful,” Vicky says softly, gazing at the golden rays amid a fiery palette of auburn, stretching into endless blue in front of us.
Sitting here with her in my arms, in front of this spectacular sunrise, a phrase from the lyrics I wrote earlier repeats in my head: Listen to the lyrics of my song; you’ll hear them differently when your guards are down. And before I know it, words just come out of my mouth with no filter. “I’m head over my fucking heels for you, babe. Please don’t see other people.”
Her response has a sassy lilt to it when she says, “I won’t . . . for now.”
I shake my head with a smile. “Vic, I swear, you’d be the prime suspect if I go into cardiac arrest.”
She turns around to look at me, a wicked little smile playing on her silent lips.
And Just Like a Complete Amateur, I Caught the Feels
“What’s so funny?” I ask as we enter the kitchen back at my sister’s place.
“Oh, hi, guys. Where have you two naughty kids been?” Pandora asks with mischief in her eyes like she just caught us red-handed.
“We brought breakfast.” Ricky dumps the large box in the middle of the island. The scents of sweetness and warm, yeasty aroma immediately fill the kitchen. I smile to myself, liking how he doesn’t feel the need to give account to anyone. He has this assurance about him, coolness that no one dares to question. One that I find incredibly attractive.
Everyone is hanging in the kitchen, still in their pajamas—everyone plus three newcomers. Liam’s friend William joined the group with his wife and their adorable toddler, Isabella.
The group is milling around the kitchen, surrounded by the boiling kettle’s noise and the grinding sound coming from the coffee machine. There’s a pleasant vibe, colored with random laughs, friendly jabs, and an overall sense of lazy Sunday morning.
Liam smiles at the group. “Easy! Pager going off!” When Ricky and I turn to him in question, he explains. “We were discussing best date ditching excuses.”
“I’ll ask to see that pager next time it goes off, then,” my sister says, eyeing her boyfriend teasingly.
“Like I’ll ever find an excuse to run from you.” He turns to her, tilts her back into a kiss in the best of romantic black-and-white-film fashion. If I believed in these things, I’d put a hashtag in front of that and declare it “couple goals.” These two are ridiculous.
I flip open the pastries box and examine the goods. “I use the old ‘I lost one of my contact lenses’ excuse and start blinking like crazy with one eye.” I grin, biting into a cinnamon roll. “It always does the job.”
I’m rewarded with a couple of laughs.
“I didn’t know you wear contact lenses,” Kayla says, peering into the box of goodies.
“I don’t.” I smirk.
Kayla snorts and fishes a pastry from the box. “I just say that I’m not feeling it and walk away.”
“Of course you do, badass, drummer girl,” I mutter.
Kayla flips me the finger with a sugary smile.
Danny laughs, taking a bite of the baked good in Pandora’s hand; she shoos him in response.
“I once used a raccoon situation as an excuse,” he says. Everyone laughs with Danny, who, besides being a civil attorney, also moonlights as a park ranger.
“My favorite one is to tell them that it’s not a good night for me since mercury is in retrograde. After that, they usually find an excuse to flee, and I stay and enjoy the food.” Pandora grins, powder sugar decorating her lips.
Casey, William’s wife, laughs and adds her excuse. “Upset stomach and diarrhea. Bulletproof, no one will ask you to stay after that.”
“Hey!” Her husband feigns a glare. “You used that on our first date.”
She grins at him. “I couldn’t stand you in the beginning. You were so full of yourself.”
He shakes his head, eyeing her in amusement.
“What’s your name?” a sweet voice asks from somewhere below.
I drop my eyes to look for the source. The question is directed at Ricky, who’s standing next to me at the island’s adjacent side.
Ricky dips his chin to look at the adorable toddler. “Patrick, but you can call me Ricky. And yours?”
“Isabella, but you can call me Issy.”
Ricky smiles at her. “Hey, Issy.” She reciprocates with a sweet, dimpled grin.
Isabella’s eyes run over Ricky. “Why do you have so many drawings on your hand?” The child points at Ricky’s tattoos.
“Because I like them. They tell stories of things that happen in my life.”
“Like my drawings from kindergarten?”
Ricky grins. “Exactly.”
“Can I touch them?” She looks at him from under her dark lashes.
“Baby, in the future, don’t bring home boys with drawings on them, okay?” her dad says humoredly. He smiles at Ricky. “No offense, man.”
Ricky chuckles. “Sure.” While talking to Isabella, Ricky slowly brings his pinky to brush against mine. The kitchen’s island conceals our connection, and no one is the wiser. It’s the minutest of gestures, but to me, it feels paramount. Enough to make my heart sweetly ache.
Isabella watches Ricky fascinated. “Do you have more drawings?”
Ricky pushes up his sleeve, exposing his full arm tattoo.
Hesitantly, the kid brings her pointer finger forward, looking at Ricky in question. Ricky nods, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his pinky ever so slowly brushing against mine.
Isabella’s chubby pointer finger trails across the colorful tattoos. Ricky has the sweetest grin on as he watches her, patiently explaining the story behind each inked image her finger hovers over.
I swear, every ovary in the kitchen’s vicinity explodes as my female friends and I watch the scene with dreamy smiles. But then an unbidden thought comes in, and my smile turns sorrowful. I imagine Ricky as a father. I immediately force it away.
We hang out with our friends for a couple of hours more, keeping our distance for the sake of appearance. That doesn’t mean that we don’t keep each other in our sights. Just the notion of his proximity makes the butterflies in my stomach frenzied and alert. I wish it wasn’t so.
“I’m going to grab my things,” Ricky mutters after Kayla announces that she’ll be leaving soon. He has his eyes pointedly on me as he makes his way to the stairs.
I follow him, avoiding my sister’s prying stare.
“Do you have plans for the rest of the day?” Ricky asks as I enter the room.
Instead of saying that no, I don’t have any plans, I say, “Yes.”
Ricky’s eyes narrow at me. “What plans?”
A sassy smile teases my lips. “Misting my plants.”
He folds his arms across his chest; his lips twitch at the side. “I’ll be more than glad to give you a hand . . . moistening your plants.”
I can’t help but laugh. He shakes his head at me in playful disapproval.
“Straight answer,” he says.
“I’ll have to check my emails, but nothing other than that.”
“Do you want to spend the day together?” he asks, holding my gaze.
I just smile at him. I don’t need to answer because the answer is written
all over my face—the blow to my stomach when he flashes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sinister smile. A chink in my armor. Ridiculous.
When Panda and Danny say their goodbyes, we make our escape before anyone starts asking questions.
After a short ride, Ricky cuts the engine, dismounts the bike, and offers me his hand. “Ready to meet my roomie?” He sends me a side-smile.
I eye his extended hand, glance at him sassily, and get down by myself. Ricky shakes his head like he finds me impossible, but the smile he tries to hide doesn’t escape me. We stopped by his place for his guitar and a fresh set of clothes. Not that he’ll need any clothes if it’s up to me.
We find his grandad and a friend in the dining room playing cards. I recognize Ricky in his grandfather at first glance. He’s got his grandfather’s eyes, the same chocolate hue with depths of charm.
Ricky introduces me as his friend. Both his grandad and the friend stand to shake my hand in true gentlemen’s fashion. As both older men take back their seats, Ricky’s grandad says, “You got yourself a stunner there, kid.”
Ricky drinks me in for a silent beat. He nods. “Sure did.”
“Just friends? What a shame. How about a silver fox?” The friend winks at me.
I chuckle. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
Ricky smiles, stepping closer to his grandad, and curls his tattooed hand over the old man’s shoulder as he stands behind him. “Do you need me to get you anything? I’ll be out for the night, but if you need anything, just give me a call.”
His grandad doesn’t answer; he just nods at the cards in his hand. Ricky’s other hand slides to pat his grandfather on the chest. The old man brings his creased hand to cover it and squeezes.
Watching their connection from the side tugs at my stomach. Ricky looks a bit tough, sinfully rugged, but right now, the gesture, the care he shows his grandparent, the contradiction with his appearance . . . I want to capture it in a picture. This guy makes me feel things I don’t want to feel, and it scares me. With him, it’s like I’m navigating this thing between us without a compass, and my eyes blindfolded—something I’ve never allowed myself to do before.
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 11