by Amelia Wilde
“You never knew she owned a home here?”
“No. She didn’t tell anyone about the house. Not even her sister—my mom.” Leta tucks her feet beneath her on the sofa and cradles her wine glass in her hand.
She told me at Bellissimo that she’d inherited the house from her house, but that led into me telling her how I’d inherited the job from a man who left the company years ago, leaving the financials largely to my father and a rotating team of secretaries. I didn’t get in to the mess they’ve left, or the missing money. I’ll think about those things enough in the morning.
“I’m intrigued.”
“Tell me about it,” says Leta. “It was a double surprise. I never expected to inherit a house. I didn’t know there was a house to inherit. My parents have their house, I guess, but we’ve never gone into a lot of detail about the will. I think the plan is for it to be sold.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. I didn’t grow up in that house. She and my dad got it after I moved out and went to college. It’s theirs.”
I can’t fathom having the Bliss property sold out from under me, and my stomach turns over. If I can’t figure out this money thing—or worse, if I figure it out and the problem is larger than anyone could have anticipated—we might end up selling it off piecemeal to save ourselves. It’s not imminent, but try telling my brain that in the middle of the night.
“And now this house is yours.”
She sips her wine and looks out the picture window at the front of my living room. We did end up going our separate ways after lunch, me to my office and her to the house to see the progress on the bookshelf. Pete’s guys set up a portable tent in the yard with sides that can roll up and down to let in the light during the day and close it off during the night.
“The house still feels like hers—Mari’s.”
“You mentioned her a few times.” I don’t add when we were together, since that seems like it’s tiptoeing too close to the “painful things” category.
“She was good.” Leta looks down into her glass and clears her throat. “The house was a surprise because we weren’t…I mean, we weren’t best friends, or anything like that. She spent time with me when I was growing up, but we didn’t get super deep.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She glances up at me. “This doesn’t count as painful, just so you know. Not like…some things we’ve agreed not to discuss.”
“Got it.”
“We were just different. She was quiet.”
I laugh at that. Leta is not quiet, unless she’s painting or sketching. “I’m surprised that stopped you.”
“From being close?”
“Yeah.”
“We were close. We just didn’t get deep. You know.”
I do, but only because of the time I spent with Leta. It’s one thing to be close with someone. It’s another to go straight to the heart of something.
Leta untucks her legs, and there it is—that look. The look that says let’s get deep. “What about you?”
“I didn’t inherit a house.”
She wags a finger at me. “We both know that. I mean, what’s got you down?”
“Nothing.”
“Quick answer.” She crosses one leg over the other and sweeps her hair back over her shoulder. “Also a lie.”
“No lie.”
“Charlie.”
How many other times has she said my name in exactly that way—half chiding, half affectionate—and taken down some wall I’d built up? A hundred? A thousand? Bricks fall from the wall I’d built around my feelings for her and hit the ground with a dull thud.
“I don’t know if I should be telling you this.”
“Please. You know you can tell me. I’ve always kept secrets.”
That, as far as I know, is true.
“Tell me one now to prove it.”
“Not a chance.” Leta sits up straight. “Never in my life.” If I believe in honor and duty as assigned by the Bliss family, Leta believes in keeping secrets. “But I’ll keep yours. You can tell me.”
If I tell her, that’ll be one step down the road that I can’t take back. I can already feel the tendrils between us getting thicker and stronger—harder to cut—and it’s a fucking risk. Because I still don’t know if she’s leaving or staying. I don’t know how much time is left.
“I can see you, you know. You carry all your tension in your shoulders.” She mimics it. It’s not unkind, but it is accurate—I’ve caught glimpses of myself in the mirror looking like that. “If it’s me, you can be honest. I won’t be hurt.”
“Who’s the liar now?”
“Fine.” Her cheeks redden. “It would hurt, but I wouldn’t show it.”
“No. I’ve gotten better about that.” Leta lifts her chin, and I know it’s true—I can see it in the set of her jaw and her clear eyes. Back when we were together she wore her heart on her sleeve. Now I see that it’s tucked under a layer of cloth. Still close to the surface, but not on full display.
“It’s not you.”
She lets out a long breath. “Thank god.”
“It’s something going on with the resort.”
Leta perks up again. “Like a murder?”
“God, no. Like…a financial conundrum.”
Her eyes light up. “That sounds better than a murder.”
“Of course it’s better than a murder. Nobody’s dead.” She bursts into laughter, then struggles to settle herself.
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny, I know. But it is better than a murder. I would never say otherwise.”
“It’s probably embezzlement.”
“Probably?” Leta drags a finger around the rim of her glass. “That doesn’t sound great, even theoretically.”
“It’s not great. There’s money disappearing every month, and I can’t figure out where it’s going. I’ve been working on it since July.”
“But Charlie, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“But Leta, I know. Trust me, I know. I’ve been digging into everything, all the records, and I can’t figure out who’s behind it. It’s a series of accounts, all going somewhere, but the transactions…”
“This shouldn’t be a thing, though. All banks keep records of transactions. Every transaction. There has to be a record somewhere.”
“That’s the thing. They’re all part of a…a kind of network. It’s part of the trust. The financial structure—”
“Will be over my head.”
“It’s over my head, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be running this show.”
Leta nods solemnly, then puts her wine glass on the end table. Carefully. On a coaster. “You’re not going to figure it out tonight.”
“Who knows? Maybe I—”
“You’re going to dance.”
10
Leta
“No.”
“I knew you’d say that.” I go over to Charlie and extend a hand, even though he’s way taller and way stronger. There’s no way I can pull him off the couch, and part of me sings with that recognition. He works out. He worked out in college, but now that he’s admitted the thing about the resort, I can see it for what it is: desperation exercise. “I’m choosing not to listen.”
“I am not doing dancing.”
“You are going dancing, and it’s going to be amazing.”
“Where do you think I’m going to dance?”
“Down on the beach.”
“No. No way. Beau’s parties aren’t my thing.”
I put both hands on my hips. “They should be, because he throws great parties.”
His eyes fill with skepticism. “How many of his parties have you been to? One?”
“Two. So I’m very experienced. Anyway, we’re not going to a party. We’re going to the beach. Right now. Come on.”
The sun has already set. The long summer nights are over, but we’re in that sweet spot where it’s not too cold and not too warm. I offer him my hand again.
“This
is still your solution to everything, isn’t it?”
I thrust my hand toward him. “It’s a good solution.”
I can feel it—the weight of this moment. If he takes my hand and we go dancing, it will mean something. The exact meaning escapes me, which is why it’s a good thing I’m not a lawyer or otherwise involved in a career that hinges on exact meanings.
Charlie takes my hand.
He stands up from the couch.
“Okay.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go to the beach.”
I only have to make one stop before we hit the sand: the rental car. In the trunk of the rental car I have a pair of portable speakers designed for beach use. I didn’t expect to get the chance to use them, but hey, when the universe gives you an opportunity, you take it.
Even if it means breaking up with your boyfriend, in some cases. The speakers fold down enough to fit in my carryon. It fits neatly in my hands while we make our way down to the last bit of dry sand before the water’s edge. I settle it into a crest on the beach and kick my shoes off next to it. Charlie does the same.
“I feel ridiculous,” Charlie says, and a zing of pleasure sweeps through me along with the night breeze.
“Hmm,” I say, as if Charlie admitting such a feeling out loud is completely commonplace. “Shut your eyes.”
“Uh, no. I’m not going to be the idiot falling into the water.”
“Don’t fall in, then. Just close your eyes. I’m getting set up.” I set my phone into the slot on the speakers, then scroll through the music on the screen. I have a mix for situations like this. With a flick of my thumb I start the song, then turn the volume up.
It’s an old Pilot Five song from when we were in college. “There. So—” I stand up and face Charlie.
His eyes are closed.
He’s smiling.
“I thought we agreed to stay away from the painful parts.”
I know exactly what he means. This song was everywhere when we were together. It stayed on the charts for months, and people requested it from local stations forever. It was on in the background while we made dinner, or when we went for a rare dance at one of the college clubs, or when the radio was our alarm for the day. I swear, the day I drove away and left him behind, it was on then, too.
“This can be both.” There’s nothing between us now but sand.
Even that distance is too much.
The song rises, picking up tempo, and I step forward and take his hands in mine. He doesn’t open his eyes.
I close mine, too.
All the sensation of the night magnify. The sand beneath the soles of my feet. The breeze coming in off the lake. And Charlie’s hands, warm and sold in mine.
The beat to the song comes in heavy and strong and my hips move with the rhythm. Charlie lets go of one of my hands, and the next moment I feel his palm on my hip, following the movement. The intimacy of it stops my heart in place, the next beat lingering.
Then we’re both moving, dancing, and Wilder Felix sings like singing is the only thing keeping him alive. I don’t know why Charlie was worried about falling into the water—even with my eyes closed, I’m so aware of where the water is, so in tune to the shifts of the sand. And I’m so close to his body that the magnetism between us doesn’t feel like a magnet at all. It feels like the natural order of things. Like gravity. You can’t feel gravity until you’ve gone to outer space and come back.
The song changes to something pulsing, crashing, wordless, and Charlie takes my hand and spins me out away from him, then back into his chest.
“I tried not to think of you.” His voice rockets out over the lake and the waves throw it back at us, mixing in with the song.
“I thought of you every day,” I shout back. I don’t care who hears.
“I don’t even know you anymore.”
“I still know you. It’s the worst, still knowing you, Charlie Bliss. It means I can’t forget about you.”
“I could fuck all of this up.” All of this means, truly, all of it—his job at the resort. The work he does as a brother, as a member of his family. This dance.
“Anyone can fuck up anything,” I answer. “That’s the way of the world.”
“You can’t always fix it.”
In all this time, I haven’t opened my eyes, yet I still feel balanced. There is no danger of falling when I’m in his arms. Falling to the ground, anyway. Falling in love? I did that once. I’m not sure it ever left me. I tried to leave it there, getting smaller in the rearview mirror, but the universe wouldn’t have it. It picked me up and put me right back in Ruby Bay.
I’m hot, my skin flushed, and he hasn’t taken his hand from my hip. In fact, his other hand is on my other hip, and I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck. The song is everywhere, all through both of us. I’m not a self-conscious dancer. Music changes things. But Charlie always was, except he doesn’t feel self-conscious now. Every one of his movements is as fluid as mine. His skin is as warm as mine.
“I want you.”
I open my eyes, look into his. Moonlight, starlight—they’re both there in the depths, reflected back in the dark light of the lake.
It’s a question he’s asked me, even if it was in the form of an admission. My heart leaps into my throat, pulse thudding strong across my temples. Oh, I want him. Oh, shit, I want him. I want him so much. And still, I know that if I so much as shook my head, he would not press. Charlie Bliss is a good man, and a bad thing happened to us when we broke up. Maybe he has become more obsessed with work. Maybe he is committed to his ways. But his goodness is unchanged. So I have to answer his questions in words.
“Take me.”
11
Charlie
I’m the one who has to carry the speakers back, Leta’s phone shoved into my pocket, but I don’t care.
Take me.
The words ring in my mind like a bell, as shocking and clear as cold water.
Take me.
She still wants me, or she wanted me again. Those words we said to each other on the beach were the kind of raw you can only get with your eyes closed, and that’s what came out of it.
Take me.
I grip her hand tightly on the way up the stairs into my house. The speakers tumble from my arm into the sofa, and I listen for the shortest possible second to make sure they haven’t crashed to the floor before I go for the stairs.
Leta’s breath is in my ear as we go up to the second floor and rush down the hallway. At the end of the hall we both go opposite directions—she’s trying to lead me to her guest room, and I’m headed full-bore into my bedroom. I’m bigger. I win out. The sensation of her giving in to my momentum has me even harder than I was on the beach, which did not make for a very comfortable dash back to my house. Thank god there’s a private staircase from that section of beach. Thank god, thank god.
Leta strips her shirt over her head, eyes hungry on my body while I do the same. I shove down my shorts and watch her leap out of her own pants. I’m quicker, and before she can get to her panties I fall to my knees in front of her, hooking my fingers through the fabric.
I can hear us both breathing over the pounding thud of my heart in my ears. Leta makes a small sound—oh—as I tug the panties down. She braces herself on my shoulders and steps out of them. Do they fall to the floor, or do I throw them? The memory is lost to time, because I’m level with the sweetest pussy on the face of the planet.
I wrap my hands around her hips and pull her close, breathing in the salt scent of her. She moans when I press a kiss just above the neatly trimmed curls at the apex of her legs.
“Charlie,” she gasps. “When I said take me, I meant take me.”
One hand between her legs coaxes them to spread apart, a few inches at first and then wider. I remember her so well. I remember that she liked this. Two fingers, dragged slowly across the juices collecting at her slit, and a firm thumb against her clit. I stroke my fingers forward and Leta leans in, hand firm on my shoulder.
> “Don’t tease me like this,” she breathes. “Don’t tease me…”
“I’m not teasing you. You love this. I can feel it. There’s no hiding it.”
A strangled whine.
“Look at me.”
Leta backs up, still bending forward, her hand still on my shoulder. “This is what you did,” I whisper, holding up my glistening fingers.
“It’s because I want you,” she echoes just above her breath.
I put my fingers in my mouth and lick them clean. Her eyes go wide.
“Charlie Bliss, you’re so dirty.”
“You’re so sweet. And now I’m going to fuck you.”
“Thank god,” she groans, and when I stand up she stumbles back onto the bed. I’m there in one step, lifting her so that she’s square in the center. I will not have this moment derailed by a tumble on the hard floor.
I slide one hand behind each of her knees and spread her open. The moonlight is still bright enough to see her lips part, and I let my eyes linger on hers for a moment before I look down at her.
Her breasts. Her navel. Perfection. Sheer fucking perfection, from the little tuck at her waist to the fine bones of her hips. And between her legs, a sweet pouting pussy. I move her knees another inch apart and she unfolds for me.
“Hands here.” This is how we used to be together, and there’s a moment where I think she might hesitate, but she doesn’t. Not for an instant. She only puts her hands where mine used to be. “Hold yourself open. I want to look at you.”
“Oh, god.” Leta spreads herself wider.
For once in my life, I’m not struggling to breathe. For once, I’m surrounded by plentiful fucking oxygen. My mind sharpens, clears. I can see her as she was, overlaid on how she is, and both versions are so crushingly perfect that I don’t want to move.
But I do. I use two fingers to open her just a little more.
Leta presses her head back into the comforter arching back. “It feels so good,” she whimpers. “Fuck, it feels so good.”
“To be touched like this.”
“Yes. And you’re—you’re looking—”