by T. K. Leigh
I slowly raise myself from the bed, padding along the dingy carpet toward the water-spotted window and peering out at the traffic on the main road abutting the hotel. I’d like to believe what Esme says is true. Hell, in my humble opinion, Roosevelt was one of the best presidents the United States ever had, and he managed to do it all from the confines of a wheelchair. But that was before there was a television in every home. Most people had no idea he was even in a wheelchair.
These days, it’s all about appearances, especially for the Royal Family. Especially for my father. After all, he abandoned my mother during her own battle with MS. He never came right out and told me why, but he’s always been a man who prided himself on never showing vulnerability, no matter what. He viewed her condition as a show of weakness.
“I thought you’d be happy.” I push out a laugh. “After all, you’d become next in line. Crown Princess. Finally a woman in charge. First ruling Queen of Belmont. You’ve always been rather vocal about the need for gender equality. This would be your opportunity to show all those men how effective a woman leader can be.”
“But not at that price, Anderson. I won’t allow it.”
“You may not have a choice,” I manage to get out past the lump building in my throat. “You know, I’m beginning to think this is what I deserve. That the universe is making me pay for all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“How could you say that? You’ve never done anything in your life that would make you deserve this.”
“Really? What about Kendall?”
“That wasn’t your fault. No one could have seen the signs.”
“I lived with her. I should have seen the signs.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples, feeling the same guilt now as I did when I watched my girlfriend, the woman I planned to marry fall to the ground during a beach volleyball match. She’d hoped to make the Olympic team. Instead, she was carried out on a stretcher, never to open her eyes again.
“But, Anders—”
“You remember what Mum always said whenever we acted out as kids, don’t you?” I interrupt.
“Karma is like a rubber band,” she recalls, a lightness in her tone.
“You can only stretch it so far before it comes back and smacks you in the face. Maybe this is my smack in the face.”
“Maybe it is,” she agrees contemplatively. “But not as payback for whatever perceived wrongs you committed in the past.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.
“Maybe this is the smack in the face you need to finally get over Kendall. To finally allow yourself to live again. Despite anything you think you may deserve, you deserve to live most of all. And you will live a long, happy, and healthy life. Don’t you ever forget that.”
I lean my head on the glass of the window, wondering if she can somehow read my thoughts. If she knows that every day since my diagnosis I’ve been consumed with what it means for my future. If I have a future.
Until today.
When a stunning, strawberry blonde caught my eye in a Chicago diner and changed my trajectory. I’ve always liked the idea of driving Route 66 but never allowed myself to slow down long enough to do it. It was a crazy notion, but the temptation was too strong. Before I knew it, I’d downloaded a Route 66 app onto my phone and set out on my cross-country journey. I’m not sure why, or what I hope to get out of it. Clarity? Peace? Acceptance?
“I’ll never forget it,” I tell Esme, mostly to placate her.
Seemingly satisfied with my affirmation, she exhales a relieved breath. “Be good, Anders.”
“Being good is boring,” I answer, as we’ve always said between each other. Our inside joke.
“Then be extraordinary,” she responds. “Because, my darling brother, you are extraordinary. And no ridiculous diagnosis will ever change that. Please believe me.”
I clutch my phone tighter, basking in her words. “Good night, Esme.”
“Good morning, Anders.”
I stay on the line for another beat, then end the call, about to turn away from the window when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it, wouldn’t pause to watch a figure walk the perimeter of the outdoor pool, then lay a towel on one of the lounge chairs. It’s not the fact it’s nighttime that makes me stare in curiosity. It’s because I can feel this woman. And when I notice her sit “Indian-style” and rest her hands on her knees, as if meditating, I know this isn’t just a manifestation of my deepest desires.
Nora…
Running into her once was luck. Twice was a coincidence. But a third time?
I spin from the window and dash toward my suitcase. Ignoring all the pills, just as I’ve done every other night, I grab a bottle of wine I’d purchased earlier and leave my room, determined to find out what running into someone a third time could mean.
Chapter Seven
Nora
Deep breath in. Close eyes. Liberating exhale out.
I usually don’t have any trouble finding a cocoon of peace whenever I meditate. It’s the one place I can forget everything. The one place I’m able to focus only on the present instead of allowing myself to be consumed by the past. Perhaps that’s the problem. Because, presently, all I can think about is Anderson’s brilliant blue gaze.
I came out to the pool at my hotel hoping to clear my mind, something I had trouble doing in my room. It didn’t help that a framed print of the obelisk from Lincoln’s tomb hung across from my bed, reminding me yet again of the mysterious stranger. I’d hoped some fresh air would help. Instead, as I sit cross-legged on a lounge chair, a strange energy surrounds me. The same energy I felt at the mausoleum. The same energy I felt at the diner.
I need to replace that energy with something else. Anything else. So, instead of focusing on those sparkling blue eyes that seem to peer into my soul, I meditate on the events of the day. Events that don’t include the handsome stranger with a spine-tingling smile and full lips that have me wondering how they’d feel against mine.
I reflect on the woman at the restored gas station who shared stories of her late husband and how they used to drive Route 66 at least once a year. I admire the incredible artistic ability of those who painted the murals along the brick buildings in Pontiac. I give thanks to the sixteenth President of the United States who governed our country through one of the most trying eras, only for his life to be cut short.
And of course, as I think of Abraham Lincoln, my mind finds its way back to Anderson. His penetrating gaze. His sexy, disheveled hair. His deep, accented voice that makes my toes curl.
I fling my eyes open, aggravated that this man I’d never seen before this morning has somehow infiltrated my thoughts, no matter how much I try to clear my mind. Perhaps meditating isn’t what I need. Perhaps I need to find some sort of…other release. Then my mind and body will be at peace. Or, at the very least, my libido will be.
Frustrated, I jump up and sling my bag over my shoulder, keeping my head lowered as I curse under my breath.
“Stupid blue eyes and full lips and gorgeous body and—”
I’m cut short as I slam into what I can only describe as a human wall, throwing me off balance. Hands shoot out to my hips, steadying me, preventing me from toppling over backward.
When I snap my head up to see who belongs to the body against mine, my gaze meets those same stupid blue eyes and full lips. Thankfully, I’d run into that gorgeous body before I got my next words out, considering I was about to curse what I assumed was a giant dick.
“We need to stop running into each other like this…” He arches a single brow, everything about his demeanor calm and confident. “Wouldn’t you agree, Nora?”
Words. I need to make words. A sound. Anything. But nothing comes out, the warmth of his hands on my body sending liquid heat coursing through me. I try to summon my vocal cords to vibrate and make sound, turn those sounds into words, then string those words together into a complete thought. But they r
efuse to listen, Anderson’s proximity leaving me devoid of thought, of mind, of body.
A horn honks in the distance, breaking his spell, and I scramble away. “How are you… Did you… What are you doing here?”
He chuckles. “Surprised to see me? Safe to say the feeling’s mutual.”
He brushes past me, settling on the lounge chair beside the one where I’d just attempted to find clarity. No wonder I couldn’t. Because he’s here.
“Would you like some?” He raises a bottle of wine.
“Thanks, but it’s unwise to accept a drink from a stranger.” I cross my arms over my chest, pulling my sweatshirt closer into my body. “How do I know you didn’t drug it with roofies or something?”
He frowns. “Roofies? People seriously do that?”
I shrug. “Apparently so.”
“Trust me, gorgeous...” The combination of his debonair smile and the sound of him calling me gorgeous in his accent has my knees weakening. “I don’t need to drug women to get them to sleep with me.” A flash of something washes over his expression, but it’s gone in a heartbeat.
“Spoken with the cockiness of someone who’d drug me.”
“You know what, Nora?” Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves a corkscrew and starts opening the bottle. “I like you. You’re opinionated.” The sound of the cork being yanked with a pop echoes around us. Then he fills a plastic cup halfway with a deep, red liquid. “I consider that an attractive quality. Lately, I seem to find myself surrounded by women who don’t have a mind of their own. If I said jump, they’d ask how high without a single question as to why I want them to jump.”
“How awful for you,” I joke, rolling my eyes. “You must hate being with a woman who will do whatever you want.”
When he looks at me, I expect to see a hint of amusement. Instead, his expression is serious, gaze even, lips formed into a tight line. “Actually, I loathe it. A relationship should be a partnership. Not a…dictatorship. In my opinion, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows what she wants.” He brings the plastic cup to his mouth and takes a long sip. My eyes are drawn to his Adam’s apple as he swallows, releasing a satisfied “ah” on the finish.
Then he stretches his arms wide. “Now, what do you say to a glass of wine? Or a plastic cup, as it were?”
I scrunch my brows. “Weren’t you paying attention? You could be trying to drug me.”
“And weren’t you paying attention?” His voice is as smooth as velvet and as deep as the ocean, causing my insides to vibrate with want. “You just watched me not only open this bottle but also pour from it, then take a drink. Yet I’m still functioning.”
“You could have an immunity to whatever you put in it. Could all be part of your game.” I bite my lower lip, my demeanor shifting to more playful. It’s hard not to fall under Anderson’s spell. He’s charismatic. His smile alone has me wanting to agree to anything he asks. And the idea of some wine sounds incredibly appetizing.
“True, but the Dread Pirate Roberts I am not.”
I give him a sideways glance, but before I can say anything, he holds up a hand.
“If you’re about to ask who that is, I rescind my offer for a glass of wine, as it’s obvious we’ll have nothing in common.”
With a sly grin, I saunter toward him, swaying my hips more than necessary. More than I have in quite a while. I didn’t come on this trip to flirt with a man, but it’s empowering to feel desired again, especially after everything I’ve been through this year. By the way Anderson’s gaze rakes over me as I sit down and gradually lean toward him, his jaw clenching with want, he absolutely desires me.
“The Princess Bride is one of my favorite movies,” I murmur in a breathy voice. “But the book’s better.” I pull back, grinning.
He winks. “It always is.”
“And it’s a plastic cup,” I add.
“Excuse me?”
“You offered me a plastic cup of wine. Not a glass. And if the offer still stands, I’d like to take you up on it now.”
“The offer most certainly still stands.” Barely looking away, he pours wine into a fresh cup, then hands it to me. He raises his “glass”, and I do the same. “To the road.”
“To the road.”
I maintain steady eye contact as I sip the wine. I’d expected some cheap “church” wine, as I always called the stuff tucked away on the bottom shelf of the liquor store. Instead, this is good. I steal a glance at the bottle and recognize the label — Grgich Hills.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
“Life is far too short to drink subpar wine.” A thoughtful look pulls on his expression, then he refocuses on me. “Plus, I don’t drink to get drunk. I drink wine because I enjoy the flavor.”
“Same.” I tip back my cup, taking a larger gulp than I normally would. But I need the alcohol to loosen me up, to make me ignore the heat of Anderson’s gaze scalding my skin.
“So what’s your story, Nora?”
“Story?”
“Yes. Why are you driving Route 66 all by yourself?”
“I just got divorced and decided to go on a divor-cation.” I don’t look him directly in the eyes.
“You’re divorced? You barely look old enough to be married.”
I snort. “Thanks, but I’m thirty.” On a long sigh, I take a sip of wine. “Divorced at thirty.”
Even my mother, who’s only a few marriages shy of beating Elizabeth Taylor’s record, hadn’t divorced by the time she was my age. She’d been happily married until my father’s death when she was thirty-five. Her first divorce wasn’t until she was in her forties.
“Better to be divorced at thirty than stuck in a loveless marriage. Were you married young and simply grew apart?”
It’s a natural question, one I’d ask myself if I learned a friend of mine had divorced at such a young age.
“Nope. We were married less than a year. I went to surprise him when he was out of town on a business trip. Unfortunately for me, I was the one who was surprised when I walked in and found him with a man.”
He doesn’t say anything for several protracted moments. Simply stares, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide as he processes my unexpected answer. Then he shakes his head, exhaling.
“Damn. That’s rough. Not your typical woman scorned story.”
“Tell me about it,” I quip with a roll of my eyes.
“But the question remains. Why Route 66?”
“I told you. I got divorced and—”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard. You’re on a divor-cation. That’s more the answer as to how you came to drive Route 66. It doesn’t answer why.”
I part my lips, taken aback by his rather astute observation. Everyone else I came across today who asked me why I was driving Route 66 had been satisfied with my story. But not Anderson. He seems to be able to see past the excuse and realize there’s more I’m not telling him.
“Does it have something to do with the ashes I noticed you spreading in front of Lincoln’s tomb?” His voice is low and timid, unlike the confident tone he’s used until now.
“I—” I shake my head, struggling to come up with some explanation. I’d looked around before I sprinkled Hunter’s remains. I hadn’t seen anyone nearby.
“As well as at the official start of Route 66 in Chicago?” he questions, but he’s not smug about it. More curious than anything.
It shouldn’t be this difficult to admit the truth. That I lost my fiancé six years ago in a car accident and am now taking the trip we were never able to, spreading his ashes along the way. But this is supposed to be for me. I’m not ready to share Hunter with anyone else.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, Nora. Trust me.” He levels his gaze on me, a genuine smile curving the corners of his mouth. “I more than understand. Sometimes our reality is too painful and we need a break.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I lower my eyes, fidgeting with the hem of my yoga pants. “Why you’re also presumably drivi
ng Route 66? Taking a break from reality?”
“Actually… No.”
I lift my head.
“I’m gay and found out my partner’s straight.” He winks, his demeanor lighthearted.
“Is that right?”
“Nah.”
“Which part? About you being gay? Or your partner being straight.”
Swiping the bottle off the ground, he curves toward me. I stiffen as the heat of his breath warms my skin, the addictive scent of muted body wash or shampoo filtering into my nostrils and making my mouth water.
“I think we both know I’m not gay,” he growls as he refills my wine.
The last thing I need is to drink even more, especially around Anderson. Regardless, I can’t pull myself away from him.
“I wouldn’t presume anything,” I reply in a sultry voice, my gaze locking on his.
“Trust me. I’m not gay. How can I be when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those plump lips of yours all day?”
I gasp, my pulse skyrocketing, lightheaded, dizzy, and a thousand other sensations I haven’t experienced in too long now. That I didn’t think I’d ever experience again.
When he pulls back, he regards me with an intensity that causes warmth to spread through me, my skin prickling, insides vibrating.
“You were right.” He casually leans against the lounge chair, pretending as if he hadn’t just dropped that bomb. But he did, turning my stomach into knots in the span of a heartbeat.
“Excuse me?”
“About taking a break from reality.” A darkness crosses his face before he schools his expression. “I guess we’re alike in that respect. We both came out here to forget for a minute.”
I study him thoughtfully, wondering what his story is. “Want to talk about it?”
“Do you?” He gives me a knowing look, and I subtly shake my head. “Me, either. Talking about it will make it real. I’m not quite there yet.”
“So, still in denial.” I sip on my wine and settle into the chair, stretching my legs in front of me and crossing them at the ankles. “Wait until you get to the bargaining stage. That’s the worst of them all.”