by Imani King
Helena opens her mouth like she’s going to respond, but there’s a tear coming down from under her sunglasses, and her brows are firmly knitted together.
I move to the empty chair next to Helena and Trixie. The sun is hanging low over the city now, bathing both of them in a golden light. Acting on pure instinct, I put my hand on top of Trixie’s. “I don’t know what that man said to you, Trixie. But you seem like the best kid in the entire world, and even if you’re not—even if you ever have a bad day—I’ll always want you and your mom to come here and visit with me.” I look to Helena after that. “Even if your mom and I are just friends—even if she and I have a fight sometime—I want to stay friends with her and with you, no matter what.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Saint,” Helena whispers. “I don’t think you ought to say such things if you don’t mean them.”
I squeeze Helena’s and Trixie’s hands in mine. “I might not be a man with the best reputation. But you need to know that I don’t break promises. And I know what family means.” Even if I didn’t get to Nick’s wedding. Shit. “I’ll make sure that you and Trixie come first. Whenever we have plans, we’ll keep them.”
“Saint,” Helena says, rocking Trixie back and forth. The girl is clinging to her mother’s lap like it’s going out of style. The tone of her voice makes me think she’ll come out with something negative, and quick. But she doesn’t. Instead, she puts her hand on top of mine. “Okay.” She looks down at her daughter. “Saint’s telling the truth, honey. We have to trust people if we want new friends. If Kellan said that to you, I’m so sorry, baby. Saint’s right. You’re such a good girl, and no one is ever going to take their friendship away if you have a bad day.”
“So we can come in here again? And swim in the pool? And go to Disneyland?” Trixie smiles, and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Then she yawns big.
“That’s right,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “That’s exactly right.” I look out over the city and realize I’m totally, utterly content. When I look back on my life, I often see all the things that made me restless for so long—gambling, getting money, losing money, getting women, and finally, starting this business and making it succeed. Being with Helena and Trixie makes me feel at peace—instead of like I’m searching for something. Yes, I want Helena in every way possible. But I also know that I can take my time with her—that I should take my time with her.
“We need to get going if we’re going to make it back home before bedtime,” Helena says.
I look at my phone—it’s getting towards seven in the evening, and the time hadn’t even occurred to me. My throat tightens. I don’t want them to go, not yet. “Stay,” I say. One of the many strange things that have come out of my mouth since I met Helena. And yet it feels natural.
“Stay? What? Where?” Helena bites her lip and takes off her sunglasses. She knows exactly where.
“Here. I have ten guest rooms that I barely ever use. Everything is clean and beautiful—and dammit, I don’t especially want you driving through Los Angeles in the dark, Hel.”
“He must like you, Mama,” Trixie interjects. “He called you by your nickname!” She giggles and then yawns again, picking up one of the baby carrots I had Stacy get for the occasion. I knew that Helena wasn’t the kind of woman who would appreciate the fanciest thing my chefs could prepare—she’d appreciate food her daughter could eat.
I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else in the entire world, but I’m on pins and needles while this woman sits there, looking over at me and then out toward the Los Angeles skyline. She’s deciding whether or not she can trust me enough to stay here—whether she thinks I’ll keep my hands to myself or whether I’ll make the decision to fuck everything up. And if I do that, she’s wondering if I’m going to go back on each and every one of my promises. She stares at me hard, like she’s trying to figure it all out from my face.
That’s the impression I get anyway. I might be wrong. I’ve been wrong about just about every woman I’ve ever known before, including my own mother and beloved grandmother. But with this woman, everything feels different. It’s like I can hear her thoughts—and what’s more, I care about each thought she has.
“No funny business,” I add. The words slip out of my mouth, as if they offer some kind of assurance about what I intend for the relationship.
It occurs to me that it’s all mixed up--what I intend.
But that’s a thought that can get sorted out another day.
Helena looks behind us at the sun setting over the distant ocean. “Fine,” she says, sighing.
“Yay!” Trixie squeals, munching on more of the carrots and launching out of her mother’s lap for another swim around the pool.
“I guess there’s no arguing with Trixie’s plan, is there?” Helena looks at me again with that trying-to-read-me look. “She’s all wet and cold again, and the sun’s just about to go down. Maybe she has plans of her own.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe you just want to see it that way.”
A half smile forms on her lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. But I’ve been wrong before.”
We sit on the roof of the building, watching the sun as it sets, listening to Trixie swim and play. It amazes me that she’s our daughter, even if I didn’t have much to do with it. I want that to change, but I don’t say anything. Instead, we talk about the places we’ve been in California, trips up and down the coast, and ideas for things we might do together in all of the weekends that might come after this. It’s late when Trixie gets out of the pool, yawning grandly. And it’s even later when Helena finally gets her to bed—instead of the sun, there’s only darkness in the sky. When I come out into the front living room, Helena’s already sitting on my couch, her feet kicked up on my coffee table, which is covered in a mess of toys and games and puzzles. Some of it has already crept onto the floor. It seems incongruous, to have such things lying around my penthouse. But somehow, it also feels right. Like it’s the missing piece that I’d been wondering about.
Don’t get ahead of yourself Saint.
Even as I process that thought, I go sit down next to Helena and take her hand in mine. Holding a woman’s hand isn’t something I do—but I like Helena’s hands. Long, elegant fingers and rounded nails. I think about how beautiful a ring might look on her finger, one that says she’s mine, that says we’re in this together.
I’m getting ahead of myself again. But it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m keeping it all under wraps.
I couldn’t fall in love with her, could I? Saint Corbett doesn’t say those things to women.
Helena laces her fingers through mine. “I shouldn’t be holding your hand, you know. I shouldn’t be staying the night, either.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what your dirty mind is up to.” I kick back too, even though Stacy would probably tell me that I don’t need to put my damn feet up on the coffee table. Who knows how much it cost, anyway? And furthermore, who cares? I’m half sure it already has crayon and marker on it.
“I don’t have a dirty mind,” she says, her voice totally defensive. “I have a perfectly pure mind.”
“Not with the way you were looking at me earlier,” I retort. “I saw you when you came outside. You had your eyes on my abs, and your mind on more than that.”
“You don’t have abs! I mean, you do. But I wasn’t looking at them.” She looks down again like she might be flushing hot, but I can’t really tell this time.
“I don’t mind you objectifying me one bit. That’s what women do around here. I’m frequently objectified, and I don’t mind it.” I pause. There’s more than that, though. “But I want to make my intentions clear. I like you, Helena. More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time, maybe in forever.” She looks at me then, her face blank. “But I know you’ve been hurt. And I know my own reputation. So I’m planning to wait for you as long as you want. And I’ll be what you want me to be. A
nd amongst all of that, I want to be a father to Trixie—when I can.”
“I—” She pauses. “I think this is all a little sudden.” She says it, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. She’s still touching me, still sitting close. Only her eyes are distant.
“It’s not all that sudden if you think about it. We’ve been getting to know each other for a good damn while now,” I say. Heat pours through my body. I’ve felt this thing before, with a woman here and there. This is like that, certainly, but it’s about fifty times more, an almost blinding need that overtakes me. It’s that moment when I decide to get up. Because if I sit here any longer, my hands will be all over Helena’s body, worshipping her the way I wanted to from day one.
And just about every bit of her is telling me she’s not ready, not at all.
But when I stand, she catches my hand and pulls me back down. “I don’t want you to go.” Her voice comes out in a whisper. I can read every bit of conflict in it, and I hate it. I wish she saw me as something good, something uncomplicated. I think of my brother Rowan, when his fiancée left, it took him months to get out from behind his computer, months before he even wanted to respond to any calls or texts. And Kellan did her one worse.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know...” Her voice trails off, and I sit down next to her again, my body on fire.
“You’re not ready. Don’t get me wrong. I want this. I want you. But I don’t want to lose you either.”
Before I can say another word, Helena leans in and puts her face close to mine. I can smell her sweetness, the vaguely tropical perfume of her hair. I drink it in.
And then I kiss her, cradling her body in mine like it’s something fine and delicate.
I’ve kissed many women, probably far too many for my own good. And there have been kisses that made me want to drop to my knees and praise heaven for sending the opposite sex into the world. There have been kisses in the island twilight in the Bahamas, kisses that felt like they would never end when I woke up next to a beautiful woman and held her through the day and again through the next night. But kissing Helena is something different entirely. Her lips, soft and warm, yield to mine, like we fit together perfectly. And her long, cool fingers, tangling through my hair, they send shivers down my spine the likes of which I’ve never felt before. It’s me, and it’s her, and the dim room fades out around us, a hazy, mist-like feeling coming over me as her tongue touches mine, as I feel the gooseflesh rise on her arms, as I hear the softest little moan coming from her lips.
It’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced before, and even as I draw away from her, I know that I want to experience it again, that I don’t ever want to let go.
“You’re right—I’m not quite ready—but maybe soon,” she whispers. “I don’t want to put labels on anything because it’s not fair to Trixie to think I have someone in my life when I might not.”
“You do,” I mumble, kissing her perfect cherry lips again. “I’m here. I want to be here.” It doesn’t help that my cock is already at attention, straining for relief.
She lets me kiss her again, and it’s like it was before, only slower and steadier, more patient.
We have time. Heaps of it.
“Then let me take you out,” I say, taking her hands in mine. “No labels. Nothing crazy. Just a date, for real.”
“Okay. I will.”
We sit like that for the rest of the night, together and talking until the morning. I don’t try to kiss her again, even though it lingers heavily on my mind. I think of the feeling of her lips against mine, the clenching feeling in my chest that took me over when I let myself truly touch her for the first time.
My mother always said I was the most blindly determined of all of her sons, and I want Helena more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
And this man gets what he wants.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The whole week after we return from our strangely—and magically—normal day with Los Angeles’s newest billionaire and most notorious playboy, I keep on trying to push the thought of Saint Corbett from my mind.
I keep telling myself that it’s not healthy to want anything more.
I keep telling myself that it’s not useful or wise or considerate of my daughter’s feelings to want anything more.
It’s not even like he’s hidden who he is. You can see evidence of it on every gossip site—even the national ones. Hell, I saw an article about him in the New York Times. Even though it was about his company, it didn’t fail to mention his long-ass string of “relationships.”
Still, there was something in his eyes when he told me he didn’t want to lose me or Trixie that made me feel like he was truly serious.
And then there’s the texting.
As if on cue, my phone, sitting by itself on the entryway table, buzzes again. For a playboy, Saint Corbett hasn’t been playing games. In fact, I don’t think he knows how to play games with a woman. He’s never had to. It’s part of what makes me think that he’s just as honest as anyone I’ve ever met.
Just thinking of you, the text reads. And Trixie.
Just that, and nothing more. Just thinking of you. My brain wants to rebel against what he says, to tell me that he’s lying or that he’s making up some crap like Kellan always did. But my heart—that’s telling a different story. That part of me says that Saint is truly sitting there in his big, empty penthouse, thinking of what it would be like to sit there with me and Trixie.
I don’t know how I know that’s true. It’s just that I know it is.
Before I can respond, another text comes through.
I’ll see you at the dock tomorrow at seven. I’ll send a car.
My heart leaps. I can’t believe it’s been a whole week already, even though he’s been on my mind every moment since we parted ways.
Okay, I text back, fingers hovering over the keys. There’s so much more I want to say, but it can’t be conveyed by text or emoji. And it scares me that he makes me think with that kind of depth. The only other man that’s made me feel this way is the one who left me—and he hurt me so thoroughly that I’m still picking up each and every one of the pieces.
But still, I know I’ll meet him there.
I know I’ll get in that car and drop Trixie for an overnight with Celia while I venture out into what may be the worst idea I’ve ever had.
But it’s fun, an inner voice says. And that’s something that’s been sadly lacking in your life, Helena Landon. Better grab the bull by the horns when it’s ready to charge. And if you never see him again… there won’t be any other explaining to do.
I let that last part hanging my head as I tuck Trixie into bed and fall hours later into mine. Even as I try to fall asleep, Saint Corbett haunts all of my thoughts. I think of his hands, firm yet gentle against my skin. His lips melting into mine.
And there are other thoughts, far less appropriate, that come to me as I start to doze. What would out feel like to feel those taut, carved muscles with my fingers? And what would he have looked like if he’d removed those swim trunks the night we were sitting together on his couch, talking of nothing until dawn.
The last thought I have before I close my eyes is that I’d damn well like to find out.
***
The next night, a limo picks me up at my tiny apartment in downtown Goleta. It’s only ten miles away from downtown Santa Barbara, home of the university and all of its swarming, partying students. But, compared to the houses in the hills of Montecito and the mansions dotted among the mountains, Goleta is the ugly stepsister of this idyllic paradise. It’s where the people who work for a living seem to live, filled with bodegas and inexpensive supermarkets and neighborhoods that boast a reasonable price for homes—for California, that is.
The limo seems out of place, but I walk down to it anyway, head held high. No Landon girl in the world has any reason to look down when she walks somewhere, and I’m no different. When the driver gets out and opens the door for m
e, I feel a heady rush of confidence taking me over. Even though everything about Saint is a red flag, I feel better about him than I have about anyone in years. And I might as well enjoy it.
My stomach does flips on the drive downtown. We pass by expensive restaurants and elaborate mansions, nail parlors that cater to the rich and famous, and tree-line streets full of stores too expensive for me to afford. Along those same streets are seedy college bars and palm trees swaying gently in the breeze. I wouldn’t go anywhere else in the world to live, and the sickening thought that Saint might feel the same way about Los Angeles hits me like a ton of bricks.
My stomach flips again as the driver pulls up to the marina.
Don’t go making any house plans yet, girl. This is just your first date. Or is it like… your tenth? God, this is confusing.
I’m still just about to shake out of my skin when I get out of the limo and walk up to the pier. I can’t imagine why Saint is meeting me here and not picking me up himself.
Has his affection so far guaranteed that he’ll even show up?
“I knew this was a bad idea. My brain told me so. Shows me for listening to my heart.” I check my phone and see that he’s already five minutes late. Does that mean he’ll leave me alone here altogether? That he has some other lady waiting in the wings?
I tell myself to calm down, to remember the things he said and the way he said them. After all, I was convinced last night that this was a reasonable decision—even if it wasn’t the one that I’d usually make. yb
Still, my hands are shaking.
I’m nearly ready to hike back up to the taco stand I like and call it a night when I spot a boat—a really big fucking boat, like maybe a yacht—pulling up to Castillo Point and rolling into the marina next to Sterns Wharf. On the bow stands a tall, broad-shouldered man with an unmistakable mop of golden hair.