“Still just as rough as when Deacon asked me,” I said, smiling. “I'll be fine, unless no one's told me some secret bad news.”
“No,” Deacon laughed, “the doctor said you'll be okay. Bumps, bruises, a split lip. You'll be sore for a while, he said you were lucky it wasn't worse.”
“Lucky,” I mused, tasting the word. “That's a first.”
“So,” Vanessa asked, chewing her lip, looking entirely uncomfortable with seeing me like that, “she can come home soon? You can stay in my bed, I'll take the couch, okay? I'll even make you breakfast if you want!”
Seeing her fuss over me, it filled me with guilt, even if it was a nice change. Deacon frowned thoughtfully, watching me with interest as he spoke. “They said she could leave tomorrow, yeah.”
“Good, good,” Tim sighed. He was standing the furthest, but when I glanced at him, he smiled, wandering closer. Beside Vanessa, I saw his fingers hanging by his hip, brushing once, covertly, against her hand where it rested.
Something is going on between them, that's obvious now.
I wanted to know more, but the exhaustion was still hitting me. Yawning, I snuggled into the bed and sighed. “I'll see everyone tomorrow, so for now, let me rest. Apparently I need it, after all.”
Vanessa and Tim said their farewells, in no rush to leave, but accepting of my request. When they had shut the door, I looked at Deacon, observed how he hadn't moved. “Don't you want to go, too? I'm really okay.”
He closed his eyes, scooting his chair closer, touching my arm gingerly. “Leah, we need to talk.”
I hated that sentence, it made me stiffen, my stomach a ball of hot knots. “About what?”
“What we talked about, before all of this happened. Do you remember?”
At first, I didn't know what he meant. With everything that had gone down, my brain was reluctant to push at anything in the past. Yet watching him, his concerned face, I let the memory come back.
The gallery, the chilly November air... I recalled the taste of that familiar tart wine, and how he had asked me to go with him to visit his family for Christmas. Remembering the conversation vividly, my blood raced through my veins. “I remember, yes.”
“You said you wanted time to think about it.”
“I did.” The words were quiet, my head throbbing from the pressure. “I did say that, yeah.”
“Well?” He asked, staring at me so hard I couldn't have looked away if I'd tried. “Do you know now what you want?”
The tilt of his eyebrows, the serious tension in his jaw, it made his hunger for my answer so blatant. There was no mystery here, I knew what Deacon wanted me to say. Licking my lips, I cleared my throat, surprised by how overcome his honest pleading was making me.
“I lied to you that day,” I said, my voice raw. “I lied when I said I needed time to think.”
“What do you mean?” His words were flat, wary.
Though it hurt to move, I bent forward on the bed, reaching out to hold his face in my palms. My forehead was cool against his, Deacon's temperature so scalding from his rising fear and anxiety that I couldn't handle it any longer.
“I lied about not knowing what I wanted, the moment you asked me, I knew what my answer would be.”
****
The bags went around and around on the turn-style, a carousel of luggage that never ended. Standing there, I looked on blankly at all the colors, trying to spot the one that belonged to me.
Near me, people were talking, bustling with the energy of the holidays. I could see friends hugging, lovers kissing, families that laughed and teased each other while they stood patiently. Watching it all, my chest became tight from nerves, my eyes closing to find some escape in the blackness waiting there.
What am I doing, was this really the right choice to make?
Inhaling slowly, I glanced up in time to see my backpack rolling by. Reaching for it, trying to catch it before it got away, I made a small groan of frustration.
His hand came down, coiling around the straps, tugging the bag off the treadmill just in time. That grin was sharp, those eyes sparkling, kind, when they saw me looking on in surprise. “Come on, Leah, I got the other suitcase. Let's get going.”
Deacon was buzzing with excitement, I could almost feel it on his lips when he leaned in for a quick kiss. A little dazed, I reached out to take the backpack, hooking it on my shoulder. “Sorry, I got distracted.”
“There'll be plenty of time for that later,” he said, winking with a chuckle. “My mother said she'd be here to pick us up, let's hurry in case she's waiting.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, knowing it wasn't going anywhere, I stood there in silence. He paused, glancing down at me with curiosity. “What is it, what's wrong?”
“I...” Nothing, nothing is wrong, that's the problem. This is all going too well.
He squinted at me, then reached out, sliding his fingers into mine, locking us together. “Hey, everything is fine. Okay?”
His words made me think, my skull aching with the wandering anxieties over everything I had been through, about who I was, who I had become. Deacon seemed to accept me, in spite of all he had dealt with. He'd gained bloody knuckles for rescuing me, and the result was this, the broken girl he was bringing home to his family.
Truly broken, I thought, touching the scar on my lower lip. The cut hadn't faded away still, even after three weeks.
“Will they like me?” I blurted suddenly, unable to hold it in.
This stunned him, his face shifting into smooth shock, then melting into doubt. “Are you worried about that?”
“Of course I am,” I whispered, staring at the floor.
I knew he would lift my chin, yet even so, it still filled me with a tremble of delight. “Listen,” he said, serious, calm, “it doesn't matter one lick if my family does, or doesn't, like you. Do you know why?”
Shaking my head, I searched those honey eyes for answers. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, smiling sweetly, his thumb tracing the healed cut on my mouth, “I like you, and that is honestly all that matters in this. Do you believe me?”
Through the numb, distant sensation of concentrating on standing, my legs wobbly, my breath short, I made myself speak as clearly as I could.
“Yes. Yes, I believe you.”
I didn't need to consider lying, it was the absolute truth.
Deacon held my hand, perfect teeth glinting, guiding me forward. Together we walked through the airport, my heart and soul throbbing with a feeling unlike any other.
For once, I felt truly safe. For once, though I was terrified to call it as much...
I felt loved.
About the Author: Nora Flite
New Adult and dramatic romance author, Nora Flite is inspired by the complicated events and wild experiences of her own life. Now, she wants to share those stories with her audience.
Born in the tiniest state, coming from what was essentially dirt, she's learned to embrace and appreciate every opportunity the world gives her.
She's also, possibly, addicted to coffee and sushi.
Not at the same time, of course.
If you'd like to keep up to date on Nora's current writing, join the mailing list or check out her blog, noraflite.blogspot.com, also email her at [email protected] if you just have some questions!
If you liked this story, you might also like the sequel: Letting You Know
Deacon and Leah might as well be from opposite worlds.
In spite of her rough past, Deacon wants nothing more than to show her how wonderful a close-knit family can be. Unfortunately for him, his memories are contradicting the hard reality that awaits the pair in his home town.
Part of that reality being someone he never, ever wanted to see again.
Bethany Sommer: Deacon's first love. The girl who stole his heart, then tossed it away.
Now, due to some impossible to foresee circumstances, Leah and Deacon will both have to suffer through the torturous me
mories of his past.
Can they make it through in one piece, or will it prove to be too much?
MYSTERIOUS DESIRE by Aphrodite Hunt
1
I don’t know what I’m doing here – kneeling before a toilet bowl in the second floor men’s restroom of a swanky hotel.
Oh wait. I do.
I’m trying to get through college, trying to make up the payments because my Mom lost her job. It isn’t her fault. In this economy, her company was retrenching half the staff, and since she was only two years into the job, that qualified her to take less of a package than the oldies. So she’s the one who has to take the fall.
The only problem with having so many retrenched people around? The jobs are scarce. Waitressing is good, but since I came in so late on the game, all the good jobs have been taken up. Morton’s. McCormick’s and Schmick’s. Giordano’s, home of the deep dish pizza.
So the only gig I can find is this one – being a maid in a hotel in downtown Chicago. It pays relatively well for what it’s worth since it’s a five-star hotel on the Magnificent Mile and everything.
As for my Dad? He blew when I was ten.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not wallowing in self-pity. I’m too busy scrubbing the toilet bowl in this stall until I can see my face on the concave surface, besides my reflection in the clean water. That’s how Mr. Mangorean likes them.
“Not one atom of grime must be discerned, Ms. Turner. We host Presidents and Secretaries of State.”
Well, there was only that one time during the Democratic convention, I want to say. But I don’t, of course. And I didn’t know grime was measured in atoms.
“So make sure it gleams, Ms. Turner. Gleams.”
There’s a fanatical gleam in his eye when he says this. I figure Mr. Mangorean is one of those people who love their jobs too much.
Still, I’m grateful to have a job. Any job. And so I put my head down, scrub until my right arm aches something awful. My reflection in the porcelain is that of an average-looking, dark-haired college junior. OK, I’m on the fairly attractive spectrum, but I’m nothing to shout home about. It’s not like I’m a cheerleader or something. The hot boys were always interested in my friends and roommates, never me.
It never bothered me. Mom and I were just trying too hard to get me into college, and now that I’m in – to keep me there. Survival just got in the way of boys.
Outside the stall, the door of the restroom whines open.
Drat.
Typical of people. They just ignore the ‘CLEANING IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DO NOT ENTER’ sign at the door and waltz in as if they own the place. I mean, neither do I (own the place), but at least I know how to avoid wet hotel bathroom floors. There was this one time that I almost slipped on one, the klutz that I am, and I’ve been avoiding them ever since.
Footsteps. The clippity-clap of men’s shoes on the wet linoleum. If he should slip and sue the hotel, I’m so not going to be responsible for this.
I wonder if I should give a shout-out like “Excuse me, sir, but did you notice the yellow sign outside the door? I’d really appreciate it if you’d go to the restroom downstairs.”
The one that doesn’t have an atom of grime in it last time I checked, since I’ve just cleaned it thirty minutes ago.
I don’t have to be anal about this. Maybe he’s desperate to take a leak. Maybe it’s an emergency.
The footsteps stop. After a while of not hearing anything else, I cautiously peek out of the stall.
A man is standing before the large mirror that stretches all the way across the wall with the multiple black marble sinks. And not just any man.
He’s the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
I’m not just saying that. He really is, according to his reflection in the mirror. He has smoky eyes that look . . . well, I’m not sure what color they are from this distance . . . but they are half-closed and framed by the longest and most beautiful lashes, as if he’s contemplating something important. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he’s got the cutest little depression in his forehead just in between his frowning eyebrows.
His dark brown hair is longish and just kisses his shoulders. His lips are full and lush. And oh, his body beneath his charcoal grey suit. He’s wearing the suit – but his body is extremely tight. I can tell about these things. I’ve never had personal experience in touching a body like that, but I just can tell from my fantasies, you know what I mean?
A man who looks like that should be off-the-charts illegal. So what’s he doing here in this forbidden-for-thirty minutes-of-cleaning restroom? My restroom?
(Oh yeah, now I’m getting possessive about public restrooms. I’m just one step to becoming Mr. Mangorean.)
He’s so fixated with his own reflection (I know I would be too if I were him) that he doesn’t notice me.
He’s muttering to himself: “Damn, damn, damn, Fuck. Damn the bastard . . . to hell.” He grimaces and turns on one of the taps. Then he leans over the sink to splash water onto his gorgeous face.
He’s even hotter when he’s wet.
Amid the sound of the running water, he still doesn’t notice me as he raises his face – water-streaked and glistening like a river god’s.
He says, with heat, to his own reflection, “You’re not going to do what he tells you. This is the fucking last time.”
His accent is a little off. He speaks perfect English, of course, but he doesn’t talk like everyone around here. He’s not British. He’s not Canadian. I can’t really put my finger on his accent, but he’s only said very little, so far.
I should really give him his privacy.
Hell, he should give me my privacy.
I clear my throat and creep out of the stall, still holding my brush in one hand. The one that has been scrubbing away the atoms of grime.
He still doesn’t turn.
“Excuse me,” I say loudly. My own voice echoes weirdly in my ears. “Excuse me!”
The man swivels his head. His eyes widen in surprise as they see me.
I wave my brush. “I’m cleaning up in here, so if you’d like to use the first floor restroom, it will be a lot more private.” If there’s no one else in it, of course.
I think his eyes are a marvelous blue-green. Oh my God, they are dreamy. This is the last time I will ever see them, so I’d better soak them in while I can.
I’m staring at him and he’s staring back at me. I don’t know. We must have stared at each other for the longest time, or what I believe is the longest time – because time seems to have frozen for me. And even the trickle of sweat that runs in between my butt cleft seems to travel ever so slowly . . . as the atoms of electrified air between us freeze.
Of course, I’m sure it’s only stopped still for me. With him, the clock is ticking on as normal. My clock is ticking somewhere inside me too – I can feel it in my pulse.
Ba dup. Ba dup. Ba dup.
My breath catches in my throat.
The edges of his mouth crinkle and actually turn upward.
“Hi,” he says softly.
Hi?
I almost turn around to see who he’s saying ‘hi’ to. Because men who look like that don’t say ‘hi’ to me. Least of all a maid on her knees who is half in and half out of the open door of a toilet stall.
“Hi,” I squeak back.
His wonderfully-shaped lips part ever so slightly and his nostrils flare as he takes me in.
“Hi,” he says again. He splays his hand. “I’m just, um, cleaning up here.”
I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I can only mutely stare up at his face. You know that feeling when all your senses flee you and there’s this all-powerful electromagnetic attraction that consumes you and makes your guts go upside down and inside out and all squelchy? Well, my roommates tell me that all the time but I’ve never personally experienced it.
Until now.
I feel like the floor has suddenly dropped from under my feet.
It can’t
be just his looks. It can’t be.
“Are you all right?” he says, concerned.
I realize I’m still on the floor. I hastily put down the brush, and oh – I do feel a little woozy. Blood has definitely drained out of my head and into my goodness-knows-where, but I experience a tightening in my most intimate of places.
I recognize it as primordial lust.
Oh my God. I’ve just met this man whom I will never see again . . . and I’m lusting after him?
“It’s not lust,” I can hear the voice of my roommate, Deanna, telling me. “It’s love at first sight. I’m telling you. You’ll know when it happens.”
“There’s no such thing,” I scoffed at her then.
No one can fall in love at first sight. It’s always lust. Some animal attraction that implodes you. But here it is. And I don’t want to think it’s just lust. I can’t seem to get up. My knees have turned to shaky pudding. My insides have melted.
No, not lust. It’s kismet.
Like I’ve just met my karmic soul-mate.
With a couple of steps, he’s at my side.
“Hey, you all right?”
His warm hands are touching my arm, my shoulders, buoying me up. His touch on my skin is electric. I feel flushed all of a sudden, and I definitely feel faint.
I rise shakily to my feet, his arms holding mine. Up close, his face is breathtaking. His skin is incredibly clear and soft, and my lungs are completely depleted of air. The air between us is as thick as molasses.
We are facing one another – very close. His beautiful face swims in my vision, and his warmth seeps into me. Those wonderful lips curl in a knowing smile, and before I can tell what is happening – they close in onto mine.
Oh my God.
I think I’ve just spontaneously combusted.
Air is stoppered in my throat as his lips meld against mine. His lips are pliant and oh-so-nuanced. I can’t even believe this kiss is happening (and why oh why would he be kissing me?) and for a stretched moment, I’m too terrified to kiss back. Not that I remember how to kiss in this petrified moment. My brain is so hollow and numb that I can only be but a receptacle.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 109