Just Love

by Prescott Lane

As a guy, my checklist for finding a woman never went far beyond her being sexy as hell and her having to like Sadie. Having fun in bed was the main criteria. It never occurred to me that the woman I should be looking for is the one that I can have fun with anywhere, not just between the sheets.

  Now I’ve found her, but I’m not sure she’s mine to keep.

  People like routine. Even the most unconventional people have some routine in their lives. We prefer a certain side of the bed. We always brush our teeth at about the same time each morning and night. Much of life’s routines involve our work schedule. Relationships, no matter how serious or casual, tend to be the same way. Who makes the coffee? Who makes the bed? Who uses the shower first?

  Ainsley and I fell right into a pattern with each other in the mornings. I make the coffee, she makes the bed, and we always shower together before I leave for work. Strangely, nothing about our routine feels stale or boring, so I’m more than surprised one morning when I wake up to find her soaking in the bathtub, bubbles up to her neck.

  “Join me,” she says, holding her hand out.

  I’m definitely a shower guy. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever used my bathtub, but hers is an invitation I’m not going to miss.

  “It will be our first bath together,” she says. I smile, wondering why women give so much importance to things like that.

  “We shower together almost every day,” I say, stripping off my boxers.

  “That’s different,” Ainsley says. “Bathing together feels more relationshipy.” She leans forward to give me space to squeeze in behind her, but instead I sit opposite her, feeling a heavy conversation coming on.

  “Relationshipy isn’t a word.” She lets her body sink in a little deeper, studying me. What’s she thinking? Is she looking for more out of our arrangement? Maybe it’s not what she’s thinking that’s important. It’s what I think. What I want. That’s what she’s fishing for. She needs to know how I feel about her.

  Sadie comes walking in, gives us a look, then lays down on the bath mat. I shake my head and say, “I swear, I’m going to develop a line of dog chews designed to keep them busy long enough for even the longest fuck session.”

  “Sex chews for dogs. Vet approved,” she says, laughing.

  Grinning, I splash some water up at her. “For doggy style or . . .”

  A sexy look on her face, she leans forward, filling her hands with bubbles. I raise an eyebrow, daring her. She simply smiles, placing the bubbles on my head. I must look like I’m topped with whipped cream. I try to return the favor, but she gets more bubbles, this time placing them on my nose.

  A tight-lipped grin on my face, I’m trying not to laugh or else I’m going to get a mouthful of bubbles. Pulling her forward, I kiss her, making sure to get bubbles all over her face and hair.

  Laughing and kissing.

  Kissing and laughing.

  This is how it happens. This is how “just fun” becomes more. I know she feels it, too. Glancing over at her, we stop laughing. Her blue eyes study me, and while her mouth doesn’t move, she sure is saying a whole heck of a lot. I can see it—all the things she doesn’t want to say, all the feelings flying around between us. It’s all right there—love, lust, fear, denial.

  She’s doing her best to camouflage her emotions, but they are written all over her face. She moves to get up, the water sliding down her curves, but I take hold of her hand. One of us has to be brave, acknowledge what’s happening between us. She needs to know how I feel.

  In an instant, I get out, standing in front of her, wrapping a towel around us both. Avoiding looking at me, she says, “That was fun.”

  “Not just fun,” I whisper, tilting her chin up. “It’s just love.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO

  I’m yours and always will be.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  “Let’s go out,” I whisper softly.

  Three months of sneaking around and hiding our relationship from everyone wears on one’s nerves. We’ve binged watched every show on every streaming channel. We’ve ordered food delivery from all the major apps. We’ve had sex on every possible surface in every conceivable position, but not once have we gone to a nice dinner, a show, a movie. Not once have I stopped in the middle of the street just to kiss her. No other person on the planet has heard me say how much I love her.

  She looks up at me from our cuddled-up position in my bed. “Brody.”

  That one word from her reminds me of the reason for all the secrecy. Not that I’ve forgotten, but I’m not willing to go down without a fight.

  I say, “What if we drive to Kiawah Island? It’s only about forty-five minutes. Just far enough we won’t run into anyone.”

  She gives me that smile—the one I love, asking, “Can Sadie come, too?”

  Kiawah Island is a well-kept secret among a plethora of beach towns, but not as commercialized as other places. Since Ainsley and I are also a well-kept secret, it’s fitting that she and I make the island our escape. Being here is about slowing down, and remembering what’s important, and it has nothing to do with the world class golf or tennis amenities.

  “I feel like I’m drunk,” Ainsley says, laughing and smiling as we walk the beach together, Sadie on her leash beside us. “I’m so happy.”

  “Me, too,” I say with a chuckle.

  Ainsley is the happiest drunk person you’d ever meet. She’s also the cheapest date in that regard. One drink, and she’s usually laughing her ass off.

  Freedom feels so good. We spend the entire day with Sadie on the beach and eat lunch at an outdoor bistro that allows pets. We lounge around and make out every ten seconds without regard for time or place. Being able to walk down the beach holding her hand? Well, I didn’t even know how much it would mean to me.

  Placing a blanket on the sand, I pull Ainsley down, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She leans back into my chest, snuggling closer, watching the gentle roll of the waves. The warm sun is like a blanket over us, the wind like a tender kiss, and everywhere I look, we are surrounded by couples in love, children playing, families.

  She glances up at me. Everything she wants in life surrounds us. Having lost her parents so young, she wants it even more than most people. And damn if I don’t want to give it to her. My fingers lightly stroke her skin. “You aren’t getting burned, are you?”

  She shakes her head, snuggling closer. “This is my favorite time at the beach. When the sun is starting to set.” Glancing up at me, she whispers, “This has been the best day.”

  “Let’s stay the night,” I say, kissing her. “We can rent a hotel room or a little beach cottage.”

  Sitting up straighter, she asks, “Are you serious?”

  I scoop her up, carrying her down the beach. “New plan,” I tell her. “From now on, we spend the weekends here. During the week in Charleston, we still have to hide out, but on the weekends, we escape.”

  She kisses me in agreement. I know at some point we’re going to have to face the firing squad, but neither one of us wants our perfect bubble burst right now. Besides, when I go to Brody, I can’t come armed with, Hey, dude, I like your sister.

  Ainsley and I are more than that anyway. I just have to wait for the perfect moment.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  I don’t know how to do life without you.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  When I was a kid, I loved running outside to get the mail, always jealous that my parents got all the letters and packages. They tried to explain to me that it was mostly bills and junk, but I didn’t care. Somehow, it felt important to get something addressed to you. Someone had spent the time and effort to send you something—that meant something.

  So my dad started sending me letters. Every so often, he’d write me something on his law office letterhead and mail it, or if he had to take a business trip, he’d send me a postcard. He was usually back in town by the time I got
it, but I didn’t care.

  Now I hate the mail. My parents were right. It’s mostly bills and junk, but that’s not the problem. The problem are the letters.

  Brody’s letters.

  I get one from him at least once a week. When the emails stopped, the letters started. I’m not sure why he switched. Maybe he thought I blocked him. I didn’t. I just never opened them, so I never responded. Maybe he thought letters were more personal, harder to ignore. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but they come faithfully each week.

  Opening my desk drawer, I see the pile, dropping this week’s on top. There are dozens and dozens and dozens stacked up.

  I’ll give it to the Rose siblings: Brody and Ainsley don’t give up easily. Still, Ainsley hasn’t called, emailed, or written in months. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d be able to leave any communication from her unopened or unanswered. I couldn’t do to her what I do to Brody—ignore.

  A man has his limits of strength.

  She is my weakness. It took everything I had left to let her go. Correction, to force her to go. I’m not sure I could do it again.

  Sadie starts barking, and I slam the drawer shut. Even if I wanted to read his new letter, or any of them, today’s not the day.

  No sooner than I get turned around, my parents are walking through my door, making an impromptu visit. They called me yesterday to warn me they were coming, but refused to tell me why. Making the five-hour drive from Charleston to Atlanta on that kind of short notice makes me think that whatever is going on isn’t good.

  I swear all parents are the same. Visits to their grown children always involve questions about whether we are eating enough, sleeping enough, taking care of ourselves. Mine take worrying to a whole new level these days, but the worry lines on both their faces look even deeper today. Normally, I’d ask about them, their work, how they are doing, but I don’t get the sense from them that they want to do the small talk thing.

  “So what gives?” I say, reaching down and patting Sadie.

  They take a seat on my tiny sofa. My small place here isn’t anything like my condo back in Charleston. It’s more like a dormitory, but what more do I really need?

  My dad looks to my mom, like they are drawing straws in their head. Apparently, my dad gets the short one because he starts. “You know Charleston can be a small place.”

  “Charleston is the second largest city in South Carolina,” I say. “I don’t think you came here to discuss urban expansion. What’s going on?”

  My mom pats my dad’s leg, consoling him over his lame attempt. Then she looks straight into my eyes, the way only a mother can. “We ran into Ainsley.”

  “You drove all the way here to tell me that?”

  “We saw Brody and Skye, too.”

  “Some kind of reunion?” I say snidely.

  My dad’s eyes narrow at me. “That’s not important,” he says. “We saw them and . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “You don’t want to know how she looked?” my mom asks, her voice cracking. “Or if she was with another man? Or how Brody and Skye are doing? Or . . .”

  She keeps listing things, but I’m stuck on Ainsley. I know how she looked—beautiful, like always. As for whether she was with someone, I’ve got enough to keep me up at night without that little bit of knowledge.

  “Mom,” I say, stopping her. “I’m sorry you felt like you had to come here and confess to me that you spoke to my ex, but . . .”

  “Look at this, Rhett,” she says, pulling out her phone and flashing a picture. “This is Ainsley’s new shop. You missed this. You missed her opening up her own shop.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “No,” she cries, scrolling to another picture and holding it in front of my face. “You see that dress in the front window? That’s the dress she was going to marry you in!”

  It’s never easy to see your mother break down in tears, my father wiping her cheeks with his fingertips. I reach out, taking the phone from her hand and slowly zoom in on the dress. Her hope of marrying me is the anchor of her shop, the dream of our marriage is what she uses to draw people in.

  “How do you know this is Ainsley’s dress?”

  “I promised her I would never tell you,” my mom whimpers.

  Handing back her phone, I say, “I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  “You’re hurting that girl on purpose,” she barks then gets to her feet, her eyes as hard as I’ve ever seen them. “Fix it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FOURTEEN MONTHS AGO

  No one makes me laugh like you do.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  “Pack a bag,” I yell out as I walk through the door to her place. “We’re leaving tonight for the beach.”

  She looks over at me from her dress form. “But it’s only Thursday.”

  Brody and Skye have been so busy with their wedding plans that they haven’t noticed our absence. It’s been surprisingly easy to keep them in the dark, so sneaking an extra day in was not a big deal.

  “Took tomorrow off,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “We’ll make it an extra-long weekend.”

  Exhaling, she says, “But I still have to finish Skye’s veil.”

  What the hell? The wedding is still a month away. Surely, she has time. “I thought you’d be excited.”

  “I am,” she says, stabbing the pin cushion with her needle.

  God, she really is a terrible liar.

  Ainsley’s not a high maintenance chick. She can be ready in five minutes flat. Seldom nags and enjoys the simple things in life more than most, but even she has her limits. I can tell our new arrangement of weekdays in the city and weekends at the beach has worn out its welcome. It’s been a little over a month, and I can sense she’s not happy. She doesn’t say it, but every weekend it’s taken her longer and longer to pack. She’s no longer interested in where we stay or which restaurant we go out to. And now she’s taking it out on the pin cushion.

  Taking her hand, I lead her over to the sofa. Sadie joins us, like she’s in on the conversation, resting her head on Ainsley’s lap.

  “You told me in the beginning—just fun,” she says.

  “Ainsley, you know that . . .”

  She holds her hand up. “I’m wondering, is this still fun for you? Because it’s not for me. I’m starting to feel like your mistress or the other woman, sneaking around all the time.”

  “Don’t feel like that,” I say. “I love you.”

  “You know how people use the phrase falling in love? Falling implies an accident, something you don’t want to happen, like faceplanting on the sidewalk,” she says, motioning between us. “Maybe that’s what this is. An accident.”

  “You’re missing the most important part of falling in love.”

  “What?”

  “I fall, and you catch me. You fall, and I catch you.”

  “You totally read that on a bumper sticker.”

  “Actually, it was Pinterest,” I tease her.

  “I love you. I do,” she whispers.

  I notice we do that a lot. Whisper our I love yous. It’s a secret, like our relationship. Shouldn’t we be shouting it from the rooftops?

  “Something has to change,” I say, raising an eyebrow at her. “I think I need to talk to Brody.”

  The look on her face is priceless. I can tell she’s been waiting for me to suggest this for a long time. “He might take it better if I talk to him,” she says.

  Shaking my head, I say, “This needs to come from me.”

  “What will you say?” she asks. “Will you tell him we’ve been seeing each other already or . . .”

  I move next to her, getting down on one knee. “I’m going to tell him I want to marry you.”

  She laughs, shaking her head at me. Not at all the reaction I thought I’d get, but I’ll take it over a rejection.

  “You totally ruined my proposal plan,” I say, smirking at her. “That’s why I wanted to
leave today.”

  Her head shakes a little bit. “What? You’re serious?”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a little black box. “Had a private sunset dinner on the beach planned. Candles, flowers, and your favorite ice cream for dessert, but it looks like I’ve got to do this here instead.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “You aren’t?”

  “Can you be quiet for two seconds?” I tease her.

  She laughs, holding her left hand out and wiggling her fingers, a certain sign I’m going to get the answer I want. “Ainsley . . .”

  “Yes!” she cries, flying into my arms and knocking me backwards onto the floor, her on top of me.

  “You haven’t seen the ring. I haven’t said the words,” I say, pushing her hair back from her face.

  She sits up, tilting her head at me. “You’re so busted. This is why you were on Pinterest!”

  I laugh. She caught me. So I may have searched romantic proposal ideas. My man card is still very much intact. Sitting up, I hold out the box in front of her, opening it. The proposal ideas may have come from the internet, but the ring I handled all on my own. As a wedding dress designer, she’s seen thousands of rings.

  Hers had to be special. It had to be her.

  “A rose,” she says softly, the sweetest smile on her lips. I slip the two-carat rose cut diamond with a platinum band on her finger. “It’s perfect.”

  A man’s life is funny. For so long, his dick runs the show. Chasing tail and thinking about how to score are his main objectives with the opposite sex. At some point, his brain jumps in the game, and career and success start to share the spotlight with tits and ass. Then without warning, his heart becomes the CEO, ordering the brain to put his woman first, commanding his dick to focus only on her.

  Cupping her face in my hands, I say, “I promise . . .” My voice starts to break, and I stop. Her hand lands softly on my chest. “I promise you everything,” I say. “All the things I know you really want. Family, kids.”