“Oh, yeah—” My voice breaks. I clear my throat, and as I do, the weightlessness of the moment sucks all the pain of the past year away.
He’s here.
This may only be a dream, but he’s here. My dad is behind our home in Richmond with a shovel in one hand and a glass of apple juice in the other. And then the recollection strikes.
I saw him like this earlier this evening, after I fainted in the beach house. A hint of apple juice reaches my nose, the perfect blend of sweet and sour, and it all comes back. He was holding the juice when I fainted the first time, too. Juice squeezed from apples off our trees. Nothing could be more vivid than that scent. But what are the chances of having the exact same dream twice in one day?
He takes a sip, lets out a sigh of satisfaction, and offers the tall glass to me. I glance around at the garden we stand in. Our garden, the place where I used to sneak my dolls out for a tea party. This was a place I could get muddy and my mom couldn’t protest. Our property was always immaculate, fruitful. I never understood how Dad did it. Life and happiness flourished around him, something I miss.
I look down at my muddy shovel, suddenly remembering that time I whacked myself in the shin with my own shovel. Memories flutter in, scattered pieces filing back into place. This incident in the garden occurred hours before the accident. How could I have forgotten?
I smile. “If we don’t suffer a little, we won’t remember it, right?”
Dad smiles and extends the juice again.
Cold liquid trickles down my throat as I drink, as refreshing as the memories it evokes. I’m at a loss for words, shocked at what’s happening. So I lean back against the picket fence and decide to simply relish this miracle.
Dad shifts his gaze to the sunset just visible above the thick trees. “You know, Sienna, there aren’t too many moments quite like this.”
I nod, because whatever is happening right now is definitely not normal. It feels so real. I wish it would last forever.
“Let’s make a pact,” he says, and I feel seven again, making a promise with a best friend. “Let’s remember it, okay? This moment.”
Ah, the pact. I look around, the beauty of this place sinking into memory with ease: our tiered fountain, the apple trees, the vines around each post of our gazebo. Finally, I nod.
“And when times get rough,” he says, “we can rewind to this moment and remember the taste of a job well done. We can remember how great this day was.”
A lump swells in my throat as I recall who was behind the wheel that night: me. “Okay, it’s a pact.”
I’m so focused on my dad that I don’t notice the white speck flittering across my vision, then two and three specks. My dad becomes a blur, and a wave of nausea hits my stomach as I’m jerked away from him, swept away from the garden altogether.
“Can you hear me?” someone asks. I feel a hand on my shoulder and another one cradling my head. I open my eyes, totally confused as the blurry outline of a figure bent over me comes into view. And the baseball cap.
“Hey, there you are,” whoever is holding me says, his voice lowering into a tone of relief. With a twinge in my heart, I realize it isn’t my dad. My balance stabilizes, my body grounded again in reality. Besides a pounding headache, I’m pain-free. My shin is fine.
“Ugh.” An ugly-sounding something stumbles from my lips as the nausea dissipates. I blink, remembering that I need to get home. I try to push myself into a sitting position, but before I can, he scoops me off the ground. Startled, I reach for his shoulders for balance. And oh my. Something about the muscles beneath my fingertips makes me draw back and then wish I hadn’t.
I open my mouth to assure him I can walk, but I glimpse his sharp jaw and strong chin, and the connection between my mind and my mouth floats away. My eyes travel over his lips and then to his eyes, and my heart freaks out. Skips a beat. The most impossibly blue eyes I’ve ever seen stare back into mine, and I lose not only my train of thought but all control of my gaping eyes as well.
One side of his mouth pulls into something of a grin, his face inches from mine. His eyes trace the outline of my forehead down to my chin and linger on my lips. Then his gaze meets mine again. He raises a brow. “Are you all right?”
“Y-y-yes.” My voice comes out like a frog’s croak. “Fine. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hm.” Another attempt to steady my voice. I try to get my flirt on, flashing a smile as I assure him, “The ground can walk just fine.”
That puts a smile on his face.
“I mean, I can walk just fine. On the ground. You can set me down.” I bite my tongue before I do more damage.
“Right,” he says doubtfully. Something in the way he holds me, the brazen expression on his face as he looks into my eyes, tells me I should be careful.
“I’m good. I promise.”
He sets me down at last. Now that I’m out of his arms and can think straight, I finally get a rational look at him. Dark hair, only visible around the edge of his baseball cap. Thick hair. Total girl magnet. He’s at least six inches taller than my five foot seven. All right, even out of his arms, my heart rattles around so fast I fear another blackout, or whatever just happened.
He watches me as I wobble. “You gonna be okay?”
I nod, even though I feel like a ballerina who rolled off a stage. “Where did those, um, those—”
“Those losers?” he asks.
I nod.
He smiles. “They bailed.”
No wonder. Another glance at his—ahem—intimidating physique, and I decide I don’t blame them. He’s hot, okay, hotter than any guy has a right to be. And unfortunately, it’s impossible for him not to know that. He’s one of those kind. He even looks amused, as though he’s reading my fascination from my face. Meanwhile, I can’t do anything but stare into his blue eyes, feeling like a dental patient after a heavy dose of laughing gas.
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly reminded of the bird poop in there. And the gum on my shoe. This keeps getting better.
Then I flinch when I spot a swarm of gnats by my head, and one flies into my eye.
“What the—” I mutter.
“You okay?” he asks. Again.
“Yeah,” I lie, bending over and blinking. And stepping right into the puddle of mud behind me. Sound advice to myself: Leave now!
Reminding myself I have a plan—buy Lucky Charms and head home—I let my one bug-free eye jump between this cute guy and the display of fireworks behind me, gearing up to leave. I always have a plan, my life a programmed route from A to B. It’s safe, predictable. Maybe that’s why I haven’t budged.
“Thanks,” I say, and turn to leave for real this time, but not without sneaking one last glance at his gorgeous face. My stomach somersaults when I catch his eyes on me. Fixed on me. And not in a you-are-a-ditzy-klutz-who-won’t-make-it-off-of-River-Street-alive kind of way. Like, in a good way. His stare glues my feet to the ground, holding me near. Blood rushes to my cheeks and I smile, despite myself.
He extends a hand with an unbearably charming smile, probably practiced. “I’m Austin.”
CHAPTER 4
Austin
Pralines have never led me astray.
This girl is hot. Scratch that. Beautiful. Sweet, too. That’s rare. And I might be wrong, but I think she’s blushing.
“Thank you, Austin,” she says, and looks up at me with those dark eyes, one of them still twitching from the bug. Flew right into her eye.
“No prob,” I say and bend down. “Here, I’ll get this for you.”
Something like humiliation drains her face of all color when she sees her purse on the ground, the contents spilling onto the grass.
“I got it,” she says, scrambling to stuff everything in. It takes her forever because her purse is chock-full of all kinds of expensive-looking junk I’ve never seen before. A few things I do recognize, however, and I understand her embarrassment. Sure, I never had a sister or a brother either. But
it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what a tampon is.
I pick up a pack of disinfectant wipes, those travel-size things I didn’t think anyone actually bought.
“Thanks,” she says, stuffing it in. She pulls her purse onto her shoulder. Stands up like someone realizing they’re in the wrong classroom on the first day of school. If I pucker my lips, I could kiss her, we’re standing so close.
This must catch her by surprise, because she looks up, jolts back, and steps right into that mud again. I didn’t even get a chance to warn her. She slips, doing a windmill action with her arms. I don’t mind at all because once again I have an excuse to put my arms around her.
I catch her. Find myself holding her again.
She tucks her lower lip between her teeth. Way hot. “I swear I’m usually not falling all the time like this.”
For some reason she’s having a hard time catching her breath, and for the second time tonight, as I hold her, the thought crosses my mind what it would be like to kiss her.
“I promise,” she says, “this time, I can walk.”
I smile at her humor and set her down. Keeping my arm around her—for support, you know—I help her to the sidewalk.
She gives me a smile. One of those good-bye types. “Thank you. Again.”
“No need.”
Her cheeks get all pink. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“How about your name?”
A coy little smile parts her lips.
“In case a couple of guys decide to harass you again, and I happen to come along.”
She laughs, and I decide this can’t be the last time I hear that laugh. “Sienna.”
“Sienna,” I repeat, committing the name to memory.
“Thank you, Austin. It is Austin, right?”
I nod.
“Austin . . .”
“Austin Dobbs,” I reply.
“You know, Austin, I probably overreacted with the whole Mustache and Cologne thing back there.” She starts rambling. I think it’s helping her nerves. She swats at some bug in the air, then yanks a little bottle of bug repellant from her purse—the dark abyss—and sprays the poor thing to death. “Then I fainted and—do you want some?” She offers the bug spray to me.
“No, thanks.”
“Anyway—” She takes a deep breath, flustered. She gives me that smile again. “Thank you.”
I’m already smiling. “No problem.”
We stare at each other, and I wonder if she doesn’t want to say good-bye either. Finally, I ask her which way she’s heading, and she points back in the direction I came, the stone staircase that leads up to Bay Street. Here our paths split.
Rich Girl and I are all wrong for each other. Big surprise. Her purse has one of those pricey brand names on it, and she could probably disinfect the entire city with everything she’s got in there. But her dark eyes tell me there’s a whole lot more to her. A mystery. And I can’t help but want to figure it out.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” It’s the first thing that comes out. And the last thing I want to say. Idiot.
“Yeah, sure,” she says.
I give myself one last look at her, diverting my gaze before it can be classified as a stare. Two drunks harassed her, a bug flew into her eye, and there’s mud all over her shorts; she’s had enough bad luck for one night. Getting to know me won’t help her odds.
I turn to leave.
I stand in place, staring at the nightlife down River Street as I let her walk away. And realize I made a huge mistake. Coward. She probably has a boyfriend waiting to meet up with her. If the poor loser wasn’t here to catch her, that’s his problem. My luck.
My chance.
I whirl around, and I’m pleasantly surprised. She hasn’t moved an inch either.
Maybe I’ve always been wrong. Maybe there is something like fate, or at least sheer dumb luck. Either way, I’m deciding my fate tonight. I smile. “Do you like pralines?”
CHAPTER 5
Sienna
Well, he did just save me. And he’s a complete stranger. One glance at his dimpled smile overrides that last thought. I’m afraid if I look at this guy too long, my eyes will be glued forever. Girl falls for mysterious, tall, dark, and handsome stranger on a whim. So not me. Mom would flip out if she could see me now.
But I think he might have just asked me out.
Pralines. All I know about them is they have way too much sugar for Mom to ever let us touch them. Despite what could be my better judgment, the thought of eating pralines with this hot stranger is dangerously appealing. Which is why I should say no. Definitely not.
“Yes.”
When my brain comprehends what just rolled off my tongue, my lungs forget how to breathe.
“Yeah?” Austin says.
Yes, I’ll go out with him, or yes, I like pralines? What was the question?
“Actually, I’ve never tried them. Pralines, that is.”
By the look on his face, you’d think I was a seven-year-old who’d never seen a bike. “You’ve never had a praline?”
“Nope.”
“That’s just wrong.”
Usually I’m not such a nervous laugher, but here I go again.
“Well, you’re in the right place,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He points to River Street in general. “The best pralines in the world are right here.”
“Best in the world?” I tease.
“Trust me. I know my pralines.”
I hesitate for one second before something liberating seeps in. It’s enough for me to take the first step down River Street with Austin, and each step feeds that carefree sensation. I notice everything, maybe because I’m trying not to stare at the guy next to me.
Artists sell paintings, jewelers barter with tourists over seashell necklaces, cameras flash as a barge floats up the river. Everyone around us seems to be smiling, and when I take a bite of a sample praline at the River Street Sweets, I’m sold.
“Okay,” I say, “maybe you were right.”
Austin smiles and turns to the sample guy. “Hey, Bob.”
The man—Bob, I guess—slides a few more pralines to him. Then they chat and laugh like they’re old friends.
The mass of people before us parts to reveal all kinds of treats and desserts on display. It’s like a form of art, this stuff, chocolate drizzled to perfection on everything. We walk through the aisles, our arms brushing occasionally as we point stuff out, try samples, and laugh. I’m hyperaware of every glance, every touch. However easy it is to laugh with him, I can’t swallow the nerves that lodge in my throat every time he looks at me.
“Come on,” he says with a nod toward the other room. “This is the best part.”
His fingers glide across mine. My senses come alive, catching fire as he leads me to the ice-cream parlor, our fingers not quite entwined.
“Hey, Austin,” the lady behind the counter says with a little Southern attitude and laughs flirtatiously. “You fixin’ to get the usual, suga’?”
I doubt Austin has ever heard a nonflirtatious laugh in his life. Suddenly, I’m curious why a guy like Austin isn’t at a party on a Friday night. With his girlfriend. He has one. Too cute not to. If not, perhaps he’s flighty. Or playing the field?
“How’s it going, Patricia?” Austin asks.
“I’m good. I’m good. Ladies first, though; what can I get for y’all?”
I decline. I’ve got to save what cash I have left for Spencer’s Lucky Charms, and I’m not about to use my mom’s card. With the lousy economy and all, my dad’s interior design company, Viva Bella Imports, fell apart shortly after his death.
I wonder what he’d think now, knowing he left us with nothing. After all he did to save and prepare for retirement, stuff like that. But recession or no recession, Viva Bella would have made it if it weren’t for his business partner embezzling funds last fall and skipping the country.
“She’ll have a large cone.” Austin p
ulls out his wallet with a sideways glance. “You can’t come to River Street without tasting the best part.”
“Mm-hm,” Patricia agrees and looks me over. “That’s right, and you can use some a this on them bones, girl.”
I laugh and accept a cone from Patricia, my stomach churning as I recall how I lost my appetite after the accident. Then she throws three scoops of almond praline on a cone for Austin.
“I’ve never seen so many sweets in my life,” I say.
Austin glances back at the store as we exit. “Serious? That’s, like, my house back there.”
“Yeah?” I prompt him to go on, to tell me about his home and what it was like growing up in Savannah, but he doesn’t.
It’s like someone turned down the volume on River Street while we were in the shop. City lights reflect off the river. A man plays music on a saxophone, and it sounds like something from the movies. We walk past him, and Austin drops a five-dollar bill into his hat.
The man takes a quick breath between songs. “Austin, my man. You too good.”
Austin hands him a sack of old-fashioned saltwater taffy from River Street Sweets with a hard pat. “I got your favorite again.”
Figures. And here I was about to tag Austin as a charmer, slipping cash into the guy’s hat just to impress me. Seriously, who doesn’t Austin know?
“I owe you, man.”
“Nah,” Austin says. “Just keep playing that good music, and we’re even.”
The man places the reed of his saxophone between smiling lips and starts another song, this one more lively.
“Have you lived here your whole life?” I ask as we fall in step on the stone path.
Austin laughs. “No.”
“You’ve lived here for a while though, right?”
“About a year.”
“Yeah, right! You know, like, everyone here.”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Patricia. Bob. Romantic saxophone player back there.”
He flashes a dimpled smile that makes my knees all tingly and holds up his ice-cream cone. “I just eat a lot of almond praline.”
I laugh and lick my own cone, the cold sugariness taking me back to a time when everything about life was pleasantly coated with sweetness.
Rewind to You Page 3