Waiting for the Sun (Waiting for the Sun #1)

by Robin Hill

  You’re the first woman he’s been with in five years, Frankie.

  This sucks. Feeling this way just sucks. I’m embarrassed for me. I’m scared for me. But I ache for him.

  The morning sun stabs me like a hot poker, and it takes me a few minutes to orient myself. I’m in my bed, under my covers, Darian’s heart thrumming beneath my ear. He strokes my hair with long, leisurely drags of his fingers. The sting of last night fades, and if I wasn’t still in yesterday’s sweatshirt, I’d wonder if I’d dreamed it.

  “I didn’t mean to run off on you last night,” he whispers.

  “Why did you?”

  “I don’t know. I just…” His hand stills in my hair. “I had some sort of déjà vu. I guess it shook me.”

  I tilt my head to look at him, and he kisses me. It’s soft and quick. Just a peck on my lips.

  He carefully disentangles himself and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on my hip, his gaze aimed at my feet. “We’ve got time if you want to sleep in.”

  “Darian, are you sure about this?”

  “Yes,” he says, his eyes flicking to mine. “Please, Francesca. I want you to come. I’m sorry if I scared you. This is all new to me.”

  “It’s new to me too.”

  “I know.”

  “Stay with me next time.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I will.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Land Ho!

  Darian: We’re headed back.

  Drew: We?

  Darian: Yes, we.

  Drew: This girl have a name?

  Darian: Francesca.

  Drew: I like that. Racquetball this week?

  Darian: Maybe. I’ll call you.

  Frankie

  Darian hires a car service to take us to the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. The perplexity of last night along with my healthy fear of flying have my nerves on overdrive. I’m anxious about flying. I’m anxious about Darian. I’m anxious about flying with Darian. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I try to relax. I bounce my foot and pop my knuckles.

  Chill out, Frankie.

  I hate it when people pop their knuckles, yet I can’t seem to stop. I glare at my hands and will them to stop. I could use a manicure.

  I wonder if the airport has a salon, I think absently as I pick at a hangnail.

  I glance up to find Darian’s eyes on me, his brows knitted.

  “The weather’s been great, hasn’t it?” I ask.

  Hey, Frankie, we had a ridiculously strong and potentially damaging storm last night. Idiot.

  He chuckles, clearly amused with me. He turns sideways a little and props his ankle on his knee. His laughter settles into a smile. “Yeah, Francesca, awesome weather.”

  “How’s the weather in Miami this time of year?”

  “Much more pleasant than it is in August.” He reaches for my hand. “Are you okay?”

  The car veers to the right as we exit the toll road. I look up just in time to see the airport sign looming in front of us like an omen.

  “I’m okay.” I’m so not okay. “I’m just worried about what to tell Jane,” I lie. Nope. That’s not a lie. Now, I’m anxious about that too.

  Darian cocks his head. “You haven’t told her yet?”

  I shrug. “It’s safer this way. We’ll be airborne before she can kill me.”

  “I don’t know,” he says, snorting a laugh. “I wouldn’t put anything past that one.”

  He turns his attention to the driver, and I turn mine to my phone, my fingers flying over the screen in a series of texts.

  Frankie: I’m on my way to the airport.

  Jane: What?

  Frankie: I told you I was probably going.

  Jane: No, you told me he invited you.

  Frankie: Same thing.

  “Well?” Darian says. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  We ease into the turn lane. The rhythmic click of the blinker sounds through the car. It’s unusually loud, but no one else seems to notice.

  Jane: Do you even have Xanax?

  Frankie: All major airlines have booze. I’ll manage.

  We turn left when the light changes. The blinker stills and peaceful silence returns to the car. I stare blankly out the window as we coast down a long stretch of road. This airport is smaller than I expected, especially since the word International is in its name. So far I’ve seen nothing but a row of planes behind a chain-link fence. No parking garages, no buildings.

  Jane: It just seems fast. Couldn’t you have planned a trip? For like…later?

  And give myself time to change my mind?

  The muffled rumble of takeoff quickly grows into a crescendo of roaring jets the closer we get. I keep my head down, my eyes on my phone. The little dots dancing on the screen tell me Jane’s typing, but the text never comes through. She’s waiting for me. As I begin to reply, the car slows and then stops. The driver cuts the engine, and my fingers still.

  I lift my head. “Where are we?”

  “Tarmac,” Darian says.

  No wonder it looks different.

  I turn to look out my window and I see a small jet, dark blue and silver with burgundy trim. The paint looks new, and I wonder if the plane is new or if it just got a fresh coat. Is that even a thing? To paint old planes so they don’t look so terrifying?

  My phone vibrates in my hand and I drag my gaze back to the screen.

  Jane: Ignoring me now?

  Darian kisses my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

  He gets out of the car, and I watch as he walks across the pavement to a man standing beside the plane. They shake hands. Darian speaks to him, his arms crossed, his thumb propped at his chin. The man replies and Darian’s head falls back in laughter. He turns to look at me, nods, and then turns back to the man. They shake hands again.

  “I’ve only flown commercial,” the driver says, pulling my attention to his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are bright and carry a subtle optimism I wish I shared right now. “I can’t even imagine how nice a private jet must be. What about you, young lady? This your first time?”

  Oh holy fuck, I’m flying on that thing.

  The air escapes the car in a big whoosh, and it’s replaced by a sort of loud silence, thick and heavy and suffocating. I nod my response, but my head feels like it’s stuck in a vise and I’m not sure it even moves.

  Frankie: WTF!

  Jane: Don’t get pissy. I’m just worried about you.

  Frankie: Not you. Darian! He has a private jet!

  Jane: Oh shit.

  I glance back at the driver. He says something, but the words don’t register. Smiling tightly, I turn back to the plane. My stomach churns.

  Frankie: It’s so small.

  Darian opens my door and leans in. “You ready?”

  I swallow a sharp gulp of air. “You have a plane?”

  “Don’t you?” His lips quirk up in a playful smirk. “It’s chartered. I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”

  “I…”

  “Look,” he says, his smile fading, “I don’t want you to think I’m some pretentious plane snob, too good to fly commercial, but I do go to great lengths to avoid it.” He glances over his shoulder at the small jet and then back to me. “It’s not even the planes. It’s the airports. Specifically the one we’re flying into. That’s the last place I—anyway…” His voice softens and his eyes hold mine in their olive-green depths. “It’s better for me if I don’t have to go inside.”

  I feel foolish for freaking out. It’s just a plane.

  A private plane.

  I don’t know the statistics, but don’t most crashes involve private jets?

  Good Lord, Frankie. Just stop.

  I step out of the car and wrap my arms around his waist.

  Giving me a tight squeeze, he lowers his mouth to my ear. “This phobia charges by the hour, so we should probably get going.”

  I relax slightly as we board the plane.
With the absence of screaming kids and irritable passengers, it’s hard not to. The interior is decked out with cream-colored leather chairs and glossy wood-grain tables. The walls are trimmed in the same wood-grain with leather accents.

  Darian rests his hand on my back and guides me to our seats. A bottle of champagne awaits us, and I grit my teeth when I see it. The champagne, the private jet, the car service…it all feels so fancy, and I’m dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie.

  I elbow Darian’s arm as we sit. “I think I missed the dress-code memo.”

  He laughs and thumbs the V-neck of his white undershirt. “Technically this is considered underwear, but it was all Rose had in my size.”

  “She tends to cater to old ladies.”

  Darian eases the cork out of the champagne with a subtle pop. He pours two glasses and hands me one.

  The bubbles go straight to my head as I take a sip, and I savor the sharp tang that’s left behind on my tongue. “This is perfect. Oh, we should toast.” I raise my glass. “To living a little.”

  Darian’s enthusiastic grin exposes his dimple as our glasses clink together. “I think that’s a good plan for both of us.”

  The pilot and copilot enter the cabin, and there goes my smile. Dressed predictably in crisp white shirts beneath navy-blue blazers, they’re an unfortunate reminder that we’re about to be airborne. I focus on my champagne and let their voices slide over my head. I take a large swallow, which results in an empty glass. I place the stem between my knees and let it rest there. My hands are damp from the condensation, so I wipe them on my cotton pants before clutching the armrests. We’ve yet to move, but I can already feel my stomach crawling up my throat. The pilots turn toward the cockpit, and I turn toward my window, tightening my grip on the smooth leather.

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” Darian says as he pries the fingers of my left hand free. “I hate airports, and you hate flying.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I close the shade, but I continue to stare in its direction.

  Darian takes the empty glass from my lap, refills it, and nudges my hand.

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting the champagne with a timid smile. “But I’m okay. Really.” The plane begins its taxi to the runway, and I squeeze my eyes closed without ever taking a sip. “Or at least I will be in a few minutes.”

  Darian trades my glass for his hand, and I practically crush it when the plane picks up speed. I hold my breath until the nose lifts off the ground, and once we’re airborne, I only loosen my grip enough for Darian to stretch his fingers.

  “The odds of dying in a plane crash are, like, one in eleven million.” The words roll off his tongue in a whisper so soft, I question who they’re for.

  I look up at him and expect to meet his gaze, but his eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip. I rest my cheek against his arm, and he exhales a long, shaky sigh.

  “It’s not a mantra or anything, if you’re wondering,” he says gently, “just a fact. One I tell myself all the time.” He faces me then, his smile cautious. “I thought maybe it would do you well to hear it, but…”

  “It’s okay, Darian. I’m okay, I swear.”

  “I guess facts don’t hold much weight coming from their exceptions.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I just want you to know it can’t happen. It won’t happen again.”

  They’re reassurances. Ones he makes to himself, only now, he’s sharing them with me.

  “I know.”

  The plane jerks as the wheels draw in and I gasp, a shrill, uneven sound that makes us both laugh.

  “And when facts aren’t enough,” Darian says, handing me my champagne, “there’s alcohol.”

  We land in Miami just before five o’clock. I step off the plane and the humidity hits me like it’s swinging a bat.

  A Mercedes SUV sits on the tarmac, its shiny black surface capturing the low-hanging sun and deflecting it in beams of blinding light.

  I cast a squinted glance at Darian. “Still trying to impress me?”

  “Is it working?” A smile slides over his face. “It’s a service, like the one I had in Austin.” He throws my duffel and laptop bag over his shoulder and grabs my hand, gently squeezing it before we set off toward the car.

  The driver rounds the back of the SUV, popping open the hatch on his way to us. He extends his hand to Darian, but his gaze is aimed at me.

  “You must be the lovely Ms. Valentine,” he says in a botched Irish accent. “Name’s CJ, milady, and today I’ll be playing the role of the handsome driver.”

  A giggle bursts out of me and any leftover tension I carried off the plane melts away. “Nice to meet you, CJ.”

  He opens the back passenger door and waves me inside. “In you go,” he says, grinning. “Unless you want to run away with me. In which case, hop in the front.”

  Darian clears his throat with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, yeah. Welcome home, Fox,” CJ says, accent-free. He glances at my bags still slung over Darian’s shoulder. “You mind?”

  With a good-humored groan, Darian hauls them to the back of the SUV and stows them inside. “You want me to drive too?”

  Leaving the boys to banter, I settle into my seat and power up my phone. The air is thick with the scent of leather—masculine and earthy—and if I give it half a chance, it will easily lull me to sleep. Darian climbs in beside me and slips me a curious glance as my phone buzzes with Jane’s texts.

  Jane: How small?

  Jane: Frankie?

  Jane: Text me the second you land!

  Frankie: We’re here.

  Jane: And?

  Frankie: Wasn’t too bad.

  Jane: Tequila?

  Frankie: Champagne.

  I breathe a long-awaited sigh as the car rolls toward the exit. All things considered, the flight was uneventful. Once the champagne kicked in, I relaxed, and shortly after that, I slept.

  “Everything okay?” Darian asks.

  “Better than okay.”

  He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and draws his palm down the side of my face to rest beneath my jaw. “Happy to have your feet back on the ground?”

  I smile and give his hand a squeeze against my cheek.

  I don’t think my feet have been on the ground since the day we met.

  It’s a quiet ride to Darian’s place, which is in an upscale Miami neighborhood called Coral Gables. To someone like me, Miami is the epitome of upscale, so this Coral Gables place must be lined in gold. Where I’m from, upscale just means you don’t have a recliner on your front porch.

  I turn to ask him about it, but the content look on his face drives the thought away. His head is tilted back against the headrest and his eyes are closed, but the slight curve of his mouth tells me he isn’t asleep.

  “Why are you smiling?” I ask as I curl into his side.

  He doesn’t answer, nor does he open his eyes. But his smile stretches wide across his face, and for the first time today, I feel at peace with my decision to come.

  Despite the jetlag trying to pull me under, I stay awake for the drive. Everything is shiny and new, and I scan the unfamiliar landscape with a child’s eyes, full of curiosity and awe.

  “Traffic is at its worst this time of day,” Darian tells me.

  But I don’t mind. It just gives me more time to digest it all.

  Urban becomes rural, and buildings become homes as we close in on Darian’s neighborhood. Excitement builds inside me at every turn, and by the time we pull up to his gate, I’m ready to hop the fence and run inside.

  “We’re here,” Darian says in a singsong voice.

  I can tell he’s happy to be home.

  CJ punches a code in the keypad and the ornate wrought iron gate opens before us. I sit taller in my seat, craning my neck in every direction to look out the windows. The driveway to Darian’s house is laid in cobblestone and bordered on both sides with palm trees. It culminates in a big, circular forecourt surrounded by lush greenery.


  CJ parks the car, and I tell him goodbye as I hop out, my attention already lost to the structure in front of me.

  “Wow, Darian,” I mumble under my breath.

  The house is plantation-style but modern, painted stark white with black shutters, and has a large, columned front porch. It’s lovely and not at all what I expected.

  “You want these upstairs?” CJ asks.

  “No, man. I got it.”

  My eyes roam the exterior of the house while Darian finishes up. He returns with my bags hoisted over his shoulder and a set of keys in his hand.

  “I kind of figured it would have a keypad or something,” I say as we scale the steps.

  “Nah, I’m old school.”

  The heavy wood door looks ancient and even sounds ancient by the loud creak it makes when Darian pulls it open. I walk in ahead of him and stop to wait in the foyer. It’s modest with a round cherry wood table in the corner. A large delft vase sits on top, and I wonder if it’s ever seen fresh flowers.

  “This way, milady,” Darian says in an even worse brogue than CJ.

  With a dramatic bow, he takes my arm in his and guides me through the house with our elbows linked together. We pass a glass-walled office, a formal dining room, and a freestanding staircase with a set of double doors tucked beneath.

  “Keep going,” Darian says. “The kitchen’s straight ahead. I’ll just drop off your bags and then I’ll be right there.”

  The walls are painted a creamy white, similar in color to the polished limestone floor. Black beams crisscross the ceiling and match the exterior shutters. The glass light fixtures add bursts of color and look like they’re handblown. The house is stunning, but it doesn’t look lived in.

  I may not have been the one to decorate my cabin, but my entire life is still present in every nook and cranny. Darian’s house is…empty. So far, I haven’t seen anything personal—no photographs, no mementos, no books, nothing.

  “They came with the house,” Darian says of the massive oil paintings I’m staring at in his kitchen. “Haven’t gotten around to replacing them.” There are two that flank a mahogany range hood, both of undeveloped coastline.