by Robin Hill
As I slip out of the library, I come face to face with the only other room making up the second floor, and it’s hidden behind a set of closed doors. My heart aches to learn the secrets that lie within, but…
“Now is not the time,” I whisper to myself as I head downstairs.
A faint rap on my door pulls me from my book. I look up as Darian pokes his head inside. Apart from the dim light that spills from my Kindle app, the room is dark. I push myself up against the headboard and fumble for the lamp on the nightstand.
“You can come in,” I say when I realize he’s still standing there, waiting.
He’s dressed in ripped jeans and a Ramones T-shirt. His hair is damp, and as he sits beside me on the edge of the mattress, I notice he smells faintly of soap.
“How long have you been home?” I ask, drawing my knees in to give him more room. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He lies sideways across the bed, his body held up by his forearm. “Maybe an hour? I thought you were asleep and I wanted to clean up and get dinner going before I woke you.”
“I was just reading,” I say. I hold up my phone as evidence. “How was work?”
He shrugs, and his gaze dips to my ankles, to the hem of the pajama pants I never bothered to change out of. A small smile plays on his lips as his fingers graze the fuzzy fabric. “I like these,” he says, looking up at me. “Work was work. I’d rather have been here.”
I wrap my arms around my legs, hold them tight against my chest, and rest my chin on my knees. My hair falls forward, forming a curtain over my face. Darian sweeps it back behind my ear, and his fingers linger there.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I sit up a little. “Just hungry. Gloria made me a feast for breakfast, but I got distracted and haven’t eaten since.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have sent something over.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” I lean back against the headboard and narrow my eyes at him. The corner of my mouth lifts in a half-smile. “I mean, as long as you remembered to bring home chocolate.”
Darian laughs. “I got ice cream. Will Rocky Road work?”
“Rocky Road is my favorite.”
I send Darian ahead, and I stay behind for a shower and a change of clothes—a pair of black leggings and a gray chevron tunic. Then I set off to find him. I go through the house this time, to the kitchen where all three French doors are open to the backyard. Classic rock filters in from the patio and I follow it outside. Darian’s at the grill with his back to me. He doesn’t hear me come out, which is good since the look on my face is probably not the one he’s expecting.
The same table we sat at last night is set. Dressed in a white tablecloth and topped with tea lights and a small vase of assorted roses from his garden, it’s romantic. Really romantic.
And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it.
Darian doesn’t want to share his bed with me, but he does this? I know we’re technically just friends, and I suppose, as such, a friend would have her own room. Except we’re fucking friends, and logistically speaking, not sharing a room is just stupid. But this? Friends don’t have candlelit dinners with wine and roses. They eat Chinese takeout on the floor in front of the TV.
Jane’s text flashes in my mind. You don’t act like friends.
“Perfect timing,” Darian says, walking toward me with a platter of grilled fish and asparagus. He sets it on the table beside a bowl of pasta salad. “This stuff is craveable. Drew turned me on to it.”
“The pasta?”
“Yeah. Wait ‘til you try it.” He pulls out my chair as if he’s done it a thousand times. “There’s some secret ingredient we can’t place. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
I feel a twinge in my chest. Darian sits next to me, and the ache spreads to the pit of my stomach.
He always sits next to you. What’s the big deal?
Darian’s hand slides over mine and the sudden contact gives me a jolt. My eyes dart to his. He looks as confused as I feel.
“Sorry, I’m—”
“Hey, I think we—”
“A little out of it,” I finish. I reach across the table for a serving spoon.
Darian sits back in his chair and silently watches me as I transfer pasta salad to my plate. I scan the table for a pair of tongs but come up empty. I’m about to stand when I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist.
“I was just going to get some tongs or something for the asparagus,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the table. “And I guess a spatula for the fish would be good.”
“Can it wait a second?” Darian turns in his chair until his knees brush the side of my thigh. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong? I can tell something’s bothering you. I just don’t know what it is.”
I lift my eyes, slowly meeting his gaze. “You gave me my own room.”
“Was I not supposed to do that?”
“No, it’s…I thought maybe you did it because of what happened the other night. Like you were just setting boundaries or something, and I totally get that. But then tonight, I come out here and see this romantic”—I wave my hand over the table—“spread, and I realize…that can’t be it.” My throat tightens. “You don’t want to share your room with me, but you do…this? Candles? Flowers? I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it; I’m just saying it’s confusing.”
Darian sinks back in his chair. “I didn’t think of it like that. I left you here all day by yourself. I felt bad. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“And I love it; I do. But you’re drawing a line with one thing and crossing it with another. I don’t know what to think.”
He leans toward me and reaches for my hand. “I gave you your own room because I wanted you to be comfortable. I didn’t want you to feel pressured and I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” His thumb grazes my knuckles and he lets out a deep sigh. “You didn’t say anything so I figured I’d made the right decision.”
“I know,” I say. “I should have just asked.”
“And I should have talked to you about it instead of assuming.” He lifts his hand to my jaw, his long fingers tangling in my hair. “This is new territory for both of us, and I think we can agree sex blurs the lines a little bit. The last thing I want to do is confuse you. I’m trying like hell to do the right thing, but I don’t always know what that is.”
I scrunch my face. “I guess that makes two of us.”
“I admit our friendship is a little…unconventional.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “That’s one way of putting it,” I say as my eyes roam the table. “Yes, sex blurs the lines, but so does holding hands and kissing…and this.” I point to the vase of roses and then pluck one out, bringing it to my nose. “It feels like we’re dating.”
Darian stiffens beside me, and my gaze drops to his fingers wrapped tightly around the armrests.
“We’re not dating,” he says, his tone brisk.
“I don’t mean it like we’re serious or anything.”
“Because, Francesca, I…can’t.”
I put the rose back in the vase. “I know.”
We both fall silent as the angry thrashing of drums in Led Zeppelin’s “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” fills the backyard.
Darian pulls a remote out of his pocket and aims it at the house. The music fades. “What do you say we try this again?” he says, looking over at me. His lips curve into a half smile. “Open the wine? Have some cold snapper?”
An uneasy feeling flits in my stomach, then flutters away as I smile back at him. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He reaches across the table for the chardonnay and sets it between us. “So will you stay with me tonight? I want you to stay with me. Please.”
“I’d like that too.”
I’d like that a lot.
CHAPTER 9
Hyacinth House
Drew: I hear you’re playing hooky.
Darian: Taking Francesca to SoBe. Doing a show w
ith CTB, so technically working.
Drew: Make sure you take her to Rustica. Do they even have pizza in Texas?
Darian: Ha ha. I promised to take her salsa dancing. We’ll grab dinner there.
Drew: Grab dinner? At a SoBe hotspot?
Darian: Fuck off.
Drew: Just sayin'. You’ve never taken me salsa dancing.
Frankie
Mmm, last night was just…mmm.
I stretch my naked limbs in Darian’s bed, hyperaware he’s not in it, and make sheet angels in the cool cotton. A stupid grin unfurls on my face, and I’m a little relieved he isn’t here to see it. Did he say he had to work today? I don’t remember a thing after “stay with me tonight.”
I push myself up against the headboard and clear the sleep from my eyes as Darian’s room comes into focus. The walls are painted the same creamy white as downstairs and the bed and windows are dressed in a mix of grays. It’s just as lovely as the rest of his house, but as I suspected, it’s just as bare. The only personal items I can see from this vantage point are his glasses on the nightstand and his watch on the dresser.
I shake off the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. Darian’s Ramones T-shirt is still draped over the lampshade where it landed last night.
Convenient, I think as I pull it over my head. My clothes are still outside.
I find Darian in the kitchen, hunched over a cup of coffee. His gaze briefly meets mine before it slides down my body, over his shirt, and along my bare legs. One corner of his mouth lifts, and by the time I get to him, he’s sporting a full-fledged grin. He takes my face in his hands, bends as if he’s going to kiss me, and pushes his fingers into my hair.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Nice shirt. Good thing Gloria isn’t here.” He brushes his nose against mine. “You’d have given her a fright.”
“Maybe you should consider that the next time you want to disrobe me in the backyard.”
“Next time…I like the sound of that.”
He kisses me, and I taste the rich flavor of sweetened coffee on his tongue as it sweeps inside my mouth. His teeth pull at my bottom lip, sending heat curling down my spine. I wind my arms around his neck and melt against him. Then the kissing stops, and I hear the faint buzzing of a cell phone set to vibrate.
“What now?” His tone is gruff. He steps back, pulls his phone from his pocket, and narrows his eyes at the screen. “Sorry about that,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He tosses his phone on the island with enough force to send it skating to the other side. “Where were we?”
“I think we were about to have sex in your kitchen,” I say, sidestepping him for the refrigerator. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing.” He waves off the question with a flick of his wrist.
I pull out a Diet Coke and rifle through his utensil drawer for an opener.
“Next one over,” he says. “And we can still have sex in my kitchen.”
“You keep your bottle opener with the oven mitts? Because that makes sense.” I pop off the cap and take a long pull. I love that he got me glass bottles. I don’t think I’ve ever had Diet Coke in a glass bottle before yesterday. “You got up early this morning.”
“Someone was snoring,” he says, arching his brows. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I give him a pointed look. “Whatever.”
He jerks his chin in the direction of his office. “I had a few e-mails to get out.”
“You don’t need to go in today?”
“Not today,” he says. His smile is suspicious.
I cross my arms. “What are you up to?”
He disappears into the family room and returns with a sizeable box wrapped in silver paper. He sets it on the counter beside me. “I did a little shopping while I was downtown yesterday.”
“What is it?” I ask, my voice hesitant.
“It’s a surprise. Sort of. Well, those are clothes,” he says, nodding toward the package, “but where you’re going in them is a surprise.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes. And because of our talk last night, I have a feeling you’re going to fight me on them, but please don’t. Just let me do this for you today.” His eyes are intent on mine until I nod, and then he takes his mug to the sink and pours out the last dregs of his coffee. “I have a few more things to do this morning, so go get dressed and meet me back here in”—he peers up at the clock—“forty-five minutes?”
“I’ll be ready.”
Darian grabs his phone off the island, slides it in his back pocket, and turns toward the door. “Don’t overthink it, Francesca.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already gone.
“Okay, Darian. What am I not supposed to overthink?” I whisper before tossing back more of my Diet Coke.
Excitement and apprehension knot my stomach as I pick up the box. It isn’t as heavy as it looks, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I carry it upstairs and sit beside it on Darian’s bed, staring at it hard enough to melt the paper. I’m not used to gifts, and Darian’s already given me more than any man has ever come close to.
Stop overthinking it, Frankie.
I tear off the wrapping and lift the lid. Buried beneath layers of tissue paper are two smaller boxes. In the first, I find a pale pink bikini and a matching pink halter dress. Relief softens the hard edge of my anxiety. It’s just a swimsuit. A gorgeous swimsuit, a tiny swimsuit, but just a swimsuit.
I dig out the second box. It’s a shoebox, red, with Valentino printed on the top.
Holy shit. This is not just a pair of shoes.
My hand flies to my chest as a piercing laugh bursts out of me. I take off the lid, and my heart hammers in my ears as I pull the drawstring on the little red bag inside. Using only the tips of my fingers, I carefully take the first shoe out, as if actually touching it will damage it somehow. It’s a black sandal studded with little silver pyramids. It’s absolutely stunning. And way too much.
I glance at the clock on Darian’s nightstand. I’m down to twenty minutes, and I haven’t even started getting ready yet. I take an impressive five minutes to shower and shave my legs. I choose sunscreen over makeup and scrunch my damp hair into beachy waves. At three minutes and counting, I get dressed. Everything fits, even the shoes, which I promptly take off.
My ears perk up as I open the door. Darian’s voice, hushed but clipped, echoes from downstairs, and he’s not alone. He’s arguing with a woman I hope I don’t have the pleasure of meeting; she’s loud, and she doesn’t sound very friendly.
By the time I reach the bottom step, the exchange has become heated. Darian’s tone is on par with the woman’s, and without the buffer of carpeting, the effect is jarring.
I crane my neck to peek over the banister. Animated shadows battle it out on the limestone floor in front of the kitchen and grow larger as the voices near. I jerk back against the wall with the sandals dangling from my fingers, hoping to remain unseen.
“Yes, I agreed to handle things when I thought you were still in Austin, tying up loose ends,” the woman says. “Then I find out you left days ago and you’ve been shacking up with some bottle-blonde adolescent. You have commitments, Darian, and you need to honor them.”
Bottle blonde?
“Adolescent?”
“She’s a kid. I saw your picture on the S&S website.” Her voice advances and then retreats as her shoes click back and forth across the tiles.
“That’s right, Amanda,” Darian says, his voice steady. “I am committed today. Just not to you. I’m sorry you’re having so much trouble with this, but I think you’re forgetting who cuts your check.”
Steady but pissed.
“That’s fine. You two have fun playing Sharks and Minnows and I’ll handle the showcase.”
“Thank you for being so amenable. The kid’s name is Francesca, and I think Marco Polo is more her style. But I’ll keep Sharks and Minnows in mind.”
Nice.
>
“Fuck you, Darian.” The click, click, click of her shoes grows louder with each step in my direction.
It’s too late to bolt. I hug the sandals against me and the heels dig into my stomach.
“You must be Francesca,” she says when she spots me. Her lips are drawn in a smirk. “I’m Amanda.”
She extends her hand, and I have half a mind to leave it hanging…but I don’t.
“Please, call me Frankie.”
Frankie? That was stupid. Way to go, kid.
Darian sighs, defeated. “Francesca, this is Amanda Harris, my COO. Amanda, Francesca Valentine.”
“Francesca Valentine, your…”
“My date,” he says.
“For Marco Polo,” I add.
Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Frankie.
Her keys rattle in her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Frankie,” she says, over-articulating my name. She turns toward Darian. “See me out?”
Their back and forth banter tells me there’s more to their relationship than boss-employee, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t bother me. Plus, she happens to be a knockout. Ms. Miami Beach in business wear and heels, Darian’s COO is tall and tanned with long, dark hair that almost reaches her tailbone. Darian’s too smart to be cliché, so I know she must have a brain in that perfectly symmetrical head of hers, and somehow that makes it worse.
I sit on the bottom step with my elbows propped on my knees and the sandals hanging between them. I hear the door close, then more arguing, and then the door opens.
Darian marches toward me with purpose, his grin wide. “Oh, Francesca,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
He does, and it makes this morning’s kiss pale in comparison.
“What was that for?” I ask, my grin matching his.
“For being you.” His gaze falls to the shoes in my hand and he takes them from me. “You ready to go?”
“Darian, about those…”
He stops me with the touch of his thumb to my lips and then kneels on the floor in front of me. “The label’s co-sponsoring a spring break party at the Clevelander in SoBe…South Beach. Lift.”