by Robin Hill
“Hold up.” I roll onto my stomach with a pillow tucked beneath me. “What do you mean you used to be Blane?”
“I was that asshole in high school.” He lies down on the bed, stretching on his side to face me. “My parents enrolled me in private school and it molded me into an arrogant prick.” The look he shoots me says, Hard to believe, I know. “My mom was always throwing parties and charity events, and she used the same florist for all of them. The owner’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Julia, worked there part-time, and my mom became very close to her. She even tried to set us up once, but I refused.”
“Julia, Julia?” I say before I can stop myself.
Darian smiles. “Julia, Julia.” A long swallow slides down his throat and his gaze falls to the bed. “I wasn’t about to be seen with a working girl without a pedigree,” he says, pulling at the sheet, twisting it between his fingers. “I totally disgusted my mom. She was convinced it was the private school’s influence so she yanked me out and threw me in public school. Julia’s school. To say I was pissed would be an understatement.” He looks at me then. “And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, summer came along and Mom got me a job with the florist making deliveries.”
“Sounds like you had a good mom.”
Darian rolls onto his back, his arms folded beneath his head. “I had a great mom,” he says. “She was perfect.”
The movie plays softly, like white noise in the background. It’s the scene where Andie’s father gives her the dress.
“I promise to do better than that,” my dad once said to me.
Little did he know, I thought Andie’s dad was perfect. I thought my dad was perfect too.
“Jules was impossible not to fall for,” Darian says gently. “Believe me, I tried. She was everything I wasn’t—kind, funny, good.” He laughs. “And she wasn’t intimidated by me at all. We both fell, hard and fast, but I was torn between my fucked-up pride and my feelings for her.” He turns his head toward me and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “She loved me though, and she waited. Eventually I came to my senses and married her. I’m glad she didn’t give up on me. I’m glad she didn’t settle for Duckie.”
I curl into Darian’s side. He closes his hand over mine and holds it against his heart.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I whisper.
“Andie knows her happiness lies with Blane,” he says, “even if he never comes to his senses.”
Never?
CHAPTER 11
Light My Fire
Darian: Racquetball Monday?
Drew: Sounds good. How was SoBe?
Darian: Great. We stayed in bed all day yesterday.
Drew: Nice. ;-)
Darian: Watching movies.
Drew: Figures.
Frankie
Two whole days in South Beach, and we never once stepped in the sand or stuck our toes in the water. Not that I minded. A day in bed with Darian at The Ritz-Carlton was a nice alternative. Still, he’s determined to make it up to me with a sun-filled day by the pool.
“I’m waiting, Francesca! One more minute and I’m throwing you in!”
“Keep your trunks on, Fox! I’ll be right there!”
I exit the house in my new bikini with my sunglasses low on my nose. Darian blows a whistle through his teeth.
“I have impeccable taste,” he says from behind the grill.
The smoky scent fills the patio and makes my stomach rumble. “How are the burgers coming?” I ask. “I’m starving.”
“Patience, babe. You can’t rush perfection.”
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is almost directly overhead. It’s warm but not quite as humid and sticky as it’s been. Darian pulls off his T-shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow. His chest is golden and glistening.
“Come here and check these out,” he says. He pulls his shades out of his back pocket and slides them on.
I smile. “I’ve seen burgers before.”
“Then come here and let me check you out.”
My smile blooms to a grin as I walk toward him. He picks up the remote sitting on the counter beside the grill and aims it toward the music system. The Doors come on.
“All Doors, all day, baby,” he says, holding out his hand.
I take it and he spins me once before pulling me into his arms, serenading me with “Light My Fire.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him sing, and it does something low in my belly that makes me want to skip lunch and go straight to dessert. I circle my arms around his neck and push up on my toes. “I love your voice.”
He bends to me, our noses barely touching, and continues to sing. I stop him with a kiss. His hands slide down the bare skin of my back to grip my ass through the stretchy fabric of my bikini bottoms. He moans against my mouth and my lips part—an open invitation for his tongue. The stubble on his chin chafes my skin in the best possible way, and I’m eager to feel the sensation between my thighs.
“Maybe we should save the burgers for later,” I say. “Like tomorrow. Burgers are better for breakfast anyway.”
“Oh shit, the burgers.” Darian wrenches away from me and turns back to the grill. “You little seductress.”
I shrug. “Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“John and I got a good thing going on over here,” he says, tapping the side of the pit with his spatula. Then he points it at me. “Don’t Yoko this band.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Paul,” I say over my shoulder as I take off toward the pool. I dip my foot in the cool water and gradually ease in until I’m standing waist-deep, walking on my toes toward a lounger.
“Back Door Man” follows “Light My Fire” and the backyard comes to life with a little bluesy southern sin. So does Darian’s foot, tapping away as he sings into his spatula.
“And I thought you were starving,” he says over the music. “Breakfast is forever from now and it’s”—he scrunches up his nose—“breakfast. No one eats burgers in the morning.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“Fine,” he says, holding up his makeshift microphone. “Sometime soon I promise we’ll have burgers for breakfast. Deal?”
“Deal.”
He returns to his band. The boy plays a mean air-guitar, and his voice, raspy and growly and just plain sultry, is affecting me in much the same way his fingers did in the elevator of the hotel. I can only imagine what he must have been like onstage, and I’m sure, when I’m back home, alone in my bed, I will imagine it often.
I climb onto the lounger and paddle to the edge nearest the outdoor kitchen to watch my dancing, singing, burger-flipping Adonis.
“I can definitely eat,” I mumble to myself. Floating in the pool, watching Darian cook for me while he puts on a mini Doors concert, makes me hungry for a lot of things.
The loud thump of the lid slamming shut interrupts my ogling.
“Now we wait,” he says.
I prop myself up on an elbow. “Wait? Why? You’re making burgers, not brisket.”
“Never question the master,” he says, eyeing me over the rim of his sunglasses.
He walks to the far end of the pool and, with a running start, jumps onto the remaining lounger. He surfs halfway to the other side before falling in. When his head pops out of the water, he shakes it hard enough to splash me.
“You are seriously going to hurt yourself,” I say, clearing the water droplets from my shades and then putting them back on.
Darian swims toward me. “Are you worried about me?” His smile is a playful smirk.
“I just mean…at your age.”
With raised eyebrows, he submerges the side of my float and I roll into his arms. “Are you calling me old?”
“I’d never,” I say with a teasing grin.
I laugh and splash and wiggle as he carries me to the deep end, but as hard as I try, I’m no match for him as he throws me into the water. By the time I make it back to the other side, he’s
hijacked my float. I shoot him a threatening look.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says.
I don’t. Instead I climb onto his pretend surfboard and paddle to him. He reaches for my hand. We float beside each other with laced fingers as Morrison sings to us beneath the Miami sun.
I tilt my head to Darian. “I’m so happy I came.”
And it’s going to hurt like hell to leave.
He smiles. “Me too, Francesca.”
“Oh, baby. Hold on. Let me help you,” Darian says in the early morning as he tries to untangle me from the bedding. “Didn’t you use sunscreen?”
“Yes I used sunscreen.” Once. The sight of my lobster-tinted arms makes me queasy. My skin’s on fire and everything aches. “I guess it wore off in the pool.”
“I should have said something. That coastal breeze can be deceptive.” He balls up the comforter and tosses it on the floor, then loosely covers me with a sheet. “Just try not to move.” His voice rings from the bathroom. “I’ll take care of you.”
I notice the sheet marks embedded in my arm and sigh. “I look like I just woke up from a nap in an incinerator.”
Darian clears his throat to suppress a laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Here, take these,” he says, pulling back the sheet I’m trying to hide under. He hands me a couple ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Francesca, you could be green and covered in scales and you’d still be beautiful.”
I blush, but who can tell?
Darian reaches for the hem of my shirt and I freeze with fear.
“I’ve got aloe,” he says, pointing to the bottle on the nightstand. “I promise not to attack you.”
I curl my lip. “I hate aloe.”
“You need aloe.” With careful hands, he smooths the sticky green gunk over my burn, beginning with my forehead and ending with my toes. “Can you roll over?”
I do, and he gets my back.
He tosses the bottle on the bed and fans the sheet over me. “It’s not so bad when it’s dry.”
I shiver, but aside from the initial chill, it makes me feel better.
He’s so sweet, I think to myself as he lies down beside me and combs the tacky strands of hair away from my face.
But then he slides his hand in his pocket and, with a smug smile, pulls out a remote. He presses a button and the room fills with “Blister in the Sun.”
“Really?”
“I’m sorry. That was mean,” he says, turning the volume down a notch.
He carefully wraps his arm around me and I snuggle into him. Just as sleep begins to pull at me, the Violent Femmes are replaced with Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”
I elbow Darian in the gut.
He laughs. “Are you hungry?”
I ignore him.
“I’ll feed you.”
I perk up.
Welcome back, sweet Darian.
Darian makes it so easy to get swept up in the fantasy of being here, I tend to ignore the reality of going home. But it still gnaws at me—like a little voice in the back of my mind warning me not to get attached. And standing here in the guest room closet with my gaze fixed on my duffel, I realize just how attached I am.
My dad used to say, “Get out while the gettin’s good.” But the last time the ‘gettin’ was good’ was the day I left Austin.
“I want to move your things upstairs,” Darian says, the sudden sound of his voice jerking me from my thoughts. “I was going to do it yesterday, but I got distracted with your sunburn.”
I step over my bag and lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed. “It’s okay. I don’t mind coming downstairs. It’s not like I’m going to be here that much longer anyway.” The words spill from my lips before I can stop them, and the look on Darian’s face makes me wish I could take them back.
He sags against the wall and rakes a hand through his hair. “You’re leaving soon?”
“Not right this second, but I can’t stay forever. Besides, you have to work this week, and I should at least pretend to.”
“Do you want me to take off? Is that it?” He paces back and forth in front of the door. “I will if—”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It hasn’t even been a full week.”
“It will be tomorrow.” My eyes are drawn to his feet, to the heels of his Chucks kicking at the wall behind him.
“Do you want to go?”
“No.” My voice splinters. “I don’t.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “Go take your shower. I have a few things to take care of down here and then I’ll be up to smother you in more aloe.”
His smile is seductive, and I wonder if maybe he said chocolate and I just heard aloe. Crossing my fingers.
After grabbing a few things from my bag, I head upstairs for a lukewarm shower and then slip into a baggy T-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. When I step out of the bathroom, I notice my clothes are stacked in folded piles on Darian’s bed. He’s at his desk, a small secretary in the corner of the room, plugging in my laptop.
“You can work in here this week. The entire property is set up with wireless, so really you can work anywhere, but if you’d like an actual workspace, you can use this,” he says, never lifting his head. “I got you some notepads and pens. A stapler, paper clips…can you think of anything else you might need? I can hook up a landline if you want. Oh, you’ll need a mouse.” He turns toward the door. “I think I have an extra one in my—”
“Darian, wait. This is fine. Thank you.”
“It’s absurd for your stuff to be down there when you’re up here,” he says. “I meant well, but I don’t know what I was thinking.” He moves to his bed, collects my clothes, and carries them to his closet. “You only had a few things left in the bathroom. I put them on the dresser.”
Part of me wants to do cartwheels through the backyard, but the other part of me wants to hide in the closet right along with my clothes. I know it’s just stuff. And I know it’s only for a few more days, but the gesture feels…
“You’re set up to work, and everything you need will be right here. There’s no reason not to stay a little longer.”
Confusing. I think we’re back to confusing.
“Now lose your clothes and hop on the bed,” Darian says, holding up a bottle of cocoa butter.
I feel like I’m teetering on a tightrope and I’m not sure which way I’m going to fall, only that I will.
“No aloe?” I ask.
He smiles. “No aloe.”
Then hold on tighter, Frankie.
Darian’s doing everything he can to make me stay. He wants me here, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.
What’s so confusing about that?
I take off my shirt, quickly crossing my arms over my bare chest. I lie down on top of the covers, wearing nothing but my underwear.
Darian climbs on the bed and straddles my thighs. He sets the bottle of cocoa butter on the nightstand and pumps a little into his hand.
“The red’s fading,” he says, gently rubbing the lotion into my forehead and cheeks. He continues down my neck, paying special attention to my shoulders. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he peels my arms from my chest. “No hiding.”
No hiding.
I laugh as he spreads lotion over my completely sun-deprived breasts.
“Sorry, Francesca, I can’t help myself. Coincidentally, the fun parts are all burn-free.”
The morning sneaks up on me, and I’m pulled from perfect sleep by Ellie Goulding belting out “Burn” through Darian’s alarm clock. It’s still dark. I can’t see him, but I can feel him chuckling beside me.
“It wasn’t me this time, I swear.” His arm slides around my waist and he carefully pulls me against him.
“Are you saying Mr. Classic Rock keeps his alarm preset to a pop station?”
“It’s the only thing awful enough to make me want to get out of bed.”
I laugh. “At least it isn’t Kenny G.”
He buries his face in my hair and presses a smile against my healing shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” I say. “But can you do something about Ellie?”
He leans away from me, his hand flailing behind him until the song is silenced. “Ten more minutes.”
I roll over and curl into the hollow of his chest. I can still smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin from yesterday’s shower. His stubble scratches my forehead as he kisses it, and he’s warm. His body against mine is like my own personal furnace. Waking up with him is even better than falling asleep with him, and though my head is telling me it’s time to go, my heart begs for more mornings like this.
“I can’t bail on Amanda today,” he says. “God I want to, but I can’t.”
“I know. I’d never ask you to.” I find his hand and twine our fingers. “I have stuff to do too. Real world and all.”
We lie just like that for another ten perfect minutes until the morning Miami traffic chimes in to ruin it.
Darian makes a grunting noise as he pulls away from me. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Go back to sleep.”
His bed feels vast and empty without him, much less appealing than it was only minutes ago. I kick off the covers and sit on the edge of the mattress, my hand fumbling clumsily for the lamp switch. Darian’s Pantera T-shirt is on the floor by my foot. I pull it over my head and then dig through his drawers until I find where he put my underwear.
The house is dark and unfamiliar this early in the morning as I pad down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen. The sun is just beginning to rise and the moon is in its final hour, illuminating the sleepy backyard in wan light.
I turn on the Keurig and rummage through the freezer for Gloria’s premade breakfast tacos. I heat two in the microwave, and I’m wrapping the second one in foil when Darian finds me. He’s dressed in slim-fit light gray pants and a deep purple dress shirt.