Page 48 of Peaches

The sun casts beautiful orange and slightly, dare I say it,peachyshadows across the property as we walk towards the main house for one of Marie’s southern outdoor parties.

Party? More like a celebration. An elaborate affair that I’ve heard is typically much bigger than the one I attended a couple nights ago. How this sprite 90 year’s young woman gets the energy for all this after so many years, I will never know. She’s a different breed. One, as they say, Gone With The Wind, from a much simpler time when women devoted themselves to such privileged merriment because, let’s face it, they really didn’t have anything else to do besides raise children.

That is, not like this day and age, where the saying I’ve grown to believe is more true than anything else is that a woman is like a horse!

You heard me right! A horse!

And not in the whole ridden hard and put away wet chauvinistic statement our fathers and grandfathers love to make. No, as in thewe’re strong, beautiful, intelligent and work a hell of a lot harderthan any other animals. But, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for riding hard and getting put away wet if I get my only personal self-gratifying treat before the end.

Breaking me from my thoughts as we walk in silence, I hear the muffled sounds of people’s voices in the distance, the clatter of glasses, a woman’s laugh and a man’s loud playful banter as we approach, and all of a sudden, I feel extremely out of place.

Hell! I know I’m out of place from just the few times I’ve walked this pathway up to the main house for any reason whatsoever since I’ve been here.

I look up and notice string lights strung throughout the patio still a good stretch before us. A band plays softly in the distance and it hits me, more than it has since my path crossed withRomeoin front of me, that I am entirely out of my league and not prepared to face the night in front of me. Past experiences these last few weeks, and present feelings raging at an all-time high and proving my inner anxiety, aside.

My feet slow their pace as I begin to trail behind Brett a little bit more. I’d be lying if I said my breathing wasn’t a little erratic, my palms a little sweaty, as my knees start to wobble, and my foot slips a little in the gravel as we make our way closer towards a festivity I would honestly rather sit out.

He notices, he always does, as he looks briefly over his shoulder. His Tom Ford tuxedoed shoulder - cue the drool! ZZ Top really did get it right when they sang, “every girl’s crazy about a sharp dressed man.” He turns, as my mind is still admiring the beauty of him, and then sweeps me up off my feet quickly before I can object or manage to tell myself one more time that I’m crazy to think I can pretend to fit into this world any longer.

Hisworld. Hismesmerizing, captivating, hypnoticworld!

“Watch it, Peaches, your vulnerability is showing,” he whispers as he holds me in his arms and the sunset’s shadows do somethingto this moment that damn near every Hallmark movie relies on.

Heart stopping, thrilling, spine-tinglingthingsthat I shouldn’t be allowing myself to feel, let alone spend any time thinking about.

I would roll my eyes at him. I know I should. Let my temper bite back with words I might later regret.

But as his grip on my waist tightens, as his eyes hold mine hostage and I find myself lost forever, drowning in the green sea that serves as a gateway to his soul, (damn, do I sound like a romance writer in my head right now), I give myself oneself-gratifyingpleasure I know I willneverregret when this is all over.

I back down. Surrender. Hand over every witty comeback my mind could possibly think up as collateral if it means I get to stay in this moment just a little while longer with him. Letting out a content sigh, I silently curse Hallmark and their mind-numbing ways as my grip on his shoulders tightens.

The air is thick. Stifling. Suffocating us both, much like the night’s heavy Georgia humidity. The building of emotions, some I’ve felt since I first met him - attraction, chemistry - others, new and budding into something more dangerous - a connection, a building of an attachment that threatens to grow if I hold onto this moment any tighter is smothering us both. I know it. I can feel it.

I think he feels it too. At least, I pray he does.

So, I do what anyone would do when they’re faced with a tempting mirage, a possible illusion of great things when you know if you look hard enough you can’t possibly be so lucky. I advert my eyes behind him and watch Magnolia Cottage get smaller, the sun set quicker, and let my hope and my daydream that this could be any more than it is fall behind us as I relish in the feeling of being in his arms and he continues to carry me further into the night.

What? Did you actually think I was going to wiggle myself out of his strong hold and away from his delectable body? I’m scared, not crazy! This man can hold me in his embrace for as long as he damn well likes!

“It’s strange,” I say, as I look back at his face and find I can handle my fears better now that his eyes are not locked on my own.

“What is?”

“You don’t seem to really fit in here.”

He glances at me slightly confused, yet oddly interested in my theory, and I can’t help but smile. But he doesn’t speak, and so I go on.

“I mean, you do. All $5,000 suit of you.” This time, I let my eyes roll and that earns me a chuckle from the man that still holds me in his arms and insists on carrying me to save my shoes, my knees, (if I were to fall), and our time frame as he keeps us quickly approaching the party at the other end of this vast property with every calculated step he takes.

The noise of the party grows louder as we draw near, and I realize Brett is much like the steps he’s taking. Calculated. Intentional. Deliberate in everything he does.Habitual.Slightly controlling. Something, I can’t put my finger on, but similar to his need to be a know-it-all.

“There is something different about you,” I try and piece together as he listens attentively to my rambling. I smile as my thoughts wander slightly. He does always listen to my ramblings, like in the kitchen earlier. A habit I could get used to, and a trait that’s endearing me more to him than it should. “You’re something… a little more like Marie, and a lot less like your father.” I pause briefly as his grip tightens with the mention ofhisname, but like a fool, I can’t help myself, or shut my mouth, and so I go on. “What’s the deal with him any ways? Your father.”

The second the question leaves my lips I regret it as he stops walking, sets me on my feet and runs his fingers through his hair. An exasperated sigh leaves his lips. The void of his body next to mine causes me to shiver slightly, even in the thick Georgia heat. Or maybe that’s fear for what I just evoked. Stupid Grace! You really need to learn to shut your mouth when you’re about to step into hot water.

His face turns to stone and I worry a little more. Well shit, I didn’t want to flip his mood by just the mention of the man’s name. The one that cued his crappy temperament on the drive over the first night we came here. But, I guess enquiring minds, and all that jazz. It’s just one of many elephants in the room when it comes to me and him and the things I don’t know.

Me, I’m an open book. But he stays guarded. Locked up. As if he’s hiding something. Like my earlier intuition was telling me. And to be honest, I think I’d rather not know even if he was. Keep the mirage. The daydream. Although, this question, the one about his prick of a father, it’s been bugging me since day one. So, I let him sit with my inquiry a while longer, because damn it, I really want to know, and finally, he looks my way and answers.

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