Page 74 of Until Next Time
For years I’ve felt this intense pull to him, unable to reach him. But now, it’s like every barrier has been torn down, and I have access to acting on every impulse I’ve ever had concerning Dawsen Jones, and that’s how I plan to spend every moment of my life going forward.
“I don’t deserve you.” I say as I press my lips against his.
“You’ve got that backwards. You deserve a whole hell of a lot better than the man I am.” He says simply, parting his lips, meeting mine, as we fall into perfect rhythm.
We moved to Dawsen’s bedroom, where temptation is thick in the air, it’s almost suffocating. And where I want to give him everything, he’s slowed us down every time things get a little too heated. Even when I push back, giving full permission, he slows, and reassures me thatwe have time.
“I want your first time to be perfect. I’m not taking this lightly. You’ve waited for so long already, I’m going to do this right.” He insists, and my heart swells at how much he cares. Where some men have left and made me feel like I had nothing to offer them without sex, Dawsen has assured me that he loves me—who I am, entirely. Regardless of what I’m willing to give. He’s made every temptation that I’ve resisted worth it.
40
Dawsen
Business at the Merc and Southbound have been absolutely insane. Apparently that article about Southbound that came out was seen by a whole lot more people than I anticipated. I’ve had restaurants, hotels, and even a couple celebrities reach out about placing orders of our wine to have in their cellars and on their menus. I’ve always known that this place was special, but it feels good knowing that other people believe in it too.
I do have Birdie to thank as well—the article went pretty viral, mostly the part about how I named a whole business after a woman whom I wasn’t even dating at the time. In fact, I’ve had tourists come in and ask about her. She thinks it’s hilarious and loves meeting them. She’s even signed a few autographs which made her laugh. I laughed too, but only because to me, Birdie is the type of woman who should be signing autographs. She’s not famous, but she’s one of a kind, and that’s something to behold.
We hosted a New Year’s Eve bash at the winery pretty last minute, but it was a full house. I wanted to have some sort of event to showcase the mural and New Year’s Eve seemed like the perfect time.
The same journalist that came out for the initial article came by for the bash as well. The Daily wanted a follow up story with Birdie and her mural. I was so excited for her. This is the type of recognition this woman deserves.
They had her posed on a stool in front of the mural, she was holding a glass of red wine, wearing a black dress with hot pink heels. She looked breathtaking, as always.
Birdie was insistent that I would be in the photo with her, but they wanted solo shots. After about ten minutes of switching her poses and getting different angles, she jumped off her stool and dragged me by the arm. She told the photographer, “trust me, these are going to be the best ones.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I’m not sure I ever actually looked at the camera despite the flashing and sound of camera clicks.
When I’m with Birdie, so much of the time it feels like an out of body experience, something that doesn’t even feel real.
I’m sitting at my desk working through payroll when Greg knocks on my office door. It’s not fully shut, just open a crack.
“Yeah?” I say, still signing checks.
“Hey, uhh, So listen, there’s someone out front that wants to talk with you. He says it’s a personal matter.” Greg says, sounding almost nervous.
I look at him somewhat suspiciously, because I’m trying to read his expression.
“What’s his deal? Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”
“Because… it feels like I have.” He takes a breath and rubs the back of his neck before he continues. “It’s… the driver that hit you and your mother.”
My stomach drops, I feel the blood in my veins start to boil. My hands are clammy, and without a thought, I notice I’ve balled them into fists. My knuckles are white from the pressure.
I look up at Greg, looking for more answers. Or maybe I’m looking for help? A way out?
“Listen, I’ll tell him to get the hell out of here—but I didn’t want to do that without at least letting you know first.” Greg offers, and I want to so badly take him up on that, but there’s also a weird stirring in my gut that’s telling me to figure out what the hell he wants.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks man. I’ll be out in a sec.” I say, running my fingers through my hair and then re-adjusting my baseball hat.
Greg just nods and heads out, giving me the space I need to collect myself.
I’m doing the math in my head, trying to figure out how many years this guy has been locked up, and how he’s here now. I can’t even remember what he was sentenced—that whole time in my life is a blur and a lot of it was spent intoxicated. Not my finest coping mechanism, I’ll admit.
I get to the front of the winery and see him standing near the front. He looks nervous. He’s clutching an envelope and rocking back and forth on his feet. I can tell he probably wants to be anywhere but here.
I walk up to him, and I can tell he didn’t hear me coming. He spooks easily.Noted.
“Let’s talk outside.” I say, nodding towards the door. I’d really like this conversation to be brief, and I don’t need any of my patrons eavesdropping. It’s a small town, I’m sure this has already started circulating just by him being here.
