Page 45 of Whiskey Throttle
My gaze drifts away again. Over the lush lawns of their endless property, to the big house at the top of their little hill, taking in everything he’s said. His offer isn’t rushed, romantic, or even particularly seductive. It lands deeper than any poetry could. He’s so succinctly analyzed me, but what about him? Is he living the life he wants?
I turn to face him again.
“And what about you? Do you know what you want?”
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t flirt.
“Yes.”
“What?”
He removes his expensive glasses, tossing them on the lounger between his legs.
“You.”
The sun catches in the sea glass blue of his eyes. The lightness in him and his carefree smile aren’t naïve. It’s intentional. A choice. He chooses joy. Playful and possible. While I’ve been choosing control, containment, and perfection.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I release the pearls, finding them more stifling than I should. I turn away from him, needing silence and space to combat the spilling of truths between us. My truths. I rise to my feet, his linen shirt billowing in the breeze as I walk the pool decking to a cabana on the far side of the pool, by the diving board.
Other than the call of birds in the air and the crash of the waves, it’s quiet. Something I need in the storm raging in my head. Perhaps wanting something and saying it out loud doesn’t have to happen simultaneously. Not with his stare burning into me as I walk into the shade and privacy of the cabana. The curtains are drawn on three sides, the only open flaps facing the ocean. It gives me a chance to really let what he’s saying sink in.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
His words hit me before he appears in the entrance. His expression isn’t cocky or pushy, just as open and honest as he’s been with me since this little pursuit of his started. If anything, he seems a little hesitant. His usual swagger dialed back, replaced with something gentler.
“I’m not upset.” I am and I’m not. Not at him for outing my secret. Madder at myself for starting to feel something. Starting to feel human and capable of real feelings. “I just needed a minute.”
He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does. Who knows.
“Sometimes a minute turns into years if you don’t do something about it,” he says softly with a head lowered in regret. Maybe his own. We haven’t talked about him. Haven’t scratched the surface of knowing about his life, hopes, and dreams. His exaggerated teeth and prominent features would be a caricature of himself.
I move.
One step and then another, until I’m in front of him.
“I’m not like the girls you’re used to.”
He exhales, his hand rising to push back the mess of sandy hair from his face.
“I sure as hell hope not.”
I let out a short laugh, my hand rising to rest on his chest, fingers brushing the golden tan and the firm heat of him. His hand finds my waist. His thumb slips under the hem of his shirt I’m wearing. The heat of his skin on mine makes something inside me clench.
He looks around once, checks the breeze, and the way the curtains sway. His smirk returns, slow and unmistakable.
“You know, I’d love to show you how grateful I am that you’re in a class all your own.” He backs me toward the padded lounger, double the size of the ones arranged in the sun. “But first, I need to do something for both of us.”
My calves bump the edge. I steady myself with a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t press. Just watches and waits.
“Oh, what is that?”
Curiosity gets the better of me.
“Turn around.”
