Page 16 of Breakaway Heart
A warm feeling passed over me, along with a small sense of satisfaction that I was in charge here.Randall, I’m going to make you work tonight. I’m not here to be treated like anything other than a goddess.
As if the universe was agreeing with me, a shooting star flashed across the sky. Just the briefest of moments that makes you feel like you’ve witnessed something rare and magical. And then, the strangest thing happened. A small French bulldog strolled purposefully past me, like he had somewhere to be. The odd thing about it, though, was that he was wearing red sunglasses.
The door behind me creaked open, and Randy called out, “Hey, Jefferson!”
The dog took a withering look over at Randy, before he huffed and continued on to wherever he was headed.
I looked over at Randy.
“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s just mad because his skateboard went in the pool.”
Randy was now wearing a pressed white short-sleeved shirt, black pants, and oxblood crocodile-skin style slip-ons. His thick rush of hair was shaped a little, but still pleasingly rugged and slightly messy.Not bad, Randy, not bad.
“So… You wanna come in?” He held his hand out and helped me to my feet. “Love that dress on you, by the way, really shows off that amazing figure.”
We smiled knowingly at each other, and I realized I was already beginning to enjoy this game. As he held the door for me, I headed past him into the villa.
“Here, let me get your jacket.”
Randy’s hands rose to my shoulders, and he eased my jacket off me. Inside, a light flutter rushed through me as I felt his touch on my shoulders, giving me an excited sensation that usually came with being undressed.
“You smell nice,” he said. “Really.”
“Thank you. It smells great in here too, by the way.”
“Oh, just a little something I threw together.”
Oh, humble now, too? He was actually really trying. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last, though. He went to hang my jacket up, then turned and held out his hand toward me, his other arm extended into the villa.
“Please, this way.”
I slipped my fingers into his and followed him as he led me past the kitchen island, with steam and rich, exciting smells bursting from behind it, and then we found ourselves outside on a terrace.
Vines and string lights trailed down a wooden pergola, covering a table beneath that was perfect for two. Beyond the terrace was a glorious view of the rolling hills under the starlight, dotted with occasional house lights. To one side, a large and vibrant pearl moon was rising from behind the horizon. The setting was dreamy, to say the least.
“One moment. I know I saw one somewhere…” Randy said, distracted. He left me and headed inside, before returning and, with some gusto, flashed open a white tablecloth, letting it fall like a blanket of feathers across the table.
Pulling out one of the two chairs, he then gestured for me to sit. As I did so, he asked, “What can I get you to drink? In fact, no. What’s your favorite drink?”
“Oh. I don’t know if I can drink martinis before dinner. Do you have any wine?”
“Red, white, or rosé? And please don’t say red or rosé, because I don’t have either of those.”
“Hah! White would be good.”
Randy disappeared back inside again, and then, just as I began to relax, I jumped in my seat as the grating thunder of The Boys Are Back In Town came booming into my ears. The intrusion stopped just as soon as it started, along with a loud“FUCK!”from Randy inside, and then quieter, tranquil, and dreamy light jazz music began playing in its place.
Randy emerged with a bottle of chilled wine in a silver ice-bucket and two glasses, placing them down between us on the table. He popped the cork and poured out two glasses for us. I have no idea exactly why I always find that moment so sexy. Perhaps it’s the pleasing sound of the cork creaking in the neck, then the pop and the gurgle of the pour, the use of tools, or simply the anticipation of a cool glass of wine. Whatever it was, I felt relaxed.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be back with the first course for the evening.”
I sipped on the cool, dry wine, enjoying the sensation and the calmness. Randy came back with a steaming pot, placing it down before a thick aroma of herbs, butter, and seafood burst open when he opened the lid.
“Moules Marinières to start!”
“Damn Randall, these look good,” I marveled at him.
“So, these are done ‘sailors style’. The trick is to use dry cider instead of wine.”
