Page 12 of More With You

Ten minutes later, I hear footfalls running slowly in my direction: the crunch and slip of the sand making it impossible to get close to someone discreetly. My body freezes, not out of fear, but out of hope. I can’t explain why I think it’s him, but it’s like the prickle of hairs on the back of your neck before a storm, telling you what’s coming. And I can feel his energy thrumming toward me, shivering along that invisible thread that connected us that night on the beach. Or, there is a storm coming, and my mind is playing tricks on me.

I roll my head back to the side and drape an arm over my eyes, so I can take a sneaky look.

There you are… I admire the glistening sheen of sweat that dampens his hair and slicks his brow, as if the moisture in the air has transferred to him. His blue t-shirt clings to his broad, hard chest, which heaves slightly from the exertion. Meanwhile, his arms pump rhythmically with each jogging step, his biceps flexing in a way that urges me to touch them. Gleaming with sweat, his tanned and toned body doesn’t even look real; more like a sculpture, cast in bronze.

I wonder if he was ever in the military. There are traits to soldiers, and his movements are so precise and purposeful, right down to the measured way he’s taking each breath. Even his shorts look like they might be military issue—shorter than the surf style the guys are wearing these days, hitting mid-thigh rather than the knee. I’m not complaining. I can see every indent of his muscled thighs, and they’re just as tempting as his arms, his chest… Hell, every part of him. But his body is nothing compared to the nervous smile he flashes as he comes to a halt right beside me: slightly lopsided, his teeth white and straight, his eyes sparkling like fireworks over the Gulf on the Fourth of July. That’s the hottest part of him, without a doubt, when he smiles like that.

Slowly, I move my arm away, until I’m gazing up into those beautiful eyes.

“I found you,” he says, slightly out of breath.

A genuine smile coaxes my lips upward. “You did.”

“I guess that means it was meant to be.” He flops down onto the sand, wiping the sweat from his brow with the edge of his soaked t-shirt. I imagine he’s waiting for me to confirm fate’s endgame, but I don’t respond. It’s too soon to show my cards.

Instead, I sit up in the sand, matching him, and pull my tank down over my stomach, but not before catching Ben’s gaze skimming my body with a hint of hunger. I pretend to brush some sand off my bare stomach, giving him a moment longer to look. I like the way he looks at me. It’s not threatening or unwelcome, but a heady mixture of appreciation and raw desire that makes me feel giddy inside.

“I’m glad you reached out. I didn’t know if you would,” he says. His attention diverts toward the water though I don’t follow his gaze, my focus snared by a smudge of yellow paint on his forearm. It makes me wonder what he’s been up to, or what my text interrupted. Painting something, obviously, but it’s a vivid sort of yellow, like sunflower petals, and I can’t quite picture him choosing it for his house.

“I hoped you would,” he adds, turning to say those words directly to me.

There’s an intensity to Ben that vibrates in my soul, like we’re on the same wavelength. It scares and intrigues me, because he’s so self-assured. So unafraid. I can just tell that he’s the type of man that jumps into everything feet first. The thing is, I know we can’t be on the same wavelength, because I’m not that type of girl. I barely put a toe in the shallows, which is why I turn my face away when I respond. I can’t look at him when he’s staring at me like that, as if I’m the only one on the beach.

“Where did you just come from?” I change the subject. “Why didn’t you park at the yacht club?”

He waves his hand at an undisclosed location down the beach. “I left my bike at my parents’ house. They live nearby, so I just left it there and ran down to you,” he explains.

I glance toward all the houses that are “nearby.” No, not houses… mansions. The only residences within running distance from here, unless he really did run a marathon, are the palatial, antebellum-style homes on the beachfront estates.

I glance back at Ben, trying to correlate this barefooted man in his salt-stained shorts and ragged tee, with a faded logo from what appears to be a fishing competition in Gulf Shores in 2009, with those monumental houses. Nothing about his clothing, or his manner, or his outdoorsy, sun-kissed skin denotes wealth or privilege. He’s one pucca necklace away from being a beach bum. Whichever way I try to count it, this doesn’t add up.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Where do your parents live, exactly?” Maybe he did run further than I thought, or his parents are in a similar situation to me, living in a cottage on the property of some filthy rich oligarch.

Ben points down the beach, my eyes following his movement. I have to wonder if I’m squinting, or the sun has messed with my vision, because it looks like he’s pointing at the most beautiful home this side of the bay. It dawns on me that it’s the same house I saw him gazing bittersweetly at when we walked along the beach together, sitting on a jutting lawn, shrouded in live oaks and cedars. Only, in the darkness, I didn’t recognize it. Everyone knows who that magical, massive house belongs to, even a girl who’s only been here six months.

My jaw drops. “Wait. Are you telling me that your parents are… the DuCates?” My head shakes of its own accord. “Your dad is Benjamin DuCate and your mom is—”

“Cybil. Yes, they’re my parents.” He confirms it like it doesn’t mean anything, though it absolutely freaking does! “And I’m Ben Jr.” He says it in a hokey kind of way, as if he’s trying to downplay the significance.

I’m speechless. I don’t know anything about wealth or high society, but I sure as heck know who that family is. The DuCates are one of the wealthiest families in the South, if not the wealthiest, with a loaded lineage so long it probably dates back to when their “old money” was freshly minted. Mr. Benjamin DuCate was a Senator before he retired, but I read a recent article that said he was assigned to some diplomatic duties, since he speaks multiple languages and is known for his innate business sense. Plus, wherever you go in the world, money is the most powerful language of them all.

Mrs. DuCate, aka Cybil, as she reportedly likes to be called (supposedly following in Jackie O’s footsteps, in an attempt to not appear uppity—which is impossible because, if Ms. T is right, and she always is, Cybil DuCate is the most uppity woman in the South), is a member of every board in the county. Known for being a sharp dresser with an even sharper tongue, I’ve seen her in town but never spoken to her. Why would I? It’s not like we run in the same circles.

“Well, I…” I trail off. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that the person sitting next to me is the son of Benjamin and Cybil DuCate. Surely, he must know that this information changes everything? A blackjack dealer is never going to fit in with the high-flying elite.

“Summer.” Ben takes my hand, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. “I can only imagine what you’re thinking, but don’t go there. My parents are my parents. I can’t change that. But I’m me, and I hope that means something, too. What you see,” he gestures to his bare feet and beachy hair, “is what you get. I am not my parents. You’ll see.”

I’ll see? My nerves amp up again, my mind reeling as I wonder what else there is to know about Ben that’s going to throw me for a loop. There’s only one way to find out.

“What’s your favorite food?” I blurt out. If he says something fancy like beluga caviar or duck confit, I’m leaving. Not out of judgment, per se, but because I don’t belong in a confit world. I wouldn’t know a confit if it was staring me in the face.

“Fried oyster po’boy from the CL gas station up the road. It’s a hidden gem. Best on the coast,” he replies, no hesitation. That’s a relief, but I’m not even close to being done.

“Where’d you go to college?” I’m thinking Ivy League.

He smiles. “I didn’t.”

My eyes widen in obvious shock. It’s a rite of passage for the country’s wealthiest, isn’t it, so they can rub shoulders with all the other rich boys and girls? From what I’ve heard, it’s basically Tinder for the elite. I almost laugh, trying to imagine what the DuCate’s must have thought about their son skipping it entirely.

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