Page 41 of More With You

“Oh god, what else was on that list?”

I take a breath. “He told me Grace and your mom are back early. Your dad got called to a summit with China, in Washington.”

“What?” His face changes in the blink of an eye. The smile is gone. There’s only confusion in his expression: his brow creased, his teeth nipping at his lower lip.

“I don’t know if it’s true, since it came from Levi, but…” I trail off, just as confused. Did his parents really come back early with his daughter and not tell him? Were they allowed to do that?

His head twists toward the door, then back to me. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what he said.”

Ben whips out his phone, frantically scrolling. “They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. I spoke to them yesterday.” His frown deepens. “I swear to God, if they’ve done this, I’ll—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, his phone pressed to his ear. A minute later, he shoves the phone into his pocket and looks to me. “Can you drive me there? I need to find out if my daughter is in the same friggin’ country as me.”

“Of course.” I’m gathering up my things before he can ask twice. He doesn’t need to. I’m not emotionally ready to meet his daughter, as I’ve still got five days on my mental countdown, but I’m not going to keep him from her.

We’re out of the Quarter Mile before the band is even two songs into their set, rushing to the car. I slip my keys out of his back pocket, too hurried to steal a flirty squeeze of his ass, and take the wheel, while he swings into the passenger seat. It’s late, and Grace is probably conked out in her bed, but this isn’t something that can wait until morning. I might not be maternal in any way, but I know that much. If it was my kid, I’d want to know where the hell she was.

“Why would they lie to you?” I ask as I drive, putting my foot down.

He shakes his head. “They think I’m going to want to have her with me for the week. You know, because I’m her fucking dad!” He’s furious. I feel it thrumming out of him, as he drums his fingertips on the thin shelf of the open window. “They already stole most of my summer with her, and now they do this? Did they think I wouldn’t figure it out? What, were they just going to keep Grace holed up at the house?”

He shifts in the seat, turning toward me. “I’m sorry, Summer. This isn’t how I saw our night going.”

I cast him a quick smile, before fixing my attention back on the road. The white stripes in the middle whip by in a blur. “It’s okay. I’ll head home. You can come by if it’s not too late. Otherwise, we can meet tomorrow, maybe?”

“Tomorrow. Definitely.” He sighs and sinks back into the seat, scrunching his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s your parents who should be apologizing, or Levi if he’s got this whole thing twisted.”

His sigh intensifies, like he’s trying to expel everything from every hidden corner of his lungs. “That’s just it; I don’t think he has. My parents were supposed to call this afternoon—so, it would’ve been morning for them. My mom called around five, and she sounded exhausted. They must’ve just got off the plane.”

“How long does it take from Italy to here?”

He shrugs. “Quickest is about fourteen hours, with time for a refuel.”

“Plus, the drive from New Orleans,” I say, and he goes weirdly quiet. I realize my mistake soon after. “Oh, right. They’re not flying commercial, I guess?”

He shakes his head.

“Still, poor kid. She must be spent.”

A soft smile edges onto his lips. “I hated long-haul when I was a kid. She loves it, as long as she’s got snacks and games.”

“I’ve never been on a plane,” I admit. Just when I’m starting to forget, something comes along as a stark reminder of how different we are. While he was flying on private jets across the globe in his childhood, I was counting coins to make sure I had enough for the bus. Then again, it doesn’t matter how much money you come from, your family can still screw you up.

He tilts his head to one side. “One day, we’ll go somewhere. Wherever you want. The place you’ve always dreamed of.”

“I wouldn’t mind Italy,” I say, imagining a balmy summer evening, ripe with the scent of cypress and lemon trees. I’ll be sitting with him on a terrace somewhere, salivating over freshly made pasta, tossed in glistening, delicious sauce, with a big glass of red wine that was made at a vineyard just up the road. Local music will be playing in the background, and I’ll get so full and happy that I’ll have to take a catnap before I indulge in dessert.

“Italy it is,” he promises.

Before long, we’re cruising along the beachfront drive that’ll take us to his family home. I know the mansion. Everyone knows it. So, even though he gives directions, I don’t need them.

Finally, we pull up outside towering black gates, which warp and twist with intricate scrollwork. They’re not like the modern track gates, which draw back slowly to reveal a soulless mega-mansion. As the old saying goes, “money talks, wealth whispers.” The DuCates didn’t need to hide anything behind solid steel. Instead, they’ve allowed the outside underlings to peer into their world, envying the antebellum-Victorian revival fusion of architecture: every brick carrying the scent of old money.

“I’m sorry,” Ben says again, leaning over to leave a lasting impression on my lips. His thumb brushes my cheek, his mouth suddenly desperate. I kiss him back, urged on by the hunger in his lips. My hands grasp his t-shirt, my tongue tasting his, my heart beating wildly. It’s neither the time nor the place, but I understand what it means: our week of just us has come to a screeching halt. Things are going to change; I just don’t know how much, yet.

He breaks away, breathing hard. “I should go, or I never will.”

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