Chapter 9
Dax
Ionly had one beer. A tall boy but at my height and weight, that’s not enough to make me buzzy and definitely not enough to make me see things.
No, the woman I am staring at across the street by the wine bar is definitely real.
And it’s definitely Libby.
I want to walk away. I want to pretend I didn’t see her and go about my night ignoring that she is a part of my now very complicated and stressful life. But now that I’d locked eyes on her, there are several things preventing me from doing that.
She looks absolutely fucking stunning. She’s wearing a yellow top that dips low in the front and the back, showcasing her more than perfect rack and revealing that she most likely isn’t wearing a bra because there’s no straps to be found.
She’s tipsy. She’s fumbling with her keys, the door, and everything else as she leans against her car. If I had to guess, wine was the culprit.
She’s holding a potted plant.
The first one is something I should walk away from.
Libby looking ten out of ten in the moonlight is a huge red flag.
A danger zone that I know better than to go jaywalking into.
The second, though, has my hands tied. If she is in fact as intoxicated as I think she is, I can’t with good conscience let her get in that car and drive off, putting herself and others in danger.
But number three is actually the reason I start walking towards her.
Because why on God’s green earth, is she holding a large potted plant?
All of her plants in the shop are fake, a tacky detail I noticed among other tacky details about Way With Words that I will soon paint over.
This plant is very much alive and has unfortunately piqued my interest.
As I cross the street, she jumps. Juggling to hold the plant with one arm while arming herself with her car key with the other hand, she calls out.
“Don’t move. I have a…knife.”
I snort at that. “Calm down. It’s just me.”
Libby squints until I become visible in the streetlight. “Dax?” All the panic drains from her.
“Yeah. So put the knife down,” I say sarcastically and she glares at me, lowering her keys to her side.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
“Same thing as you. I was having a drink with a friend. Your brother actually. Though from the looks of it, I’ve had a lot less than you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Is that a tomato plant?”
Libby looks down at it, almost as if she forgot it was there. “It is. And it’s not going to die! Mark my words.”
“Consider them marked. Also, you’re not driving.”
Her eyes fill with fire as she snaps her attention up to me. “Says who?”
“Me. You’re far too intoxicated to get behind the wheel, Libby.”
“You’re not my boss. It’s after hours.”
“You may be right. But you’re also drunk, and I can’t with good conscience let you get in that car.”
“Oh really?” she slurs. “And what are YOU going to do about it? Huh?”
She’s almost cute. Okay fine…she is cute.
The way she flips her hair out of her face with her somewhat free hand, only to have it fall back into her face again.
The way she pops a very curvy hip to the side to emphasize her sass.
The way she is actually holding a tomato plant in the middle of the night with still no explanation.
I reach for her keys, but she yanks her arm back, narrowing her eyes with a smirk. “Nice try, hot shot.”
Then, Libby proceeds to shove them down the front of her shirt into her bra. “You want them, come get them.”
Challenge accepted.
Libby looks utterly shocked as I take one step forward, closing the space between us and pull her against me.
With the other hand, I reach into her shirt, locking my fingers around the keys.
Accidentally–maybe– my fingertips graze her breast as I pull my hand out, making one of her nipples instantly hard. Libby lets out a gasp at the contact.
I toss the keys up in the air, catch them and shove them in the pocket of my slacks. “Nice try,” I parrot, and Libby gives me the dirtiest look she can muster.
A few moments later, we are in her car, me the driver and her the passenger princess. She still has the plant on her lap.
“So,” I say casually. “What’s with the tomatoes?”
“Bingo,” she answers with more venom in her tone than a rattle snake.
“I’m sorry?”
“I won it playing bingo with my friend Joni,” she snaps.
“Odd prize.”
“It was a plant shop. All the prizes are plants.”
“And you chose a tomato?”
“Turn left here,” she snaps, and I get in the left lane, turning on my blinker at the light.
“Your car is nice,” I say. It’s a Mazda Miata. “I didn’t know they made these anymore.”
“Can we cut the small chat? I know you don’t want to be here. And I’m humiliated. I would have rather called an Uber.”
“Than be in the car with me?” I ask.
“Correct.”
“Ouch,” I say. Then, after thinking about the things Kai told me (jacked up marriage because the guy was a shallow tool bag), I decide to go yet another direction. Conversationally speaking of course. “So, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”
Libby’s eyes dart over to me, her face making no effort to hide her suspicion. “And what foot was that?”
“I mean I think it’s obvious. We met at a cantina bar–”
“Online,” she corrects me.
“I’m sorry?”
“Online. We met on the dating app. But it must be hard to keep up with who you met where.”
This time I’m the one with the odd look on my face. “Right. Anyways…we met under different pretenses and now we are…contractually bound and–”
“Do you always talk like that?” she interrupts again.
“Do I always talk like what?”
“Like you’re trying to impress someone. Like if you use big words and make it sound professional, the other person will have to listen to you and agree with what you’re saying.”
“Alright, fine. We met, we fucked and now, because I am buying your family business to keep it from crashing into the Boston asphalt, we aren’t fucking anymore. We’re just fucked. Is that better?”
“Yes.”
“How?” I blurt out.
“Take a right,” she points. “Because it’s honest. It’s real. There’s no mask to it. Ignoring how unideal our situation is isn’t going to make it less terrible.”
“Again, ouch. I didn’t know being around me was that bad.”
“You’re taking away the only thing in my life that matters to me, Dax. Of course it’s terrible.”
Usually when people shoot insults at me, I am good at batting them away or even spinning them around. A ricochet effect if you will. But with this, with her, I don’t do that. I let it hit me, salted bullet and all. I let it sink in. And then I flick it aside like the tail end of a cigarette.
“This is me,” she says as we approach an apartment complex. They’re old, brick and have a main door at the street that leads to the hallways.
“Which one?” I ask and Libby points.
“Top floor. The one with the light on.”
I squint up at the yellow tinted window. There’s macrame hanging in the window too instead of blinds and what looks like a couple plants.
“You have roommates?” I ask.
“No. Just me. I do make enough to have an apartment.”
I hold up my hands in defense. “I was only asking because you left the light on.”
“I always leave the light on.”
I think about that and even though I don’t get it, I nod. Libby starts to undo her seatbelt, and I follow.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Walking you to your door,” I state the obvious.
“Why? I’m not a teenage girl and this isn’t a date.”
“I don’t care,” I say. And I don’t. “Also, I have to get an Uber back to my car.”
“Right.” Libby’s cheeks flush a little. I think she forgot how we got here, another sign that she shouldn’t be driving.
I round the car and open the passenger door. I even try to help as she juggles her purse, her keys that I have handed back to her, and her new houseplant. Of course, she doesn’t want any part of it. Libby stalks ahead of me, marching in her strappy sandals up the stairs to the main door.
“You can go,” she says, not bothering to look back at me as she fumbles with the code.
“Most people would say thank you?”
The code is denied, and she grunts before punching it in again even harder. “Thank you for making me feel like an idiot? Or thank you for trying to ruin my life?”
“Thank you for trying to be nice despite the circumstances.”
“Right,” she snaps as the code is yet again denied.
She sets the plant down in frustration. “Fine. Thank–” she stops mid-sentence and spins around to face me.
She’s not expecting me to be standing right behind her.
I catch her so off guard that she runs into me and of course, I hold out a hard to steady her.
“You’re welcome,” I say. My voice is low. Unintentionally gravelly. Like there’s not enough air between for both of us.
For a moment, we are back in the cantina. The hot, thick air. The buzziness in our heads making our minds do crazy things. I can also taste the lime. Almost hear the music, covered with her laugh that dangles around the room like a string of Christmas lights.
My mouth opens slightly, slowly, and I’m not sure if I am going to say something…or do something. Libby’s chin tips ever so slightly up. And then, as we both realize what is about to happen, everything shuts off– the lights, the music, the mood.
“I should go,” she says, pulling away and punching in the number again, this time getting it right. The door unlocks and she grabs her plant and opens it. I head off the steps but stop when she calls back.
“Oh, and Dax?”
I turn around more eagerly than I intend.
“My business is not crashing into the ground. You may have a name and a lot of money behind it, but I have a face that people know and love and a heart that keeps them coming back. I’m not giving up.”
With that, she marches inside, and the door clicks behind her.
And the mood and the static and everything else is gone.
I nod, clicking my tongue and pulling out my phone to order an Uber.
It comes within three minutes, thankfully.
As I get in the car, my eyes catch movement up in the lit window.
Libby is standing there, situating the tomato plant on the sill.
Watching the car for all of two seconds before disappearing into the room.
I don’t know what I was thinking, getting caught up like that. I probably wasn’t thinking. And that cannot happen again.