Chapter 1 #2
I brush past him. Probably closer than I should be, because my long-sleeve-covered-arm rubs against his suitcoat-covered one, and a spark crackles through the layers of material. The flicker causes me to stop moving.
Or maybe it’s the sudden touch of his hand at my elbow. The warmth seeping through the thin, silky fabric of my blouse. The pressure cradling, tender yet firm.
“Wait.” The hesitation after he stops me has our eyes locking on each other.
A look. A moment.
His eyes come into view better in our shifted position.
With his face in the light of the chandelier above the dance floor, those eyes sparkle.
Definitely green. But there’s something else familiar about the deep mossy color with flecks of gold dancing inside them.
In the better lighting, his hair appears more rust-colored with sprinkles of gray at both his temples and along his jawline.
However, I still can’t dismiss this niggling sensation that suggests we have a connection.
“Have a drink with me.” He isn’t really asking, more like softly commanding. “It’s been a day.”
I know the feeling. It’s been a day of days and a year of days. Hell, eighteen months of days.
“My drink is gone.” I lift my glass and jiggle it, emphasizing the emptiness. “And I’m tired.” Suddenly, I’m bone weary. As much as I’d like to flirt with him, deep inside, I know flirting won’t lead anywhere because I’m me.
Responsible Ruthie. Always doing the safe thing.
He pouts at my excuse, blinks his eyes like a begging child, and something inside me snaps, like one of those glow-sticks they sell at stadiums. The kind you crack in the middle, and they illuminate, lighting up fluorescent and bright.
“I’ll get you another one. What’s your poison, flower?” He nods at the glass, before taking it from my hand, giving it a sniff, and setting it on the nearby banquet table which will hold an extensive spread tomorrow evening.
Flower. This is the third time he’s called me the term of endearment. At least, I think it’s an endearment. His voice turns a bit growly over it, sending a ripple up my spine, and making me feel like precious flora, delicately dancing in a breeze.
“Five minutes.” He holds up his large hand, spreading his fingers to emphasize the time. “One drink.” He curls his fingers so only his index points upward, long and thick, and strangely intimidating.
“And how do I know you won’t go get me a drink, spike it, and then drag me off to your room?”
His brows furrow in thought. His jovial face turns serious a second, acknowledging the reality in the risk.
“I like your way of thinking. Safe. But, give me a chance to prove myself. I promise not to spike anything, and we’ll never leave this room.
” His eyes suddenly flicker, the explosion of gold flecks like an oath. Another flash of flirtation.
I chuckle, shaking my head, uncertain why I’m agreeing, disbelieving it before I say, “Okay.”
“You’ll stay?” His brows lift, surprised yet hopeful.
I nod as he backs up, keeping his eyes on me with each step he takes backward. Hands raised, palms out, as if holding me in place.
“Stay.” His mouth curls again. One corner ticking higher than the other and that dimple sneaks out once more.
Do I have a thing for dimples? Where have I seen that dimple before? Are dimples recognizable?
The back of his heel smacks into the dance floor causing him to stumble a bit, similar to how he might have fumbled entering the room. The edge on the parquet flooring isn’t raised more than an inch. A slight incline from carpet to wood surface, and yet, he’s found the gap and tripped over it.
And something in that moment has me committing to stay put.
When he finally turns toward the door, feet forward and moving quickly toward the exit, I turn back toward the windows, wondering what I’m doing. What have I been waiting for?
Time has passed since Clifton’s death. Hours of emptiness that existed even before his passing.
I stare outward at the rolling ocean, crashing against the large bluff. Rain has finally broken free of the overcast clouds, pummeling the glass, forming tiny streams that slither down the slick panes. The image reminds me of tears.
Too many tears I’ve shed over someone unworthy of my grief.
My phone pings, the sound reverberating across the room in the eerie silence, and I cross the space to check the notification.
I’ll see you in the morning, darling. Nylah. No surprise, she isn’t returning.
I could be angry that I’ve been waiting, angry at lost time, angry about so many things. Like the rain raging against the windows, I’m a storm, bottled up and eager to break free.
Strangely, I feel lighter at the moment.
Maybe it’s simply the sense of relief that Nylah doesn’t need me, and I can return to my room shortly.
Suddenly, a rush of a man re-enters the room. His steps are quick as he hits the parquet flooring in the center of the space, then stalls as he stares in the direction of the windows.
“Flower?” His voice sounds . . . disappointed. Like he believes I’ve left.
I’m probably imagining the tone, but something inside me stirs. Quickly, I tuck my phone back into my purse and cross the room toward him.
“Hey.” My throat struggles on the call, especially when he turns to look at me holding a full bottle of tonic underneath his arm, two crystal glasses with ice pinched between his fingers, and a green bottle of gin in his other hand.
Relief seems to settle on his shoulders which lower when he faces me.
Recognition strikes me full-on again and smacks my cheeks.
It can’t be, can it?
The gleam in his eyes. The twitch of his mouth. Those dimples.
Now would be the time to ask him who he is. Seek confirmation. If he is who I think he is, we do have history.
Is this serendipity? I’d just been thinking about that past moment. Those powerful sixty seconds. And now I’m being presented with a new minute. Not that this is a second chance or anything. Not that he’s going to kiss me, but still—
“Flower.” He repeats the nickname with more confidence. “Where’d you go?”
I shake my head. “What?”
“You look kind of deep in thought there. You aren’t thinking of bolting, are you?”
Would he chase me if I did? The idea is too absurd to ruminate over. My brain is already muddled between the painful memories of Clifton, the reminder of a special moment in my past, and now this. Him. Here.
I should reveal who I am. Instead, I mutter, “I’m good.” My voice is still a bit shaky as I watch him step over to the banquet table and set down the bottle of gin.
“Gin and tonic?” I confirm. “My favorite.”
“Lucky guess.” He winks before he moves the tonic water from beneath his arm to the table as well and settles the two glasses beside it, like a minibar.
I step closer to his position beside the table.
“Exhibit A.” He lifts the green bottle of gin and twists the cap. The sharp crack of the seal reassures me it’s a fresh container, unopened and free from any dangerous additives.
He pours a generous amount into each glass.
“Exhibit B.” He waves his hand in front of the tonic bottle.
I laugh at the dramatic display before he picks up the container and twists the sealed cap, which releases a long hiss of carbonation. He tops off each glass with tonic. As the sparkling liquid glugs over the ice, the tiny bubbles of carbonation release, and my belly fizzes like the sound.
What is happening here?
Then he slips his hand into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a lime. He tosses the green citrus between his hands. “Shit. I didn’t think this part through. I don’t have a knife. Didn’t want to scare you. But now I don’t have a way to cut this thing.”
He inspects the lime a second, then bites off the end. Removing a hunk of rind from his mouth, he shoves his thumb into the fruit to separate it, ripping it in half.
“That was . . . brutal.” And yet something about it was freaking hot. The way he bit the tart citrus. The way he forced his thumb into the fruit. The way he cracked it open with no real effort.
He shakes out his hand—something about the motion also triggering a memory—before squeezing each half of the lime into our separate glasses.
A drop of lime juice still lingers on his lips, drawing my attention to it, wondering how it might taste. How he would taste.
“I love extra lime,” I offer for no reason, while my heart continues to hammer so loud I’m certain he can hear the beat across the distance between us.
“To extra lime.” He lifts a glass and holds it out to me, and I take the final steps to bring us closer.
He raises the other glass and taps mine, but his eyes remain on me, waiting for me to take my first sip.
With those dark-green eyes watching me, my gut rumbles.
Tell him.
However, I don’t say anything. Instead, I take a drink, relishing the explosion of tart lime on my tongue and then choking on the strength of gin.
“Whoa.” I pucker and sway a bit on my heels.
“Easy there, flower.” He chuckles, catching my elbow again. “Don’t wilt on me yet.”
The warmth of his hand seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse once more. The heat growing from a slow burn to a flaming inferno as he swipes up my arm to my shoulder where he squeezes at the joint.
Before I know it, his palm is on the side of my neck and his thumb rubs up the column of my throat to my chin. The scorching blaze spreads throughout me. If those eyes are a thicket of trees, he’s just lit a forest fire inside me.
“Your skin is soft,” he marvels, pausing a second. “Wonder where else you might be tender?”
Ensnared by his eyes, I’ve stepped even closer to him, or maybe he’s come closer to me.
Again, I grapple with admitting who I am. Suggesting I know who he is. Omission is a dangerous game, and I’m so bad at playing them.
Instead, I’m breaking rules without knowing the instructions, and for once, it feels so damn good.