23. Savannah
23
SAVANNAH
It’s already mid-morning when I wake up. My God!
This marks the second time Hux has turned my night into a slumber fest. Cozy, warm, and distant from my usual reality, as if I were a newborn puppy with no worries in the world, cradled in a fluffy bed. The novelty of having a man in my space has unexpectedly become a boon to my well-being, soothing both body and mind. Not to mention his provocative presence that bridges my dreams and reality.
Our date isn’t scheduled until the evening, but the day’s first act has already begun. Hux serves me breakfast in bed, giving me permission to linger under the sheets just a little longer. As he hustles between the kitchen and my bedroom, his form is clad only in boxers, and I can’t help but feast on him. His physique, with muscles defined yet not overly bulked, makes me picture a well-sculpted athlete. Every contour of his body speaks of vitality and disciplined training.
It’s a rare morning. Dad had departed for work early, leaving us cocooned in a stillness that felt almost otherworldly. A musing crosses my mind—Dad has never witnessed any of my boyfriends so undressed, so statuesque, as Hux parades through our home. I can only speculate what his thoughts might have been on such an unusual scene.
In my hands, I cradle a steaming mug of Agua de Panela con Jengibre . Even though Hux has confessed that his Spanish isn’t the best, he says it with a charm that gets it just right. The essence of sugar cane and ginger permeates my senses with each sip. I’ve got to hand it to Hux for letting me in on this Colombian elixir.
He smiles at me against the backdrop of a face holding something back. “I’ll see you after work,” he says, threading his arms through his shirt sleeves.
I glance at the shrapnel scars speckling the skin around his collarbones. I’ve kissed them, I’ve felt them, I’ve seen them in daylight. There’s something about men and scars. They exude strength, grit, and sacrifice. He gave away his body, he sustained suffering for others, for a little girl who was supposed to be collateral damage.
As he shakes the shirt onto his shoulders and starts buttoning it, I sense he’s more self-conscious about these than the scar on his face.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” I ask.
He pauses, casting a look down at his chest. “No, not at all.”
“It’s the scars, isn’t it? You don’t have to worry about those with me, Hux.”
“I know.” He sits beside me on the edge of the bed. “I guess I’ve just gotten into the habit of covering them up.”
Conventional wisdom says it’s imprudent to ask about a man’s past girlfriends, but I can’t help wondering why he developed that habit. “Did any of my predecessors inspire that routine?”
He touches my nose, a faint smile touching his lips. “When women dated me, the scar on my face was sort of what-you- see-is-what-you-get. But these scars?” He touches his upper chest. “They tended to draw surprise reactions. Most women ignored them, but one got turned off.”
I cringe, wondering how anyone could be turned off by Huxley Cometti. But what catches me is that it sounds like he’s had a lot of girlfriends. But I let him continue.
“Some thought the scars made me look tough.”
A pang of guilt hits me. I might fall into that category.
“And that got me uncomfortable,” he adds.
I pride myself on being different, yet I’ve committed the same folly of thinking like any other girl.
He chuckles—and I hope it’s not because I show my guilt to him. Then he caresses the side of my neck. “What do you think of them?”
I compose myself, ditching the superficial and looking for a deeper answer. “I think… it must be hard not being able to talk about them with anyone.”
He holds his breath, looking into my eyes.
I’m desperate to get some kind of confirmation, but he remains silent. I dare myself to find out the truth and to give him my truth. “So, you don’t like it when I kiss that part of your chest? Because, to be honest, those scars do turn me on.”
“Frankly, my lady, I’ll let you get away with anything,” he murmurs, reversing what he’s done to his shirt. First, it’s his tantalizing, strong abdominal muscles flexing. Then, as more buttons become loose, he leans down, presenting his chest to me.
I kiss his shrapnel scars the only way I know, and his moans remind me that he’s not just letting me get away with compromising his comfort zone—he relishes it.
As the day fades into a cool evening, I find myself counting the moments until Huxley returns. There’s something eternally thrilling about waiting for him, even more so tonight since we had to delay our plans from last night.
The bell chimes, and with as much grace as I can muster, I push the door open.
And there I am, draped in a dress that’s as fiery as my mood. Red, strapless, and daring, stopping just above the knees.
“My God, Sav. You’re killing me!” Huxley’s tone is a mix of awe and excitement as his eyes sweep over me. He’s a vision himself, swapped from his boxers-only attire this morning into a suit that spells relaxed sophistication, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top in a tempting invitation.
He holds my hands and pulls me closer, his touch careful, as if I’m a delicate piece of china. “You look… you know, I love your makeup.”
Hell, I spent hours on my hair and makeup, fumbling through the step-by-step process I last tried when I was a teenager. Mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, meticulous brow grooming.
“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs, his eyes and breath converging on my lips.
Fair question. I discovered applying scarlet lipstick required more grit than herding a bull in heat. But perfect pout be damn!
Our kiss is electric as if we’re discovering each other all over again. I inhale, savoring his familiar scent blended with a hint of cologne. He holds something behind his back, a tease in his posture.
“What’s hiding there?” I whisper against his lips, my thumb brushing away the red stain. It gives him the air of a peculiar hero, but he’s no Joker. He’s far too gorgeous for that. More stunning than Heath Ledger, Jared Leto, or Joaquin Phoenix.
With a dramatic flourish, he presents his gift—a basket brimming with baked goods wrapped in familiar paper. Our favorite bakery in Lakefall Valley!
“No way!” I can’t help but gasp, delighted and surprised. “Didn’t you just come from work?”
“I might have told a little fib,” he confesses with a grin. So when I thought he was holding back something this morning, it wasn’t his damn scars, it was this surprise. “Mark told me to take leave.”
“Oh, Dad will flip when he sees this!” I laugh, thrilled by the thought.
“I didn’t forget about Chase, either. We missed out last time we were there.”
“And what about you?” I nudge.
“I was hoping you’d make something amazing with this bread. Maybe that blueberry jam you’ve been talking about?”
“Sounds like a plan. You know, good things come to those who wait,” I say in the tone of a wise man. Then I pull him into another hug, planting a kiss on his cheek.
I let him set the basket on the kitchen counter.
“Shall we?” he suggests, offering his arm with a charming bend.
Linking my arm with his, we head out to enjoy the evening. Together at last.
He drives us out of the city, where the land opens to reveal a lakeside gem. “This is beautiful, Hux,” escapes my lips. The restaurant, bathed in mellow lighting, showcasing the lake without disturbing its nocturnal murmurings.
My dating history is threadbare. The last time I had a romantic dinner for two, I was toasting to a new relationship in Helena, sadly fading away before it could truly blossom. The sensation had slipped from my memory—how one can become immersed in a man’s presence with the world receding like a low tide.
As we dig into a three-course spread, we swap tales from the pastures of our childhoods. Hux starts with a vivid picture of a rescue at his ranch, a calf stuck in the mud and his folks’ all-out mission to pull it free. He talks, and I can feel the grit of that day, the respect for his parents’ quick thinking and big hearts. “I never forget that,” he says, the eight-year-old boy with mud-stained boots still alive in his eyes.
Then, I drift into tales of the old days at Mitchell Ranch. Before everything got turned upside down with West Sun, it was mostly smooth sailing. I share with him the adventures of riding alongside Dad, moving the herd to greener grounds, and sometimes spending weeks in the saddle. Coming in from the fields felt like a fanfare of affection, where my mother’s hug and meals awaited, and flowers scattered around the house like little smooches from nature.
“You were close to your mom?” Hux’s question is a mild probe into my heart’s chambers.
“Yes, I was,” I affirm, the image of her strength and grace as vivid as the day. “She wasn’t always a rancher.”
“Your dad told me she was from Chile.”
What had Dad found in him to confide so much? Secrets of a life I believed Dad cherished, now entrusted to the man beside me. I toggle between astonishment and a sense of belonging.
I recount, “She was quick to learn, daring. A real horsewoman speaking their language. The animals, they just gravitated to her.”
The flicker in Hux’s gaze is brief but telling. There’s a story perched on the edge of his tongue that rolls back into shadow each time he nears its telling. It’s the same restrained expression I observed during our very first encounter when my own story of loss seemed to brush against a wound in him. Now, under the restaurant’s muted glow, it feels like that story is catching fire again, just needing a bit of air to get going.
“Last night, you said there was a lot more you wanted to tell me,” I offer gently, hoping to ease the words out of their hiding.
“This is a date. It’s your night,” he deflects with subtle insistence, his reluctance a fortress around his sorrows.
“Hux, come on. We’re here not just to enjoy these lovely meals,” I assert, with a meaningful glance toward the remnants of our dessert, now empty plates and lingering sweetness.
He meets my gaze, his eyes pools of unspoken gratitude for the space I’m holding open for him. But he steers us back to safer topics, chatting about his dad and the horses—stories he tells with a laugh. It’s clear it’s not his father’s memory that weighs on him tonight.
“I’d love to take you there someday, to Starfire. We could ride all day,” he finishes, with a note of finality that invites no further question.
But I’m not deterred. “Who did you lose, Hux?” I redirect the conversation, not as a detour but as a bridge back to him, to the heart of his silence.
He pauses, visibly taken aback by my directness, and glances around as though the weight of every stare in the room has suddenly found him. “Come on, let’s go somewhere else,” he suggests, his voice steady despite the storm I see brewing behind his eyes.
“Don’t dodge the tough stuff.” I hesitate, not wanting to get up even though he’s ready to pull my chair back.
“No, we’ll talk. Just… not here,” he assures me, and I relent. He places a hand on my back, leading me with calm resolve .
Hux steers us to the lake’s far side. Here, the night reigns supreme, only the distant twinkle of village lights offering a bridge back to the rest of the world. It’s an ethereal spot, seemingly unfit for discussions of grief. Yet, it feels right. Whatever burdens we share here add to the beauty between us, however laced with pain.
He motions for me to sit on the hood of his car and drapes a blanket around us.
“Better?” he asks, wrapping his arm around me.
I lean into his embrace. “Yeah, much better,” I respond, ready to listen and understand.
“So, you’re asking for a confession?” he says. The word ‘confession’ strikes a harsh note, as if he’s being coerced.
Feeling the impact of my earlier abruptness at the restaurant, I shift closer to him, finding his shoulder to rest on. “Remember when you brought Dad to see me in the hospital?”
“Yeah. You two were like two comets colliding,” he jokes. “No pun intended.”
I chuckle. “You know how he can be. Blunt as a judge from the old Wild West.”
“What did he say to you, Sav? That silence afterward… I still remember it.”
“He just blurted out, ‘Don’t you dare join your mother, Saltamontes !’”
We pause, our eyes lost to the stars, perhaps mine searching for a comet.
Continuing, I explain, “I think the accident that afternoon shook him more than I realized.”
“Any father would be shaken,” Hux agrees.
I take a deep breath, the night air cool around us. “Not long after my mom died, Dad told me about a pact they made long before I was born. If ever a choice had to be made, she made him promise to save the child.” The implication of their agreement settles like dust after upheaval. “They never had to make that choice, though. You heard Dad. I was born smack on our ranch pathway and Mom had never been happier. Apparently, my cries were as healthy as they come—loud and impatient.”
Hux smiles, a mixture of amusement and anticipation of the heavier part of my story.
I press on, “I believe, somehow, Mom died keeping that promise, whether consciously or not. That evening, black ice caused our car to tumble down a slope. We were both in a coma after the crash—hers from the impact, mine medically induced. Only I woke up, and she didn’t. Somehow, she knew Dad’s world would crumble without me.”
The memory tightens my voice, “I’d always wondered if maybe Dad blamed me. If I hadn’t begged for a trip to the city that weekend, Mom would’ve been safe at home.”
“You know that’s not true, right?” Hux’s voice eases my sudden sorrow.
“I knew it, and yet I doubted,” I admit. “Until the two comets collided at the hospital that day. You were there. Dad said, if he ever had to choose between me and Mom, he’d pick me—no matter what. He’d never articulated it that clearly before. It stung initially, but I came to realize why. He loved her dearly, Hux. Still does. Yet, he loves me more.”
“Now I understand,” he murmurs, so low I almost didn’t catch it.
“Understand what?”
He hesitates for a moment before revealing, “Right after we left your room that day, I confronted your dad. I couldn’t stand seeing you so upset.”
He did that? I search his face and see it in his expression. He did so to defend me .
Hux carries on. “He told me I’d only understand if I ever had a daughter of my own.”
“Oh, Hux.” I’m touched, barely believing my father would show such openness to another man. “He really sees something in you.”
Huxley rubs my arm, still hugging me. “He’s a good dad, Sav.”
“He is.”
He slows his pace considerably. “That same day, you mentioned something about ‘an angry wish.’”
I nod, remembering how he pondered my words as he sat by my hospital bed.
“Sav, my story might hurt you. It might even change your mind about me.”
“How?” I prompt, my concern deepening.
“Colombia. What I told you that night barely scratched the surface.”
“What’s your angry wish, Hux?”
He flinches, and I feel the seismic shift in our conversation. “A woman,” he admits.
Inhaling, I navigate the tangle of emotions his question stirs within me. Jealousy would be the easy response, but it would be unfair to judge him and turn away without understanding more.
“I’m listening.”
“I was in a secret relationship with one of our informants. She was invaluable to the CIA, and that disastrous operation wasn’t the first that took me to that part of the world. After everything went wrong in the jungle, she was found…” His voice fades, choked by what he leaves unsaid.
A gasp is held captive in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my heart aching for him.
“At the time, I was in the hospital, fighting for my life,” he continues. “I didn’t know anything until weeks later, after I’d left the Navy.”
I find his hand, holding it between mine. He seems detached, as though he’s recounting someone else’s story. “You wish you could take her place?”
“No. I wish we had both survived. I promised her safety, a future here in America.” His guilt is heavy and oppressive.
“That’s a heavy burden, Hux.”
“That’s my angry wish, Sav. That I had saved her, and we started a new life. Here, in this peaceful country.”
I sit up straight, sensing his respect for my need for space. I steal a glance at him. His profile contrasts beautifully against the dark, midnight backdrop. My eyes then drift to the sky, noting the subtle shift of the stars.
“How do you deal with your angry wish?” he asks quietly, his gaze following mine to the heavens.
“I let it linger as just a wish. Gradually, I try to strip away the anger,” I explain. “It’s strange. Dad has been both the cause and the cure of that anger. But since the hospital—” I think back to that pivotal moment. “Since he opened up, he’s been more of a remedy.”
He nods, stretching a smile as if giving himself a chance to muse over my words. “When I joined Red Mark, I found a flicker of will that perhaps I could finally move on. Yet here I am, full of need, full of weakness, seeking someone who’ll accept my history.” His eyes lock onto mine. “I want that person to be you, Sav.”
I feel honored. A man whom I admire and respect wants me. “Are you sure? I’m still figuring out my own path,” I respond cautiously.
“What about with this man?” he proposes, lifting my hand to his heart. “Help me transform my wish?”
I touch my chest reflexively. Our shared moments, the beats of our hearts, our connection—they’ve built a foundation strong enough for us to take on more than just the happy and uplifting. It’s time for the bitter and the hurt to mold us, unite us.
“I will help you,” I promise.
“Even though this involves another woman? Someone that I love?” His question is a litmus test for the nascent trust we’re building. He still loves her.
I have every right to step back, to shield my own heart. But his sincerity strikes a chord with me. He has a vast heart, and it would be a loss to walk away simply because of his past—even though it was a woman.
“I’ll do my best, Hux.”
He turns to me, his arms wrapping around me like he won’t let go. “Tell me I’m not dreaming or losing my mind,” he half-jokes, his eyes searching mine for confirmation.
“Neither. We’re here, and we’re real,” I affirm for him and for myself. I’m not one to back down just because things are going to be hard. I’m not one to shy away from challenges. If anyone deserves my love and effort, it’s him.
Then, his kiss descends, a surge of warmth and passion that sweeps through me, reminiscent of the elixir he whipped up this morning. As our kiss parts, he asks, “Here’s one for you. ‘Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination’—who said it?”
I hazard a guess without much thought. “Charlie Chaplin?”
Hux’s laughter peals, a sound I’m eager to hear more of. “You’re way off! Try again.”
“Dolly Parton?”
The smirk that plays on his lips is both charming and wry. “Mark Twain,” he reveals .
“I didn’t peg you for the philosophical type.” I tap the tip of his cute nose.
The evening winds down. There’s an undercurrent of exhilaration pulsing through me, a touch of that insanity perhaps Twain mused about.
“I’ll give my all to you, Sav, regardless of my past. Regardless of her .”
“I know,” I say, and I genuinely believe him. “Just remember, I’m not her, okay?”
“You’re not her, and she wasn’t you,” he answers. “You’re the most real person I’ve ever known—grounded, genuine, no pretense. I want to learn from you, to be a better man.”
A light smile plays on my lips. “So you want me to be your teacher?”
He chuckles, the tension easing between us. “It sounds so formal. Maybe mentor is a better word?”
I nod, content with his response. His earnestness reassures me, and deep down, I’m ready to move forward with him.
A thought that’s been nagging me suddenly surfaces. “Hux, can I make a request?”
He glances toward the water, his expression suggestive as he guesses, “Skinny dipping?”
I laugh and give his arm a jab. The healthy one, thankfully. “Would you drive me to the spot of the accident? At Lakefall Valley?” The question is laden with years of unattended memories, but I can feel ‘the bend’ is calling me. “When we lived there, Dad and I always made sure she wasn’t without flowers. It’s been too long since.”
His reply is immediate, radiating his innate kindness. “Of course, I’ll take you there. And we’ll pick the most beautiful flowers for her.”
In gratitude, I press my lips to his again. It’s a sweet reminder that, despite life’s twists and turns, his kiss is a constant I can depend on.