7. Darcy
Chapter 7
Darcy
I S THIS EVEN happening right now? Anthony Hall is coming toward me, all six-feet-whatever growly of him, a pair of classic Wayfarer sunglasses donned casually as you please. Tattoos allll on display thanks to the tank top he wears, with short athletic shorts complete the jaw-dropping look.
Also: he was at yoga. The man has never gone, and today he goes?
Unfair.
Yesterday was bad enough, being forced to work alongside him and realizing just how fun he is to be around. Now this? How much more does the universe think I can take?
Resigned, I shade my eyes and watch him make his way across the powdery sand, his powerful legs flexing and damn near glinting in the sun. There’s no point in not looking. Why deprive myself?
He pulls up next to me and sits, not bothering with any sort of towel. The scent of his beard oil catches on the breeze, warm and woodsy, along with sweat, and maybe a hint of bourbon from bartending. I don’t bother talking; if I’ve learned anything with the man, it’s that he’ll speak when he’s ready and not a moment sooner.
It takes him two minutes. Two minutes that feel like two hours. Two minutes to keep my anxious mouth shut. Two minutes in which I try, and fail, to keep my heart rate under control as I stare fixedly at the ocean. He shifts to face me, his eyes still shaded behind the Wayfarers. “How do you know about my secret spot?”
The question is jarring, and there’s no keeping the shock out of my voice as I say, “Are you serious? It’s my secret spot!”
His lips turn up the tiniest bit, and I have a feeling he’s amused. Still, not another word.
Ugh. If that’s how he’s going to be, fine. I won’t speak, either. I come here for the quiet and peace it brings, and dammit, Anthony Hall is not going to ruin that for me.
But…it’s difficult. If someone is around, I want to talk to them. To fill the silence. So I try. I try really, really hard not to speak, digging twin divots into the sand with my feet as the minutes go by.
“Why are you so quiet?” he finally asks.
Oh, thank God. The words come out in a rush, as though a boulder had been lifted off my chest and oxygen was finally flowing back into my lungs. “I was trying to be quiet for you—I know I’m a lot; people tell me that enough so I guess it’s true—but it was a special kind of torture, I’m not going to lie.”
“Don’t do that.” He issues the directive to the ocean.
“Do what?”
“Change yourself. Not for me, not for anyone , but sure as hell not for me.”
I open my mouth, but the man has rendered me mute.
He snorts. “At least this time you’re quiet because I shut you up.”
I’d let you shut me up any time you want.
The thought blooms, and heat stings my cheeks.
He notices, because his lips twitch faintly beneath his beard.
I refuse to let him have the upper hand, so I launch. “It’ll be busy tomorrow. Some guys are coming to measure for the paneling, which will be attached to the ceiling and secured on the floor. I’ve got some great ideas about the colors…” I keep going, filling the silence space with details I’m certain I’ve already gone over with him, but I can’t help it.
He reaches his hand out and touches my knee, and I stop talking. It’s a tap, a tiny whiff of contact, but it’s enough to send my blood boiling. Then he pulls his knees up and rests his arms on them, lowering his head to the cradle of his forearms. Greedily, I stare at the riot of colorful tattoos, using the time to catalogue how the cords of his muscles ripple with every twist of his wrist, the dark hair that dusts his arms and even his hands. “Sorry.”
I didn’t hear him correctly. “What?”
He takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.”
Oh, if he only knew. “Why?”
He lifts his head to me.
“Will you please take the sunglasses off?” I can’t take it anymore.
Wordlessly, he pulls them off. And I nearly pass out.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anthony so unguarded. His hazel irises are like stained glass, flecks of gold nestled into sea green and surrounded by a band of navy. They are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of beholding, and it feels like the more I stare, the more he seems to see into me, as well.
Clearing my throat, I manage, “Don’t apologize for touching me. Ever.” Using his phrasing is all I can think to do.
He blinks, tearing his gaze from me in the process. I want his focus back on me so badly that I whine.
He whips his head back to me, clocking the tiny mewl that I let escape. But he says nothing, just stares.
I stare back. I see no point in hiding my interest anymore. Surely he knows I’m interested. How could he not?
His jaw ticks beneath his beard, and I’m overcome with the desire to touch it. I want to feel the roughness of it under my palm, over my mouth, between my legs. I want his hands cupping my breasts and hauling me onto his lap.
Basically, I want .
And it’s that very want that has me unsure of how to behave.
“I won’t apologize again if you won’t,” he finally says, blinking his attention back to the ocean in front of us.
Even the man’s profile is striking. He is so entirely unfair that I want to kick my feet and shake my fist in protest. Believe me, the temptation is high . Instead, I lean back on my palms and give my attention to the waves before us. I lose myself in the steadying, soothing rhythm of its continuity, the absolute unstoppable nature of it. I think that’s why I love coming here so much: because no matter what kind of mood I’m in, the ocean never wavers. Its colors might change, but that’s only because of the sky above it.
Anthony reclines on his elbows beside me, his sunglasses back in place and safely hiding those perceptive eyes once more. And thank God for it. I’ve never felt so… seen as when he looked at me. As though the more vulnerable he let himself be, the more he saw of me in the process.
How in the fuck is that even fair?
Also not fair: his legs. Free of ink and thick with muscle, stretching out before us, tanned from a life of living at the shore. Beside him, my own legs aren’t remotely similar, much more pale despite my frequent trips to the beach, and definitely less muscled. I’m strong, don’t get me wrong, I have to be to do the kind of work I do, but I’ll never have anything approaching definition in my thighs.
Which is fine by me. I like my body. It’s strong, and healthy, and does everything I ask of it. I’ll never be thin, but I’ve never really wanted to be. It seems a little boring, if I’m being honest. I enjoy standing out. I like wearing bright colors and putting my hair in bandanas and strutting around in tight skirts or overalls.
But back to the man beside me. The very confusing, but incredibly attractive, older man. The more I think about it, the more I find I care less and less about the age difference. Sure, he was seventeen when I was born. But I’m twenty-four now. Old enough to know precisely what I want.
The question is: does he want me?
Shaking my head at myself, I focus back on the serenity of the ocean, only for my stomach to growl at the lack of food it’s been given today. Thankfully, Anthony doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t react. He seems just as lost in his thoughts as I am in mine.
I stand, turning away to brush the sand off and to shake the towel free. Someone has to leave, so I guess it’s going to be me. Leaning to grab my Birkenstocks, I pause when Anthony pulls his sunglasses off to look at me.
“See you tomorrow?”
Why does it seem like that’s a more loaded question than it should be?
“Yep. Bright and early,” I chirp.
He nods, and without another word, I walk away. I don’t look back, but I swear I feel his gaze on me.
Back home, I make an easy lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple, then head out to the garage. I know exactly what I’m going to do for the extra space in Anthony’s loft. It finally hit me, and there’s nothing to do but get started. Pulling out my notebook to start the sketch, I hope he likes it.