9. Darcy
Chapter 9
Darcy
I ’M EXHAUSTED. I’VE been busting my hump at Anthony’s place, helping my dad at the hardware store a couple nights a week, and working on the surprise piece for Anthony’s loft in the bit of spare time I have left. I’m bone-tired and need a day off. So even though it’s a random Tuesday, I’m taking it. I live by the beach and haven’t set foot on it since Anthony came and ruined my peace a few weeks ago.
Amanda answers my FaceTime almost immediately. “What’s up, cutie?”
“Call off work today.”
Her face lights up. “Are we playing hooky? Where are we going?”
“The beach. I’m pasty white and we need to remedy that, stat.”
“I’m in.”
“Perfect. See you soon. I’m gonna run by the shop and the Piggly Wiggly before I come get you.”
“I’ll be ready.”
We click off and I throw on a two-piece and grab my beach bag, already thinking of the snacks and sandwiches I’ll pick up at the deli before grabbing Amanda.
But first: Dad.
His eyes widen when he sees me a little later, sunglasses propped on top of a messy bun and a raggedy T-shirt draped over my favorite pair of cut-off shorts. “What’s wrong?”
I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
“Did Anthony fire you? He’s not called at all to complain, which I figured he would have done by now.” His expression falls. “He did, didn’t he? I’m so sorry.”
I bristle. “Are you kidding me, Dad? Why would I have gotten fired when I’m doing an incredible job?” And I mean it, too: I’m kicking ass. I refuse to second-guess my talent. Life is too short, and I’ve had enough of that crap to last me a lifetime.
Dad’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Well…then…what’s all this about?” He waves his hand at my outfit.
“This is me taking a day off for my mental health,” I shoot back. “Something even more necessary now that I know my own father doesn’t have faith in me.”
He has the decency to blush. “Sorry, Darcy girl. I look at you and still see you in pigtails, that’s all. No matter how old you get.”
“Maybe so, but your pigtail game was never that good, and this little girl is a grown-ass woman, Dad. You know it, and you need to treat me like it.”
He lifts his chin, stubborn as always.
Wonder where I get it from.
I sigh, then round the counter to give him a hug. “Love you, you old coot.”
“Love you too, girlie.”
“Now where’s that stack of invoices you said I needed to look at?”
I make quick work of the paperwork at Dad’s, then pick up all the things at the Pig that we’ll need to get through the day. I already know Amanda will have packed her own stash of goodies, and we’ll have plenty. Which is the point. We stopped dividing up who would bring what years ago, because we never had enough when we did that. But when we leaned into the chaos of “just pack a bag,” we discovered we always had plenty, and it was fun to see what we ended up with.
Finally, I pull up to Amanda’s, and she gets in the car with her own beach bag stuffed to the gills. “I over-packed,” she says.
Laughing, I aim towards the beach. “Good. Me, too.”
There are a couple of good spots around, but we ultimately decide to head to the area just off the pier, where we can grab ice cream and rinse off before getting back in the car at the end of the day. It’s definitely the more touristy part, and it’s packed with mid-June tourists, but I don’t mind. People-watching is one of my favorite things to do on the beach.
We unpack our bags, a little game of show and tell before settling into our routine of sunblock, sunglasses, and books. Combined, we have five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two giant bags of chips, a bowl of cut-up watermelon, a bag of baby carrots, strawberries that are on their last leg, and more water than we will possibly need. Also, sunscreen, two hats, and an extra pair of sunglasses. All in all, plenty to get us to dinner if we’re so inclined.
I’m on my front, letting the sun soak into my back, when my phone goes off in my bag next to me.
“Who’s rude enough to call when we’re at the beach?” Amanda mumbles.
Reading the name on the screen, I laugh. “Anthony.” Then I answer the FaceTime, not bothering with a hello because I know that’ll irritate him—and honestly, irritating him is a lot of fun.
“Where are you?” His voice is gruff, sending a shiver through my body in delight. Then he squints. “Are you at the beach?”
“Your powers of observation are second to none, Mr. Hall,” I deadpan. “What do you need?”
“Why aren’t you here?”
I laugh. “Because I needed a day off. I’ve barely taken any time for myself, not that you’ve noticed.”
“I notice when you’re not here,” comes the response.
The warmth that pools in my lower belly at his words should be concerning, but I don’t say anything. I take a move from his own playbook and stay silent.
“You should have called, or texted,” he grumbles.
“I didn’t know I needed to tell you my every move, Daddy .”
He growls, and I thrill to hear it. “I don’t need to know your every move, Miss Belle, but as someone whose place you’re working on, it’s common courtesy to at least let me know that you won’t be here. It’s rude not to.”
I sigh. “Fine. You might have a point.” As much as I hate to admit it.
“I know I have a point.”
Thankful for my sunglasses, I let myself stare at him. God, he’s so sexy, especially when he’s mad like this. There’s a little line that furrows between his brows, and his hazel eyes sparkle with something that looks almost like worry. But why would he worry about me? Despite this call and the rare times I see him outside his normal routine, the man most often appears to simply tolerate me. I wish there were more to it, but I’m beginning to think I’ve made the rest up.
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’m sorry for making you worry, Daddy.”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t bother to correct me on anything I just said.
Interesting.
“Are you going to be here tomorrow?”
I shrug, realizing that he’s been getting a really impressive view of my cleavage this whole time. You’re welcome, Mr. Hall. “Probably.”
“Probably?” he repeats.
“Yeah, probably,” I volley back. “Won’t know till I wake up and see how I feel. And quit giving me shit. You have no idea what I’m doing after I’m done at your place. It’s not like I’m going home to eat bonbons.” Whatever the fuck those are.
“What the fuck are bonbons?” he grouses.
I chuckle, because what are the odds? “I don’t know. I’ve just heard the saying.”
“Are you there with anyone else?”
“Seriously? It’s literally none of your business.” What the hell is it with the men in my life and their overprotective natures? I continue, “When have I ever given the impression that I need looking after, Anthony?” There’s no disguising the way my voice tightens.
He must hear it, because he relents. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Could you say that a little louder? I didn’t hear you over the shock.”
His lips curl infinitesimally, and the feeling is like being at the top hill of a roller coaster about to dive into the loop. “I’m sorry, Miss Belle. Better?”
I grin, the swoop of the fall sweeping through my body. Miss Belle. “Much.”
“See you tomorrow?”
My grin widens. “Maybe.” I click off before he can say anything else.
“Um, excuse me, but what in the banter was that and I need you to start explaining immediately .” Beside me, Amanda pulls up into a seated position and unscrews the top of a water bottle.
“Eh, it’s nothing.” I sit up as well and open the container of watermelon. There is no better place than to eat watermelon than the beach, and I will stand on that hill.
Amanda pulls her glasses to the top of her head and pins me with her brown eyes. “Bullshit. You like him.”
“I don’t,” I protest.
“Again: bullshit.”
I shove a piece of watermelon in my mouth and use it as an excuse to keep quiet.
She raises an eyebrow, waiting, but I keep eating. In front of us, a group of guys around our age start a game of volleyball around the net they’ve spent far more time than necessary putting up. They’re cute in that typical Alabama way: friendly faces, hair swooping just enough over their forehead that they’ve got to do that head-jerk thing to get it out of their eyes, and they probably all own multiple pairs of khaki shorts and tech polos with either University of Alabama or Auburn colors. Of course, they all have the usual blue patterns they consider to be their “nice” polos—they’re the ones they’ll wear to church when they peel themselves out of bed from drinking too much the night before.
And listen: no shade to them. Most of them have hearts of gold, and most of them can be trained on who to vote for and easily put in their place if they decide to try to be assholes to the women in their life. But as I look at them now, all I can think is… no, thanks .
Which is wild. I was never attracted to the vanilla guys anyway, but it’s much more obvious now that I’ve spent time around Anthony. Anthony, with his full beard and Wayfarers. Anthony, with his tattoo sleeves and thick thighs and chest hair. And laugh lines around his eyes that probably aren’t from laughing, which does something to my heart that I can’t bear to think about. Anthony, who at seventeen years older than me, could probably fuck me at least ten different ways that I don’t even have the imagination to think about.
“Um, hello?” Amanda waves her hand in front of my face. “Where did you go? Because you’re staring at those guys and they’re about to come over here and start flirting if you don’t watch it.”
I blink and look at her. “You’d eat those guys for lunch.”
She throws her head back and cackles. “You’re right. They can’t handle all this.”
All this is a thick body that won’t quit, with tits and ass and belly and hips and legs that go for days—a fact that Amanda refuses to hide behind mounds of clothing. She’s flawless and bold and usually has a line of men lined up to take her on dates and worship her afterward. She never keeps them around very long, though. Come to think of it, maybe she needs an older man.
“Damn right they can’t,” I confirm, then put the lid back on the remaining watermelon. “Time for more sunscreen? We can give those poor, unsuspecting boys a show.”
“Definitely. Because that big guy is beyond hot, and I wouldn’t mind a little more of his attention.”
“Which one?”
“With the locs,” she clarifies. “Looks like he played offensive line.”
I dart a glance. He’s the most interesting of the bunch, come to think of it. The sun glints off his dark skin, and the flirty smile he throws our way is cute. “As you wish,” I say, reaching for the tube. “We going for the back first?”
She takes it from me. “Are you kidding? You’re going to pretend to read while I rub it on my tits.”
Laughing, I grab my book and resettle on the towel, preparing for the show Amanda’s about to give them.
It works. Like a damn charm. And when the very guy she’d been targeting makes his way to us, eyes locked appreciatively on Amanda as he approaches, I can’t help the little bit of jealousy at how easy she makes it. I’m never that uncomplicated. I never will be, though, and I guess there’s nothing to do about that but lean into it.