22. Darcy
Chapter 22
Darcy
I SET MYSELF to rights, cleaning up and changing into the clothes I’d brought for bowling practice, and find Anthony looking at me with something very close to tenderness as I pack up my overalls. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I straighten and close the distance between us. “That look isn’t ‘nothing.’ What’s going on in that head of yours?”
He gathers me to him, his big palms settling on my hips as he looks down. “Nothing.” A pause. “Except, this is it, huh? No more to do up here?”
Something about the way he says it makes me hold my breath. “Anthony Hall, are you going to miss seeing me every day?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
I exhale, resting my head on his chest and squeezing him. For all his bluster and carrying on, Anthony has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.
“Besides, who else am I going to make fun of for their taste in music?” he continues.
I laugh and pinch his side as I look up at him. “You like my taste in music, old man.”
“Do I, though?” he asks with a wink. Then he leans down for a kiss, the simultaneously soft and rough bristles of his beard more of a comfort now than anything. He parts my lips with his tongue, the kiss quickly turning heated, and I let myself go pliant. This man can have anything he wants, anytime. I swear he could lay me out in the grocery store aisle, and I’d be down for it.
When he pulls away, he smacks my ass. “Come on, Miss Belle. You’ve got bowling practice to get to.”
“Wait,” I protest softly and take his hand, gesturing to the rest of the loft. “At least look at what I did with the place.”
He smiles. Really smiles. “Show me around.”
So, I do. I point out the extra-long, extra-deep couch and loveseat in deep gray, and the deep purple retro coffee table, tiled and kidney-shaped, that sits with them. I show him the monstera plants that require almost nothing but complement the space. The finishing touches in the bathroom and kitchen, the custom bookshelves filled with all the science fiction paperbacks I’d found in random piles around the place. In his bedroom, the lush rug in a deep sunset orange that offset the white of the duvet covering his bed. And more, each area designed to feel clean but at home, beachside but without a shell or sand-themed piece of decoration in sight.
Anthony turns to me, pulling me close and cradling my face with his hands. “Darcy. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
I blink rapidly, trying to fight the tears that appear unbidden. “You probably won’t thank me when you see the bill,” I rasp, reaching for a joke to escape the outright tenderness I see in his expression.
“Don’t do that,” he admonishes gently, swiping the wetness beneath my eyes with his thumbs. “I’m trying to give you a compliment, Darcy Belle. You’re astonishing, and even though you did all this without any input, you created a home that is absolutely, one hundred percent me.”
And with that, he leans down and kisses me. It feels different than any kiss he’s given before, infused with tenderness and care, and maybe something else that I won’t dare hope for. I kiss him back, hoping he feels what I do. When he pulls away, the tension between his brows is gone, something I’ve never seen before.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He smiles again, and it cracks my heart wide open. “Come on. Time for bowling.”
Downstairs, Anthony takes his place behind the bar, relieving Harrison and immediately making me an Aperol Spritz. He slides it in front of me and I raise a brow.
“Who said this was what I wanted?”
He smirks. “You’re wearing orange.”
I glance down at the shirt, which does, in fact, have a bit of orange in it. “So?”
He leans his elbows onto the bar, self-satisfaction oozing from him. “I’ve figured you out, my dear. You choose your drinks to match your clothes.”
I catch my breath. My dear. “ I most certainly do not,” I counter.
For the third time in half an hour, he smiles. A real, actual smile—in public. I half want to look around to see if I’m being pranked. Then he says, “You may not realize it, but you do.”
“Okay, well, I’d planned on ordering an Aperol Spritz anyway, so that was just a good guess by you.” Why am I so flustered? He can’t know me that well…can he?
But then I think back over the past few months. The way he could make my coffee after one day. The way a silk pillowcase appeared on one of his pillows the first night I slept over. How he knows precisely where to touch me, where to graze his teeth and where to bite, how hard I like to be spanked, the angle that’ll make me moan like nothing else. My favorite kind of pen, even.
I don’t get a chance to investigate how all this really makes me feel before the rest of the crew wanders in, none of them surprised to see me already at the bar, drink in hand.
Anthony has each woman’s drink ready to go, but before we turn to the lane, he stops us.
“I have something for you.”
They all look at me, but I lift my shoulders. “No idea,” I say, my own curiosity just as piqued. “What’s going on?”
He reaches for something beneath the bar, then pulls out four different gift bags.
“Did you get us presents?” Agatha asks.
“Unless this is his new way of presenting a bill,” Devon jokes, “then yes, Agatha, I’m willing to bet these are gifts.”
Amanda’s dark eyes flash to mine, certain I have an answer, but I’m just as clueless as the rest of them. Shaking my head at her, I take a bag from Anthony. “What’s this?”
But he says nothing, just crosses his arms and nods brusquely at us.
“That’s Anthony-speak for ‘open them,’” I joke. I pull open the bag—no tissue paper to remove, it’s just the bag, but honestly, it’s still impressive considering the man who’s put this together—and pull out a shirt.
I gasp. Not just a shirt—a bowling shirt. Styled in a retro design from the fifties, it boasts thick pink and white stripes, with little red cherries on the front pockets that are actually bowling balls when I look closer. My name is stitched in black beneath the cherry bowling balls, and on the back, in black script, are the words Hall’s Belles.
My throat constricts, and I blink up in time to catch yet another soft look on his face. He meets my eyes as I mouth, “thank you,” right as the other women begin to squeal and say their thanks.
And the way his mouth tips up just the slightest, his hazel eyes crinkling so minutely that I swear I’m the only one who can tell? Ugh . Be still my beating heart. Because this is the final proof that he cares. Maybe a lot more than he’s ever let on.
“These are amazing,” I croak.
“What’s with the name?” Amanda asks. “Who says we’re Hall’s Belles?”
“Awfully presumptuous of you,” Devon teases.
He grunts. “I’ve heard you referring to yourselves as that, and besides, that’s what you’re signed up to compete as.”
“Why, Anthony Hall, did you actually look us up?” Agatha’s eyes shine bright as she sizes him up.
His cheeks get the barest shade of pink above his beard. It’s so subtle that I’m not sure anyone notices. “Of course.”
The women howl.
“All of you still need to work on your approach,” he says next.
“Let me guess.” I carefully place the shirt back in its bag and inject a snarky tone into my words, if only to keep up a farce I’m not even sure is needed. “You’re going to be our coach?”
He tilts his head and regards me silently, then gestures Harrison back over from where he’d been cleaning up the pool area. He walks to our reserved lane, and we follow. Producing a key, he opens a compartment beneath the benches and pulls out bowling shoes and the same customized ball he used the last time he came over.
“You’re getting better,” he finally says, “but you all still need a lot of work. And now that my name is on your shirts, you need to step it up.”
After we’re all in our bowling shoes, Anthony instructs us to watch as he gets into position, pulling the ball up to his chin like he’s a baseball pitcher and the ball is his mitt.
“He really does have a nice ass,” Amanda murmurs, a playful smirk on her lips.
Devon snorts as I lean into Amanda and shush her, all of us paying attention to Anthony’s, um, form.
He takes four quick steps, pulling his right arm back with the ball, and then, on his final approach, swings his right leg back as his arm levers forward, releasing the ball perfectly down the center. It lands with a satisfying thwack a good third of the way into the lane, swooshing down without even seeming to roll, before finally beginning to spin on a collision course with the front pin. One second later, the ball hits the pink in a beautiful nose hit, sending it crashing into the others. It’s a strike.
Everyone cheers while I try not to be as turned on as I am. It’s just bowling, for God’s sake. But…damn, did he look hot.
He pivots to face us. “Ready to learn how to do that?”