25. Darcy
Chapter 25
Darcy
M Y BODY ACHES. Both from the massive walk I took along the beach yesterday and the tournament the day before.
My heart aches, too.
I look down at yesterday’s text exchange with Anthony.
ANTHONY
Good morning, gorgeous
Just home from a long walk on the beach. It’s beautiful today.
ANTHONY
How are you?
I’m okay. Had a lot on my mind.
ANTHONY
Want to talk about it?
No but thank you. Talk tomorrow?
ANTHONY
Of course. Come over if you change your mind.
I hadn’t changed my mind. I spent all day yesterday thinking. And thinking a little more. I’ve made some hard decisions, but they’re exciting all the same.
Now that the job at Anthony’s is done, I’d normally head into the hardware shop, ready to tackle whatever it is that Dad left undone over the past day, or week, or even month. The man needs a keeper.
The thing is…I’m not going to be the one to do it.
With my iced coffee half-downed in preparation, I fling myself onto the couch, grab a doily for good luck, and dial.
“You still mad at me?” Dad asks when he answers.
“No,” I sigh softly. “Not that you don’t deserve it.”
His voice tight, Dad answers, “You’re right. I’m…I’m sorry, Darcy girl. But?—”
“No,” I interrupt him. “You can’t say ‘I’m sorry but .’ That’s right up there with telling someone you’re sorry if you offended them. You’re either sorry or you’re not.”
He’s silent for a beat. “You sound just like your mother sometimes,” he says wistfully. “I mean that in a good way, too. She was just as strong as you. You’re smarter. Hell,” he chuckles, “you’re smarter than the both of us ever hoped to be.”
My heart squeezes at his words. She died when I was too young to remember her, but it’s always been clear that Dad loved her. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m sorry. Truly.”
“No ‘but’?”
Huffing out a laugh, he confirms, “No ‘but.’ I remain concerned?—”
“Dad,” I warn.
“ And it’s only the regular amount of concern a father has about his daughter. Which is a lot. It’s not Anthony-specific.”
I take a fortifying sip of my coffee. “Good.”
“You coming in?”
Blowing out a breath, I answer. “That’s the other reason I’m calling.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Depends on your perspective, I suppose,” I hedge.
“Well, then, spit it out.”
“I’m, um, I’m opening my own shop.” The instant the words are out, I feel lighter.
“In town?” Dad asks, nothing but curiosity in his tone.
“No,” I laugh. “Online.”
“What are you selling?”
Part of me is crushed by the question. The other part of me knows that Dad means it in the nicest, sweetest way. But has the man paid no attention? Or—the thought crashes into me—have I ever bothered telling him?
“Darcy girl?” he prompts.
“Little bit of this and a little bit of that,” I answer. “Tables, dressers, custom pool tables. That sort of thing.”
“Well now, that sounds like a big job. How are you going to fit it in with working here?”
It hits me, then, what a coward I’m being by having this conversation over the phone. But it’s done, so there’s nothing to do but keep going. I reach for the spark of irritation that flared the second he assumed I would fit my dream into his world and rip off the metaphorical bandage. “I’m not going to work full-time at the hardware store, Dad. Effective immediately.”
He sucks in a breath, and for several moments, he’s quiet. When he finally speaks, it’s to utter one simple word: “Oh.”
I swallow. “So, that’s that.” I throw the doily over my face and stare at the ceiling through its lacy holes.
We make a little more stilted conversation after that, but I’m antsy and need to do something with my hands, and Dad must sense it, because he lets me go.
I practically run to the garage to find something to do, and after an hour of zoning out to the precision of woodwork, my shoulders finally relax. And a half-hour after that, I’m sitting at the tiny kitchen table, staring at the tiny little button that’ll turn my new website on.
With a click, it’s on, and I exhale, shaking my hands to expel the nervous energy that’s built right back up. But I keep going, navigating over to Instagram to make my first post with shots of Anthony’s pool table, then scheduling reels that show my progression on it, to demonstrate how I work.
What I learned while making the pool table is how hard it is to take something as well-known as a pool table and create something new. That level of creativity and problem-solving was new for me, and I loved it. It felt purposeful. As though engaging in the creation of something beautiful was worthwhile. Worthy of my time. And by extension, it made me feel worthy. Something that I didn’t know I was even looking for.
I thought I was perfectly content working at the hardware store and moonlighting as a carpenter, but renovating Anthony’s loft and making that pool table was nothing short of revolutionary for me. I’ll always be a carpenter, and I’ll always help Dad when he needs it—but this, officially opening myself up to custom orders from people around the world and not relying on the few orders I’ve had by word of mouth? This is what I’m meant to do.
Speaking of Anthony.
With a grin, I take a shower and head his way.
* * *
I pit stop at the Dash In Diner first, and of course I’m greeted by Tom and Jerry on their customary stools on the far end of the counter. Willa nods and smiles at me from the kitchen window, and I make my order with a teenager who looks like she’s one minute away from collapsing in a heap of tears.
“You okay?” I lean forward and ask.
She gives me a watery look. “Yeah, just trying to keep a straight face around those two.”
I look where she indicates. “Tom and Jerry?”
She sniffs and nods. “They’re hilarious, but I made a bet with Miss Willa that I wouldn’t laugh.”
That, of course, makes me laugh, but I clap my hand over my mouth to spare the girl.
Before long, I’m making my way up the back stairs that I spent way too long restoring and let myself in with the spare key that Anthony rolled his eyes about me having.
“Of course you can have a key,” he’d said. “Even if I said no, you’d probably produce some crazy skeleton key like the hardware store kid you are.”
He might be right. But I’ll never tell him.
The scent of his shower gel hits me when I let myself in, and I grin. By the time he’s come out, striding nearly naked across the loft like he always does—and God, I hope he never stops—I’ve plated dinner at the new farm-style table, complete with deep red napkins and new silverware, and am scrounging around for wine glasses to go with the bottle I impulse-bought on the way here.
I feel very grown up.
Which is silly. I’m twenty-four, so of course I’m grown up. But I don’t know. It feels like today I’m making some major Big Girl Steps, and it feels so damn good.
“Darcy?”
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, water droplets snaking down his bare torso, a thin towel wrapped loosely around his waist. When I meet his eyes, I’m confronted with a mixture of hope and wariness. I try to infuse as much warmth as possible in my smile when I say, “I brought dinner.”
“Guess I should get dressed, then,” he offers.
I shrug and let my gaze wander over his impressive body. “I’ll never tell you to put clothes on, Mr. Hall.”
His lips quirk up the tiniest bit.
A few minutes later, I’ve got the wine poured just as Anthony emerges from the bedroom. He’s in gray sweatpants—which I’ve told him are criminally distracting—and a plain black T-shirt, his bare feet padding across the loft as he nears the table.
“This is nice,” he says, then pins his eyes to mine as we each take a seat. He holds his wine glass aloft, then murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”
We drink.
“I missed you,” I confess as I place my glass on the table. “But I needed the alone time, if that makes sense.”
He hums, cutting into his salad and taking a bite. His shoulders are relaxed, and there’s no tension in the set of his jaw. All signs that I’ve learned are him giving me the space I need to work out what I need to say. And whether that’s a product of him being seventeen years older than me or not, I appreciate it. Something tells me he’s always been like this: patient, giving.
I love you. Everything in me screams to say it, but for all my supposed growth over the past couple of days, I take the easy way out. “I launched my website and posted my first content.”
His eyes light up. “For your business?”
I nod, my expression matching his.
“Darcy, that’s incredible. I’m so fucking proud of you. How do you feel?”
And see, that right there? That’s what I’m talking about. “Like I love you.” My hand slaps over my mouth, and my eyes are probably the size of headlights. I literally just thought I was too scared to say something, but then he tells me he’s proud of me and thinks to ask how I feel, and I’m blurting it out without a second thought.
But the smile that spreads across his face, bright and beautiful and so fucking sexy it hurts, helps me breathe a little easier. “I love you, too.”
“You do?” I squeak, my hand still over my mouth.
“Yeah, baby, I do.” He stands and tosses his napkin to the table, then holds his hand out. “Dinner can wait. Come here.”
I place my fingers in his palm, and he encircles them with his own. Wordlessly, I rise, my own napkin falling to the floor as he pulls me gently to his bedroom.
As we cross the threshold, my heart thrums, caught between wanting to take flight and wanting to burrow into Anthony’s body and make itself at home there. The way he looks at me…holy shit. He lifts his hands, then cups my chin, tipping it up to his mouth and capturing my lips with his. His beard scrapes my skin, and I relish the feel.
I wrap my hands around his waist, guiding them beneath his shirt to roam across the expanse of his skin, the feel of coarse hair tickling my palms, the sound of his sharp inhale as I gently pinch his nipples. “I need your skin,” I murmur.
He obeys, pulling his shirt off and then going for mine, the two of us tugging it off simultaneously. His hands thread through my hair, pushing it away from my face and down my back. “This hair of yours,” he whispers. “Do you know how I fantasized about it? Wanted so badly to see it down, to feel it between my fingers? So fucking soft and silky.” He nuzzles my neck, and I go on my tiptoes to give him better access, releasing a gasp as his teeth graze my ear.
His hands roam farther, rounding my ass and squeezing before tucking his thumbs into the skirt and pushing it down my thighs. “And this skirt. Jesus, woman—did you wear this on purpose?”
I moan as his lips find the tender flesh of my breast and suck, holding him in place. I want the mark, want to be branded by him. “I did,” I admit, digging my nails into his hair and scraping his scalp just like he loves.
He groans, dipping as his knees bend to pull the skirt the rest of the way off. He divests me of my shoes, then straightens, hissing as I grab for his dick through the sweatpants. “Did you wear these on purpose?”
His answering chuckle is dark and knowing. “Of course I did. Now lay on the bed and let me look at you.”
I obey, not interested in being punished this evening. Only worshipped.
“Every curve is so fucking sexy,” he says, his bobbing cock providing irrefutable proof.
“Touch yourself,” I whisper.
He smirks. “Dip your finger into that pussy and show Daddy how wet you are.”
I squirm. “Fuck, that’s hot.” I don’t hesitate, pushing a finger through my folds and displaying my arousal for his inspection.
“Lick it off, sweetheart.”
I give him the show he wants, raising my finger to my mouth and sucking it in, closing my eyes to clean it and releasing with a pop.
“Good girl,” he praises, fisting his cock and giving it a slow pump. “You gonna take them off for me? Let me see that glistening pussy?”
I start with my bra, then move to the lacy panties, and when I spread my legs for his perusal, my core goes absolutely molten at the way his eyes darken to a forest green with lust. I squirm again, needing relief, and he notices.
“Tell me what you want, Darcy Belle.” His voice is dark with promise. “I’ll give it to you.”
“Say it again.” I need to hear it.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling over me with the grace of a dancer and lowering himself between my legs. His cock lays heavy on my abdomen, and he thrusts against my core slowly, giving me the pressure I’m so desperate for. Our eyes don’t leave each other as he repeats, “I love you, Darcy.”
I exhale, squeezing my eyes shut with relief for a brief moment, and when I open them, it’s to see him studying me with an intensity I’m not sure I’ve ever seen out of him. “I love you, Anthony.”
He kisses me then, and in seconds, he’s positioning his cock to push into me, the both of us gasping for air around the kiss. He feels different, somehow. Bigger, filling me even more than before. And when we come together, his release spilling inside of me, I hold him to me, unwilling to let him move.