Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Sienna
Dallas has never seemed so distant. Through Nico's car windows, the city appears remote. I clutch Mom's pendant so tightly it bites into my palm, the cold metal reminding me how inappropriate this is. Yet I'm conflicted, knowing Mom would be thrilled if she knew I was dating an older man.
I once questioned her about it. "After your dad, I just want your happiness, regardless of whom you choose." She understood my preference for older men. Sophisticated. Experienced. Mature. That's why my faceless man always possessed those qualities. That's why Nico fits so perfectly.
Mom was killed in gang violence, though the perpetrators remained unidentified. If Nico is wealthy, a boss, surely, he wouldn't participate in street gunfights. Is that my twisted justification for this?
"Ready to face humiliating defeat?" he teases, winking playfully, drawing me back to the present.
"Ha, dream on," I mutter. "Nico..."
"Hmm?"
"Just one night," I emphasize. "I don't want to dampen the mood. But you understand my reasoning. I know you'd prefer I pretend otherwise?—"
"It's not that."
"Well, whatever it is, we don’t need to talk about it. It's simply mini golf."
He rests his hand on my thigh. I bite my lip as sensations surge through my leg, teasing mercilessly. I press my thighs together. My body responds instinctively, desire urging me to guide his hand higher.
"Simply mini golf," he echoes huskily.
I should tell him to move his hand. But there are lots of things I should be doing, all of which I seem determined to ignore.
He turns into the golf center's driveway. A sign above the entrance declares, Restaurant closed until further notice . I'm secretly relieved. I'm already questioning whether even golf is a good idea.
He smiles down at me, gesturing me through the imposing double doors.
"Is there a leaderboard, or do you have a plaque on the wall or something?" I inquire.
Before he can respond, a man calls from behind the desk. "Nico! The prodigy returns!"
Nico laughs and approaches him. The man exudes a kindly uncle aura—older, sporting a braided brown beard and warm smile. I feel somewhat awkward beside Nico as they embrace. How will he introduce me? Surely not as his date ?
He gestures toward me with sophisticated ease. "This is Sienna Vale, a local artist. My mother commissioned her to capture her life. She's remarkably talented... though hopefully not at putt-putt."
"Two admissions, then? Certainly. But don't even consider offering payment."
Nico smiles. "It's no trouble?—"
"Not after you solved that situation with those pesky troublemakers!"
"Charley," Nico interjects tensely. "Perhaps we could talk about this later."
I consider literally plugging my ears. The only way I can enjoy myself—if I even deserve enjoyment—is by forgetting this mob connection. Yet here's unmistakable evidence. What sort of " help " did Nico Moretti provide?
Charley glances at me, comprehension dawning. "Of course."
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I worked at the Cattle and Vine. I've heard rumors."
Charley hesitates before shaking his head. "I don't understand your meaning."
"Two, please," Nico says stiffly.
"Certainly, certainly."
He hurries to the counter. I thrust my hands into my pockets and examine the wall of pictures. I'm attempting nonchalance, but memories of our near kiss, that tantalizing brush of lips, resonate through me. It's desire versus rationality. Integrity versus artistry. Far more complex than my typically straightforward existence.
Hard to be alone? Yes. But uncomplicated.
I suppress it all. The boy in the picture beneath the prominent "Record" sign is unmistakably Nico. Now I understand what Gianna meant. His smile mirrors the one I sketched.
"Look at him," Nico says, chuckling. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is."
"That's my reaction whenever I look at pictures from before, Mom..."
He raises his hand, then lowers it. Tension crackles between us. His gaze suggests he wants to paint me with his tongue. He wants to caress me. He desires me. No one has ever looked at me this way before, and I've never wanted them to.
He turns away, seemingly frustrated by his lust overshadowing sympathy. But I think it's the opposite. Pretending we're merely primal creatures simplifies everything.
"I love this song," I murmur into the silence.
Leon Bridges plays through the speaker system.
"Yeah?"
"Mom was old school. She had a record player with his complete collection. Well... everything released before she?—"
I can’t complete the thought.
"Perhaps we could listen together sometime."
"I had to sell both the player and records," I confess. "After Mom's passing, I needed to focus on surviving. I'm not proud of that."
He leans in closer. "You don’t need to feel guilty about it, either."
I retreat before surrendering to his enticing embrace. "Shall we get started?"
He frowns. "Certainly."
We carry our clubs through the door onto the open-air course. The first hole features a gentle slope leading to a cup nestled within a depression. He hands me a paper and a pencil. "You should keep the score. Just resist your artistic impulses. When you lose, I don't want you claiming distraction by creative inspiration."
His compliment brightens my mood. Our hands touch as I accept the pencil, reminding me of his earlier statement. We should kiss to dissolve this tension.
"I'll try not to."
He positions his ball.
"Whoa, Mr. Millionaire, step back."
He chuckles. "Have I missed something?"
"Why did you automatically assume you’re going first?"
"Ah."
"Precisely... ah. I believe you should forfeit going first for thinking you could butt in like that. Or should I say, putt in…" I quip with a grin.
He approaches, laughing. "And I believe you should forfeit for that atrocious wordplay."
"I almost agree," I admit. "I simply couldn't resist."
"Honestly, I liked it, Sienna. Just don't tell anyone."
"Wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation," I remark, bending to place my ball.
I turn, catching him watching me. He makes no pretense otherwise. He checks out my ass, and it feels exhilarating. I never imagined feeling this desirable. I almost want to accentuate my movements. His attention intoxicates me. In this moment, forgetting everything else, highlighting this shade of ruby red desire, sparkling, tempting, begging us to surrender.
“There's always an advantage to going second."
"Really?" I ask, lining up my shot.
"I can potentially hit your ball," he explains. "Ruining your score. Or we can do it the boring way—you complete your putt, then I begin."
"No, let's do it the fun way," I decide. “It won’t matter, anyway. You can't hit my ball if I get a hole-in-one." When he laughs, I challenge, "You don’t believe me?"
"I admire your confidence, piccola pittrice ."
Shivers cascade over me like delicate finishing strokes. "What does that mean?"
"Little painter," he translates.
" Little . Not exactly. But I understand what you mean. You're the impressive hedge fund magnate..." Not to mention mob boss. No, focus, have fun, forget about that. I'm being selfish. "And I'm merely a humble artist."
"You enjoy teasing me, don't you, piccola pittrice ? Fortunately, I appreciate your playfulness."
My cheeks flush crimson before I turn away, taking aim. "You won't appreciate this."
I strike the ball. It rolls up the slope, then curves into the depression at precisely the right angle. I gasp as it glides effortlessly into the hole. Then I turn, feigning indifference, shrugging nonchalantly. "See?"
He grins, approaching. "When you gasp like that, you rather undermine the pretense that this wasn't entirely planned."
I playfully slap his chest, then leave my hand there. We go from laughter to intense eye contact. Like flipping a switch. One night , I told him and meant it. Can't I simply enjoy myself just this once? Not even dinner. Just miniature golf, and this: the undercurrent. Like how a line curves when you let your hand guide you instead of logic.
I press against his firm muscles. He reaches out, grasping my hip. Draws me closer. I have ample opportunity to prevent what's happening. Yet I melt effortlessly into his embrace, still making no attempt to stop it. One night . Burgundy visions cloud my mind as I recall Mom, then push her away.
Because I want this moment with him, beneath the amber sky melting into azure, yielding to inky darkness. I want my perfect mature man, the one I sketched, forgetting everything else.
He leans down, his lips inching closer. Time moves agonizingly slowly, offering countless opportunities to pull away. I don’t take any of them.
He kisses me passionately. He kisses me —as if I wish to deflect responsibility—but we kiss each other. I glide my hands up his arms, feeling his strength, his power, the experience, and a mature sense of security I've always craved.
When his hand slides across my back toward my ass, I pull away slightly. He repositions his hand on my back, steadying me. His eyes gleam with excitement. Gianna mentioned its rarity; perhaps he only has cause for it around me.
"I shouldn't push my vignette too hard."
"Vignette works better," I whisper. "A short snippet of something. Brief yet indelible. A moment or series of moments which matter... but which must inevitably end."
He looks momentarily annoyed but then captures my lips again. "Indelible is right," he groans, drawing me closer against his body. I pull back when I hear snickering and detect teenagers entering the course.
He makes the putt in two strokes. I cast him a look of pure triumph, the lingering kiss still electrifying my lips. We refrain from further embraces throughout the remainder of the course. Two families have joined our group, compelling us to maintain decorum.
But the way he gazes at me... I could paint an entire collection just of his eyes, the hunger, the glimmers of intelligence and wit. He fascinates me. Sue me. Is that truly so bad?
"Is that your good luck charm?" he inquires at hole twelve, featuring a rotating windmill. I drop the pendant, suddenly conscious that I've been fidgeting with it.
I position myself for the next shot. "It was my mom’s," I reveal.
"Ah," he murmurs.
"Ah," I echo, tilting my head inquisitively. I raise a single finger.
"Another hole in one?" He smiles – then frowns. Then looks almost irate. "Oh, one night."
"If we break the one-night rule, the live-in-the-moment principle, I'll start asking uncomfortable questions. That would shatter the mood, wouldn't it?"
He appears conflicted, jaw clenched. "It's not that. It's?—"
"No, Nico," I interject, affixing a smile to my face. Not entirely fake, yet not wholly genuine either. "I don't need your explanations. Perhaps they're your rules. Or you suspect I'm some covert spy. It's irrelevant, at least for now. Let's enjoy this. I'll feel guilty tomorrow."
"Guilty for being with me," he says fiercely, reclaiming my hip as if asserting ownership: this piece of me and my entirety. He draws me closer. "When you want to be with me."
"This version. This facet. This nuance." I pull away despite my reluctance, grateful for the other families' presence to maintain our propriety. "This moment."
He stares meaningfully as I turn to take my shot. I'm perplexed by his mounting frustration. I was transparent about this earlier. Besides , what does he expect from me? A relationship?
When I used to envision my ideal mystery man, of course, I'd contemplate what a relationship might be like. I'd imagine a vague yet bright future filled with painting, living, laughing, and loving like that clichéd poster—clichéd precisely because it epitomizes what authentic life should be like.
My ball strikes the rotating windmill blade and rolls back several inches. Nico grins, and I reciprocate. Somehow, it's that effortless. With the versions of ourselves capable of burying everything else.
"Let me help," he offers, positioning his ball.
"I doubt you can."
"Don't be so pessimistic, Vignette."
He strikes his ball, so it collides with mine, propelling it beneath the windmill and out the opposite side. I watch incredulously as it rolls into the hole. I rush to him, laughing, bouncing excitedly. "Does that qualify as a hole in one? What's your verdict?"
"I think if I don't kiss you immediately, I'll die."
He enfolds me in his arms. The kiss is swift and respectful yet simmering with desire.
The quickness of the kiss intensifies its illicit allure.
"And yes, Vignette, that was indeed a hole in one."