4. Marcus
Marcus
I sit in my office, the polished oak desk a battleground of reports and scattered papers. The air smells of aged wood and faint traces of coffee, remnants of a long day spent wrapping up the last few meetings and phone calls before the holidays. Outside my window, the city sprawls beneath a tumultuous sky, heavy clouds swirling ominously, mirroring my turbulent thoughts.
The weather has taken a dire turn, and with every glance at the horizon, my stomach churns with worry. My daughter, Coco, is due to land soon, and I can’t shake the dread that grips me. What if her flight is still in the air, battling the merciless winds? The thought of her soaring through the storm sends a jolt of anxiety through me, tightening my chest as I envision her trapped in a metal tube, surrounded by clouds and turbulence.
The hum of the city fades into the background, and I cannot help but pace the room. The familiar confines suddenly feeling too restrictive despite its spaciousness. Each tick of the clock seems to mock my worry, each second stretching into an eternity.
My phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the oppressive silence, and my heart leaps as I see Coco’s name flash on the screen. Relief floods through me as I answer quickly, eager to hear her voice. “Dad, my flight’s delayed,” she says, the tension in her voice dissipating with the admission. A weight lifts from my shoulders, but a feeling of concern remains.
“Thank goodness,” I reply, forcing calmness into my voice, though the fear still lingers like a shadow. “How are you doing? I hope you are somewhere warm.”
“I’m okay, but I need a favor,” she continues, and I brace myself for what comes next. My heart is racing at the thought of her request, not fully recovered from the bout of worry it endured when I feared she was in the air.
“Anything,” I assure her, my voice steady, the words leaving me almost in reflex.
“Can you pick up Nyree? Her flight arrived on time, but I can’t make it. She’s waiting at the airport.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I agree. My relief that Coco is safe relegates any mild discomfort of driving in this weather to a mere insignificance. Although, this certainly is no weather to drive in, but it is even less so weather to be stranded at the airport in. I throw on my coat, grab my keys, and swiftly walk out the door. The chill in the air bites at my skin, a sharp reminder that winter has taken hold. Yet the real chill comes from the impending storm as I slide into my black Jeep. The road ahead is a blur, slick with ice and snow swirling in the wind.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, focusing on the narrow view of the wipers clear from the windshield. The pilots made the right choice, delaying her flight instead of taking off in this weather. That eases my mind a little, but the knot between my shoulders refuses to unwind, along with the constant worry ticking away in the back of my mind that Coco is stuck at the airport.
As I get closer to the airport, my curiosity grows. Nyree. Coco’s friend, but someone I’ve never heard much about. I keep a watchful eye on Coco, despite her living in another city. We are also quite close. I usually know most of the people in her life, her friends, and their stories. Yet, Nyree remains a mystery. It feels strange not knowing more, especially since Coco seems to care about her so much.
It’s not like Coco to keep things from me, and even less like her to ask me for a favor with little explanation. I can’t help but wonder who this woman is and what she means to my daughter.
The snow is falling heavier now, the storm making the drive feel longer than usual. Finally, the airport lights dimly come into view. I pull into the arrivals lane, grab a piece of cardboard I had tucked away in the car, and quickly scrawl her name on it: “Nyree.”
It’s not the most polished way to meet someone, but in this weather, I don’t have time to be walking around trying to find her. I step out of the car, the cold gnawing at my skin as the wind pushes against me. I hold the sign up, scanning the crowd. My curiosity deepens as I wonder who this Nyree is.
“Mr. Davenport?” a voice calls out through the howling wind, faint but clear enough to cut through the storm. I turn toward the sound. Through the falling snow, I see a figure bundled in a heavy coat, her face hidden beneath the hood. She gestures toward the cardboard sign in my hand. “Nyree?” I ask, wanting to be sure.
She nods, and wasting no time, I move quickly to load her luggage into the back of the car. The wind is relentless, stinging our faces and hitting us with an almost physical force. She stands there, hesitant. Her movements are small and careful, as though unsure of herself. There’s a shyness about her, one I can sense even through the thick layers of her coat.
“Get in,” I say, my voice steady but with an edge of urgency that the cold seems to demand. This weather isn’t something we should linger in. I round the car swiftly and slide into the driver’s seat just as she settles into the passenger side. As soon as the doors close, the sharp noise of the wind is replaced by a muffled quiet. The sudden warmth of the car is a welcome relief, a cocoon of safety against the chaos outside.
I ease the car into motion; the tires crunching over the ice-laden road as I grip the wheel tightly. The snow falls in thick, white sheets, making visibility poor, and every turn of the wheel feels precarious. The weight of the jeep barely holds steady on the slippery surface. My focus is sharp, every muscle in my body attuned to the road, unwilling to take any risks. But part of my attention is also drawn to Nyree, seated quietly beside me.
She is reserved, and her gestures are small and tentative. She clasps her hands together on her lap now and then. I catch her glancing out the window, her fingers twitching slightly, as if unsure what to do with themselves. She thanks me softly for picking her up, her voice barely rising above the steady hum of the engine. It’s then that I remember what Coco had told me in passing, how Nyree had been going through a rough time and doesn’t have a family to spend the holidays with.
That memory stirs a pang of sympathy within me. Suddenly, her timidness and almost bashful demeanor make sense. There’s a fragility to her, a quiet sort of tension in the way she holds herself, like she’s not sure if she belongs. I feel a soft tug of responsibility, an instinct to put her at ease.
Breaking the silence, I glance over at her. “It’s great that Coco didn’t get on her flight before this hit,” I say, my voice gentle but conversational. “Best if she stays put till this storm clears. This is no weather for flying.”
“Yeah…” she replies quickly, almost as if she’s been rehearsing her answer. “Flying in this storm would’ve been… bad.” Her voice trails off, deliberately, as though she’s choosing her words with extra caution.
There’s something endearing about her hesitation; the way she carefully navigates the conversation, trying not to say the wrong thing. I can’t help but smile. A small laugh escapes me, a short, warm sound that seems to break the tension hanging between us.
She looks over at me. Her expression softens slightly, a hint of relief passes over her face. The laugh, it seems, has calmed her. For the rest of the drive, her posture loosens, and though it remains quiet, there’s a visible shift in the mood. She seems a little more comfortable and less on edge. I keep my eyes mostly on the road, but now and then, I catch glimpses of her from the corner of my eye and notice the subtle changes in her demeanor. It’s a small victory, but it makes the long drive through the storm feel just a little easier.
We finally arrive at the vacation house. The glowing warmth from its windows cut through the cold like a beacon of comfort. I feel a sense of anticipation wash over me as we pull into the driveway. The place had been prepped earlier in the week, ready for the holidays. As we approach, I’m already filled with a familiar sense of peace. The walk from the car to the house is mercifully brief, the striking wind nipping at us for just a moment before we are embraced by the house’s welcoming warmth.
I shrug off my coat, feeling the heat seep into my skin, thawing me. Nyree does the same, and as she slips off her jacket, I hear her soft voice behind me.
“Thank you for picking me up,” she says.
I turn to respond, my mind on autopilot. But when I look at her, I freeze. Words die in my throat.
With her coat off, Nyree is no longer a bundled up figure lost in layers. Now, I can really see her. And what I see leaves me completely stunned.
Her dark eyes are distinct, soft but with an intensity that feels both inviting and meek. Her curly black hair bounces lightly, framing her face perfectly, the kind of hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it. Her skin is a warm caramel, catching the light in a way that seems to pull me in, the richness of it almost glowing. And her figure… God, her figure. She’s fuller than most women I’ve known, but in the most incredibly seductive way. Her curves are generous, unapologetically feminine, and stir something wild inside me I haven't felt in a very long time.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, staring like a fool. For a moment, the room narrows to just her, her soft eyes, and the way she moves with an effortless grace, despite her initial shyness. Time stretches on, and I’m caught in this spell, utterly enthralled by her beauty. She’s staring back at me too, her brow furrowed slightly, as if she can sense the shift between us. There's confusion in her eyes, she’s feeling something similar?
Jesus Christ, Marcus. Get a grip . She’s about your daughter's age! I mentally scold myself, tearing my eyes away from her. She’s only 25, and I’m 45 years old. I force myself back to the present.
“You’re welcome,” I manage, my voice steady despite the flurry of emotions inside me. I turn, focusing my attention anywhere but her. “Coco should be here tomorrow, if the weather clears up. In the meantime, I’ll make sure you get settled in.”
Without waiting for a response, I head straight for the kitchen, my body moving almost automatically. I need distance. I need a moment to breathe.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, exhaling sharply, my heart racing. “What the hell was that?” My mind spins, replaying when I first saw her without her coat. It was an almost overwhelming surge of attraction. It's disorienting. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in years.
I stop the thought in its tracks, shaking my head as if I could physically rid myself of it. I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself and focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of my chest. I’m not some kid who can’t control himself. Get it together, Marcus. That is your daughter’s friend!
After a few moments, I feel the bubbling lust subside. The intensity of that moment easing, though not entirely gone. I run a hand through my hair, exhaling one last breath, and push myself away from the counter. Time to get back out there.
When I return to the living room, I find Nyree standing in the middle of the room, that same uncertain look on her face as though she’s not sure where she fits in this space. She looks almost vulnerable in that moment, and a wave of something, protectiveness maybe, clings to me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer now. “Let me show you to your room.”
She smiles, grateful, and follows me upstairs. I lead her to the guest room at the end of the hall, flicking on the lights as we step inside. It’s a cozy space, with a warm color scheme and a few of my favorite books stacked on the shelves by the window.
“This is nice,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of surprise as she looks around the room.
I watch her for a moment as she moves deeper into the space, the soft light casting a glow over her. She walks ahead of me, and again, I can’t help but notice the way her curves move, the way they seem to call to something deep inside me. It’s unsettling, this pull I feel. I realize I need to leave her presence before I let it get the better of me again.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say quickly, already making my way to the door. “I’ll go make dinner.”
“Oh,” she says, turning back to me. “I can help. It’s the least I can do after the ride.”
I stop, turning to face her again. There’s something about the way she says it, so innocent, so earnest. It makes my heart start pounding faster. I know that being in the kitchen with her, in such close proximity, would be a terrible idea. Not when I’m still trying to push down this attraction, that’s bubbling up inside me.
“Thanks,” I say, managing a smile, “but I’ve got it. You’ve had a long flight. You should take a hot bath, relax a little, and get some rest.”
She nods, though I can see the faintest trace of disappointment in her eyes. Still, there’s understanding there too, and I take that as my cue to leave, heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Once I’m alone, I begin preparing dinner. My hands move with practiced ease as I chop onions and vegetables, trying to focus on the simple, familiar task in front of me. The wind howls outside, the snow beating relentlessly against the windows, and I look out to see the storm is still in full force.
I hope this storm eases soon. Because being alone with Nyree, with these feelings building inside me….feels like I’m standing on the edge of something, and I don’t know what will happen if I fall.
***