Chapter 14
BABS
Hollister helps me to my feet. My body aches from the amazing sex despite feeling sated and happy. I roll onto my toes, kiss him, and saunter out of the cabana. My hand drifts to the necklace. His sea glass nestled against my body.
I smile.
Never would I have taken those pearls off.
Yet, how he did it and why he did it seemed so natural and right.
Understanding what I needed more than I did.
I tiptoe back to the studio. The smell of oil and turpentine greets me as I infiltrate his private sanctuary.
Without him here, I peruse the various works cluttering the floor and propped up against every wall.
I look through them. Some are better than others in different stages of completion.
A few pieces are old, and the paint is cracked as if from experimentation.
Several more are worthy of being hung and shown in their own exhibit.
I don’t spend too long. I have an eye for the development of curated works. By the time I step into the gentle water of the warm shower, I’ve already decided which pieces I’ll show and whose gallery I’ll show them in. Of course, I’d be the sponsor. My name guarantees top billing and high prices.
Something I’ll need to broach with him later today.
Possibly over lunch. As I work my way through the shower, sure to clean every inch of my body and hair from salt water and body fluids, I think of him.
How easy it is to be with him. His company is effortless, albeit his startling analysis by the pool sent me walking away from him.
But the sex is superb.
More vigorous and spontaneous than I could have imagined. His energy matches my desire. Men my age can only go once. Even that is sometimes the result of a little pill. It brings a smile to my face as I tilt my head back into the stream and rinse the conditioner from my hair.
This day has been a wonderful surprise, refreshing and invigorating. I’m glad I took a chance coming here. I wonder what else he has planned for us. Shutting off the luxurious marble shower, I grab clean towels from the heated bar mounted to the wall and wrap them around my body and hair.
I should have waited for him. Should have taken longer but honestly, I’m a bit tired and more than sore between my legs.
A little bruise is forming at the top of my thigh.
A clear indentation caused his digging fingertips.
There’s something wild about the way he touches me.
Like he’s not just worshipping my body but discovering it. Almost revering it.
My smile grows wider as I pad back into his studio. The queen bed shoved in the corner under the eaves calls to me. The fluffy, pristine white bedding stands out of place in the chaos of color.
It’s evident that he has excellent staff.
I collapse sideways on the bed. My towel provides enough coverage without disturbing the bedding. I’m not tired, not really, but my eyes drift shut anyway. Before I can talk myself out of it, before I can turn over thoughts of galleries and exhibitions and where this all leads, I fall asleep.
I hear it.
The soft scrape of pencil on paper.
My eyes blink open to darkness. Not complete. A halo of stark light pools from a lamp clamped to the edge of a workbench, illuminating only a stool beside the bed. His head is bent, a sketchpad in his lap. The rest of the room, his sanctuary, is buried in shadows.
He looks lonely. Not sad exactly, but stripped away. Real and raw.
“Hollister?”
He doesn’t startle. Just looks up, a soft smile curving one side of his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes like it did earlier today.
“Hey,” he murmurs, a heaviness in his tone. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
I sit up slowly, holding the towel around me, suddenly too aware of everything. The intimacy, the vulnerability, the soft ache between my legs from sex.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“You needed the rest. I put you through the paces.”
He did and he didn’t. A fleeting thought about him thinking we’re making love. Causing me to wonder what straight-up fucking is like with him.
“What time is it?”
“Almost 8 o’clock.”
I stare at him, trying to calculate how many hours I’ve been asleep. It’s impossible since the plane ride, beach, and cabana made time disappear. Maybe that’s the effect of him or the Hamptons. I can’t decide.
“I brought food, but . . .” His eyes move to a breakfast tray with sterling silver cloche dishes on it. Obviously prepared for him. “We can go up to the house and get something fresh.”
My gaze returns to his. Knowing I need to eat, but unsure about going to the main house. Which should be an obvious choice. Yet, I’m endeared to this little studio of his, comfortable and opposite to the grandeur of his estate.
“Whichever you prefer.”
He turns the sketchpad around for a beat, then flips it back before I can get a full look.
“Is that me?”
He nods once.
“Sleeping beauty. With towel armor.”
I chuckle.
“How flattering.”
“It’s meant to be honest. Like we talked about poolside.”
Ah, yes. The thing he said before he broke me open and dug around in my consciousness, making me all too aware of how perceptive he is. He sets the pad down gently on the table and stands, stretching like he’s been holding tension in his body for hours. Maybe he has.
“Do you want to lie down? Are you sleepy?”
I offer his bed to him. The irony. However, I don’t know what I’d do if he takes me up on my offer.
I’d have nothing to do. He shakes his head.
Looking at the spot next to me, I scoot over, making room for him.
I pull the towel from my head. My hair is still damp, knowing it will become very curly in the heavy salt air.
“I draw when I think too much.” His gaze flicks to mine. The offer of joining me on the bed hangs in the air between us. “Helps me untangle things.”
“And what are you overthinking?”
“Like maybe I read this wrong.”
It’s out of his mouth in a second, and my breath hitches.
“This?”
“You. Me. Whatever the hell this thing is that makes me want to stare at you more than I want to touch you. And that’s saying something.”
I swallow, my throat dry.
“You read this wrong?”
My voice comes quieter than I mean for it to, since the beat of my heart is flooding my ears.
“Didn’t I?” His voice cracks, just a little. His expression is weary and a bit sad. “You said good sex is hard to come by, Babs. And maybe that’s true. But that’s not what I’m chasing here. It’s not even close.”
The guilt hits.
A slow, curling squeeze in my ribs.
I did say that. I deflected. Feeling so much already for him and because of him, I didn’t want to unpack all the heavy thoughts and emotions on day one.
Maybe not this weekend even. Could I work through everything he’s dumped out of me even when I’m on steady ground back home, in the sanity of my well-orchestrated life?
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
It sounds flimsy. I push my hair away from my face, needing a distraction as he stares at me. Wanting and expecting more, which I should give but don’t.
He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair.
“I’ve had sex, Barbara. Plenty of it. You know my reputation.”
I nod.
“And I know the difference between physical chemistry and whatever this is that’s turning me inside out.”
“I know you know.”
“You don’t. Not really. Sure, maybe this started out as fleeting or temporary for you. Maybe for me. And maybe I’m rushing things or just letting my own shit get to me. Maybe this has nothing to do with you. But I don’t want to rush you out of here on the next flight because I got what I wanted.”
The vulgarity of his action speaks volumes about how he has handled things in the past with others. My hand reaches for my necklace, only to find his instead. His eyes track every move. A slight frown appears.
“Were you going to rush me out of here?”
Asking questions to elicit more information from him is a tactic I learned from my ex a long time ago.
He’s the master of deflecting and dodging questions.
It’s almost unfair to Hollister to use it.
Yet, he seems to need to get this off his chest before I muddy it up with my thoughts and impressions of the situation.
The real question he’s getting at, and that I don’t know how to answer, is what exactly I want from him. A one-night stand, weekend fling, or more. I’ve vacillated between all three throughout our talk.
He drops onto the edge of the bed, finally, the mattress dipping with his weight, his fingers grazing my knee.
“No. But look, I know you’re guarded. I get it. I’ve seen everything that’s happened. Hell, Dom still battles with that shit. But you rarely talk, and when you do, I’m hanging on every word.”
I sigh, knowing this is true. Having heard it in marriage counseling and having experienced it with my son.
I move to cup his hand, placing mine over the top as it lies on the bed next to me. He looks at it for several long seconds, then at me. Allowing his hand to stay trapped.
“It’s how I survive.”
I offer him very little in the way of an explanation.
“I get that’s how you protect yourself. I’m not asking you to stop surviving. I’m asking you to consider what it would feel like to want more. To open up to me or just tell me I’m a dumbass and all this is too soon or will never happen.”
I lean toward him, the towel slipping further down my chest, which gets a quick peek from him.
“You’re not foolish in thinking there could be more. It’s surprised me how easily we get along. But at the same time, I figured it wouldn’t be too much more than this. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why would you want to chain yourself to someone like me?”
Not to mention, he’s my son’s best friend. A fact that looms larger and larger the closer we get. Yet, if Dominic and I were closer, would I have still come here? Still did what I did with him? I don’t necessarily know that answer either.