All My Love Chapter 1
OLDER AND THREE TIMES MY SIZE.
Dahlia
Age 15. Five Years Ago.
“You can’t just sit in bed and stare at a photo all day!” My sister’s slender fingers curl into the magazine, crumpling it as she swipes it away. She jerks back, holding it out of reach as I scramble off the bed to my feet, jumping for it.
“Give it back!” I demand, my volume spiking, pulse hammering, my entire body brimming with panicked, frantic energy. “I need it!” I shout, leaping for the magazine again as Juniper rocks to her toes, making it harder to reach.
“Dolly,” she says calmly, always a wall of calm against my chaos. “Take the paint set you got for Christmas, go out front, and paint something.”
“No!” I scream as my other sister Ivy appears in my bedroom doorway, her jet-black box-dyed hair in two twisted knots atop her head. Eyes lined in black, she blinks at me, arms folded over her torn-up Blondie t-shirt.
“Dahlia, there’s only a few days left of break. I’m all for your quirkiness, seriously, I am. But,” she says, coming into my room finally, flopping down on the edge of my bed. Juniper is still holding my People magazine out of reach, so I sit next to Ivy, glaring up at my oldest sister.
Ivy rests her hand on my thigh, smiling at me, her black lipstick cracking. “You need some fresh air. Everyone does.”
I look up at the nearly destroyed magazine in Juni’s grip. “Henry Cavill will still be there,” Ivy offers, smiling softly as I slowly nod. It’s two against one, and in our house, we respect the numbers. It’s how we’ve managed to live parent-free for eight years. That, and of course, our incredibly deep bond with one another.
“Fine,” I huff, getting to my feet and grabbing the stupid paint set and canvas from my desk. “I don’t even like painting,” I groan, slipping into my cardigan, forgoing shoes. I’ve always loved the way the grass feels on the soles of my feet, the way mud curls between my toes. “I hate art,” I add without care that I sound bratty.
So what if I want to stare at the photo of the love of my life in my bedroom all day, every day and envision our lives together? Is there something wrong with knowing what you want? I don’t think so. In fact, I think it’s smart.
I think knowing exactly what I want from life and who I want to share that life with, at my age, is brilliant. I don’t have to waste time searching, all I need is an executable plan.
Juni and Ivy have come to understand the depths of my love. I know they think I won’t ever find a way to meet Henry Cavill, much less make him see that we’re meant to be.
And as the youngest, I think it’s normal to be underestimated .
“What about the old oak? Between our place and the one next door,” Juni suggests, trailing after me down the hall, toward the front, still holding my magazine.
“Bob Ross that shit right now, Dol,” Ivy adds, passing me one of her favorite sketching pencils. She’s an aspiring artist, but I know for a fact this is her favorite piece of graphite. They nudge me out, and though I don’t admit it, the gentle sting of crisp air against my bare calves and feet does feel good. The screen door closes behind me, and as I head toward the oak tree, my anger seems to lift, little by little.
Maybe I’ll like painting. I mean, maybe not, but I’m out here and I know Juni and Ivy won’t let me back in until this canvas is covered. Smirking, I place the canvas against an upturned watering pot, and take a seat cross-legged in front of it. They recommended the oak as a subject, but as I survey the palette of color options, I know I have everything I need to paint him.
I begin mixing cadmium red with yellow ochre and some titanium white, recalling a photo of Henry at Cannes, standing against a vibrant blue sea backdrop, his skin sun-kissed perfection. Adding a touch of burnt umber, my smile shifts from smirk to grin as the shade progresses nicely.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of lavender and fresh grass, pretending he’s here, standing over me, just returned from his trip. “It’s going to be great,” invisible Henry assures me, his voice smooth and sexy, as always. I open my eyes, surveying the paint shade. After deciding it’s perfect, I bring Ivy’s sketch pencil to the canvas. The first line is drawn when the screen door opens in the near distance. I glance back.
With her hands cupped to her mouth, Juniper shouts, “And don’t paint Henry Cavill!” She lowers her hands, head tipped empathetically to the side as she smiles at me from afar, adding less loudly, “No Henry Cavill for the next hour. ”
Turning back to my singular line, I consider how I can turn what was supposed to be Henry Cavill’s square jaw into a trunk. Juni and Ivy support my passionate personality—not because they’re my sisters and they have to but because we’re equally passionate. In our own ways. I’ve come to learn that real love is both tough and tender, and they’ve taught me that.
After adding some more umber, I mix the paint and lift one hand to shield my eyes from the sun that pours through the oak. It’s our favorite tree on the ranch. I climbed it when I was young, my bare feet scraped on the rough bark, leaving cuts and aches. But as I sat atop that tree with my copy of The Lightning Thief and dreamt of adventuring the world with my love, Percy Jackson, I didn’t have a care in the world.
I grew out of Percy but never grew out of loving the tree. Same with my sisters. The funny part is that it’s technically not on our property, instead belonging to the ranchette next door. No one has lived next door for so long, we consider the tree ours.
I get to work on the trunk, stopping a few times to mix underlight and highlight tones for detailing. Pushing a strand of hair off my face with the back of my wrist, I glance up, past my canvas.
There’s a truck in the distance, one tearing down the private dirt road. I blink curiously, since there are just two homes spread across this large piece of land and like I said, one’s been vacant since forever. The truck grows louder as it nears, and I almost drop my brush when it takes the fork in the road t oward our house .
What the ?
Juni and Ivy come outside—that’s how rare it is that someone drives down our road. Ivy’s got black boots on, her legs covered in black fishnet stockings, her long t-shirt a dress of sorts. Juni is in overalls, barefoot like me, her long golden hair down, stick straight as always. Her green eyes grow dark when she’s protective, and as the truck comes straight toward our property, she narrows her darkening gaze as she moves past the oak tree to stand in protection of everyone and thing behind her.
The truck parks at the empty house next door. I glance over at Ivy. “I didn’t know it was for sale,” I say quietly, my heart racing.
Neighbors?
We’ve never had neighbors. Like my dad always said, the Ellington sisters need their space. I didn’t know what that meant back then but as I’ve grown, I’ve come to understand that three extremely passionate women can be… frightening , if you’re not prepared.
I was even a little nervous two years back when Juni showed up with a man in the back of our truck, tied up, a kitchen apron rolled up and shoved into his mouth. She explained that he cut her off then flipped her the bird in town after church. I understood why she’d brought him back; he needed to apologize kindly and learn his lesson. If you don’t touch fire, you don’t learn, Juni is always humming. The next day she told us as soon as she sat him down and talked some sense into him, he apologized. He even walked back three miles into town to get home, because he wanted to clear his head for his newly learned perspective, she said.
“Someone had to own it. It didn’t just belong to Earth, Dolly. Of course it was eventually going to be sold,” Ivy says, stepping closer to me as the driver’s door on the truck opens. Parked with his bumper toward the house, I can’t see anything but rich sienna cowboy boots hit the ground as the door slams closed, rattling the trunk.
The paint brush topples from my hand, skidding down my white linen dress. My favorite dress forever stained by a Cannes-Henry umber and ochre. Yet I’m on my feet and slowly drifting toward the man who is coming around the front of the truck.
His hair is longish on top, wavy like maybe his dad had curly hair or something or maybe he runs his fingers through it a ton. He’s massive . He’s got to be over six feet something, and his shoulders are hulking. Wearing a black t-shirt, his chest muscles ripple through the loved fabric. And Christ almighty, he is wearing the hell out of those blue jeans. Worn and dirty around the thighs and knees, the jeans tell the story of a very hard-working man. And his body confirms this. My eyes finally make it to his face.
“ Oh my god …” I breathe quietly, Ivy now at my side.
Because I’m not looking at her, I only feel Ivy’s sharp eyes against my profile.
And I’m not looking at him. I’m staring at him.
Discreetly, I inhale through my nose, trying desperately to steal his scent. Does he smell like he’s been working all day? Or like aftershave and beer? Bedsheets and whispered desires? I don’t know.
But I am going to find out.
I need to know his smell. I need to memorize his taste. I want to see him stripped bare of clothes and carve it into my brain forever. I want to hear his private noises and have them to replay in my mind forever. I want to drape myself at his feet to absorb whatever he has to give. I hope it’s everything.
“It’s been less than thirty seconds, bitch,” Ivy hisses, her sarcastic tone fused with fear. “Do not look at that man like that. He’s massive. He’s, like, three times your size . And… he’s, like… old , anyway.”
Just then, Juni turns around. “Ivy, Dahlia, come meet our new neighbor, Hudson Gray.”
“Our neighbor ,” Ivy says without moving her lips, keeping her voice private. We loop arms and walk toward him, and I ignore her warning.
I don’t care if he’s older, if he’s our neighbor, or that he’s three times my size ..
I don’t care that I’ve only known of his existence for thirty fucking seconds or not. It irritates me that she would mention that because love and passion care nothing about trivial things like time.
Everyone knows, time is just a construct.
I mentally push Ivy aside as electricity scorches through my veins, searing my soul, awakening every limp and lifeless synapse, nerve ending, and pleasure receptor in my brain and body. I’m warm and wet beneath my cotton panties, and I know without a doubt, without a question at all…
I am in love with this man.
And he is mine.
“Hi, Ivy,” he greets, slipping his hand into hers after Juni nods her way. Jealousy spikes inside me when they touch, my cheeks simmering and my ears burning. After too long, his hand finally slides into mine. Our gazes collide in silence, and he graces me with his focus.
My stomach flips and my lips tingle. A vision flashes before me, one of me reaching up to press my mouth to his then licking along his lips after taking a leisurely, hot kiss. God , I want to suck on his bottom lip and trace his teeth with my tongue. I want his spit in my mouth, sliding down my throat..
“Hi, Dahlia.” He smiles, and I am a new woman . I have a new, overwhelming ache coming from deep inside me. Deeper than with Henry. This thing I feel, it’s bone-deep. Like he is the missing piece of my soul, returning to make me complete.
“That’s a pretty name,” he says, smiling at me as the sun breaks free from the oak overhead, illuminating him. My handsome Hudson.
“Everyone calls me Dolly,” I tell him as he takes his hand away. His eyes fall to the smear of paint on my white dress. He twists to see where I abandoned my canvas and supplies.
“I love paintings,” he comments, smiling down at me. God, this man is a tower. A towering wall of a man. “You’re the artist?”
I nod reluctantly.
“That’s incredible. I love that,” he says.
Smiling, I reply, “Thanks.”
He returns his focus to Juni, where they exchange phone numbers as neighbors apparently do. Another wave—his monstrous hand hovering in the air making me ache for a spanking. Then he’s gone, and Juni and Ivy are blinking at me, sharing a knowing look.
I turn to them, and hide nothing. “I have to have him.”
That night, I take down all of my Henry Cavill posters and magazine pages. I print out a photo of a big, black truck, just like Hudson Gray’s, and pin it on the wall next to my pillow.
My future husband’s truck .