31. Dylan
31
DYLAN
A fter a whirlwind day of driving, a night full of raunchy trysts that will stay with me forever, and a brunch that solidified everything I had been feeling, the event at Love and Lit went off without a hitch. We had the perfect amount of books, the audience loved meeting Evelyn, and no one had a single clue what we had gone through twenty-four hours before the signing.
As happy as I am that it was successful, the events that took place between me and Parker are what make me feel like I’m drifting through life untethered as I walk into our hotel. Although the seedy hotel we had initially been booked at had its quirks, Parker and I decided to celebrate by booking a night at the Wentworth Mansion, a historic five-star inn in the heart of downtown Charleston.
The minute you step into the lobby, it feels as if you’ve been transported to Europe in the nineteenth century. The original wood floors display intricate designs, the ceilings are decorated with ornate crown moldings and ceiling medallions, and the grand furniture in the sitting room rests in front of built-in bookshelves stacked with books and a traditional wood- burning fireplace. It’s grander than anything I’ve experienced before, and I feel out of place.
“This is way nicer than I was expecting,” I hiss to Parker, who’s standing pressed to my side, his hand interlocked with mine. He respected my wishes and kept the PDA to a minimum when we were working, but ever since wrapping up, he’s been glued to my side. It’s funny how normal it feels–as if it’s nothing new, just another day spent with my boyfriend.
When we decided to splurge on a night at a different hotel, this was not what I had in mind. I lingered with Evelyn while the signing wrapped up and left Parker in charge of booking a room at the hotel of his choice, so I had no idea where he’d ended up until now.
“I know, but I figured we deserved a little treat. There’s a lot we need to celebrate.”
He leaves me no time to question how much this must have cost before dragging me to the hotel’s restaurant, Circa 1886. I peek inside and immediately feel outrageously underdressed. Thank god I opted for a dress today instead of the jeans I was eyeing, but it still doesn’t feel like enough for the fine dining room.
“Parker, this is way too much. I’m not dressed for this,” I groan.
“Don’t worry. We’re just going to grab a drink at the bar before we get cheap fast food for dinner because I can’t afford to eat for the next month after booking this place,” he jokes.
“That’s not funny.” Guilt rolls through me that he booked this all on his own. I’m not rolling in money in any sense of the word, but I still want to contribute to getaways like this.
“It’s a joke. Don’t worry. I’m not joking about the food thing, though. I think I saw a Taco Bell around the corner.”
My ears perk up, and my mouth salivates over the idea of engorging myself with tacos galore. I haven’t eaten anything thing since our brunch this morning, but considering the amount of food we managed to take down, I didn’t have much of an appetite until the mention of dinner. My stomach grumbles, and I drag us over to the bar, ready to get this drink over with so I can get something to eat.
“Slow down there, tiger.” A low, amused sound escapes Parker. “I’ll feed you soon. I know how you get when you’re hungry.”
He pulls out the barstool for me, and I slide into it, reddening at his gallantry. Parker takes a seat on the stool next to me and rests his right hand on my thigh, which is now exposed thanks to my dress sliding up. The contact of his warm palm on the cold skin of my leg sends a chill sweeping through my bones, which swiftly turns into a surge of heat. The contradiction of the sensations is maddening.
As if he can sense my lust, he sweeps his hand further up my thigh until he’s inches away from the spot where I’m dying to be touched. I whip my head around to see if anyone is nearby to see his antics. Because it’s not quite dinner time yet, the bar and restaurant are nearly empty. When I turn my attention back to Parker, he’s not paying any mind to me. Instead, he’s talking to the bartender, who must’ve moseyed up while he was teasing me.
My eyes lock on his hand, and I’m unable to tear them away from the veins that are protruding with his possessive grip on my upper thigh. There’s something about seeing his fingers, covered in silver rings, curled around my skin that makes my primal instincts act up.
“Earth to Dylan,” Parker’s voice snaps me back into focus, and when I look up, the simper he’s wearing tells me he knows damn well what he’s doing to me. He juts out his chin toward the two glasses of wine now sitting in front of us, brows raised. “I think we need to make a toast.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to his smugness, which evidently riles him up because he lets out a throaty growl that only stokes the fire in my belly. He pushes my legs apart further, swiping a finger, so light it barely registers, up my center before grabbing his wine glass and lifting it in the air. I bite my bottom lip to keep my moans to myself, and, with a pout, I bring my glass to his.
Parker leans forward, his voice a soft murmur against my ear. “Make it through this glass of wine, and I promise I’ll take care of you in our room.” He taps his glass against mine, takes a small sip, and then returns to me for one last whispered remark. “Until you can’t stand anymore.”
I gulp and try to wash away my desire with a sip of wine, but when the notes of black currant and vanilla hit my tongue, I groan for an entirely different reason. I’d recognize this Cabernet anywhere.
I might not have been a big drinker growing up, but Parker and I adopted a tradition where we’d splurge on a bottle of wine every year on our anniversary. We’d go to our local supermarket, pick out an expensive bottle of wine–not knowing a damn thing about what we were choosing–and drink it under the stars. We’d tried multiple bottles before we found this one, which quickly became one of our favorites. We didn’t drink it often, so when we did, it was a treat.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes, it is. When I was here earlier, I had them put a bottle aside for us. I figured it’s been a while since we’ve had anything to celebrate together, and this seemed like a good enough cause.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes me take a breathless pause. I take another sip, close my eyes, and savor the taste and the flashbacks it brings. I think back to the first time we shared this bottle–it was our third anniversary.
We picked up the bottle on a whim and drove to a lookout near Parker’s house. The long, windy road up the mountain spits you out at a clearing that overlooks all of Woodland Heights. It was our best-kept secret. When we reached the top, I discovered that Parker had set up a small table with candles and flowers. He even packed a picnic of takeout from our favorite local Italian restaurant. It must’ve taken him half the day to get everything put together.
We ate pasta, drank wine, and laughed until our stomachs ached for hours. When it came time to end the night, he surprised me with pillows and blankets hiding in his trunk. We made a fort in the back of his car, made love, and fell asleep just as the sun peeked over the horizon. I don’t think I slept more than two hours that night, and when I woke up that morning, thanks to the blinding sun coming in through the car’s windows, I was dead tired. But it didn’t matter because it was one of the most romantic things anyone had ever done for me.
“This is perfect. Thank you,” I gush.
“Of course. I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work. None of this,” he gestures to the hotel bar, “would’ve happened without you. I’ve tried to find the words to express how much your effort and heart have meant to both me and Evelyn on this tour, but nothing feels like enough. I hope you understand how much I admire you. And how much I love you–more than I ever have. I plan on spending every waking second reminding you in case you don’t. So here’s to you kicking ass and taking me back.” He lifts his glass one more time with a wink.
I raise my glass to his silently, but I don’t take a drink. I keep my gaze locked on him, studying him like I’m taking a photograph. His sharp jaw, his blue eyes, the haphazard curls falling in front of his face, the tattoo I now know is hiding underneath his plain black t-shirt–all of it is mine.
Rather than reply with something eloquent, I nod toward the bottle that the bartender placed in front of us while I was deep in my thoughts. “Why don’t we cork that and bring it back to the room? ”
“Oh? What for?” He asks coyly.
“I want to show you just how much I love you and how happy I am we’re getting a second chance.” The wine warms me up as I take another sip. And another. By the time I’m to the bottom of the glass, my body is buzzing, though I’m not entirely sure the wine’s to blame.
“What did you have in mind?” His brow arches in question. I’m not sure what it is, but I love his need for me me to vocalize what I want to do to him. It only spurs me on further.
“I never got to return the favor last night.”
With that, he leans over the bar and flags down the bartender. “We’ll take that check whenever you’re ready!”