by Dylan Allen
I stand up and stare down at her.
She’s slumped against the wall like a rag doll. Her hair is spilling free of the pins she used to put it up and now curling strands lay tousled all around her shoulders.
“That was …” She sighs and eyes me lazily out of half-open eyes.
“Yeah, it was … crazy,” I say and tuck my shirt back into my trousers and fasten them.
She pouts.
I tug her dress straps up over her shoulders and cover her breasts.
“You’re killing my dreams,” she complains, a frown puckering a swollen, sultry mouth.
“What dreams are those?”
“Ones where you’re not getting dressed and pulling my dress back in place,” she says in a sexy tone.
“It’s bad enough that I carried you off the dance floor and fucked you in a utility closet with a door that doesn’t close properly,” I remind her.
Her face flashes a hot red and she sits up and crosses her arms over her chest and looks over my shoulder at the door.
“Oh my God, it’s a swinging door, Hayes. What if someone saw us?” she asks.
“Then, they got a fucking great show,” I say and run the tip of my finger over the gentle slope of her lips.
“I’m only getting dressed so I can carry you up to my room. I think walking through the lobby would turn our tryst into flagantre delicto.”
“In what?” she asks
“It’s Latin. Translated literally, it means a blazing offense,” I tell her with a smile. “These days it’s sort of synonymous for walking around in a state of undress.” I start to lift her and she stiffens and puts her hands on my bicep to stop me.
“I can walk. You can’t be carrying me everywhere,” she says. Her brows are drawn and she looks ready to argue. I kiss her, and she melts against me. I scoop her up and hold her to my chest, and her arms go around my neck. I take one last sip of her and then break our kiss. A satisfied smile stretches across her sexy lips and the protest she put up a second ago is gone. I kick the door open and step out into the hallway and start toward the rear of the villa.
“The elevator is that way.” She points a graceful finger in the opposite direction.
“We’re not taking the elevator,” I inform her.
“Why not?”
“It’ll take too long.” I wink and start up the narrow stairs to my room.“I’m in a hurry.”
ANDIAMO
CONFIDENCE
“That was so beautiful, Hayes.” I watch in awe as his fingers skip across the ivory keys of the piano and then stop.
“Thank you. My aunt Gigi taught me, and even though my hands are big, it came naturally.”
We’re seated at the piano, and Hayes is peeling back even more layers. He plays the piano beautifully. “So, this is like your last hurrah, too?” I ask with a waggle of my eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t have thought of it that way, actually, but you’ve definitely put the hurrah into this trip.” He waggles his thick brows back to me and gives my hand a squeeze.
“Well, I’m glad I could be of service.” I snuggle into him. We’re waiting for our airport shuttle in the lobby. Our flights are a couple hours apart, but we’re heading to the airport early to avoid the larger crowds leaving later this afternoon.
Cass is asleep on the little divan in the corner. Her black fedora is pulled down over her eyes and she’s got her sunglasses on.
“She had a good weekend.” Hayes nods in her direction.
“So did I,” I say. “Who would have known that you are such a Renaissance Man, Hayes.”
He presses a finger to my lips and looks around the room. “Shh… I like them being a little afraid of me.” He laughs and I admire the way his shirt bunches around broad shoulders when they shake with laughter. I want to soak up every detail.
“I can’t believe we’re leaving today. It’s been amazing.” I drop my head to his shoulder and link my arms through his.
“I want to see you again,” he says suddenly and my happy heart leaps in my chest. Warmth suffuses my body and I’m surprised at how elated I feel. But, I don’t question it. None of it. This weekend has been magical and full of surprises. Hayes is the most magical one of all. I’ve never had such an instant and tenacious connection before.
“I would love that,” I agree softly.
He reaches up and pulls his phone and a pair of black-framed glasses out of his breast pocket.
“Let’s look at our calendars,” he says and slips the glasses on his nose.
“Your glasses are hot,” I say, admiring the profile.
“Right.” He rolls his eyes dismissively. “First, what’s your number?”
I rattle it off and he puts his in my phone. “What’s the rest of your summer like?” he says.
“Mine is pretty open,” I say cheerily. Inside, my stomach knots when I think about the absence of job interviews, or anything else, on my calendar.
“I’ll be in Houston next week, I could fly you in,” he says.
“Fly me in?” I question, and I feel the first prickle of discomfort.
“Yeah, you said Arkansas? I can send a plane,” he says nonchalantly, his eyes still glued to his phone, his fingers flying across his keyboard.
“I can fly myself to see you.” My pride is bruised a little.
“Why would you do that? You’re not working, right?” he asks quizzically.
“Why did you get a job instead of living on your family’s millions?” I ask him.
He pauses his typing and slides his gaze sideways in my direction.
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“That’s hardly the same. It’s just a quick flight,” he says slowly.
“To you, it’s just a flight. But this is my first time out of the country and only the fifth time I’ve ever been on a plane. It took me four months of dedicated saving to afford the flight from Memphis to Austin when I left for college,” I tell him. “I’ll never see a flight as nothing. And given the way things between us got started, I couldn’t even imagine you buying me a plane ticket—or anything else.”
He stares at me for a long moment. His gaze is assessing, and I can practically hear the wheels spinning in his head.
“Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll come visit you.”
“Okay …” I clear my throat. “I’m telling you it’s probably not anything like what you’re used to.”
“I’m good at getting used to new situations,” he says pensively. His fingers drum the piano keys lightly and make a tinkling melody that are so contrary to the heaviness in his voice.
“I just moved back to Houston, started a new job; it’s been fine.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
I nudge his arm lightly with my shoulder. “You sound thrilled about it.” He smiles absently but doesn’t look away from the keyboard. “I don’t know what I am,” he says and shakes his head slightly. His lips quirk, and when he turns his head to look at me, conflict has muddled his normally clear gaze.
“What do you mean?” I rub up and down his arm.
“It’s strange to step into the role as the head of a family that I don’t really know. I was born to it, but that doesn’t feel like enough of a reason. Does that make sense?” he asks.
I turn fully now and wait until he does the same and we’re face to face.
I trace the uneven bridge of his nose and gaze into his keen, green hazel eyes while I try to find the words to answer him.
We only met two days ago. We bonded during a highly stressful moment. I was terrified on that ledge. I know how lucky I was. If I’d fallen on another part of that path, I wouldn’t be sitting here. That he was there feels like a very significant detail. One that, despite being mainly a coincidence, I think it will change the course of my life. I overshared a lot on Friday night. I don’t regret it. Yet without the rush of adrenaline from that evening and with our separation looming, my feelings aren’t as sanguine as they were yesterday.
I’m grateful for the serendipity that brought us together. But, lightning doesn’t strike in the same place more than once.
I’m glad we didn’t walk out of here and leave our reunion to fate. A tangible chemistry courses between us. It carries with it an effortless ease, an immediate comfort and mountain of physical attraction. He’s powerful, brilliant, passionate, decisive, honest, funny, and he’s kind. He’s shown me all of that and it’s only been one weekend. What would it be like to spend a whole week, month, year with him? I can’t wait to find out. I have a feeling. Just a feeling… That this man could be my man. So, I decide I’m going to fake it until I make it happen.
I stand and extend my hand. “Let’s go out onto the terrace. It’s quiet and private.” He nods and smiles up at me for a beat before he takes my hand into his and stands up.
We step out onto the red brick paved balcony. It’s another beautiful, if unpredictable, day. Puffy light gray and white clouds dot the powdery blue sky, birds are chirping, the sea rolls and crashes, and the breeze blows lightly around us. From here, the menace of the rocks that I fell from is obscured by a blanket of pine tree. The beach below is beautifully kept and the water is crystal clear.
He stands behind me, wraps his arms around my waist and drops his chin on my shoulder. I cover his hands with mine and try to memorize the way it feels to have him surrounding me. He sighs—it’s not a heavy sigh, but it’s not one that says, “I’m content.”
“I’m listening, Hayes,” I say into the silence.
“Yeah, I can tell.” His voice vibrates from his chest and resonates against my back. I feel the gratitude in his words, even though he didn’t express it explicitly.
We speak with our brains. People hear with their hearts.
“I’ve been preparing half my life for a job that I don’t feel even close to being ready to assume. My father, and then my aunt, told me repeatedly that I have something important to do with my life. And now, it’s one of my strongest desires,” he says.
“I think that’s what everyone wants,” I say.
“No.” He shakes his head and his chin brushes my hair. I nestle tighter against him and his hands come off the rail and wrap around me. It’s the most possessive yet tender embrace. “Some people just want to be important. There’s a difference. I’m learning it now. I’m seeing it in you. Everyone I know is pursuing glory for themselves. Money for themselves. Prosperity for themselves.” His arms tighten around me. “You’re talking about preserving things that benefit your entire community. That’s how I want to think about my family. If I only have this finite time to make my mark, then I want to do it in a way that matters. Like you said, make it count for more than just time spent,” he says.
“Yeah.” I nod, but inside of me, something is blooming. He listened to me. He thought about what I said and found value in it. I think this man might be a unicorn.
He tilts his chin in the direction of the horizon and says, “Those men who sailed out past what looked like flat earth and kept going even though they weren’t sure they wouldn’t fall off—they’re the people I admire. They conquered the earth and then laid claim to it,” he says.
“There’s no conquering the earth,” I scoff.
“Tell that to them.” He nods at the horizon again.
I turn to face him. His eyes are bright and beautiful and just looking into them steals my breath. But I force my mind back to the point I want to make. “Maybe it’s because I grew up on the river. No levee we’ll ever build is strong enough to hold back more rain than the human mind can imagine. Mother nature is merciless. It made me realize how really insignificant we all are,” I say.
“You’re only insignificant if you leave nothing worthwhile and lasting behind,” he pushes back.
“How do we measure what’s worthwhile? Who decides that?”
“What does history record?” he asks.
“Are you saying that if we don’t write down what happened here this weekend you’ll forget it and it won’t mark a moment in your life that will influence how you make decisions in the future?” I ask.
“No, I’m not saying that. And that’s a very nicely-made point,” he says with respect in his voice. I shrug and turn back around to look out at the horizon.
“Until you’ve been overwhelmed by life—found a wave you can’t surf, a mountain you can’t scale, a river you can’t cross—it’s really hard to understand how small you are,” I say.
“I guess …” he says.
“If I hadn’t seen how mother nature gives not one whit about even the best laid plans of men, I may not be sure either. To watch that happen is humbling, heartbreaking, and transformative. We don’t conquer anything. We just have use of it for a short while, but those trees, they grow back.
“Those monuments? They need men to write their existence into history. On the other hand, the acts of bravery and kindness those horrible events inspire may not make it into history books. But they will pass from generation to generation by word of mouth. And when people hear about them, they’ll get goose bumps,” I say.
“So, instead of conquering, I should be thinking about contributing something lasting,” he muses.
“That’s for you to decide. But it’s what I hope for. That I’ll do well enough with my life that when my story is told or read …” I drawl and he laughs. “That people will feel something.” I sigh and his arms tighten around me.
“If you really want to make a difference, you don’t have to chase horizons; just look around you and do something that calls you,” I tell him.
I touch the pendant around my neck. “This necklace?” I touch the small pendant at my throat.
“Yeah. I like to think of it as your fishing hook,” he teases and I smile.
“It was the very first thing I bought for myself when I won that case. It’s a reminder that I may just be a drop in the bucket, but it only takes one drop to overflow it. Little old me … I did something. We all can,” I say.
We stand there quietly for a few minutes. “I’ll get off my soapbox now,” I say sheepishly.
“I like the way you look up there,” he says quickly and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“That’s because you’ve only had one weekend of it,” I joke.
“I think if I’d had any more, I’d be trying to find a way to keep you right where you are for as long as I could,” he murmurs in my ear. And my heart that’s been tripping all weekend finally gives up the ghost and falls.
SURE THING
CONFIDENCE
ONE MONTH LATER
“You miss me?” I murmur softly as soon as the call connects.
“Too much.” The words, enveloped in Hayes’s fatigue-roughened voice, deliver a delicious jolt to my heart.
“I miss you, too,” I say and hug my pillow tightly to my chest and inhale the lingering scent of him on it.
“I’ll be back next week, and I think I can come up on Thursday, so we’ll have an extra day.”
I feel a pang of guilt that he’s the one doing all the traveling.
“I can’t wait until I can come and see you …” I start and then trail off because I know what he’s going to say. This is our constant argument.
“I can’t wait for that either. Say the word. I’ll make it happen,” he says and a yawn escapes.
“Do you want me to get us a hotel in Memphis next time?” I ask him and do the math in my head really quickly. I should be able to swing it even after I pay Mama’s rent for the month.
“No, I like staying at your place,” he says. He sounds sincere. But I’ve seen pictures of the house Hayes grew up in, in Houston and the villa he lived in with his aunt in Italy. Our double-wide is clean and cozy, but it’s a huge step down in terms of the luxury he must be used to.
“My bed is so small. Don’t you want a weekend without your feet hanging off the edge?” I ask.
“Nope. That small bed means you can’t roll away in the middle of the night. In fact, when we get a b
ed, I think we should make sure it’s not too big,” he jokes.
“We’re getting a bed?”
“Yeah. We are. One day. And in the meantime, I’ve never slept better than I do in yours. With you beside me.” My heart is … it’s going wild. Every word he says is kryptonite. I’m falling so hard for him. He talks about the future like it’s a given.
“You sound so sure.”
“I am. I’d lay good odds on us,” he says easily.
“I would, too.” I sigh. I’m so happy, it’s surreal. We’re such an unlikely pair. Our paths should never have crossed. But here were are. There’s something really right about us together. His visits have been so easy. Not a moment of awkwardness. My mother loves him. The people he’s met in town think he’s some sort of rock star and he’s nothing but gracious and patient with their questions about what he does. He brought Tripp, my neighbor’s nine-year-old, a new fishing rod this weekend because he overheard him talking about his being broken last time we were down at Harps for groceries. He’s brought my mama every book on Abraham Lincoln he can get his hands on, and they sit and talk outside together every night after dinner.
“Your mother home?” he asks.
“Yeah, she has a night off,” I say and then nearly crack my jaw on the yawn that follows my words.
“Get sleep, my little treasure. I’ll call you in the morning. Tell her hi for me,” he says.
“Okay. I will.” I never know what to say in return because Hayes’s family isn’t around. I know he’s close to his brothers but he talks to them less often than we see each other. “Sleep well,” I tell him
