by Tempest Phan
He was towel drying his hair with one hand as he walked into my bedroom. At the sound of the door, he looked my way. Our eyes caught, something just beneath the surface caught fire, and I was breathless for a minute. He paused before dragging the towel through his hair one last time, and smiled at me. I looked down at his rock-hard bare chest. I hadn’t realized that he was tattooed over his entire left side, the black and greys rolling and swirling over his pale skin, little droplets of water clinging onto the fine dusting of dark hair on his chest, and dripping down over the ink. It made me weak in the knees.
It was everything I could do not to walk over and run my hands over his chest, and down, down over those sculpted abs, down the thick, prominent veins that pointed toward that chiseled V, toward the large . . . bump that was barely covered by that white towel. Why hadn’t I realized how gorgeous he was? Or rather, of course I’d realized it, but why hadn’t it hit me with this force until now?
He smiled at me.
I think I may have groaned out loud, but if he heard, he didn’t let on.
I was saved by the sounds of the front door opening. My dad. I put a finger to my lips in a silencing motion. He winked and gave me a thumbs up.
***
The doorbell rang and I went to open it. Mark Stone smiled at me, a glorious smile that made him look much younger than he probably was.
“Mirabella. I met your lovely mother, once, and you are now the spitting image of her,” he said as he leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek before handing me a ridiculously spectacular bouquet.
I noticed the tall, golden man next to him who was watching the whole interaction with an air of boredom on his face.
“And meet my son, Lukas.”
“Enchanté,” Lukas said, in the same crisp British accent as his father, looking down at me from eyes of the strangest, most hypnotic grey I’d ever seen. He was wearing a fitted black Armani blazer, but unlike his more formally dressed father, had paired it with a white tee and faded designer jeans.
“Hello, Mark, what lovely flowers. And hello Lukas. A pleasure to meet you,” I said in my most perfect voice. There was a twinkle in Lukas’s eyes, now, as if he were laughing at me.
“Is it, now?” Lukas smirked.
“Lukas.” There was an unmistakable note of warning in Mark’s voice.
Both Lukas and I ignored him.
“Is it what?” I bit out, all genteel accents gone from my previously perfect hostess voice.
“A pleasure. To meet me.” His eyes still danced, mocking.
“I’m rethinking it.” I glared at him, hating his cockiness on the spot.
He just kept smiling his lopsided, knowing smile. I continued shooting daggers at him, feeling the anger suffuse my face. I was holding the bouquet so tightly I could feel the stems crushing inside my fist.
“Tsk tsk. All that staring, love. Like what you see?”
Like what I see? Is this arrogant prick out of his goddamn mind?
Before I could spit out a retort, I heard my dad come up behind me.
“Mira, let our guests in. What are you doing?”
“Ah, it was me, Mike. I was holding her up,” Lukas said, suddenly gallant, smiling at me in a way that made my heart do a funny—and annoying—somersault. This man was dangerous.
I stepped aside to let them in, glaring at Lukas as he walked by. He simply smiled another lopsided smile that for a second reminded me of Dame.
I followed them into the living room where my father proceeded to offer Mark a glass of whiskey.
“I suppose you can’t have any, Lukas? What are you now? Twenty?”
“That’s right. Just a finger, please,” he responded, as my father smiled and handed him a glass.
“Atta boy,” he said. He was positively beaming, and I had to wonder if my dad would have been happier had I been born a boy.
“What about me, Daddy. I’ll have a finger too.” Someone snorted, Lukas, probably, as my father handed me a glass of sparkling water and lime.
“Now don’t you go too crazy on that, love,” Lukas shot out, a smirk on his handsome face.
I glared at him. Neither our fathers seemed to notice as they pulled away toward the patio, whiskey in hand, already deep in conversation.
“Looks like it is just the two of us now, love.” As he said that, he sat on one of the couches and leaned back. I could feel the laughter in his eyes. The bastard hadn’t stopped laughing at me since he’d walked through the doors. It hovered in the air around us, thick and heavy, and I found it harder and harder to breathe.
“First, stop calling me that. I’m not your love. Second, what’s so amusing?”
“Second, you are. First, don’t you go flattering yourself. I call everyone love, love. Blame it on my snotty upbringing.”
“Should I also blame your snotty upbringing for how insufferable you are?”
“No. That’s all me.”
“Well then, bravo.” I raised my water to him.
“Santé.” He smirked at me again, raising his glass in return, before tossing it back.
“I hope you choke on your whiskey, Lukas,” I muttered.
“Tsk tsk tsk. Are you always so easily perturbed?” He ran his fingers through his hair, fingers that were long and strong and looked like they should belong to an artist, not a lawyer, and I felt disgust slick my insides when I realized I was gawking at him.
“Not at all. You seem to bring out the worst in me.”
He laughed, putting his glass down on the coffee table in front of him. “You wouldn’t be the first, darling. No, not at all. So how’s that virgin water?”
I huffed. And, trying to somehow sound more sophisticated, “I much prefer coffee.”
He laughed again. “I suppose what you call ‘coffee’ is some sort of sugary concoction with barely a hint of the black stuff. Let me guess. Triple skinny latte mocha pumpkin macchiato with a dollop of whipped cream and three and a quarter sprinkles of cinnamon or some such nonsense.”
“Almond milk mocha,” I spat out.
He smiled and raised his glass again, an I-told-you-so expression on his face. My father stepped back in at that moment, pausing to look at us. As always, he was unreadable.
“Mira, I was just telling Mark here about how you’ve mastered La Campanella. Will you play it for us.”
I didn’t want to, but it wasn’t a question. “I’d love to.”
I walked toward the formal sitting room and our grand piano. Lukas, Mark, and my father trailed behind me. I could feel Lukas’s breath on my neck, even though that couldn’t possibly be true as he was steps away. I turned back and met his stare. He smiled his cocky smile at me. I quickly turned away.
I walked toward the piano, feeling the silk of my pink gown swish against my legs. And before I could move to pull out the bench, Lukas was right there, doing it for me. I inclined my head coldly in thanks. He simply smiled and moved to the side of the piano, leaning against it.
Mark and my father sat in armchairs on the other side of the room.
“Go on, Mira,” my father said softly.
“Actually, Daddy, I’d rather play Moonlight Sonata,” I responded, not waiting for his reply before I launched into the first movement.
The notes were flowing out of my fingers and onto the keys, echoing throughout the room, the house. I closed my eyes, feeling the heartbreak in the adagio, the despair, in what I imagined was Beethoven’s love unrequited, take over my heart and spill out into the melody.
As I played the last note, I looked up, finding Lukas and his strange steel eyes staring deep into my soul. My heart began to drum loudly inside my rib cage.
This is so inconvenient.
Still holding my gaze, he started to clap, with Mark and my dad joining in.
“Bravo, Mira,” Mark laughed out.
I blushed and turned away, heart still thumping.
“Let’s sit down for dinner,” my dad said finally as both he and Mark headed toward the formal dining ro
om. I followed them, ignoring Lukas still staring at me from the piano.
***
I heard a noise and looked up. Lukas walked toward me, the island between us.
Dinner had been painfully awkward and uncomfortable, with Mark valiantly trying to be friendly and bring me into the conversation, until he’d finally given up and turned his attention to my father and Lukas, who were engrossed in some legal debate I couldn’t—and didn’t want to—understand.
I threw him what I thought was an exasperated look and turned away, making a great show of pretending I didn’t see nor hear him any longer.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was tinged with amusement, not contrition. I ignored him. “I’ve been a complete arse, and I’m sorry. Here, allow me,” he said, watching me struggle with the roast.
“I can do it myself.” My tone was ice.
“Of course you can,” he said. “But perhaps I can help you do it faster.” He gently grabbed the knife from my hand, a very brave move, considering my simmering anger.
I couldn’t keep myself from staring at his elegant hands.
“Where’s Chef?” he asked. When I didn’t respond, he shrugged. “As I was saying,” he continued. “Please forgive my earlier rudeness. I shouldn’t have taken my annoyance at this whole situation on you.”
I glared and didn’t deign respond.
“Roast, hmmm?” he said as he placed a couple of slices on the plate. “And here I thought you were vegetarian.”
Silence.
“So how old are you, exactly? Fifteen?”
That got my attention. I made an indignant sound, a snort, really. “I’m seventeen.”
He smiled to himself. “Ah, seventeen. Still a baby. Still much too young for me.”
“That’s pretty presumptuous. I wouldn’t date you if my life depended on it. I don’t go for old men.”
He laughed. “So much fire in such a little package!”
“You are impossible!” I grabbed the plate from him and began to pile it high with all kinds of sides to go along with the roast: mashed potatoes, French haricots verts and a myriad of other young crisp vegetables, and freshly baked bread.
“Yes, so much fire,” he whispered.
I ignored him.
“Are you always such a handful? And by the way, dating was not what I had in mind.”
“You’re disgusting. Also, you’ll never be lucky enough to find out first hand.”
“Ah, but you’re the one who understand innuendos where there are perhaps none. But I suppose you’re right. And we are now back to square one. I’ll never find out because you’re much too young for me.”
“Pffftt. Once again, I don’t date old men. Nice job on the circular argument, Lukas Stone, Viscount Something, Esquire.” I gave him a fake, searingly sweet smile.
“Tsk tsk. Lukas Stone, Viscount Something, Intern,” he corrected. And he just continued to smirk at me. I shot him what I hoped was a look full of disdain as I took out another plate and filled it with all the miniature desserts our chef had created. After placing each plate on a large silver tray, I turned away from him to head toward the great room and the stairs.
“That’s a lot of food! You’d think you were sneaking up to feed your boyfriend!” He laughed. He had no idea how close his joke hit, until he saw me pale, and exclaimed, “You are sneaking up to feed your boyfriend!” And then, softly, “You are so full of surprises, Mirabella Davenport.”
I hated him. Hated that man. “Will you just stop!” I hissed through my teeth. “And you better not start anything with my father!”
“My lips are sealed, love,” he said softly, reaching out to touch my face, fingers trailing whisper soft against my cheeks, his strange eyes dancing at me, a hint of something I couldn’t describe on his face.
I glared at him and then spun around to make my way back to Dame.
But this time, my heart was beating double time. And I couldn’t figure out why an irritating, cocky British aristocrat would be the cause.
Bella
December thirteenth, today. And, my Damien James was turning eighteen. I knew he hadn’t had a proper birthday celebration since his father had left, six years ago. And I meant to make up for lost time. I had planned an entire weekend away, unbeknownst to him, and his birthday surprise had been couriered to our destination. School had just ended and I was walking toward his car, where he was smoking, waiting for me.
Our eyes met and he smiled his gorgeous smile at me.
I hadn’t seen him all day, so I threw my arms around his neck and said, “Happy birthday, birthday boy!” And kissed him on the cheek. I stepped back as he opened the car door for me.
“Nice pants,” he said. “They’re my favorite.” I stopped in my tracks. I was wearing the ripped jeans that had so infuriated my father.
I looked back at him. “My dad says they make me look like a whore,” I responded, not quite knowing why I did.
His whole body tensed, his hand clenching mine. His jaw was tight and a storm was brewing in the clear blue of his eyes when he said, “You could never, ever look like a whore, even if you wanted to, even if you tried, baby girl. You are beautiful and absolutely perfect as you are. Absolutely perfect. Do not listen to him, do not ever listen to anyone who tries to make you believe otherwise. Ever.”
I just looked at him as his words, laced with so much confidence and certainty, began to heal the deep cuts in my heart.
This is what complete acceptance felt like. And it hadn’t been the first time. Far from it. Damien had already stood up for me against Jon, against my dad, against anyone who’d tried to hurt me. He’d already come to my defense, and I knew deep in my heart that he’d always have my back. No matter what. That realization was enough to make my heart flip flop inside my chest, choking me up, as I smiled and hugged him close.
“Thank you, Dame.” I looked up at him. Complete acceptance. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever had that in my life. He reached down and ran his thumb along my jaw.
But I was making this about me, on a day that belonged to him.
“Let’s go, my Damien James. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
He cocked his head and smiled.
As we made our way to my surprise destination for him, I thought about how my dad would react if he knew that I was still friends with Dame behind his back, that I had in fact planned a whole weekend with him. But he’d never find out, and, as the song goes, what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?
I was so lost in thought that I nearly missed our exit, pointing it out to Dame almost at the last possible second.
“Oh shit!” he yelled as he made a fairly illegal move to get us there.
We both started laughing.
“Snoqualmie Falls, huh?” he said finally.
“Yes! You got it! I might as well tell you. Snoqualmie Lodge!”
He let out a low whistle. The Lodge was a gorgeous resort perched on top of the falls. The view, the food, the accommodation were world-class. Perhaps I’d gone overboard, but this was his eighteenth birthday after all.
“Nothing’s too good for you,” I said to him. He glanced back at me and something in his eyes gave me hope. For what? I did not know. I only knew that I’d want to live my whole life chasing the look he had just given me.
“Bella, this is so much,” he said, pulling into the lodge entrance. Attendants were lining the area. As one made his way to Dame, he turned the engine off and handed him his keys, glancing over to me.
“No one’s ever celebrated you properly. Please let me do this for you.”
“I adore you.” For a boy who usually spoke in whispers, this was a whisper of a whisper. My heart glowed at how happy he seemed. He leaned over and kissed me on the temple. I closed my eyes, savoring how full my heart was.
Once inside, the hostess mistakenly called us Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. I blushed and started to correct her, but Dame simply said, “Thank you.”
As we headed up, I whispered to him, �
�I got us the best suite, Dame. The best and most private view of the waterfall. It so happens it is the honeymoon suite.”
“Thank you, baby girl.”
“There’s only a king bed, but one of the sofa pulls out. We’ll be very comfortable, and you can have the bed,” I continued.
He opened the door, and as we stood, gaping at the gorgeous, well-appointed suite he looked back over to me and smiled. “That bed is huge. I’m pretty sure we can both fit comfortably. It isn’t like we’ve never shared a bed before.”
I laughed and we walked in.
“Wow!” he said, as he placed our bag on the couch and headed toward the balcony. We could see the falls, and the rippling, cascading waters were magnificent. I walked over to him. He dropped an arm over and brought me closer to wrap himself against me.
“Thank you. I have no words.”
“Happy birthday, Dame,” I whispered against him. “Or rather, Mr. Davenport.”
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound against me. “Maybe I like the sound of that,” he whispered. Before I could ask him what he meant by it, there was a low knock.
“Your gift! Stay here and close your eyes! Promise?”
He squeezed them shut. “Promise.”
I walked to the door where a bellboy was holding a large package. “You can set it down here,” I said, pointing to the walk-in closet. He did as instructed, and beamed me a giant smile after he realized I’d just pressed two twenties into his hand.
“Thank you,” he said as I closed the door behind him.
“Ok! You can look now!”
“All of this secrecy! I can’t wait to find out what this is all about,” he laughed out.
“You will! After dinner.”
We headed to the restaurant at the top of the building where the maître d’ took us to a private table in a corner overlooking the falls. Nighttime had fallen. I looked at him, and happiness radiated from him, although sadness still lurked behind the true blue of his eyes. It made my heart bleed.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said again. “This means the world to me. Not simply this, this get away, but that I get to spend this weekend with you. You, the person I . . . care for most in the world.”
