by Lisa De Jong
I lean in to my best friend, Bonnie, and shout, “I'm going to get some fresh air, OK?”
She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, and her worried dark brown eyes meet mine. “You, all right? You need me to come with?”
I paste a fake grin on and shout back, “No, no. I'm good. Just need a minute. Keep dancing, ma belle amie!”
With one last glance at the stage, I make my way through the sea of elbows and hips. When I reach the back porch, I take a huge breath and let the lyrics permeate my brain. Holy shit! Was there a sexier song than this on the entire planet? Umm…No! And him up there strumming it. I think back to all of, what I hope were, my surreptitious glances of the evening. Geez, he is gorgeous. I imagine running my hands through that shaggy dark brown hair and staring into those exquisite ice blue eyes. What if I had enough guts to place my hands on his chiseled jaw and bring his impossibly full lips to mine? I close my eyes and picture what had to be the most luscious lips I'd ever laid eyes on.
Part of me wishes that he were just a pretty face with a nice body because that I might actually be able to resist, but no, he was just as gorgeous where it mattered. And that’s where my problem lies—because of his kind heart and generous nature, he’d become my best friend and my confidant.
I know I'm not supposed to want him. He's my own slice of forbidden fruit—my deceased husband's outcast cousin. And with the way our families were connected, that was not something I could ignore.
My conscience takes a nosedive and picks up where I left off with my explicit daydream. I’ve been denying my desire for him for so long because of our complicated connections, and I've only allowed this one other time. I'd promised myself I wouldn't permit it again. But, surely, I could make an exception because of this—my favorite of favorite songs—”Everlong.”
So I allow myself to imagine, me mumbling his name against his lips...Adrian...even his name is sexy. I feel a shiver course through my body. It's on this thought that I hear the screen door bump closed behind me. My eyes fly open, and I take another deep breath to collect myself and know immediately that it's him. Yes, his scent is that unique. It somehow reminds of the desert and the ocean all at once—hot and quenching. Why does he have to be an assault on all my senses? Wait...what is he doing out here? He's supposed to be on stage! I search frantically for some semblance of control over my body. What is the proper etiquette for getting caught in your lustful musings by the very object of your desires? Hmm...
His rich timbre reaches across the porch as he asks, “Celeste, everything good?” If whiskey possessed the ability to speak, that's what it would sound like—his smooth, sultry voice.
My voice sounds heavy to my own ears. “Umm…yeah, what are you doing out here? Doesn’t your band need you?”
“They’ll live. You’re more important.” I close my eyes and let those words fill and warm me like a fine, aged bourbon. “You streaked out of there like you’d seen a ghost. You scared me.”
I spin around too fast, and my head seems to keep spinning. There he is in all his glory. Even with my heels on, I barely reach his shoulders. He's so broad that I could imagine him double-timing it up a couple of flights of stairs with me thrown over his shoulder and I'm no waif. My eyes meet his, and I'm lost. Lost to his look. Lost to this song. Lost to my fantasizing.
I stride over to him as the guitar plays out a little stalking march for me. I'm really going to do this. When I get close enough to him, I can see the worry in his hypnotizingly beautiful eyes. He's worried about me. I know he cares about me and my children. He’s been absolutely amazing to us since my husband passed. Could he see me as more than just a friend?
I'm close enough now to breathe him in fully, and when I do, I hear Zach sing out, “‘Breathe out, so I can breathe you in, hold you in.’” I take a deeper breath and my eyes flutter half-closed as his scent saturates my every pore. Even though my eyes are almost closed, I don't miss the flare of his eyes; I take this as encouragement. And that’s it. The edge I was clinging to dissipates from my tenuous grasp.
When the guitar rift hits its crescendo, I watch helplessly as my hands dart out and pull his face down to mine just like in my fantasy. Maybe I'm still fantasizing? My doubt is quickly erased as his lips are softer than anything my feeble imagination could ever come up with. I move my lips over his in what, I hope, is an enticing way. I'm not sure yet because he hasn't responded. But he hasn't thrown me off, so I continue my assault. I slant my head to the side a little more and my tongue, apparently with a mind of its own, darts out to help itself to a taste. Mmm...but his taste can barely register because as soon as my tongue touches his lips he opens his mouth under mine.
That's all I need. Desire like I've never felt before wars with my good sense. I feel his tongue move with mine hesitantly; nonetheless, it moves. Thank God! Oh my...this is...everything. Everything I've never felt, everything I've never tasted, everything I've never had.
When the song breaks off into what I call “the voices in my head” section, my conscience decides to make itself known again; and I wrench myself free. Adrian wasn't holding me. I was holding him, but I was suddenly overcome with self-doubt, which was quickly followed by self-preservation. I can clearly see any scenario other than friendship ending in disaster for us.
As I back away slowly, my frantic eyes assess his equally frantic eyes. Then, his look changes, and he looks downright unhappy. I clear my throat and offer, “Adrian, I'm so sorry. I...I don't know what I was thinking.” My hand trembles as I push my hair back off my face. “I wasn't thinking, I guess.”
He stares at me like he's never seen me before, and it scares me. Panic seizes my throat. He's been amazing to my boys and me. We can't lose him. I'm such a fool. I open my mouth to continue groveling when that damn stalking rhythm starts up again and all of a sudden Adrian is the one stalking toward me, but he looks...pissed. I lick my lips, swallow hard, and stumble back until I feel the porch rail behind me.
This time when the crescendo hits it's Adrian who assaults me, but I am a more than willing participant, so that when his hands run down my back, my body melts into his. Even though I feel melded to him, it's not enough for Adrian because his big hands keep going until they clasp my behind so hard that my right leg springs up to rest around his hip. Oh my God! I thought it was great the first time, but his kiss puts mine to shame.
I moan in time with this new knowledge as Zach sings the Foo Fighter's lyric, “You gotta promise not to stop when I say when.” One realization crashes into another as I realize I never want this to stop. I never want to stop kissing him. Squeezing my eyes shut and tightening my grip on him, I throw myself even more into his soul-stealing kiss. Mmm...his hair is just as soft as I thought it would be. I pull it through my fingers roughly. When I do, he groans into my mouth and deepens his kiss momentarily before completely throwing me by pulling back a little and softening it. It's excruciatingly tender. I’m torn—I want to savor the sweetness but also want him to devour me again. Greedy—I feel so greedy. How can I want more when what I’m getting is already so good, so perfect?
When he pulls back to place closed-mouthed little kisses on my lips, I fulfill my fantasy and mumble, “Mmm...Adrian.” Adrian's shudder reverberates through me, and he pulls back to grasp my hands and pull them down from around his neck. I hear the song come to its beautiful end and Zach tells the crowd they'll be back in ten.
The kiss I never wanted to end has ended and I feel bereft. I finally open my eyes to stare into his most expressive ones. His eyes are filled with regret.
I gasp at the sudden sharp pain that pierces my heart. I snap my mouth shut, drop my leg from around his hip, and pull my hands from his. “Adrian—”
“No, that's all on me, Celeste. I'm...” He runs his hand through his hair, proving what I thought impossible by making himself even sexier with mussed hair. “Shit...I'm sorry. I'm a shit. It's just...”
“I've had too much to drink,” I blurt out. “This is the first
time I've been out, and...I was just having fun but started feeling lonely, and I had too much to drink.” So, about one-third of that statement is true. I had only had one glass of wine, and I did not feel lonely. I can't tell him that though. Best he think I'm inebriated and missing my husband rather than know the truth of the matter—I want him for my very own.
He pulls his hands down over his face and massages it for a second. Blowing out a deep breath and intoxicating me with his essence a little bit more, he insists, “Yeah, and pig that I am, I took advantage of all that.”
“You're not a pig. As a matter of fact, you couldn’t be any further from that if you tried,” I protest. “And, to be honest, I really needed to be kissed. So...thank you.” Did I really just thank him for kissing me? I. AM. SO. PATHETIC!
He scrunches his face up a little bit. “So, we're good then. No, uh, awkwardness?” He asks me with a look of disbelief crossing his features.
“Of course. I'm not one of your simpering groupies. I promise not to stalk you and demand any more kisses,” I joke. None of what I said sounds funny, though, so we just kind of stare at each other for a couple of awkward beats.
His hand comes up and the look on his face tells me he's going to console me or something. I pull back a little. I can’t let him feel sorry for me after that. Not to mention, if he touches me again, I may actually beg him to never stop. He lets his hand drop before putting them both in his pockets and rocking back on his heels a little. When he does this, he, unfortunately for me, draws attention to his nicely toned pecs. “You ready to come back inside then?”
“Umm...I just need another minute. I'll be right in, OK?” I give him a small, albeit shaky, smile.
“OK,” he agrees. He makes his way back to the door before turning back to tell me, “See ya inside.”
“Yep,” I lie. The second the door snaps closed, I yank out my cell phone and fire off a text to Bonnie and Farah telling them that I got a cab and would talk to them tomorrow.
There's no way in hell I could go back in there, and I punctuate that thought by hitting my lock button. I snicker—a lock button—if only it were that easy for me.
Two
This Isn’t Going to be Awkward at All
I WAKE UP to the sound of a lawnmower. I'm typically an early-to-rise person—with three rambunctious boys usually running around, waking up early is the only way to get any quiet time. And as amazing as my boys are, oh, how I love my quiet time. Sounds like I won't be getting any of that this morning.
I laugh as I recall my and Adrian’s argument over my yard. I’d always taken care of it because I was extremely particular about how it was done. When I became a single parent, I’d mentioned to Adrian that I needed to hire someone to manage it, which made me cringe when I thought about how they would surely butcher my wildflowers and the fragile plants that were in need of some extra TLC. He said that he’d be happy to do it. I insisted that he didn’t have time for that. Adrian argued that I was OCD when it came to my yard and he knew how I liked it and that that was that. He’d been taking care of it ever since.
He's not supposed to mow my grass until next Saturday. I know this because I know every single solitary detail of his schedule. I've memorized it over the last year and a half although it wasn't really that hard to do considering a great deal of his schedule revolves around my sons.
Since my husband passed away, Adrian has become a fixture in my boys' lives much to the chagrin of my husband's parents and brothers. You see, Adrian had the misfortune of being born to the middle son—the one who clamored to be noticed and appreciated. Most of the time, the notice Adrian’s father had garnered was embarrassing, of course, and the family had cut all ties to him. Unfortunately, the sins of the father had trickled down to include Adrian, but I’d never seen any proof of his supposed black sheep reputation.
But none of this matters to me because Adrian has been an absolute angel to my boys. No one, on either side of our families, has stepped up the way he has. Never once have I had to ask him to do anything for us or with us. He integrated himself into our lives seamlessly and without any prompting or invitation.
At first, it worried me a little. I knew his reputation wasn’t that far from his father’s. I didn't want the boys to get too attached to him just to have him drop out of their lives when something better came along or when he decided to start his own family. It became quickly apparent, however, that he had no intention of letting my boys know what life without him would be like. I was impressed, which is also why I completely suck. By attacking him, I've probably ruined one of the best things that has ever happened to us.
Since my muscles are screaming at me from all the dancing I did before my humiliating faux pas, I gingerly roll myself out of bed and stretch. How in the world am I going to look him in the eye this morning? Why is he even here? It would be different if the kids were here to act as a buffer, but they are at the family compound this weekend.
I go over to the vanity and yank my toothbrush from the holder as I stare myself down in the mirror. What was I thinking? I shake my head and watch my unkempt black hair cascade around my shoulders. I'll deal with that mess in a second.
I shove the toothbrush into my mouth and start scrubbing vigorously. Squinting my eyes at my dreadful reflection, I level with myself. Thinking I would fulfill the only real desire I've ever felt and kiss the only man I've ever truly been attracted to, I threw myself at Adrian. My husband was attractive and I loved him, but we'd grown up together, and he was more my best friend than anything else. This was different. I wanted Adrian with every fiber of my being and had since I'd first met him a few years back. I was so ashamed at the way my body reacted to him back then, but I’d quickly realized that I had no control over the physical pull I felt toward him. However, I could try to control my actions and thoughts; and I had been so very good at it too.
I roll my eyes at myself. I blew that last night, though. It was that damn outfit that Bonnie and Farah convinced me to buy and wear for my first night out. I thought back to the fitted, collared halter-top and scary-short short shorts. I'd paired that outfit with some tall espadrilles, and I'd felt incredibly sexy. I never felt sexy. I felt cute sometimes, other times even pretty, and usually stylish. But never in my thirty-seven years had I felt sexy. I thought about how I saw myself in the mirror before I left last night. I had left my raven hair down and in soft waves that fell about midway down my exposed back. I'd made my dark brown eyes extra smoky—something I'd only experimented with in the privacy of my own boudoir but never had the guts to leave home wearing. My dark skin contrasted quite nicely with the all white outfit and gold bangles and hoop earrings. Yeah, I'd been asking for trouble.
It'd felt so good to be dressed up and shirk my responsibilities for the night. That's what it was—I wanted him and I had felt sexy and free—a lethal combination. Yep, that's all it was. I was acting purely on physicality last night.
OK. Now that I know how I'd allowed myself to veer terribly off course, how do I go about explaining that to Adrian? That admission would be mortifying. Although, I'm pretty sure how I feel about him physically is no longer a mystery after those two kisses last night. I take a deep breath and push it out forcefully. He'd have to be utterly oblivious to not have realized how my body responded to his last night. Why, oh why, does he have to be off limits? I ask myself for about the thousandth time.
That's good. I roughly run the brush through my hair. Just admit that you’re physically attracted to him and that it can go nowhere and that you're sorry you're such a floozy and that you will control yourself from now on.
I give myself a bright smile, toss on my glasses, and grab my fluffy white robe that will cover my silky pajamas. Here goes nothin'.
****
I STEP OUT onto my back deck and immediately see him heading away from me with the push mower. He towers over it so he has to hunch himself over to maneuver it. Of course, his hair is saturated with his sweat, making it look almost black. At
only eight in the morning, a sweltering heat is already upon us. Usually, Adrian takes his shirt off when he is working outside, but he's left it on today. I can't help but wonder if he's protecting his virtue around me. Great! His camel brown shirt is not too far away from being as wet as his hair. I watch as his back muscles extend and stretch as he works. Who knew mowing grass could be so hot?
When he nears the fence, he turns to head back toward the house. As he turns, his gaze meets mine and he gives me a glorious smile. I let out a deep sigh. With my heart beating in my throat, I return it with one of my own. We can do this. We can get through this.
He kills the mower right then and there and starts making his way toward me. I watch as the boys’ dog, Shaggy, enthusiastically greets him by jumping on his leg and trying to lick him in the face. Adrian rubs him down and coos at him for a minute, simultaneously delaying my curiosity and prolonging my pain. I’m loath to have this conversation, but I’m also dying to get it over with.
I swallow hard and move toward the patio table. This is good. This is our ritual. Every other Saturday, Adrian brings us coffee, and we sit and enjoy it while he takes a break. This is, however, our first time since I attacked him. I cringe and not just a little.
“Mornin'.” His liquid voice exudes the word. He has that accent that I find incredibly attractive—that delicious mix of southern and Creole.
“Good morning,” I reply. My own voice sounds raspy. I try to clear my throat quietly.
I sit down and motion for him to join me. As I reach to hand him his iced coffee, his hand darts out and our hands come to rest on the cup at the same time. My hand is under his so I can't jerk it away like I want when I feel the little jolt of energy bolt its way through me. This is bad. Very bad. I'd always had that forcibly dormant attraction to him, but now that I've tasted him and felt him, I doubt my ability to force it into a state of lifelessness again.
Ever so slowly Adrian's eyes work their way up my hand, my arm, my neck until his eyes meet mine, practically leaving the path to my face a smoldering cinder. Finally, he slowly removes his hand, releasing me. His next words seem to have to punch their way out of him. “This is why I'm here. We need to talk.”
