by Nina Lane
“Oh, Dean, hurry.” Liv grabs my shoulders, trying to pull me up to her. “I need you to fuck me. Please.”
I get to my knees, position myself at her opening, and sink into her with a groan. Fucking heaven. All thought disappears into blinding heat and the drive for release. Liv’s cries of pleasure fire into my blood. Her hot, sweaty body jostles beneath mine as she meets every thrust, her beautiful tits bouncing, her hair spilling over the pillow. I edge my hand between us to find her slippery clit. She reaches up to grab the headboard.
“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Dean, I’m so close.”
“Do it.” I rub her clit harder, gritting my teeth with restraint. “Christ, you feel amazing.”
“Wait… just there.” She bites her lower lip, her eyes darkening. “I’m going to… please… oh!”
She lets out another cry and clenches her pussy around my shaft. The sensation of her shuddering is too much to withstand. I thrust hard, explosions firing through me as I shoot deep inside her. So damned good. So damned perfect.
Liv wraps her arms around me, her breathing heavy. I roll us both over so I can pull her on top of me. She stretches out, every curve of her body fitting to mine, her breasts pillowed against my chest. I stroke my hands over her back to her ass.
“If thinking about our honeymoon gets you this turned on, I’m going to dig up all our old photos,” I tell her.
“Don’t need photos, professor.” Liv smiles and taps her temple. “It’s all up here.”
For me too. I still wish we could live it all over again.
Liv kisses my throat and tucks her head underneath my neck. As she settles against my chest and drifts into sleep, everything fades except her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‡
OLIVIA
I step into the Wonderland Café, comfort descending over me when I hear the familiar sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of silverware, the bustle emanating from the kitchen. Allie is working at the front counter, her head bent as she organizes the morning’s receipts. She glances up as I approach.
“Welcome to Wonder… oh, hi, Liv.”
“Hi, Allie.” I hold out the potted lantana plant I’m carrying. “Peace offering.”
“No peace offering necessary, since you and I were never at war.” She comes around the counter to take the plant from me. We exchange a hug.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I went over the top.”
“We all do sometimes.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Just ask my dad about my college days.”
She sets the plant beside the register and nods to an empty stool at the counter. “Have a seat. I’ll bring you tea and cookies.”
Feeling as if I’m being welcomed back into the fold, I sit at the counter as Allie brings me a fresh pot of Darjeeling tea and a plate of Yellow Brick Road cookies. I tell her how the town council is handling the aftermath of the storm and that everyone is hoping we can recreate the festival next year—the Bicentennial Plus One Festival—and maybe turn it into an annual event.
“Are you still in charge?” Allie asks.
“Lord, no. My festival planning days are over. Before the storm, we did do quite well at the auction, raising enough money for the Historical Society to start the restoration. Archer wants to talk to your father about the depot architecture.”
“My father would love to get involved,” Allie says. “He just finished work designing a modern office building, but historical architecture is his thing.”
“Thanks again for all your help with the festival,” I tell her. “How’s everything been going here?”
“All right. We invited the kids from Becky Harrison’s birthday party back with their families—on different days—for free dinners and cake, and we gave all the kids a party gift bag. That smoothed things over quite a bit. I also added guest limits to all the party packages, so we won’t have that kind of situation again.”
Relief fills me. “That’s wonderful, Allie. Thank you so much.”
“Hey, Liv, the place looks great.”
Allie and I look up to see Jessica Burke entering the café, her curly brown hair pulled back into a bun. I reintroduce her to Allie as she hitches herself onto the stool beside me. I push the plate of cookies toward her in invitation.
“I was heading over to Java Works when I passed by,” she tells me, pulling a laptop out of her satchel. “Figured I’d stop here instead. Okay if I just sit and work?”
“Stay as long as you like,” Allie offers. “What are you working on?”
Jessica grimaces. “Medieval history job applications.”
“Any leads?” I ask.
“Nothing close by, but I’m applying wherever I meet the qualifications,” Jessica says. “There’s an opening at UC Riverside, but I’m not all that nuts about moving that far away from my mother.”
“Does Dean have any ideas for you?”
“Yeah, he’s contacted a bunch of people on my behalf, but nothing’s come of it yet.” Jessica shoots me a rueful smile. “Guess I should have listened to my dad when he said a PhD in medieval history wasn’t going to lead to an outpouring of job offers.”
“Following your bliss is far more important than multiple job offers,” Allie advises sagely. “I was an art major, for heaven’s sake. But if I hadn’t been, I’d probably never have partnered with Liv to open Wonderland.”
My heart lifts at the implication she still considers it good fortune that she and I went into business together.
“And look at Dean,” Allie continues. “He’s the rock star of the medievalist world. Get that man some leather pants, right?”
Jessica and I exchange amused looks at the idea of Professor West in leather pants.
“Dean is an exception,” Jessica says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know I’m a good historian, but I harbor no illusions I’d ever be offered the assistant director position at the World Heritage Center. And yet Dean tells me he’s going to turn it down.”
“Really?” Allie swings her gaze to me. “So you’re not going back to Paris?”
“Well, no.” I shift, vaguely uncomfortable. “Dean started the Medieval Studies program at King’s. He’d never want to leave.”
“It’s a shame,” Jessica says. “The job is made for him. And without him, I’m pretty sure the Youth Experts program is doomed.”
Well, great. I can just add that to my cauldron of guilt, which is like a witch’s brew I keep stirring. Dean won’t take the job because of me, and now I’m not only jeopardizing hundreds of important, historical sites, I’m also dooming the hopes and dreams of eager, intelligent students.
“I should get going.” I glance at the clock and climb off the stool. “Good to see both of you.”
“You too,” Jessica says.
“See you tomorrow,” Allie says.
“What’s going on tomorrow?” I ask her. “I don’t think I have anything on my calendar.”
“You’re on the schedule for the morning shift.” Allie takes out her phone and starts pressing buttons. “I’ll email the schedule to you. August is a busy month, so we have some planning to do.”
I reach across the counter to squeeze her arm. “I’ll be here.”
“I know you will.”
Happy at the knowledge that we’ve mended fences, I return home. Nicholas and Dean are out in the back garden, tossing a ball back and forth. I watch them from the big picture window for a few minutes. A bunch of thoughts tumble through my mind like a kaleidoscope constantly shifting and changing, but always bright and beautiful.
Dean and Nicholas stomp into the house with dirty shoes and grass-stained jeans. I make them take off their shoes and shoo them upstairs to change before we sit down for dinner. Afterward we settle Nicholas down with picture books and a cookie while Dean and I clean the kitchen.
“Any word from Hans yet?” I ask casually.
“No.” Dean’s expression is pensive as he takes the last dish from me and puts it in the cupboard. “Frances st
opped by my office yesterday. She’s been telling me for a while how good this offer is for both my career and King’s.”
As I dry my hands on a towel, I dig for courage and say the words I’ve felt since Dean first told me he was a frontrunner.
“You want the job, don’t you?” I ask. “Your comments about office politics and the WHC not wanting an answer right away are wearing a bit thin.”
A faintly sheepish expression crosses his face. “I did want to read the whole salary and benefits package. I had to find out exactly what I was saying no to.”
I understand that. I’d have expected no less from Professor Dean West, in fact. He never takes action without examining all the angles first, leaving no stone unturned. Of course this would be no different.
Dean takes hold of my shoulders and turns me toward him again. He takes my face in his hands, his gold-flecked eyes fixed on mine.
“But, Liv, I would never…” His throat works with a swallow. “I would never ask you to give up everything for my sake. Never.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” I curl my hands around his wrists. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t want what you want.”
“I have everything I want right here.”
“Wants aren’t that rigid, Dean,” I say, realizing only now the truth of that statement. “They’re like water—constantly moving and changing. When I was five, I wanted a pony. When I was ten, I wanted a normal life and home. When I was fifteen, I wanted good grades. When I was twenty-five, I wanted to be with you more than anything. And while that will never change, I now have a whole other set of wants that center around our son and our marriage. When life changes, so do the things we want.”
I loosen my grip from his wrist and put my hand on his cheek. “So it’s okay to want an incredible opportunity. Heaven knows you’ve worked hard enough for it.”
“Liv, I’m not going to—”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Dean is quiet for a moment, his gaze on mine. I can almost see all the wheels and gears clicking through his beautiful mind—assessing, evaluating, thinking.
“I don’t know if I want the job,” he finally admits. “Yeah, it’s a big deal. Probably the biggest opportunity a medievalist could ever have—helping protect sites around the world, working on a bunch of different projects.
“But at that level, there’s more politics and red tape than I’d want to contend with… and in dozens of different countries. I’d have to give up teaching and writing. Hell, I’d have to give up my research. I don’t even know if I’d have the time to finish the book I’m writing about illuminated manuscripts.
“I’d have to give up working at Altopascio. I’d spend a lot of my time in meetings and navigating bureaucratic mazes. And while I’d love to research the sites, I’d probably have to delegate a lot of that work to other people because I’d be dealing with the bureaucracy and paperwork.”
He reaches out to lightly tweak my nose. “Then there’s you, Mrs. West. You and Nicholas. Taking you away from Mirror Lake, from the café, from the life we’ve built. Living in Paris might be an incredible experience, but I don’t know how much time we’d have together.
“And I’d have to travel more than I already do. I don’t like leaving you and Nicholas at all, but at least here I know you have Kelsey, Archer, Allie, everyone else. I couldn’t leave you both alone in a foreign city. I won’t.”
Silence falls between us again, brimming over with the tension between the safety of what we have and the possibilities of risk and chance.
“But?” I ask gently.
He coils a few strands of my hair around his finger and brushes his thumb against my cheek.
“But,” he says, “I remember our wedding and honeymoon. I remember staying in that little apartment with you and never wanting to leave Paris. I remember endless hours walking through the Louvre. I remember busy cafés, quiet restaurants, the look on your face when you tasted your first pistachio macaroon. I remember walking through Notre Dame and telling you everything I knew about its history. Not once did you yawn with boredom. Just the opposite, in fact—you wanted to know everything.
“I remember you sitting on the wrought-iron balcony of the apartment with potted plants around you and the rooftops of Paris behind you, like you were in an Impressionist painting. I looked at you and thought, God in heaven. That’s my wife. Right there. My wife.
“I thought we could never leave Paris because surely it was too good to be true. If we left the city of lights, the spell would break. And even though it didn’t, even though I’m spellbound by you for eternity, I still think about how it was just you and me there.
“And the idea of going back, but this time with both you and Nicholas, to work for an international organization dedicated to preserving history—and to live there… It would be another chapter in our great adventure.”
Something loosens inside me, like a tangled string slackening, and then a deeply rooted knowledge of my husband surfaces into the light.
“When I first went to your apartment in Madison almost ten years ago,” I tell him, “there was a box on the kitchen table filled with loops of string, some of them knotted and twisted together.”
His eyes crinkle. “I remember.”
“I thought it was so wonderfully dorky that you made string figures,” I continue. “And somewhere way down deep, I’ve also always known how perfect it is.”
“Perfect how?”
“That you, of all men in the world, are an expert at fastening string together,” I explain. “Unraveling it, working out all the knots, and then making intricate, beautiful patterns. You do that in every other area of life—fixing, connecting, creating—it makes perfect sense you’d do it as a hobby.”
A smile tugs at his mouth as he pulls me against him.
“You do it with me all the time.” I slide my arms around his waist. “You know exactly how to unknot me.”
“Hmm.” His deep voice rumbles in his chest. “I think we’ve discovered I also know how to tie you up.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” I smile, a shiver of remembrance sliding down my spine. “Maybe you can do that again sometime soon.”
“There’s no maybe in kinky sex, Mrs. West,” Dean murmurs, moving his hands down to my bottom. “There’s only, ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir.” I stand on tiptoe to press my lips against his.
Warmth floods me, but just as Dean lifts his hands to tilt my head to the right angle, Nicholas shouts, “Milk!”
With a resigned laugh, I give Dean a quick, hard kiss and go to attend to our son. Dean pats me on the rear and mutters something about, “Not done with you yet.”
With that promise humming in my blood, I take Nicholas upstairs for a bath and bed, while Dean picks up the scattered toys in the sunroom and heads up to his tower office.
After getting Nicholas into his train-patterned pajamas, I squeeze into the toddler bed beside him as he starts to fall asleep. I wrap my arms around him. His little body moves with the rhythm of his breath. I lie back against the pillows and look at the ceiling, where a projection of smiling sea creatures from Nicholas’s nightlight floats in a slow circle.
I remember a paper Dean once wrote about medieval monsters—apes with spiked wings, leathery dragons, lion-clawed griffins, dog-headed men, giants, serpents with sharp teeth, and cloven-hoofed demons.
These dreadful creatures existed on the margins of illuminated manuscripts and maps, a dire warning about the terrors that lay beyond the known world. Though the monsters inspired both fear and awe, the pervasive belief in them didn’t stop people from launching expeditions and traveling to distant, unknown lands.
And as those explorers sailed right into possible storms and danger, they encountered unfamiliar territories, different people, strange animals, but no horned demons or five-headed serpents. If it weren’t for their courage, their curiosity, their sense of adventure, they might never have discovered that the horrific monsters they�
��d envisioned didn’t exist.
Dean, of course, has always been one such daring explorer—at least, in his secret heart—seeking new, exciting experiences, charting new territories, unafraid of imaginary dangers.
I, on the other hand, am the devoted scribe, sitting at my desk believing in scary things outside the boundaries of my own world, but content in the belief that if I stay here, I will never have to confront them.
I’m not ashamed of being that way. I make no apologies for it, not anymore. Because if it weren’t for the scribes, there would be no bright, intricately illuminated manuscripts, no textual representations of the past, no rich, detailed illustrations of saints and angels, of flora and fauna, even of imaginary monsters.
And though I know Dean will never admit—maybe not even to himself—that he’d take the job in a heartbeat if it didn’t mean leaving Mirror Lake, I don’t ever want to be the reason he smothers his longing for risk and adventure.
I pull Nicholas closer. His breath puffs against my neck. Sometimes our son is fearless. When he’s climbing the jungle gym, swinging on the monkey bars, running through the park—he has no obstacles, no worries about things that don’t even exist, things that are just illusions.
As I slide out of the bed and pull Nicholas’s blanket over him, I wonder at what point in life it becomes so much easier to be scared and so much harder to find courage.
Our great adventure. The adventure of Liv and Dean.
I press my lips to my son’s forehead, leaving him to sleep in the soft glow of circling fish and mermaids. I take the baby monitor and walk up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office.
“Dean?” I knock on the open door.
“Right here.” He turns from his computer to smile at me.
My heart gives the same warm, little flutter I’d felt when I saw him for the first time all those years ago. I’ve spent so long believing it was possible to not only have everything, but to have everything be perfect.
Because if it was all perfect here, in Mirror Lake, then neither Dean nor I would ever need anything else except each other, our child, and our work. We would never have a reason to look beyond what we had already created. We wouldn’t want anything to change.
