Freedom

by S. A. Wolfe

  “I’ve done it before,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can do it again.”

  “Huh.” I study her blank expression and consider she may be more fragile than I thought, or she’s cunning. “Okay, well, can I at least put my suitcase in your trunk and then we’ll switch everything over to Carson’s car at work?”

  “Of course,” she replies.

  I follow her outside as she wheels her suitcase with quick, little steps in her heels. At the porch, she is startled when I grab her suitcase and carry it down to her car. She navigates the stairs and rough terrain carefully, meeting me at the trunk.

  My mind is scheming, looking around at what I can do to slow her down so I can have a moment with her. She pops the trunk and I put our bags inside. Then she slams the trunk closed without another look at me and turns to walk to the driver’s side.

  I react without thinking any plan through; all I know is that I want to kiss her. She has her fingers on the door handle, so I grab her free hand and pull her towards me. Her heels cause her to lose her balance on the rocky dirt driveway and she stumbles into my chest. With one arm wrapped around her back, I cup her face and bring her in for a quick kiss before she can protest. It doesn’t take much effort to part her clenched mouth and force my tongue inside. I keep her body pressed to me as my mouth firmly locks onto her soft lips and I taste her.

  Her initial reaction is a soft squeal and then she lets me take over. She is not exactly joining in, however she is definitely letting me devour her mouth. When I move down to her neck that smells like a place I could get lost in forever, I know I want more. This is the test. Can my lips and tongue run over her soft, smooth skin and make her feel good, or am I going to push the limits and see how far I can go?

  While her fingers slide under my suit jacket and graze my chest down to my waist, her other hand runs lightly across my scalp, sending a jolt down my spine and signaling the crew below to go to full mast. I am seconds away from pushing her skirt up and nailing her against the car, not that she would let me take it that far. I don’t want to find out.

  That is when I stop. That is when I know I have this under control, and that, if I am going to kiss her or do anything else I am fantasizing about, I want her to reciprocate.

  “Good.” I remove her from my embrace. “That’s a good way to start the day, right? And you didn’t have to karate chop me or anything.”

  “You have to stop doing that.” She adjusts the collar on her shirt. “You can’t kiss me whenever you feel like it.”

  “Actually, I can. Might not make it right, but it wins every time.”

  Emma glares at me.

  “But you’re right. I shouldn’t kiss you unless you want me to. And from all your moaning and your groping hands, I guess you’re not interested.” With that parting shot, I put on my helmet and climb on my bike.

  After Emma scowls at me and gets in her car, I follow her to work, grinning every time I catch her looking at me in the rear view mirror.

  Twenty

  Emma

  Thinking about him has me in angry knots. Lusty, angry knots. That was one whopper of a kiss and he knows it. Last night, I had the upper hand by shutting him out and making him go to his own bed. He deserved it. I am not playing second fiddle to someone he claims never to have been in love with, especially with his absurd excuse of never being in love and not remembering women’s names.

  First, I spend years in love with a guy who can’t forget me, and now I am getting swept up by a guy who has the opposite problem. Maybe I am being too hard on Dylan and his bipolar history has left him with a bit of a bullshit memory fog, or maybe he really was never in love before, so he doesn’t have any stories of past crushes to share.

  Honestly, how is it possible for him to live twenty-four years and not fall in love hard at least once? Not have his heart broken and mangled into a hot mess of despair like the rest of us? Of course, there was his little love, Anya, his seventh grade infatuation. Perhaps that is all there is for guys like Dylan. They remember the quiet beauty that disappears before anything happens and then they hold a torch for them forever.

  I don’t know if I can handle another guy with extreme issues. I have paid my dues, yet I seem to be good at finding the one guy in the tri-state area who can cause the most problems, and I jump in and fall for him until I am in so deep I don’t know how to get out. First Robert and now Dylan.

  It is probably not fair that Dylan is being subjected to my fears about everything that went wrong with Robert, however it goes both ways. I am getting a boatload of unclaimed baggage by getting involved with Dylan. I can pretend all I want about being understanding with regards to his mental health issues, but frankly, I am clueless. Everything I know is based on observations of friends and acquaintances. Some may have shown signs of emotional distress, but I have no formal experience with what Dylan has gone through.

  I know plenty of people I think could use professional help, however it’s not something that would ever be acknowledged or discussed out loud. I wasn’t raised that way; my friends and family would never bring this topic up. Lauren and Carson and others in this town have a different standard of helping those they love, while my father would hand out guns and tell you to watch your back. That sounds rather humorous and unloving because it is. It is also my reality.

  I was raised in an uncommon household. I took classes in proper gun training, starting with a basic .22 rifle at age ten and then moved up to semiautomatic handguns. Instead of ballet, there were years of martial arts classes in various forms. We’re not a violent family; we’re fearful and we’ve spent too many years living cautiously to the point of being paranoid.

  Self-preservation can be a strange thing and comes about in some of most unusual ways. Living like that—loving Robert and expecting change—has just about done me in emotionally. Moving to Hera and meeting Dylan has felt like a rebirth. That’s what this all comes down to. Dylan.

  When Dylan kissed me, I let him. I want him to kiss me. I want everything the way it was before I knew about Jess and the green-eyed monster reminded me that many women have come before me. I am angry about this Jess story because it never occurred to me that this small town would have the only two women with names Dylan actually remembers!

  This is absolutely absurd. Let’s not leave out the unforgettable Anya. Dylan remembered she was a cute blond. Good for her, and now I am sounding pitifully bitter about things I cannot change.

  I laugh out loud and check out my crazy eyes in the rearview mirror, seeing Dylan tailing me on his bike in an expensive suit that I am guessing is either Armani or Dolce & Gabbana. It is like being followed by James Bond.

  I would like to know which woman helped him shop for those nice duds.

  Pull it together, Emma. It’s time to be calm under pressure.

  ***

  I get some peace in the office when Dylan leaves on a long run with Carson. They like to discuss business, and I imagine they do manly things like racing each other up hills and crushing beer cans against their heads. Oh, God.

  I put my head on my desk. I just have to get through the next two days in the city—wining, dining and schmoozing with our top rep firm. The fact that my father hasn’t been talking to me, Robert is up to his eyeballs in a pile of Fed shit, and Dylan has just dropped a devastating bomb on me, is irrelevant if I don’t pull off my new marketing strategy with Mercer. I have to succeed at this job. I have to succeed at something.

  I am assembling the last bit of materials and double-checking the PowerPoint presentation and Excel spreadsheets I have created before Dylan returns to the office. Why he wore his suit in to work, knowing he was going to run is beyond me. Unless it was for my benefit. When I saw him in the kitchen this morning, throwing together our breakfast in a perfectly tailored designer suit, my first thought was the suit couldn’t possibly look more spectacular on anyone else and he should wear it every day. The shock of seeing him out of jeans and a t-shir
t, looking suave in a suit, made me a little giddy. Though I suppose, if he were always this polished, I would melt again and relish it when I see his ass in jeans. I can’t win here. I am attracted to him in every way, and I like him. A lot.

  After his run, he plans on showering over at Lois’s yoga studio, Beyond The Pants, and then he’ll change back into the suit before coming back to work. I can picture all those women in their downward dog poses lusting over two hunky guys scantily clad in towels, heading into the spa room to shower. Carson and Dylan have Lois and Eleanor wrapped around their fingers. I seriously doubt other men in town could waltz into the yoga studio and greet the women as they take over their spa. The women probably love it and look forward to some eye candy parading through their classes.

  If he put that suit on to placate me, he is really working this. After last night’s brawl, I guess he’s bringing out the big guns to get my attention, and no matter how much I pretended to salivate over my toast at breakfast and play it cool, it was an obscene test of my willpower not to gape at his beauty. I used to only describe Robert that way and considered other men to be handsome or cute. Dylan is beautiful—the way his body reflects strength and power and his expressive face is either severe or flush with laughter.

  It’s easy to fall for great curb appeal, though that is not what keeps me drawn to him. More than anything, it is the way Dylan talks to me and what he shares, the secret portals that open up and let me inside. His tender side is heartbreaking, perhaps a consequence of his difficult childhood and his battle with his own emotional upheaval.

  That is why I find it hard to believe, or rather, am saddened that he could go all these years without ever being in love. Dylan was made to love someone. The fact that he says he has never been in love worries me and brings out my survival instincts. I don’t want to love someone who cannot fully love me in return.

  If I want to succeed on my own, it’s time to put Dylan Blackard and all those new issues he brings into my life on the back burner for a while. He can simmer there while I get my own life together.

  ***

  Dylan saunters into the office, filling the room with a heady mix of his freshly showered scent and aftershave.

  “Hi,” he says sheepishly.

  I have been working while he has been out chasing the gremlins from his system. He should feel a little guilty, and I should take advantage of that.

  “Hi. I’m Emma Keller.” I stand and hold out my hand. “In case you forgot my name.”

  Dylan turns red and his mouth curves into a slight smile. “Funny. Very funny.”

  “I don’t know the extent of your problems with women, so maybe it will help if I reintroduce myself to you every few days. I wouldn’t want you to get confused and have a panic attack over some strange woman in your office.”

  Dylan takes a deep breath and lets his gaze roam from my face slowly down to my heels then he shakes his head and strides towards me. An angry man closing in on me naturally brings out my defensive mode. I sequester those instincts that make me antsy and clasp my hands in front so I don’t appear nervous.

  “Okay, I got the message,” he says tersely. “You don’t like what I told you about Jess or how I told you. I’m sorry. I did tell you the truth, and I was being honest about everything. The women in my past. What happened with Jess. And you and me.”

  “Don’t forget cute, little Anya.”

  “Stop it, Emma. I like what you and I have. I like you.” He moves closer.

  “It doesn’t matter. We need to leave for the hotel, and we need to actually do some work.”

  His face contorts in disbelief.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters. We’re involved, and you can’t decide that it doesn’t matter and put the brakes on it just because you’re angry about what I did last summer.”

  “What I did last summer. Huh. That sounds like the title of a horror movie.”

  “It kind of was.” He tilts his head and casts his eyes down.

  “Dylan, I think that shows how little we know each other. We kind of jumped into this… whatever it is we have—”

  “Whatever it is? Man, you’re sure doing everything you can to downgrade our relationship to zero, aren’t you? We can work on that while we’re at the hotel. Time to go.”

  “We’re not going on a honeymoon; nothing is happening at the hotel,” I scold.

  “Yeah, yeah. Our bags and gear are in the car, so we’re leaving now—together—before you think you’re doing this on your own.”

  He hustles me out of the office to the back lot where he has loaded Carson’s BMW with our suitcases and laptop bags. Carson is there with Cooper, talking in front of Carson’s truck. They turn as Dylan I walk towards them. Dylan takes his hand off my back as we separate and I head for the passenger door that Carson opens for me.

  “You two ready?” Carson asks. He glances across the car at Dylan then at me.

  The tension between Dylan and me is palpable. Cooper’s face goes from us to Carson as if he can tell we have been squabbling.

  I remind myself that it is not our job to be friends; we are working on an important project that we have to deliver for the company. This is business, and I have to reassure my boss that I am prepared.

  “We’re ready,” I say.

  As I settle into my seat, Carson leans in. “Has Dylan already gotten on your last nerve?” he asks quietly as Dylan opens his door.

  “Oh, I believe we are testing each other’s nerves.” I smile as if this is no big deal.

  “Remember what I told you about kicking him. You can keep him in line.”

  “Thanks for tipping her off,” Dylan cuts in, sliding into his seat. “Trust me; she’s not shy about using brute force.”

  “Good,” Carson replies and closes my door.

  I have broken all the rules; sleeping with someone I work with, moving in with a guy I barely know who happens to be the guy I am working with and sleeping with—was sleeping with. What a mess.

  As Dylan backs the car out and drives it out of the Blackard parking lot, his hand grips the stick shift as if he is itching to gun it. We are at the entrance to the main road when he glances sideways at me, staring with his stunning blue eyes and a devilish smile. I can totally read him. He wants to tear down the road.

  Before I can admonish him, his cell phone rings and connects to the car’s Bluetooth. The display says Dr. Wang. Dylan keeps the car idling.

  “Hi, Doc,” Dylan says. He clicks the speaker off and picks up his phone.

  There’s a long silence as Dylan listens.

  “Yeah, thanks for telling me.” He disconnects his call and stares at his phone for a minute before putting it in the console compartment between us.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  He looks out of the window and then down at his hands on the wheel.

  “Dylan?”

  As he turns to me, the mirth from a few seconds ago is gone. He looks stunned before suddenly composing himself.

  “Yes, everything is fine.”

  When he picks my hand up from my lap and kisses it, his warm touch and the tenderness of the kiss sends a pleasant tingle from my fingers to my toes. I want to ask him about the phone call, but that would be opening us up to more personal sharing and only minutes ago I was pledging myself to the job ahead of us.

  ***

  I expect Dylan to be talkative and arrogantly charming as usual with a few good, cocky remarks thrown in, however he is silent on our hour and half drive to the city. He likes to blast AC/DC in the car, but doesn’t complain when I switch it to Katy Perry and Imagine Dragons. The loud music blocks out any need to talk, therefore I rest my head back in the comfortable seat and watch the scenery become denser as we enter the city. Once we are in Manhattan, Dylan is still in some kind of disappointed funk and navigates the streets as if by rote, speeding down the West Side Highway, in and out of cars. I close my eyes and h
old back my nausea.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, holding my hand until I open my eyes and give a weak smile, acknowledging that I am okay.

  We arrive at our hotel in SoHo early enough to take our time. We are not meeting the Mercer reps until a cocktail party later, so Dylan hands the car keys to the valet and lets the bellboy take our bags on his luggage trolley then strides through the hotel lobby, looking every part the confident businessman. He speaks briefly to the concierge as I stand in the lobby and admire the exquisite décor.

  It’s a luxury boutique hotel, and I can’t believe Carson has sent me on this trip in his place. I am excited, yet I feel sort of like a fraud. My father’s wholesale business never required me to travel or even dress up. He could run his multi-million dollar business with a rotary phone and a typewriter if he had to. This hotel business event takes my college girl ego to the next level, making me feel more professional.

  As Dylan signals me to follow him to the elevator, the bellboy takes a separate elevator so Dylan and I are alone. He pushes the button for the penthouse floor.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yes. Top floor, views and all,” he replies. “You’ll like it. We always use this hotel for business.”

  “You looked pretty chummy with the concierge. She’s very pretty. Do you remember her name?”

  He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Allison.”

  “Hmm. You remember her name. I guess you didn’t sleep with her, or you just made that name up.”

  “You’re really pushing it.” He forces a faint smile. “That’s her name, and no, I never slept with her.”

  “What’s wrong? You’ve been very quiet since we left the office.”

  “I told you, everything is fine.”

  “Fine is what people say when it’s anything but fine. I say it all the time.”

  When the doors slide open to a chic, carpeted hallway, Dylan puts a finger between my shoulder blades and walks me out and down the hall. He then removes a card key from his pocket and slides it in the door slot.