by Lili Valente
But in my secret heart of hearts, I’ve harbored fine china type wishes. Or at least fancy plate type wishes. I’ve always thought I would like to buy one place setting of several different patterns, so I would always have something that fit my present state of mind and meal.
Japanese blue calligraphy with intricate flowers around the rim for Sunday morning breakfast, peacocks waving flags to spruce up a lunchtime salad, and hand-painted woodland creatures for afternoon fruit and nut snacks or evenings when a boiled egg, slices of avocado, and a few pickles are as fancy as I can bring myself to get with dinner.
Suffice it to say, I’ve thought enough about these kinds of things to experience a pang of longing when I walk by a window display featuring carefully chosen combinations of plates and bowls artfully arranged on a table. But that pang is nothing compared to the marrow-deep flash of agony that ricochets through my bones as I realize who that familiar silhouette belongs to.
It’s Sam—my Sam, the only man who ever made me think that maybe the whole “happily ever after” thing wasn’t a complete crock of shit after all—and he’s not alone.
Beside him, dressed in a sky-blue linen sundress with birds taking wing near the hem, is Madeline. Madeline of the lily-white complexion, bee-stung red lips, and glossy black hair she keeps tied back in a crisp ribbon like a modern day, all-grown-up Snow White. In addition to the lovely face, Madeline has curves for miles, tiny feet that look ridiculously precious in kitten-heel pumps, and a big, sexy brain that does important work for refugees in crisis. She’s an attorney at a non-profit who spends her spare time backpacking in exotic locales, somehow managing to remain flawlessly elegant and gorgeous even after sweating it up in the jungles of South America for the better part of a week.
I know this about Madeline because I am one of those weak-willed human beings who Googles her ex just to slice open a pain vein and sob about how much it hurts. At least once every few months or so, I drink too much wine, misplace my instinct of self-preservation, and end up cruising through Sam’s most recent social media posts, scanning shots of him and Madeline hamming it up in selfies from the top of a mountain they’ve climbed, cuddling near the fireplace at a friend’s party, or laughing adorably over happy hour beverages and karaoke.
Stalking was how I found out Sam and Madeline were engaged in the first place. How I learned that the ring was of a moderate size—Sam’s a travel writer and far richer in adventures and tall tales than cold, hard cash—but exceeding loveliness. It’s an antique, with a rose diamond as elegant and flawless as Madeline herself.
I can see the ring now. My gaze locks on it, staring it down like the barrel of a gun aimed in my direction, unable to tear my eyes away even when Sam draws to an abrupt halt outside the store and says in an uncomfortably stunned tone, “Diana? What a surprise seeing you here.”
With panic gripping my throat, I look away from the evidence of just how completely Sam has moved on from that endless summer we shared two years ago, and up to meet his eyes. The moment my gaze crashes into his baby blues, my heart shrivels into a tiny, sad raisin, lying dehydrated in a dusty corner of a kitchen someone forgot to sweep.
It is something that was once good, then decent, and now would be better off in the trash. But no one cares enough to bother. My desiccated heart is so wretchedly beneath notice that it can’t even be properly thrown away.
The metaphor is strained, but I can’t help it. That’s where my thoughts go and where they stay—in the sad kitchen with the pathetic, dusty, abandoned raisin—as my lips curve and I say, “Hey, Sam! Nice to see you. Congratulations on your engagement!”
Madeline, who has stood silently smiling—warmly, if a bit uncomfortably—says, “Thank you,” at the same moment Sam asks, “How did you know?”
I realize that I’ve made a serious lapse—always a bad idea to forget what you’ve learned cyber-stalking and what you’ve been told in real life—and scramble to figure out a way I could have found out about Sam’s engagement that would leave my dignity intact. But we have no friends in common, no intersections in our work, and I seriously doubt Madeline went to the effort to have their engagement announced in the paper. She’s too busy saving refugee children and exploring the world to waste time crowing about her upcoming nuptials.
I open my mouth to babble something about “hearing it around somewhere” when I’m cut off by an arm wrapping around my waist and a deep voice that says, “Sorry to keep you waiting, beautiful.”
I look up into Tanner’s handsome face, my raisin heart plumping at the warmth in his eyes. “No worries.” I sag against him. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, and it won’t happen again.” He leans down, capturing my lips in a long, sweet, thorough kiss that makes my shriveled heart swell to its full size, plus a little extra plumpness from pure gratitude.
I have no idea how he knew I needed this kiss, this rescue, but I’m so grateful for it. And I’m so thankful to have someone to lean on as the kiss ends and I turn back to Sam and Madeline with a rush of breath. “Sorry. Tanner, this is Sam and…” I furrow my brow, pretending to rack my brain and come up empty. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve—”
“Madeline,” she pipes up, her Snow White face beaming brightly as she glances from me to Tanner. “Madeline Sparks. And you’re Tanner Nowicki. I’m a huge Badgers fan. Sam and I were at the first game you played last year.”
Tanner laughs. “Sorry about that. Took me a few games to hit my stride.”
“No!” Madeline shakes her head emphatically. “You were great! And you just kept getting better as the season went on. I hope you’re going to be in Portland again this year.”
“I am,” Tanner confirms. “Love this city, and Badger fans are the best.”
Sam chuckles, a sarcastic sound that’s unlike him. Or at least, it’s unlike the Sam I used to know, the one who had such a wide-open heart that he could find wonder in the smallest things. “I don’t know about that. We’re a restrained crew compared to the animals north of the border. I’m from Canada, where hockey is something you bleed for, not just an evening’s entertainment. Right, Diana?”
I nod in Canadian solidarity—another great thing about Sam, he always understood and enthusiastically supported my Canadian pride. “Absolutely. But I confess it’s nice to go to a game without having to watch grown men burst into tears when their team doesn’t make the playoffs.”
“I guess.” The skin at the sides of Sam’s eyes wrinkles in that way that used to make me melt. “Though you have to respect their passion.”
I swallow hard, wishing he hadn’t said that word. I don’t want to think about passion right now, not with the man I used to love standing so close I can smell his wheat berry cologne mixing with his fiancée’s lighter, sweeter perfume, and the man I’m trying to have uncomplicated sex with rubbing his palm up and down my side, from my waist to the curve of my hip and back again. I feel trapped between the tragic past and the impossible present, and the pressure is squeezing my brain like a stress ball.
Before I can blurt out something stupid or make a break for the Mexican restaurant across the street to drown my angst in an extra large frozen margarita, Tanner comes to the rescue again. “Hate to cut hockey talk short, but we’ve got reservations. Nice meeting you Sam, Madeline.” He nods to each of them in turn before guiding me around the happy couple.
“Nice to meet you, too!” Madeline says, fluttering slim fingers.
“Absolutely,” Sam agrees. “See you around.”
Good God, I hope not, I think even as I echo, “See you.”
But I don’t want to see him. Ever. If I never see Sam’s sky-blue eyes, adorably shaggy mop of brown curls, or lean, athletic hiker’s body again, I’ll count myself a lucky woman. Being close to him is like looking at faded pictures from my childhood, except a thousand times worse.
Childhood is something that everyone has to mourn, no matter how rich or fabulous or lucky they are. We all have to let go of
those innocent days when life held so many possibilities and the future was nothing but clean sheets of paper, a rainbow of sharply pointed pencils, and dreams enough to fill each page with unique and beautiful things.
But true love is different. True love is something that some people get to hold onto, a dream they get to keep dreaming without ever waking up.
“You okay?” Tanner asks softly.
“Fine,” I lie. “How did you know?”
“That Sam was your ex? The one who got away?” Tanner asks. When I nod, he continues, “You had that look on your face.”
“The ‘I just ran into someone I used to love and I want to throw up’ look?” I groan. “Great. And here I was hoping I’d managed to hide it.”
“You were fine. He looked uncomfortable, too.” He puts his arm around my shoulders, hugging me closer. “Madeline was the only one who wasn’t on the verge of losing her lunch. She seems nice. I mean, if you like that sort of woman.”
I glare up at him. “What sort? The sexy grownup Disney princess with big boobs and a bigger brain and a relentlessly sunny disposition?”
His lips curve. “The sort that isn’t you, clearly the superior specimen in every way.”
I sigh, even as my heart starts plumping up with happiness again. “You’re such a liar. She’s beautiful and successful and seemingly very nice.”
“But she’s not a beach pixie. Once you’ve had one of those, I don’t see how you could ever be happy with anything else.”
I turn to face him under the awning of a French restaurant advertising crispy peppered lamb shoulder as the night’s special. “You don’t have to flatter me, Tanner. I’m fine. Sam and I have been broken up for a long time. It’s no big deal. It was just…unexpected, running into him like that. That’s all.”
“I’m not flattering you.” Tanner’s green eyes glitter with anger and something else I can’t quite pin down. “And Sam is a fuckwit idiot loser with stupid hair.”
My grin comes in fast and sudden, cracking through the tension tightening my jaw. “No, he isn’t. But thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He nods his head toward the restaurant. “French good?”
“French is lovely.” I push onto my toes to kiss his freshly shaved cheek. “Thank you, unicorn.”
“Unicorn cock, you mean,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and drawing me closer.
I shake my head. “No, just unicorn. It’s more than your dick that’s special. You seem to be in possession of an encouraging, thoughtful, magical personality as well, you lucky bastard.”
He smiles, and his eyes dance mischievously in the fading evening light. “Why, Miss Daniels, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. Either one of them,” I caution in my cranky old lady voice, the one I like to practice so I’ll be ready when I’m an ancient spinster yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn.
But Tanner only laughs and kisses me again, a long, panty-melting kiss that leaves me feeling grateful to the coed who stole my deposit and ran off to Mexico. What would I have done without this man?
This sexy, silly, sensitive man who makes me wish…
I don’t let the thought find its tail end. There’s no room for that kind of wishing in my life—seeing Sam has reminded me what it feels like to lose someone who makes you feel irreplaceable, how it guts you like a fresh kill to see the person you thought was your forever planning a life with someone else.
I don’t think I could survive that a second time. I know I couldn’t.
That’s why this has to stay sex and nothing more.
“We’re just fucking,” I whisper against Tanner’s lips. “Don’t take this too seriously, Muscle Boy.”
“Oh, shut up and get your ass inside.” Tanner slaps me softly on both ass cheeks, making my jaw drop.
“What was that for?” I ask indignantly.
“Let’s eat and toast your new job before you start reminding me not to fall in love with you, okay?” he says, reaching to open the door. “I’m hungry, and I want to be happy with you first.”
I cross my arms and scowl up at him. “Fine.”
He smiles. “You’re good to me.”
I duck into the restaurant beneath his arm, catching a glimpse of Sam and Madeline crossing the street at the end of the block. Madeline is motioning toward yet another fancy home goods store, while Sam presses a kiss to the top of her glossy head. The sight of it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt like a shriveled up raisin on a neglected kitchen floor.
In fact, it only aches softly, like a mostly-healed bruise.
And the reason for that muted ache is the man slipping into the restaurant behind me, his hand light at the small of my back, making me feel unreasonably adored.
Chapter Sixteen
Tanner
After dinner, I follow Diana to her brother’s place, where she drops off Laura’s car before slipping quietly down the driveway and into mine. I take her home, where the moment I shift the car into park, I lean over to steal a long, slow, red-wine-and-dark-chocolate-cake-flavored kiss. I kiss her on the way up the porch steps and into the house and across the kitchen as I scoop out food for Wanda and promise to walk her as soon as I’ve taken care of something very important.
“And what’s that?” Diana asks, her breath catching as I draw her close.
“You, Daniels. I’m going to take care of you.” And then I kiss her again, keeping her lips too busy to say any of things I can’t stand for her to say right now. I don’t want more warnings to guard my heart or reminders to keep her at arm’s length.
I don’t want her at arm’s length. I want her tight against me, her breath in my mouth, her heartbeat echoing in my chest, her skin hot against mine. I want her time and attention, her laughter and tears, her smartass jokes and thoughtful touches and way of saying my name like she’s got a secret and can’t wait to share it with me. Whatever crazy thing she’s going to say next, I want to be the first person to hear it, and when she goes to sleep, I want to be the last thing she touches before we turn out the light.
Because I’m falling in love with her, faster and deeper with every passing day, and it’s too late for warnings to do a damn bit of good.
It was too late that first night on the beach, when she was still half fairy tale and moonlight. She slipped under my skin with her tinkle of a laugh and lodged herself there with the soft confession of how much she’d needed to be touched that night.
Now, I need to be touched by her every night, every afternoon, every moment I can steal, every second I can hold her close and make her feel so good she forgets all the reasons she’s supposed to push me away.
I kiss her as I scoop her into my arms and head for my bedroom, and I’m still kissing her long minutes later after I’ve stripped away her clothes and mine. And then she’s beneath me, welcoming me in as I push forward, leaving the darkness of my shadowed bedroom behind for the light that floods through me every time I make love to this woman.
It’s not just fucking with Diana. It never has been, but tonight I don’t try to hide how much this means. How much she means.
I don’t take her hard or fast. I don’t whisper dirty things into her ear or make wicked promises I intend to keep. I go slow, gliding in and out of her tight heat until rhythm gives way to conversation, until I’m confessing my sins with every advance and retreat, every breath gasped in between kisses, every groan as her nails dig into my ass, pulling me closer.
Forgive me, Diana, for I have sinned.
I’ve fallen in love with you, and I live to be inside you, beside you, as close as I can get.
Like this…
And this…
And this, oh God, this…
Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel how good it is, Beach Pixie? My beautiful, crazy, perfect girl who makes me feel and feel and feel—God, the things you make me feel.
“Why?” she whispers, voice catching as we race faste
r toward the inevitable fall. “Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” I say, not pretending to misunderstand her. “Every part of you.”
“But you barely know me.” A tear slips down her cheek, which I kiss away.
“Lies.” I slip a hand between us, rubbing her clit in firm circles as my cock strokes deeper. “I know you. And you know me. And there’s no reason to be afraid. I’m never going to hurt you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I don’t.” My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I fight to keep from falling until I feel her go. “Now shut up and come for me, psycho.”
“You’re psycho,” she says, but her lips curve and she pulls me closer, clinging to my shoulders as her words become a moan. “Oh yes. Yes, I’m so close. So close.”
“And I’m going to get you closer, baby.” My balls are swollen and heavy, and the need to come is so powerful I could go at any second, but I need her release first.
I need her pleasure as much as I need my own. More, because in that undefended moment when she’s shot through with bliss, Diana is no longer a woman with a painful past and a suspicious eye narrowed at the future. When she comes for me, on me, with my body buried deep inside hers, she is a goddess—a fearless, shining, magical creature who takes my breath away with her beauty.
This time when she arches beneath me, her features twisting as her release takes her over, I fall a little harder, the way I do every time I make her mine, and then I come. I come so hard I spiral out of my skin, taking up orbit around a distant star before landing back in my body just as Diana begins to wiggle beneath me, the way she does when “you feel nicely heavy on top of me” becomes “you’re starting to crush me, dude, roll over.”
