Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  Amanda’s voice escalates, but all I can hear is wah, wah, wah—like an adult from a Charlie Brown cartoon.

  “Get Cline on it,” he says, “and tell him to call me when he has something.”

  I snicker, wondering if Amanda ever sounds like that in person.

  “Okay. Thanks, Amanda. I’ll see you then.” Darian returns his phone to the cupholder and rubs his chin roughly as his hard gaze locks on the road in front of us.

  “You okay?” I ask after several miles pass without a word.

  “I was just thinking about something.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  A wide grin breaks across his face. “Yeah, actually,” he says, turning his head toward me. “Do you believe in aliens?”

  I choke on a laugh. “Do I what? Where did that come from?”

  “You told me in Austin we hardly know each other.”

  “And you thought you’d start with aliens?”

  He shrugs. “A book made me think of it.”

  “What book?”

  “Armada by Ernest Cline.”

  “Never heard of it,” I say as I google the title on my phone. Sci-fi. No wonder. “What made you think of the book?”

  “My lawyer’s name is Cline,” Darian says. “I was just talking about him with Amanda.”

  “Oh.”

  His lips quirk up, revealing his dimple. “So, about those aliens…”

  It’s just after six when we get to the house, but it might as well be midnight. Twenty-four hours in a car is almost enough to make me appreciate flying. Almost.

  “Just carry in what you need,” Darian says, pulling my duffel from the trunk. “I’ll get the rest in the morning.”

  I grab my laptop bag from the back seat and follow him inside. He heads straight for the master, but I linger downstairs, taking in my new home.

  And the place where my heart was broken.

  Let it go, Frankie. It isn’t broken anymore.

  Darian pads down the stairs, stuffing his phone in the front pocket of his jeans. “I know you’re beat, but Gloria just texted. She left one of her famous lasagnas in the fridge. We just have to heat it up.”

  A yawn battles my growling stomach. “Lasagna definitely trumps sleep.”

  Darian leads the way into the kitchen, and I follow, setting my laptop on the island and plopping onto a barstool. My head falls to my folded arms on the granite, and I swear, I think I could sleep right here and be just fine. I hear the refrigerator door open and close, then the clank of glass as Darian sets the casserole dish on the counter. He clears his throat, and I look up, squinting in confusion at the way he’s leaning against the cabinet, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes fixed on me.

  “What? What am I missing?”

  He gives me a wry smile, and I let my gaze roam the kitchen until it lands on something I hadn’t yet noticed. Two somethings, actually. The massive coastline oils that once flanked the range hood are gone, and in their place hang two very familiar Texas wildflower paintings.

  My hand catches a gasp and my vision blurs.

  I’d know this artist anywhere. She owns a small gallery a few streets down from Lucy’s diner. I’ve admired her work for years, but I could never afford it…nor could I fit a single piece in my tiny cabin.

  “You asked me what my style was, remember? And I couldn’t tell you then.” Darian walks around the island and stands beside me. “I can tell you now,” he says, drawing my chin until my watery eyes meet his. “It’s you, Francesca. I want my home—my life—filled with you.”

  I throw my arms around him. “I can’t believe you did this. How did you even…”

  “Know you’d like them?” He steps back to study me. “I didn’t. Do you?”

  “Oh my God, Darian. I love them.”

  “I want you to be happy here. I want this to feel like your home.”

  “It does,” I say, then correct myself. “I mean, it will.”

  The oven beeps, and Darian crosses the kitchen to put in the casserole.

  “Whatever I can do to help you along.” He sets the timer and leans over the island, hands folded together. “If you want to change anything—paint, furniture, carpet, anything…”

  “Darian…”

  “And I’m not against selling this place and finding something together.”

  My empty stomach knots. “Darian, slow down. Redecorate? Sell your house?”

  “It’s just a house.”

  I slide off the barstool and walk toward him. “I don’t want you to sell your house, and you don’t have to redecorate for me. I just need to get settled.”

  “You will,” he says, taking my hands and twining our fingers. “But in the meantime, if you think of something, tell me, okay?”

  I scrunch my face. “There may be one thing…

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to set out a few pictures, you know, as evidence that people actually live here.”

  His brow quirks up. “Evidence, huh?”

  “Mine will be here in a few days, but it would be nice if maybe you had some you wanted to—”

  “I don’t,” he says quickly, letting go of my hands.

  An awkward silence settles in, and I lower my gaze to the floor. Too soon, Frankie.

  “But we could take some.” He lifts my chin until my eyes are back on his. “Of us.”

  I nod. “I’d like that.”

  Break on Through

  Evelyn: Are you back yet?

  Darian: Just got in last night.

  Evelyn: Francesca with you?

  Darian: She is. :)

  Evelyn: Lovely. Get her situated, then let’s meet for lunch.

  Darian: Sounds good.

  Frankie

  The late Saturday morning sun pries my eyes open, and I find Darian propped against the headboard reading a badly worn paperback of Michael Crichton’s Sphere. He’s wearing my favorite black TAG Heuer glasses, and I’m not sure what else. I watch him for a good, long minute before he catches me, closes his book, and reaches for his frames.

  “I think you can leave those on, Professor Fox.”

  “Professor?” He climbs on top of me, the minty, cool scent of his breath unmistakable as it wafts past my nose.

  Dammit, he beat me.

  “I think I like that,” he says, lowering his lips to mine.

  I turn my head before he can kiss me. “Not so fast.”

  He laughs. “Not so fast, Professor.”

  I wiggle out from under him, his hand tugging at the Pink Floyd T-shirt I’m wearing—his Pink Floyd T-shirt—as I bolt for the bathroom.

  The stretchy cotton snaps free and Darian groans. “We’ve had morning sex before without brushing our teeth.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?”

  I hear the mattress give as he pushes off of it and follows me into the bathroom. I smile, warmth flooding my chest at the sight of Darian standing in the doorway in his R2-D2 boxers. There’s something comforting about seeing him in his trademark novelty underwear after a week of plaid.

  “Just give me a minute,” I say, twisting the cap off the toothpaste. But instead of going back to bed, he comes up behind me. I shoot him a playful glare in the mirror. “Do you mind?”

  “Yes, I mind.” His fingers dig into my hips as he pulls me against his erection. “I mind very much.”

  We don’t venture far from the bed for the rest of the weekend. It’s exhilarating, the freedom that comes with making a decision and finally living it. While part of me is anxious to unpack, a bigger part of me just wants to enjoy the moment. So that’s how I spend the first two days of my new life—in bed with Darian enjoying a weekend’s worth of moments.

  By Monday, we’re rested and refreshed when the alarm sounds at seven. Wearing only Darian’s robe, I leave him to shower and dress while I head downstairs to make breakfast, eager to start the week with
some domestic normalcy.

  But as I’m wrapping Darian’s second taco in foil, I get a whiff of his cologne, and I imagine his tie clutched in my fist, his robe falling from my shoulders, his hands—

  “Ooh, food,” he says, entering the kitchen. “Thanks, babe. I’m starving.”

  His hands reaching for the tacos.

  “Are you sure I can’t make you a sandwich or something for lunch?”

  “I’ll get a bite downtown.”

  Caging me against the sink, he lowers his head until his lips capture mine in a kiss so passionate, I have to hold on to the lapels of his suit jacket to steady myself. Long, slow sweeps of his tongue inside my mouth make my body quiver.

  “That was um…some kiss,” I say almost breathlessly when he steals his lips away.

  His olive gaze rakes over me. “I hate leaving you. It feels like it’s too soon.”

  I hate it too.

  “We’re not on vacation anymore,” I remind him. “We have to adult.”

  “I know.” A warm smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “And I get to come home to you. Makes having to leave almost bearable.” He grabs his laptop bag off the island. “I know you’re busy today too.”

  I am. I have boxes to sell and parties to plan. Well, no parties as of yet, but hopefully soon.

  I return Darian’s smile. “Yes, and you’re too much of a distraction.”

  “Think it’s the other way around,” he says, smoothing his fingers over my cheek. He turns toward the garage, takes a few steps, and stops. “When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

  A laugh bubbles out of me at the unexpected question. “I wanted to work at a grocery store because I thought I’d get free chocolate.”

  “Free chocolate. I should’ve known,” Darian says, rounding the corner into the family room. I hear a faint chuckle as the door to the garage swings open, followed by, “Don’t work too hard.”

  At Darian’s parting words, I head upstairs with every intention of working too hard. I spend half the day hunched over my desk in the master, scouring the internet for website ideas to send Jane, who’s graciously volunteered to redesign my site.

  “I figured you’d ease back into the consulting thing—a birthday here or an office party there,” she says when I call her, “but you’re going all in.”

  “Why not? It’s not like I have anything else to do.” I close my laptop and slouch in my chair. “Besides, even with a full calendar, it’s still Party in a Box. These aren’t stress-inducing events.”

  “I think it’s great,” she says. “You can’t sit around all day waiting for Darian to come home.”

  No, I can’t, but the second we end the call, it seems that’s all I have to do…until the bags on the floor at the foot of the bed catch my eye. “You could unpack…”

  But as soon as I open my suitcase, Darian appears in the doorway.

  “I thought you were getting lunch downtown,” I say, standing up to greet him. “I would have made something.”

  “I’m not home for lunch.” Wearing a mischievous smile, he walks toward me, taking off his tie and tossing it on the dresser. “I’m home for the week.”

  “The week? What happened?”

  “Nothing, really. I did what I needed to do and got the hell out of there.” He gives me a quick kiss hello, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. “All through the meeting, I thought, the most beautiful woman in the world just moved in with me,” he says, sliding out of the pinstripe oxford. “What the hell am I doing at work?”

  A grin spreads between my flushed cheeks. “Adulting?”

  “I decided I don’t like that word.”

  “You may be a little old for it.”

  Eyebrows raised, he comes at me, coaxing me backward until my legs hit the bed and we both tumble onto the mattress. “Old?” he says, slipping his hand inside the robe I never bothered to change out of, “or experienced?” He walks deft fingers from my shoulder to my breast, and it swells beneath his touch. His warm breath teases me as it feathers over my nipple. A smile curls his lips, and he looks up at me through those sinfully long lashes. “Well?”

  A giggle bursts from my throat. “Experienced. Definitely experienced,” I say, twisting my fingers in his hair. He lowers his mouth to my breast, and I arch my back, prompting a groan that tickles my sensitive—”Wait.”

  “Wait?”

  I push out from under him and sit up, pulling my robe closed. “We should talk about this, Darian. I think it’s sweet that you want to be here, but it isn’t necessary.”

  And it isn’t helping me adjust.

  He takes his phone out of his pants pocket. “As long as I’ve got this, I’m good. I just have to be available in case I’m needed.”

  “I have to be available too,” I say, glancing at my desk.

  “Then you will be, and if you have work to do, I won’t get in your way.”

  I heave a sigh. “It’s just that I want to feel like I live here. I want to work and unpack and do laundry and God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I kind of want to clean something.”

  The admission surprises me as much as it does him.

  “A couple more days,” he says, grinning. “Let’s have fun for a couple more days and after that, you can scrub toilets to your heart’s content.”

  I scrunch my nose. “I was thinking maybe I’d vacuum.”

  “Two days?”

  “Fine. Two days.”

  Darian pushes for South Beach, but I nix the idea.

  “Why SoBe?” I ask, watching him in the mirror as I coat myself in sunscreen. “Spring break aside, I thought only rich tourists and celebrities frequented that place.”

  Shrugging, he says, “I wanted to go to the Ritz.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Collect on a rain check.”

  I nod toward the bathtub, my lips quirking up. “You can collect on it here. That thing’s huge.”

  “I’m trying to treat you,” he says, defeated. He takes the bottle of SPF from me and starts on my shoulders. “I’m allowed to do that now, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, and I love you for it, but we just got here. I want to spend time in my new home. With my new man.” I turn to face him. “I’m in a strange city with no friends, no transportation, and a job that keeps me busy for all of an hour each day. I know I promised two more days of fun, but I want normal fun. And hitting up the Ritz at South Beach is far from normal.”

  Darian’s face twists in a scowl as he pulls his buzzing phone from the pocket of his swim trunks. “I need to get this,” he says, bending to kiss my cheek. “I’m good with normal. Backyard in fifteen?”

  “Sounds perfect.” He makes it halfway through the bedroom before I stop him. “Darian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

  He grins over his shoulder. “An astronaut.”

  Dressed in my bikini and armed with two towels from the linen closet, I head downstairs, stopping the second I see Darian’s clenched jaw through the french doors of the kitchen. Phone pressed to his ear, he paces along the edge of the pool, coming to a halt when he notices me standing in the doorway. He ends the call and slips the phone back in his pocket.

  “Amanda?” I ask hesitantly as I walk toward him.

  A slow smile spreads over his lips, softening his hardened expression. “Gloria.”

  “Gloria?” I say. “You seem agitated.”

  He sits at the foot of the lounger with his hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees. “Residual from the first call,” he says, looking up at me. “Gloria was just checking in.”

  I sit beside him. “When’s she coming back?”

  “That’s up to you. And in what capacity is also up to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to lose her,” he says gently, “but I don’t want her stepping on your toes either.”

  I turn sidewa
ys on the lounger to face him. “Actually, I’m worried about stepping on hers.”

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  “I can’t help it,” I say, dragging a finger up and down his arm. “She was here first, and while I don’t want to take anything from her, I don’t want to be kept either.”

  “I get it.” He rolls his eyes as his phone begins to vibrate—again. “I’m sorry,” he says, exasperated, “but I should probably…”

  I inwardly cringe. “It’s fine.”

  Darian stands and tucks a fallen piece of hair behind my ear. “We’ll figure it out. The Gloria thing. Okay?”

  I smile. “Okay.”

  A knee to my calf jolts me awake, and my eyes snap open. I lie there a moment, my mind fuzzy from sleep, before the thrashing behind me causes a second blow, driving me from the bed. I flip on the lamp, and Darian bolts upright against the headboard, gasping for breath.

  “You okay?” My voice is soft but gives him a start.

  His panicked gaze darts to mine. He swallows hard, then drags his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. Did I scare you?”

  A little.

  I shake my head. “That was some nightmare.”

  “Yeah,” he says again, adjusting his pillow as he lies back down. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  I switch off the lamp and snuggle close to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  For the next few hours he tosses and turns, sits up, lies down, and tosses and turns some more. Finally, he gets up and leaves the room. When I wake early the next morning, he’s back in bed, dead asleep.

  I pad quietly down the stairs with my laptop and retreat to the patio table outside. Sitting in one chair with my feet stretched across another, I power on my computer and spend a couple of lazy hours shopping for a car. By the time Darian finds me, I’ve narrowed my search to FIATs.

  “I can see you in one of those,” he says, peering at the screen. After a quick kiss to the top of my head, he picks up my feet and sits beneath them. His fingers trail absently over my shins. “What color?”

  “Yellow, but I’m not having much luck.”