by Poppy Parkes
Yes, please. I’m all yours, I reply.
I find myself smiling at Oliver’s quick reply: Look what you’ve done — you’ve made me even happier than you did a moment ago. I’m a lucky man. Thank you for being willing to see me. I’ll pick you up after kickboxing. p.s. You’re late for class. ;)
Kickboxing? Suddenly the idea of going to my regular class after our text conversation seems unthinkable and horribly mundane. I’d rather skip right to seeing him.
But if he’s not free until later, then I might as well go to class, even if my heart’s not in it and my mind is wholly preoccupied with Oliver.
And he’s right. I glance at the clock and see that I am indeed going to be late. Only about ten minutes if traffic works in my favor, but still — late.
I put the car into gear and peel away from the sidewalk, pushing the speed limit the entire way to the gym.
When I get there, I park and throw myself out of the car, swiping my membership card inside the fitness center’s front doors and hurrying past the front desk.
Well, I try to hurry. But the blonde staff member who looks like she’s barely sixteen stops me.
“Um, are you Emilia Romano?” she squeaks even though she can see on her computer every bit of information the gym has on me.
I give her a curt nod, irritated at being held up. I don’t want to miss any more of class than I have to. “Is something wrong?”
To my surprise, a wide-eyed grin splits her face. “I’ve got something for you. Hang on a sec.”
She disappears into the back office and I hear her rustling around. I shift impatiently on my feet, considering just going to class.
But then the girl reappears, and my jaw drops.
Because she’s holding out a pot of raucous violets, the white, deep purple, and yellow of the velveteen blooms melding in a beautiful cacophony.
“This is for you,” the girl says, “from Mr. Lewis.”
It takes me a moment to realize that she’s talking about Oliver.
She winces, giggling. “Oops, I’m not sure I was supposed to say that. There’s a card.” She juts her pimpled chin at the tiny envelope tucked among the vibrant flowers. “It’s just so romantic, though, isn’t it?”
I recover from my shock enough to accept the flowers. The pot they’re planted in, I notice, is a piece of cream-colored ceramic decorated with what appear to be hand-painted vines and swirls that match the color of the darkest blooms.
“And wow, Mr. Lewis, he’s so cool, isn’t he? Such a snack, and so chill too. Nothing like what I would’ve expected a gazillionaire to be.”
I blink. “Um, a what?”
She shrugs, and I can tell that she barely manages to suppress an eye roll. “Okay, fine, just a millionaire or billionaire or whatever.”
“You’re saying that Oliver Lewis, the man who sent these for me,” I raise the flowers, “is a millionaire?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Her excitement about the flowers has faded and now she speaks like I’m literally the dumbest person in the universe and how could I not have known this juicy bit of gossip, omg. I laugh to myself, earning me a blank stare.
She grabs a towel and starts wiping the counter, clearly done with me. I turn away, even later for class now, but I hardly care. The flowers are lovely, and it warms me to imagine Oliver choosing them. And how did he know that I prefer potted flowers over cut ones?
Then there’s the fact that Oliver Lewis is apparently loaded. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I can’t hold it against the man. But does it shift my perception of him — or myself?
I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m even more excited than before to see him later — and it has anything to do with the fact that he’s wealthy.
I bury my face in the flowers and let the velvet fuzz of the violets tickle my nose. I ache to see Oliver, to touch him and thank him and kiss him.
But first, I have the rest of kickboxing to attend. I head to the locker room to change, flowerpot in hand and a dopey grin on my face that I make no effort to wipe away.
Oliver
Phase one of my plan is complete. The letter delivery service notified me that Emmy received my note. Hardly five minutes later, she texted me. By the end of that digital conversation, we had a date set for tonight. And by now she must have received the flowers.
Now all that’s left to do is wait.
I thought I’d need to use some of my connections to track her down. But thanks to the good old World Wide Web, it only took a simple google search of Emmy’s name to find her work address.
I could’ve dug deeper, flexed my financial heft and gotten more details — her number, her personal address, her hairstylist, her gynecologist, her dentist. But that felt wrong, not to mention unnecessary. I just needed to get her my number, and from there the ball would be in her court.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I didn’t do some social media stalking. Isn’t that all the rage these days? I found her Facebook and Instagram profiles. And although her Facebook feed was pretty locked down, no doubt to protect her personal information from her clients, her Instagram was a different story.
I’d spent far longer than I care to admit browsing through her carefully framed catalog of square photos. Her account was so, well, her. Thoughtfully curated, diving in deep with macro shots of still life but not forgetting to step back for the bigger picture, literally. Her subjects tend toward things like books stacked five high on a nightstand, succulents, and the river that flows through Shotgun.
But my favorite photos were the ones of pieces of her. Never of her whole face — again, I’m sure to protect her privacy. But glimpses of her that were no less tantalizing for their smallness. Purple-painted toes bare in bright green grass, a sun-kissed shoulder, her ebony eyelashes against a gray and tumultuous sky — it all made me feel like I got to know her much more intimately.
It also made me want her all the more. And soon, in a handful of minutes, I’ll get to see her again.
I cannot fucking wait.
Whatever went wrong the other night, apparently she’s had a change of heart. It took far less time than I expected for her to contact me. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if she’d contact me at all.
But it was mere moments before she was knocking on my door, digitally speaking.
Just the memory of that fact inflates my chest and makes my blood race faster through my veins.
She wants me. Whatever happened the night we spent together, she still wants me. This in itself is more than I expected. I take it as a victory, and as a sign of hope.
I check my watch. Thirty minutes until kickboxing class gets out. Twenty before I get in my car and go to her.
It’s too much time. I rove the study in my home, pacing the length of it. Nothing in this room can distract me from seeing Emmy again — not the desk strewn with papers, the vast and sumptuously comfortable leather couch that spans a full wall, nor the view of my two horses grazing out in their pasture, mountains rising beyond them in the distance.
I stride from the room and make for the kitchen. There my personal chef, Laurence, is hard at work preparing a dinner that, with any luck, I’ll share with Emmy.
He’s one of my few expenditures that go above and beyond the status quo. I can’t cook to save my life, and even if I did, it’s not often that I have time to. Laurence has been well worth every cent. Even better, he’s quiet. Friendly and professional, too, but I have extra appreciation for how he slips in and out of the house so subtly that it never feels jarring to know that I’m not alone in my home.
It’s one of the reasons I purchased a small ranch on the outskirts of Shotgun, where it feels more like country than city — for the peaceful solitude. Out here, it’s quiet, a welcome reprieve from the intensity of my work.
“Whatever you’re making, it smells delicious,” I say, examining Laurence’s activities with curiosity, but giving the older man his space.
He gives me an easy smile as he dices
green onions — at least, that’s what I think those skinny green shoots are. “I think you’ll really like this meal.”
“I like everything you make.” It’s true. I hardly ever request specific dishes, but I always adore Laurence’s culinary creations. The man is a genius.
“I know.” His smile widens, and he fixes me with a mischievous eye before turning back to the counter. “That’s why you’re my favorite client.”
That, and the fact I pay him twice what his asking rate is. Like I said, he’s damn good and worth every penny.
“I’m going to head out shortly.” I don’t normally share my comings and goings with Laurence, but I’m nervous and the pent up energy needs somewhere to go.
He nods. “I’ll have dinner ready in the dining room for your return.”
I don’t know how he does it. When he knows I’ll be back to eat a meal as soon as it’s ready, he somehow has it steaming on my table even though he leaves long enough before I arrive that I don’t pass his car on the way.
I peek at my watch again. Another minute and I can leave. I cruise through the dining room to make sure everything’s in order. Although why wouldn’t it be? I hardly use the room, preferring to take my solo meals at the bar-style kitchen counter.
The dining room was created and decorated — by a professional interior designer, I might add — to resemble a cozy but upscale French restaurant, perfect for entertaining. There are five round tables, mahogany with ornately carved pedestal bases, each set with a centerpiece of brass filaments supporting glass globes holding tealight candles. Every table has four creamy upholstered chairs, and the walls are the color of a robin’s egg. At the center of the room hangs a small but exquisite chandelier that robes the room in warm, glittering light that’s straight out of a fairy tale.
Tonight, I get to share this room with another person. Laurence has already designated a table for us — it’s the one with just two chairs, the centerpiece pushed back to allow more room for our plates. The wine he selected is already on the tabletop along with glasses, two sets of silverware, and woven placemats that match the walls. By the time I get back, he’ll have lighted the candles, trusting that I’ll let him know if I’m delayed.
Which is all up to Emmy. She wants to see me, but will she let me woo her?
She’s a woman who deserves to be romanced — hell, who needs it. Even though we haven’t known each other for long, it’s plain to see. She’s strong and smart as hell, but world-weary too. She can stand on her own, but being cherished would make her burdens just a little lighter and easier to bear.
I want to be the man to cherish her. I want to be the one she spills her secrets and tears and most joyous laughter to. I want to be the one she turns to when she needs the warmth of an embrace and the touch of another human form against her own.
I want it more than I ever could have imagined when I followed Emmy to kickboxing class all those months ago.
And now that I have a chance to win her heart and be that man for her, I’m putting everything I have into it.
I check my watch. My heart kicks my ribs when I see that it’s time.
Wearing something between a grimace and grin, I head for the garage. I have a woman to make my own, if she’ll have me.
Emmy
Usually I hang back after kickboxing class to chat with Wendy or get some extra stretches in.
Not tonight. I grab my new flowers and hightail it to the locker rooms to shower and change. Which is in itself another change from my usual — I typically wait until I get home to get cleaned up.
But tonight isn’t typical.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Judging from the flowers, I don’t think I’m wrong. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling so nervous that I tremble enough to drop literally everything I try to lay my fingers on, from the thin gym towel to my underwear.
At least I don’t drop the potted violets.
In spite of the clumsiness born of my excitement, I’m ready in ten minutes flat. I draw a shaking breath, unsure of what awaits me on the other side of this evening, and head for the club’s front doors.
Outside, the sun’s warmth steadies me as my eyes instantly find Oliver. He’s close, parked at the curb a few car lengths down from the entrance.
I can’t help it. I break into a grin when I see him leaning up against a silver SUV. It’s difficult to force myself to walk over to him like a self-respecting woman instead of flat-out dashing to his side.
Therapist that I am, I make note of the fact that two nights ago I was running away from this man. Tonight, it takes real effort to not run to him.
When I’m close enough to smell his intoxicating aroma of leather mixed with something like bourbon, I thrill at the sight of my smile reflected back at me on his lips.
“Hi,” I say, finding myself breathless.
“Hi,” he returns, grin growing. And god, those eyes. The silver in them matches the filament glimmering in his hair, and the heat in them makes my clit throb.
Hell, the sight of his whole body makes my core turn molten. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in clothes that aren’t made for sweating buckets, and he looks damned good. His black buttoned shirt is polished but still casual, and it allows me a look at a piece of his muscular chest. He wears a thick leather belt that makes me think of cowboys and rodeos, and jeans that look soft and worn in just the right way. They hug his ass perfectly.
He is a vision — a vision that makes me almost physically squirm on the spot.
I can’t believe that I ran from this man. I can’t believe that I let fear control me for so long, and almost steal this person from me.
Now that I’m aware, though, I refuse to let it happen again.
“You’re here.” I breathe the words as if giving them voice might make him vanish.
His forehead creases. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
“I think you didn’t deserve my bad behavior, running out on you like I did.” I step closer, plucking at one of the buttons on his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
He combs his fingers through the under-layer of my hair, making my neck prickle. I don’t miss that his fingers tremble as much as mine would be if I wasn’t holding onto the potted violets for dear life. “I was so worried I’d done something wrong, that you were hurt.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No. I let fear run the show — and run me out of there.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not exactly something you’d expect from a therapist.”
He ignores my self-judgment, slate eyes clouding with curiosity. “What were you afraid of, love?”
I shiver at the word love on his lips. God, I had no idea what I was missing. And now that I do, I have no intention of walking away from it. “Of you. Of this.” I take a shuddering drag of air. “Of letting myself be vulnerable.”
“And what do you think now? Do I still scare you?” His voice is steel, and fuck it’s good.
I hesitate, turning his questions over in my mind while trying to ignore how the growl of his words reverberates in my pussy. “I am still afraid,” I admit. “I’ve seen a lot of crappy relationships in my line of work, and I’ve always tried to protect myself from getting hurt like my clients have been. But now I see that in closing myself off from pain, I was also closing myself off from something beautiful.”
I caress his cheek, then run my palm over his bristly jawline and down his neck to rest on his shoulder. He leans into my touch, and the pressure of it both brings tears to my eyes at his trust while lighting a lustful fire in my belly.
I want him so badly.
“Will you forgive me?” I whisper, stepping even closer and moving the flowers to one side so that our hips press together and I can feel that he’s as aroused as I am.
“Always,” Oliver says with so little hesitation that the tears rising in my eyes brim over and course down my cheek. He lowers his face to mine and says it again, fierce and protective. “Always.”
Then he claims my mouth with his, his
lips soft and his tongue hard, insistent, exploring my mouth. I throw my free arm over his shoulder and catch the back of his neck, pressing his lips all the more firmly to mine.
I want all of him, for always. And the next time that fear threatens to take me away from Oliver, I’m determined to turn and cling to him more tightly than ever. I try to put the promise of this into every plundering movement our tongues take.
As if he can sense what I’m doing, his hands find my low back and pull me even closer, demanding more touch and less space.
I give him everything he silently asks for.
Moments or minutes or hours later, he tears away from me, breath short.
“Let me take you to my home?” he asks. I see the fear in his eyes that I’ll say no. Running light fingers over his brow, I try to smooth his worry away.
“Take me anywhere you like.”
With a growl, he steals one last kiss, then tugs me toward his car. Eagerly, I slip inside, flowers on my lap, bag at my feet, heart in my throat.
Oliver slides into the driver’s seat, turns the key in the ignition, and we’re off.
To his house.
Where I hope we have a repeat of the other night in terms of more mind-blowingly hot sex. Except this time I’m staying, for as long as he’ll have me.
I wonder if it should feel strange that I’m leaving my own car in the gym lot. I know it’ll be safe, but that isn’t what I’m thinking about. Instead, my mind is turning over how natural it feels to be at Oliver’s side, his partner in crime. Leaving my car at the gym feels like I’m moving on into a different life.
Which maybe I am. But I’m sure that Oliver will drive me back to my car whenever I ask.
“Music?” he asks, eyeing me.
I nod. “Anything you like, I’m not picky.”
He smiles and tunes his satellite radio to a station simply titled “Skynyrd.”
Now that I’m looking for it, I notice signs that Oliver is more well-off than most. His car seemed understated on the outside, a standard SUV. The inside, however, doesn’t feel standard at all. There’s a wide touchscreen with crisp graphics on the dash, the music sounds like we’re hearing “Sweet Home Alabama” live, and I feel like I’m sitting in the world’s most comfortable recliner even though I don’t have my seat leaned back in the least.
