by Calia Read
I smile and begin to curl my hands around his powerful biceps. “Étienne, come here.”
His thoughtful expression remains intact as he moves between my legs. His hands possessively curl around my thighs as he leans in for a kiss. At once, my hands get to work on the rest of the buttons of his shirt. Feeling his rock-hard abs brush against my knuckles every time a button slips free causes me to become wetter between my legs.
Étienne’s lips expertly move against mine while his hands disappear. I’m momentarily distracted because his shirt’s unbuttoned. I place my palms against his abs, loving how they jump beneath my skin. Almost done. The material of his shirt will part, and I—
“Marry me.”
Instantly, I become frozen. I push away a fraction from Étienne. “What did you just say?”
“Marry me,” Étienne repeats calmly.
My hands curl around the lapels of Étienne’s shirt. I stare at him in shock and awe. I add this moment to the category labeled: Serene Rendered Speechless. It’s a rare classification that quickly gets lost in the shuffle of my chaotic life and the emotions attached to it. “I’m sorry. Did you say marry me?”
Étienne slowly nods and lifts the ring in his hands higher, so it’s in my line of sight. I was so focused on his question, I didn’t even notice the ring. It’s Edwardian style with a round stone cut with diamonds traveling along the length of the band. The minute details are lost on me. Honestly, he could be dangling a ring from a Cracker Jack box in front of me, and I’d still be amazed. I never thought this moment would come. I’d dreamed about it a handful of times, but I had resigned myself to the fact that Étienne and I would never be man and wife. Yet here he was, giving us the opportunity.
“Are you gonna answer me?”
I blink my eyes rapidly and shake my head. “But what about ti—”
“I am not engaged,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gettin’ married unless it’s to you. Are you engaged to another man?”
I shake my head.
“Are you married to another man?”
Again, I shake my head.
Étienne’s stares at me with earnest eyes and continues to hold the ring between us. “Epouse-moi, épouse-moi, épouse-moi. S’il vous plaît.”
My fingers curl around the lapels of his collar. “I don’t speak French.”
“I said marry me. Please.”
I am well aware that mere hours ago I told Étienne we couldn’t alter time. But Étienne makes a good point. He isn’t engaged or married. And I’m not engaged or married. We love each other, and there’s no one else I’d rather be with. Are we preventing time from moving forward? Better yet, do I want to stand stagnant in my relationship with Étienne and never move forward?
I know the answer to the last question. Unequivocally no. I need Étienne to be mine emotionally and on paper.
I find myself nodding because I know this is the time I belong in. I’m giving up my life in the present and everything I know to be with him. But it’s worth it because this is the man I belong with. “Yes,” I say.
He holds my face between his hands and kisses me forcefully on the mouth, breathing deeply through his nose. Even when he pulls away, he comes back in, giving me short brief kisses. After a few seconds, he puts enough distance between us to grab my ring finger. I can feel the wide, beaming grin on my face as I watch him slide the ring on. This is actually happening. Étienne gently pushes the ring past my knuckle where it sits prettily on my finger. I tilt my finger to the right, then left, marveling at the way the light catches on the diamond.
Our eyes meet. A half-smirk tugs at Étienne’s lips, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. At this moment, he looks boyish and irresistible. All thoughts of taking it slow fly out the window. Excitedly, my hands plunge into his thick hair. I guide his face toward mine and meet him halfway. Our mouths meld together, tongues expertly gliding against one another. This is a song and dance I’m good at, confident at. I’ll never tire of it because right when I think I’ve experienced it all, Étienne flips the script and calls the shots, becoming the alpha. I let him, knowing that soon I’ll be the one in control. We play off each other’s emotions so effortlessly. It’s another reason I love him so much.
Étienne follows me onto the bed only with his mouth while his hand divests of his shirt. His boots follow, then his pants. The mattress dips from the weight of his knees. His arms brush against mine as his palms near my body.
My hair grazes the sheets as I lean back to welcome another kiss from Étienne. But not before I notice the golden coating of hair on his muscular thighs. My gaze snags on his six-pack. Every time he takes a deep breath, the skin becomes taut, hypnotizing me. Gradually, my eyes travel south. I admire the pronounced V, leading to a cock that’s hard and ready.
Yet I’m still dressed. My hands move to my back. I fumble with the small row of buttons while Étienne gives me a sexy smirk. He caught me staring at him. He knows the thoughts running through my mind, and he’s not lifting a finger to help.
Groaning, I arch my back so my breasts brush against his bare chest and suck on the curve of his neck. His body tenses up, so I flick my tongue against the rapid beating of his pulse. Étienne mutters a curse. I can’t help the smile that curves across my lips.
Within seconds, Étienne’s weight has pinned my body to the bed. His hands curl around the sleeves of my dress. He tugs and the material rips. Cool air tickles the upper slope of my breast. I suck in a sharp breath and free my arms from the sleeves while Étienne sits up on his knees and pulls my dress down my legs, taking my underwear along the way. Sitting up, I reach behind me, undoing the clasp of my bra. The cups droop forward, and the straps slide down my arms. I don’t tease him tonight and merely drop my bra onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor before I open my arms and welcome the feel of him. I wrap my legs around him. My feet cross at the ankles and brush against the curve of his ass. My hands curve around his neck.
Étienne props himself on his elbows. He looks between our bodies as he guides the tip of his dick between the folds of my pussy over and over. Once he’s firmly settled, he surges into me. He groans as sweat begins to coat his body. His eyes become shuttered as he rests his forehead against mine.
There’s angry sex. The betrayal you feel from your emotions is all-consuming. It runs through your veins and causes your adrenaline to spike. It feels never-ending. You’ll do anything to make it stop. Even if it means allowing your emotions to take control for a moment.
Can’t forget gentle sex. This is always the in-between. You’re optimistic and hopeful for the future. You believe nothing will ever stand in the way of your love. You release your inhibitions.
And lastly, sorry sex. Your body becomes hyperaware of every thoughtful touch. Feelings are still raw. You’re desperate to wash away the pain with new memories.
For us, it’s a mixture of gentle and sorry sex.
His arms begin to shake and sweat beads around his hairline as he tries his hardest not to move. I feel myself pulsate around him. My breath quickens. “I will give you everything you want. Everything you need. Just scream and let the world know you are mine,” he says between clenched teeth.
I’m stubborn to a fault. A lot of times, I can’t get out of my own way. That night, I do precisely as Étienne says and have zero regrets.
Étienne and I depart from the Charleston train station the next morning. Traveling long distance isn’t the same as it is in my time. The next few days are a whirlwind of cramped spaces, greenery rushing past me, and butterflies in my stomach. We have train connections in Atlanta, Georgia, then Meridian, Mississippi, before we finally reach our last stop on March 25.
The day before Emmeline’s death.
When I think of New Orleans, my mind immediately conjures the image of Mardi Gras. I love history, but I’m not exactly well versed in Louisiana history. My heart beats erratically as Étienne helps me off the train and onto the platform. I’ve felt deep tiredness to my bones
and have dozed on and off for days on the train, yet the minute I’m standing in the New Orleans Terminal, watching other passengers pass by me in a rush, I perk up. Dense smoke trails from the copper-rimmed chimneys and up into the air. The faint smell of oil drifts into the station. I see train sheds off in the distance. Étienne takes my hand, saying we need to go to the baggage facility and guides me toward the main concourse.
Sunlight streams through the windows near the cove ceiling. The platforms were busy, but the main concourse is clearly a meeting place, bustling with people. To the right are three ticket booths. Above the middle ticket booth is a large blackboard with arrival and departure information, along with the train numbers.
Étienne tries to pull me along, but I resist and take everything in.
He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. “You’re no longer a visitor, Serene. This is your time now.”
He’s right. Gone are the days where I feel I have to soak in every single piece of architecture around me. I belong here, but it’s going to take some time for that to fully sink in. It won’t happen overnight.
Wordlessly, I nod as we pass by the ticket booth while a small line begins to form in front of ticket booth one. One man with a strong Southern accent complains to the man behind him that if there are three ticket booths, then they should all be open.
I fight a smile because I feel as if I’m back in the present day at a grocery store. Apparently, some things never change.
My heels echo off the impossibly high ceilings before they circle back around us. We stop at the baggage facility, and Étienne arranges to have someone meet us outside with our luggage.
As we move toward the double doors ahead of us, I notice the solid pine benches against the stucco walls. A few people are sitting down, quietly talking to one another and lost in their own world.
Stepping outside, I reluctantly place my gray hat with a large black bow on the back of my head. I’ve accepted that if I’m going to live in this time, I need to try to immerse myself in “latest” fashion. Today’s outfit isn’t so bad.
As Étienne hails for a cab, I glance down at my stylish gray travel suit. The material is loose fitting around my body, yet the hem of the skirt tapers around my ankles. The black button and lapels of the collar and around my wrist are a subtle, yet perfect contrast to the gray. Beneath the jacket is a thin white dress shirt with ruffles around the collar and wrist. A few minutes outside and I was already beginning to sweat with all these layers.
Dabbing at the sweat gathering at my temples, I stare out into Canal Street. Charleston has begun to feel like home to me. I’m slowly adapting to the street names, the shops, the houses.
This place is brand new. In the far distance, I see smokestacks with tufts of dark smoke billowing into the air. The road is massive with three lanes going in both directions. I watch a streetcar in the middle of the road slowly roll by on the tracks. Black wrought-iron streetlamps are placed next to the curbs. Buildings are narrow, at least three stories high, and practically stacked on top of one another. It’s almost as if they’re all fighting for space on this street and waiting for the other to just crumble to the ground. Nearly all of them have colorful striped awnings, giving this bustling street a pop of color. The businesses displayed create an interesting collection and mark a distinct place in time. There’s a billiard hall, bookstore, theatre, and a importers/clothing store.
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I watch a slim woman step into K.J. Stevenson & Co., the clothing store. Something about her profile is familiar. My heart starts to beat at a rapid tempo because for a minuscule second, I think it’s Emmeline, but all my hopes are dashed when she disappears into the building, a man ushering her inside.
“Serene, are you ready?” Étienne stands by a Model T with the door open.
Shaking my head slightly, I give him a smile. “Yep.”
Étienne helps me into the cab and gets in behind me. “St. Charles Hotel, please,” he says and slams the door.
When we arrive at the hotel, I’m surprised to see it occupies an entire square block. Étienne uncoils his large body out of the car first and holds out a hand for me to take. I gladly accept it; my legs and shoulders are aching from sitting for so long. Right now, all I want to do is collapse face down onto a bed and sleep.
Once I’m standing on the sidewalk, I sigh and fight the urge to arch my back like a cat stretching after a long nap. My eyes close against the blinding rays of the sunlight as people walk past us.
Étienne clears his throat. I open my eyes and realize our hands are still linked together, and my forehead is resting against his chest.
Étienne dips his head. “As much as I enjoy this, people are startin’ to stare. Maybe we should go inside so you can lie down? We’ve had a long journey.”
I look up and stare at him. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with amusement, but there’s an undeniable heat lingering in those irises. He wants me this close. Craves it even. Probably just as much as I do.
Releasing his hand, I take a step back and look around the busy street. “You’re right. Let’s go inside.”
He escorts me toward the building. I try not to stare at the second story balcony. This is the hotel listed on Emmeline’s death certificate. Is this the location? The thought is too morbid to linger on. I swallow loudly. Étienne and I walk through the revolving door, the gentle whoosh of air tickling the hair around my temples.
As we walk into the lobby, I scan the open space. Round leather benches hug the square marble columns peppered throughout the lobby. Large potted plants give the area an exotic feel. Lights are strung around the crown molding leading up to the circular second story balcony. I strain my head to see guests walking around on the second floor. Some people rested their elbows on the balcony railing, speaking to one another and glancing down at the first floor the way I’m looking up at them.
Étienne walks up to the front desk and speaks to the clerk. Twisting around, I watch as a bellhops walk by, helping guests with their luggage as they check in or out. Carefully, I look at each person to pass by me, seeing if they’re Emmeline. She’s nowhere in sight.
This is a big hotel and a busy one at that. Yet there’s a possibility I’ll run into my great-great-grandma. If I do, can I walk past her and say nothing? Étienne and I have made a pact not to intervene with the fate of history, but it’s going to be a true testament to my will not to say hello, even though it’s probably for the best.
Just then, Étienne walks back to me with a bellhop in tow with our luggage. The people around us give him furtive looks. They don’t know him. His name doesn’t extend to New Orleans, but his confidence radiates off him. His looks aren’t classically handsome. I love the severe slant of his brows, his perpetual five o’clock shadow, and his crooked nose. What others consider flaws make me more obsessed with him.
Étienne’s frown deepens as he catches me staring. He loves me, yet that doesn’t mean he’ll suddenly morph into a man who recites poetry to me. Étienne will always be Étienne.
In his hands is a key with the room number on the keychain. “Our room is on the fourth floor. You ready?”
I smile. “Yep.”
He laces his hand with mine, and we walk in the direction of the guest elevators. I open my mouth to ask Étienne when he wants to eat dinner when my words become stuck in my throat because rounding the corner is the one and only Asa Calhoun.
“I was convinced you were going to change your mind.”
I look over at Matthew and smile. “Whatever makes you think that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You are a successful woman. The world is at your fingertips. You have a string of men to pick from, yet you chose me.”
I stop in front of Matthew to keep him from moving forward. People walk around us on the bustling Canal Street. In many ways, New Orleans is similar to Charleston. The Southern charm is undeniable although the accents surrounding me are different. To anyone else, it might sound the same, but I can s
pot a Charlestonian accent a mile away. But the heat, beautiful mansions, Spanish moss trees, and Southern manners bring me back to my time in Charleston.
“Do I need to point out who you are? We are perfect for each other.”
I met Matthew six months ago when he considered investing in Hambleton’s. Ultimately, he didn’t. Later, I would discover he found Uriah’s business approach aggressive and inauthentic. I wanted to meet the man who instantly saw what I failed to pick up on.
Was it my heart that continuously blinded me to people’s true colors or my ambitions? Perhaps, it was both.
Or maybe, when I met him on the ship, I was secretly desperate to find someone who would offer me and my son solid footing. Maybe I was terrified of the unknown but didn’t want to admit the truth to myself.
Uriah wasn’t identical to Edward. However, the second we became man and wife, I knew I had made a mistake on multiple accounts. It was a mistake trusting him and opening my heart to him. It was a mistake telling him about Hambleton’s.
But he said he would help me. He had connections in Chicago I would never have in a million years. I’d be a fool to ignore the opportunity he was presenting in front of me. A small part of me didn’t want to share my little idea of Hambleton’s because almost immediately, he took control as though the concept was his, and soon, the only surviving trace of me was the name of the store.
No, Uriah wasn’t identical to Edward, but some similarities led me to file for divorce a month into marriage. He began to be controlling, demanding to know my whereabouts as if I was his child even though I had hardly any friends in Chicago and was virtually lost if I strayed two blocks away from our home. There were nights he would come home late drenched in another woman’s perfume. More than that, the Langley family had deep-rooted issues. Every family does, but I discovered during family dinners every Sunday (and even before we married) that Uriah and his brother, David, were incredibly competitive, yet had an unbreakable bond. Uriah’s attachment to his mother at first seemed admirable, considering their father was no longer alive, but he would see her every day, and if he didn’t, she would come to our home. In some peculiar and contorted way, his mother was swiftly starting to feel like his wife and me his mistress. There were moments when my curiosity got the best of me in those four weeks of marriage and asked why he was so oddly close to his mother. It was almost as though something switched inside him. I saw fury and rage in his eye over me mentioning his mother.
