The instant I’m in, I drop my wallet and keys on the entry console table before stopping dead in my tracks.
A lone suitcase in a familiar shade of olive-green rests in the middle of the living room. The place is quiet, but she’s here. I can feel it.
Heading down the hallway, I notice my bedroom door is open a crack. I press my palm against the wood and it swings the rest of the way, revealing the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen in my entire life perched on the foot of my bed.
“Joa ...”
“Nice place you’ve got here, York.” Joa dangles the Cabo is for Lovers keyring in front of her face. Her baby blues gleam and she rises, sauntering my way. Her hands glide over my shoulders the second we connect.
Her lips graze mine, teasing me, and I lift her into my arms, wrapping her legs around my sides as I carry her to my bed.
“I’m going to tell you everything,” I whisper. “This past year was brutal … not being able to explain, to give you the explanation you deserved. To know that you hated me for what you thought I did.”
Though I’m well aware of the fact that she’s a highly intelligent creature and odds are she’s already pieced everything together by now.
She silences me, her finger pressed against my mouth as if to say, “Not now.”
I place her on the bed. Hovering above her, I brace myself with one arm while the other hand works the button of her jeans.
Our lips meet, hungry and impatient, as we remove our clothes until there’s nothing left but the two of us.
“This,” I say, wearing a smirk as I pull her into my lap. “This is how it was always supposed to be.”
“Naked in bed?” she asks.
I shoot her a look. “No. You in my bed, in my apartment, with me.”
Her pretty lips bend at the corners and she presses her smile against mine until it turns into a kiss. Our tongues dance, our fingers interlace, and she grinds against me like the teasing little minx she's always been.
My cock throbs until it aches. I’ve never wanted to be inside of her more than I do in this moment. All the times before this, as mind-blowing as they were, won't hold a shadow to all the things I’m about to do to her now.
Rising on her knees, she reaches between her spread legs and wraps her palm around my shaft, pumping the length before positioning it at her slit.
Everything holds in this moment. Our stares. Our eyes. Our tongues. And then she lowers herself onto me, head rolling back as she exhales.
I cup the side of her jaw, pulling her closer to me and peppering feverish kisses into her neck and collarbone as her hips buck and circle.
There’s no rhythm here.
There’s no method to our madness.
I want what I want and she wants what she wants.
It’s a goddamned free-for-all.
I gather her hair in my fist as she rides me, and every time she bites into her lower lip I get a little harder.
Her perfect teardrop breasts bounce with every breathless plunge of her body onto mine.
When her hand squeezes the back of my arm, I know she’s getting close. While I could do this all night, it’s in this moment I have to remind myself Joa Jolivet isn’t going anywhere.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
Past
Reed
“That’s not the suitcase you brought with you, right?” I ask as she packs up her things after a three-day stint in Portland. “Pretty sure I’d remember an eyesore like that.”
“Hey.” She shoots me a look as she folds a t-shirt and places it inside.
“Seriously though, where did you get that? And when?”
“I got it at the flea market this morning when you were out for a run. It’s vintage. A Ventura.”
“What’s wrong with the black Samsonite you came with?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs. I’m still confused as to why she would swap out her perfectly good, perfectly modern and practical luggage for something that looks like it fell off some VW bus in 1973. She shuts the lid and snaps the locks. “When I was a kid, my parents had luggage just like this. Hand-me-downs from my mom’s parents. Every time my parents would go away for a weekend, they’d pack their things in a bag just like this, but they’d always leave extra room so they could bring us back something.”
The sweetest smile claims her lips as she reminisces.
“Anyway, I know you don’t care, so I won’t bore you with the rest of the story,” she adds, sliding the thing off the bed and placing it in the corner.
“There’s more?” I ask as she scans the room in search of anything she may have left behind.
Her light eyes lift to mine and she winks. “There’s always more. But I know it’s not your thing, so no worries. Phone charger. That’s what I’m forgetting.”
She’s already out the door and down the hall before I realize there’s a part of me that wants to hear the rest of the story.
29
Joa
“Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. York.” I shake his mother’s hand Saturday night as we stand in the entrance of the Yorks’ Malibu mansion.
I have to admit it’s difficult looking her in the eyes, knowing what I know. Knowing how she abandoned Reed in hotel rooms as a small child. Knowing how he spent his entire life as an afterthought. But those things are none of my business, and if Reed’s made peace with his past, I have to accept that. Maybe someday I can get him to open up a little more. I imagine he’s kept most of it bottled up his entire life.
But for now, he’s asked me to meet his parents, and so I’m here—with proverbial bells on.
The house smells of fresh, salted air, baked sand, and a hint of coconut sun tan oil, and I’m pretty sure there are more windows here than there are in all of Mills Haven, but I try not to get distracted.
There’ll be time to gawk later, I’m sure.
“It’s our pleasure, darling. And please, call me Bebe,” she says, tucking her white-blonde hair behind one ear. A giant pearl surrounded by a cluster of diamonds sparkles in the late-afternoon sun. “It isn’t every day that my son brings along a … friend.”
She smiles when she says the word, “friend.” And then she winks at Reed.
“What my sweet mother is trying to say is that it’s kind of a big deal that you’re here.” Bijou, Reed’s younger sister chimes in. She’s the spitting image of her mother, head-to-toe, only about thirty years younger.
So far I’ve only talked to her for about fifteen minutes at Reed’s and then in the car on the drive out here. Before I met her, Reed warned me that she was an “acquired taste.” But I find her hilarious, the way she says what’s on her mind and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks. She isn’t afraid to be herself, even calling herself a “Malibu Barbie Basic Bitch.”
She owns it.
And to that I say: more power to her.
“Why don’t you all come in and get settled. Martina should have the food out shortly. She’s been cooking all afternoon.” Bebe diverts down a long hallway. “Redford? Are you in your study, darling?”
Reed hooks his hand into the bend of my elbow, leading me to a dining room. The table in the center is fit for royalty, covered in matching china and a crystal candelabra. But despite the elegance, the entire home still offers a modern, coastal vibe.
Outside the windows, the waves crash on the shore. Reed said if it wasn’t so chilly, we’d be eating on the patio tonight. I told him sixty-eight degrees wasn’t chilly to a Midwesterner. He told me I’d be more than welcome to sit out there, but I’d be dining solo.
Reed pulls a chair for me before taking the one next to it. Bijou sits across from us, checking her reflection in her phone’s camera.
Bebe glides into the room, her long Pucci dress billowing around her when she walks, and she takes a seat between Reed and his sister.
“It’s so nice that we could all get together tonight,” she says, hands clasped as she beams at her grown childr
en. “And Joa, I very much look forward to getting to know you.”
“Hey, Dad.” Bijou puts her phone away as her father takes a seat. “How was vacay?”
“Good, good.” He glances my way, and I’m sure he finds it weird that his son suddenly and randomly brought a woman over to meet them.
A woman in a white chef’s coat with a slick gray bun carries a tray toward us, making her way around the table and delivering small bowls of some kind of bisque.
Bebe and Redford share stories from their latest trip before diving into plans for the next one—they’re thinking Grenada next time.
Bijou shares an embarrassing story about Reed—something about the time he lost a bet and she put makeup on him and made him answer the door when the pizza delivery guy arrived.
Between courses, Reed reaches under the table, squeezing the top of my knee or slipping his fingers between mine.
When we’re finished, Bebe and Redford escape to his study for a cocktail and Bijou plants herself on the sofa in the family room, her nose in her phone.
“You keep looking at the ocean,” Reed says when it’s just us and we’re sitting at a table that’s long since been cleared.
“I just can’t imagine growing up like this.”
He laughs. “I didn’t grow up here. We actually lived in a house a couple miles up the coast. It was about half the size of this.”
My eyes widen. Half the size of this place would still be ten times the size of the house I grew up in.
“Most parents downsize when their kids move out. Not mine. They do everything backwards,” he says. “Kind of like how most couples travel the world before they have kids? Yeah, not mine.”
“I still find all of this fascinating.” I glance around the dining room, which is essentially three walls of windows with a panoramic ocean view. “I hope your parents never take for granted how beautiful this is.”
“Oh. They do.” He gets up from the table, placing his hand out.
I slip my palm into his and he pulls me to a standing position. “Where are we going?”
“You want to walk the beach a little bit?”
I scan the view past the back patio, where a glowing moon reflects on a dark and rippling ocean.
“I thought you said it was too chilly,” I say.
“It absolutely is. But I’m willing to freeze my ass off because that’s the kind of guy I am.”
He’s trying to be a smart ass, but I don’t care. I’m smitten. Helplessly and instantly obsessed, straddling the line between wanting to rush full speed ahead into this new life with him and begging for time to stand still so I can savor these moments as they come.
Reed leads me through the living room, where he yanks a very expensive-looking blanket from the back of a sofa and wraps it around my shoulders.
We pass through a sliding glass door next, kicking off our shoes and abandoning them on the patio steps as we race toward the mild evening waves that roll against the shore.
I almost beat him until he catches up with me, wrapping his arms around me and tackling me to the ground.
He hovers above me, and I place my hands on his arms. His skin is freezing already. I suppose it gets colder quicker here by the ocean.
“You’re ice cold,” I say, sitting up and pulling the blanket out from beneath me. “Here. We can share.”
Reed kisses me, slow and lingering, the taste of red wine still on his mouth.
“I like your family,” I tell him. “They’re a riot.”
“To put it nicely.”
“I love how your mother calls everyone ‘darling.’ And your sister just calls it like she sees it. Your dad, I’m still trying to get a read on him, but he seems like the kind that might loosen up with a good cigar and a few drinks in him.”
“You’re very perceptive,” he says. “And absolutely correct. Though you forgot to throw in some Cuban music. The man goes nuts when Buena Vista Social Club comes on. Pretty sure he was Cuban in a past life.”
“What do you think you were in a past life?” I ask.
He makes a face.
“You don’t have to believe in past lives. This is purely a hypothetical question for my entertainment only,” I assure him.
He mulls it over for a minute, as if there’s some kind of right or wrong answer.
“A saint,” he finally says.
“A saint?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure I did something amazing in my past life to deserve the life I have now,” he says. “What about you?”
“I was going to say Viking goddess or something, but I don’t think I can top that, York.”
I quiet his laugh with a kiss and ignore the threat of shivers that pass through me each time the wind gusts.
I don’t want to go inside.
I don’t want this night to end.
I want to stay here, like this, with him, and not have a single care in the world … forever.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask him.
He stares toward the water, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. Thought maybe we could open our own consultancy? Maybe specialize in cryptocurrency fraud or something? You wouldn't believe everything I learned over the last year. Seems like it’d be a waste not to do anything with it.”
I chuckle, placing a hand across his chest. “No. I mean where do we go from here as in … you and me?”
His diamond blues light when he looks at me, sending a tingle that moves from my middle to the top of my head.
“Anywhere you want to go, Joa,” he answers. “You’ve got me. I’m with you.”
30
Reed
I swear I just saw my whole life flash before my eyes.
Joa sits at my kitchen island, wearing one of my white button downs, reading the news on my iPad, and drinking coffee from my favorite mug.
She’s been here a week now, which is definitely a record and deserves some kind of trophy or medal or at the very least a certificate of achievement signed by me personally. Framed and matted of course.
Many have tried.
None of succeeded.
Until now.
Before Joa, if I brought a girl here, she’d be lucky to see the inside of my place for more than a few hours. And I never let them stay over. Always had some excuse at the ready about why they had to leave.
But it’s different now.
A little part of me dies if she wakes up before me. And if she runs out to check the mailbox because she’s bored and wants to be helpful, that’s five minutes of me missing her.
I’m pathetic, but at least I own it.
And besides, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’d rather be lovesick than the so-called wet blanket that I’ve been for the past year.
“You about done staring over there?” Joa asks, looking up from her screen. “By my count, that was a solid three minutes. Any longer and I might start to worry.”
“Can’t a man admire his sexy girlfriend without getting any guff?”
Her smile fades.
We hadn’t had this discussion yet.
We’ve never used labels.
For the longest time they were taboo, practically verbal contraband.
“I’m your girlfriend?” she asks, sliding off the bar stool and lacing her fingers around my favorite mug as she slinks toward me. “I thought you hated that word.”
“I used to hate it,” I say. “That was before I decided it was useful.”
“Useful how? Exactly?”
“Mostly, you know, in social situations. When I’m introducing you to people,” I say. “It’s a subtle way to say ‘she’s mine, so back the hell off because you don’t have a chance in hell.’”
Her rosebud lips contain a smirk. “You got all that from one little word?”
“Yep.”
“Impressive.” She lifts her arm over my shoulder, hooking her hand around the back of my neck. “I was thinking about what you said last week. About starting our own consultancy.”
“I think we should do it. Let’s go for it.” Her eyes smile and she’s nodding her head like a kid who’s just been asked if she wants to go to Disneyland, but she’s also scared as hell. I see it beneath the excitement. “E-currency fraud and security. We could rock the hell out of that. And we could travel the world, work from anywhere we want. Just a couple of restless souls doing what they do best and getting paid for it at the same time.”
God, I still can’t believe she's here, standing in my kitchen, wearing my shirt and nothing else, talking about plans for a future with me.
I don't know how I got so lucky, but I vow never to take her for granted so long as I live.
I know what it’s like to lose her, and I’d rather die a hundred deaths than experience that darkness again.
31
Joa
One month later …
Reed steadies his arm around my shoulders as we stand atop a cliff that overlooks the bluest waters I’ve ever seen accented with an azure sky and white-washed cubiform houses built into the natural landscape.
Santorini is paradise on earth. Devastatingly gorgeous.
I rest my head against his shoulder, nestling it just beneath his chin, and he holds me tight. The gentle wind rustles my hair and kisses my face, and it carries with it the scent of the sea.
For the past five weeks, I’ve been staying mostly in LA, trekking back to Chicago every couple of weeks to take care of things back home.
Every time I return to Mills Haven, Reed insists on joining me. At first I thought it was simply because he’s crazy in love with me and just can’t get enough—then I saw the light.
My family adores him in a borderline-obsessive kind of way. Every time he comes around, they shower him with attention, make him the center of the conversation, and hug him at least three times before we leave.
Mom gets a kick out of making him try her various family casserole recipes and Dad loves to geek out with him and talk numbers.
Exmas Page 17
