“What do you do?”
His question brought me back. I popped an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a local bank in a town called Quincy.”
“Why Quincy?”
I shrugged. “It’s my hometown. After college I spent a few years in Athens with a guy I was dating. When that ended ... I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Didn’t want to stay in Athens. So I came home.” The super exciting story of my life. I changed the focus of the conversation. “What about you?”
He leaned back. “Fort Lauderdale. The bank can’t do without you for a few days?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Why Fort Lauderdale? What do you do there?”
“I sell boats.”
God, this guy was a regular chatterbox. I let my eyes float over the suite, the dining room table we seemed more likely to fuck on, the watch draped over his wallet, a brand I didn’t recognize, but one I could guarantee was worth what I made in a year. “You sell boats.”
He chuckled. “Yes.” He slid over, pushing his tray forward, so close to the edge of the bed that I watched it nervously, my attention redirected when his lips closed over my neck. “Stop thinking,” he whispered, taking another taste of my neck, this one more aggressive, one that would probably leave a hickey. Super classy, Riley. My mother would be thrilled. I closed my eyes. Leaned into his mouth. Let his arms slide my body up the bed and roll me atop him.
“I was overdramatic last night. What I said to you. About owning you.”
“I figured it was for effect.”
“But this isn’t something I do. I don’t make a habit of fucking strangers.” His words tumbled awkwardly over the expletive, as if he wasn’t used to swearing.
“Neither do I.” Hell, I lived in a town where strangers didn’t exist, and I still hadn’t done any fucking. Showed what happened when I tried to brave life outside of our dirt roads.
“What are you doing next weekend?”
“Nothing.” The lie came out convincingly. Kasey Craig, my second cousin on some distant family member’s side, was actually having a baby shower on Saturday. Her fourth one in the last six years, yet there would be serious repercussions if I was not present. It is the South, after all. Not to mention, I also had plans to spray the yard for bugs. Super important stuff that my lie pushed to the side. I wanted this man. I knew little to nothing about him, but I craved something outside of my world. I was sick of pantyhose and mutual funds. Potluck dinners and familial obligations. This weekend was the most alive I’d felt in a decade. Part of it was the location; the majority of it had lay atop me. Had moved inside of me. Had woken me at 4 AM begging for five minutes inside of me, then blessed my world for twenty.
I was thirty-two. I was not dead. I was not in a relationship. I was bored. Had he asked me to pack up my house and move to Fort Lauderdale right now, I would have been tempted to say yes.
“See me next weekend. I’ll send you a plane. It won’t be the jet you girls flew in on, but it’ll get you to me easier than commercial.”
I looked at him. “How do you know what we came in on?”
“Don’t get too excited. I was at the private airport when you arrived.” He ran a hand through my hair. “Pretty blondes always catch my eye.”
I let out a huff of air. “We’re almost all blondes.”
He smiled, that grin tugging hard at my vulnerable heart. “You leave them all in the dust.”
The blush hot on my cheeks, I lifted my mouth, stopped from a kiss by his hand on my chest. “Next weekend?”
I smiled. “Maybe.”
He shrugged. “I’ll take it.” His hand ran up my back, into my hair, his eyes softening as he studied me. Then, from beside us, the shrill screech of his phone. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Let me get that.”
I rolled off him and watched him stand, the smooth swipe of his phone. He didn’t check the display, just answered and held it to his ear. “Hey.” He turned, giving me a wink as he opened the slider and stepped onto the balcony, the glass fitting snug as it closed, his words taken by the wind. I propped up on my elbows and studied him, the strong width of his back as he leaned against the railing, the break of his smile as he laughed. He huddled over the phone, cupping his hand over the receiver as if protecting it, the wind strong enough to tousle his hair and press his shirt flat against his chest.
I stared at him and felt my heart beating faster, my eyes tripping over the grip of his hand, the flap of his shirt. I wondered who he was talking to, out in the wind, this suite quiet and still. Except for me. Obviously, he went out for privacy. I yanked my eyes off him and swung my feet over the edge of the bed. He wanted to see me again, another weekend like this — one where we’d both pretend to be people we weren’t and where I’d lose another piece of myself. He’d return to his life, and I’d have fallen a little deeper into the hole that was Brett Jacobs. I had the sudden, urgent desire to leave, to run from this man before goodbyes and false promises dirtied this memory. Better for me to leave now, while I had some tatters of dignity. While I could still pretend it was my choice. Look at me, the fun girl who bedded wild men and skipped out without a care in the world. I could play that girl, here in this empty room, with only a dirty room service tray to call my bluff. I scooped up my heels, checked for any forgotten items, then grabbed my cell and purse and slipped out the door.
tight (tīt)
(adj.) closely integrated and bound in love or friendship
“a tight-knit family”
Six girls on one jet was a disaster. We climbed in, elbows bumping armpits, suitcases unzipped on the pavement and last minute items grabbed before the pilot swung the luggage into the back. The plane belonged, like every other perk of the weekend, to Chelsea’s dad. We’d used it a few times before: down to Panama City for spring break, up to Pennsylvania to ski. Enough times that we all had our place on the plane, jeans hitting seats with minimal arguments.
The door closed and there was one quiet moment before Megan, while pulling out her headphones, threw out the bone that started the conversation.
“Tammy says Riley didn’t come home last night.”
I groaned, pulling up my sweatshirt hood and slumping down in the seat, the neck-supporter doing little to ease the tension building. “Please. Don’t act like you’re sharing news that everyone hasn’t already analyzed to death.” Why? Why did I have my one moment of slutdom right before a two-hour flight with them?