I consider one answer. It’s the only one I want to give. So I do. God help me, I do.
“I’m already yours, but I’ll marry you anyway.”
When Tag’s lips find mine again, there’s a sweetness to them, a reverence that causes my eyes to fill with tears of pure, radiant joy.
“This is what’s in it for me,” he breathes against my mouth, cupping my face so that his thumbs make lazy passes over my cheekbones. “You. Always.”
I know in this moment that there will never be another man like this one. I’ll never find someone who fits me like Tag does, who thrills me like Tag does. Who can love me like Tag just did.
—
I wake to an empty bed. After that phenomenal experience on the four-wheeler, Tag drove us back, slowly weaving through the trees and casually cruising through the fields. Something quiet and comfortable had settled between us. The house was asleep by the time we returned. We crept up the stairs to my room and washed each other off in the cool spray of the shower before crawling between the crisp sheets and falling straight to sleep, my head nestled on Tag’s chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulders.
I wonder briefly where he went, but when I roll over, my body is so pleasantly achy and sore that I forget my curiosity for a few minutes and just revel in the memories of his touch. I’ve had a few boyfriends in my life, boys (and in some cases men) who fit the criteria of an O’Neal match. I even really liked one of them. His name was Robert Cohen and he took my virginity. There was a time, in my young mind, when I even fantasized that he might grow up to be “the one,” even though part of me realized that was very unlikely to happen. Turns out Robert was gay, he just hadn’t come out yet. I think on some level I knew, but it was much nicer to pretend.
After Robert, there was a guy in college who I thought I had great chemistry with, especially after we had sex. Turned out that he had too many mommy issues for me, though. And as good as the sex was, I never imagined it could be like this. I never dreamed I could come alive for someone this way. Tag is just different. With him, I’m different. I’m someone I’ve always wanted to be. And he’s like someone I’ve always wanted to be with, even when the idea of him was almost too taboo to even consider. For an O’Neal anyway.
But here we are.
Together.
And we’re going to get married.
I smile. I can’t seem to help myself.
I carry that smile with me all through the day. And the next ones, too. Despite my father’s glaring and despite Michael’s openly disapproving looks, I smile, basking in what’s happening between Tag and me.
We spend our days together, in the fields, in the cabin, in the woods. Or in my room. The grapes are getting closer and closer to readiness, and I feel like I’m ripening right along with them. All my life, I’ve never really felt like I’m flourishing until now. Until Chiara. Until Tag.
Tag and I breakfast by ourselves and take packed lunches wherever we go. We talk and laugh and make out like high school kids who can’t keep their hands off each other. We share long looks and sometimes short naps like we don’t have a care in the world. And for the moment, it feels as though we don’t. It’s as if trouble has been suspended, disallowed entry into our happy little bubble, and I for one am going to enjoy every damn second of it.
At dinner, Tag does a great job of keeping conversation focused on Chiara, and when it’s not, we talk softly among ourselves, leaving my father and Michael to do the same. They don’t, though. Mostly, they just glower at us.
And then there are the nights. God, just thinking about them causes my sex to shudder hungrily. Sometimes I think I could lie next to him 24/7 and never get tired of the feel of his touch, of his kiss, of his body working magic within mine. And when he’s not around, like now, it’s as though I can’t quite get comfortable with life until I see him again.
I jump when my phone rings. Surprisingly, I’d almost forgotten it was in my pocket. I grabbed it out of habit after dressing, before I headed down here to the lanai. It hasn’t made a peep in days and I haven’t checked it in just as long. It’s a tie to the outside world (and the problems therein) that I really would rather forget about. The fact that it’s my assistant’s number rather than my mother’s tells me that my father hasn’t told her about Tag yet, which gives me a nice little reprieve.
I stare at the number. I feel the weight of my trust-held-hostage bearing down on me as I move my finger over the green TALK button. As much as I’d like to stay in my happy bubble of oblivion, I can’t ignore my biggest responsibility, so I answer the phone.
“Hi, Deana,” I answer politely, coming to my feet to walk to the edge of the water.