“Bizzaro. Strange. You making me breakfast, while I look like death. Here. In a condo that was paid for with the proceeds from the sale of a Jackson Pollock. It seems too strange to be real.”
Dred leaned onto the opposite side of the vintage breakfast bar Lia had picked up from an old-school diner. “Just because it’s strange, doesn’t mean it can’t be perfect.”
He reached for the brown bag and pulled out a square wooden object and a small book the size of a single-picture photo album. “Trent told me how crafty you are, so I bought you something practical too.”
Pixie took them from him. It was a wooden flower press. And the book was obviously an album for putting the pressed flowers into. Heavy cardstock and velum. The thoughtfulness of the gift moved her.
“This is beautiful, thank you.”
Dred ran his fingers over the back of her hand, the calluses on his fingertips rough against her skin. “You’re welcome.”
After breakfast was devoured, Dred set up blankets and pillows on the sofa. When Pixie made a move to curl up at the opposite end to Dred, unwilling to risk passing the cold back to him, he simply pulled her toward him until she was lying down with her head on a pillow on his lap.
For all the bright sunlight coming in through the windows, and the fresh air blowing in off Biscayne Bay through the balcony doors, the condo felt cozy. Dred stroked his fingers through her hair, the effect altogether soothing, and a little exciting.
“I’m glad I stayed an extra day,” he said after their third movie.
“You’d likely be healthier if you’d gone home.”
“Really, Pix? Actually, wait a minute. What’s your real name?”
Pixie wasn’t sure what to say. Bringing who she once was into the conversation tainted the potential of where the conversation was going.
“It’s not a trick question, Pix. I escaped too, and I don’t like to talk about it either.”
Pixie sighed. She’d always struggled to talk about what happened, even in rehab, and revealing her real name was an acknowledgment she had something to hide, something she wasn’t ready to talk to Dred about. She didn’t want to go back to that place and be that young girl, too scared to reveal what was going on at home, yet she realized that all those years later, that was exactly what she was still doing.
Dred looked at his phone. “Shit. I gotta go. My flight leaves in a couple of hours and I gotta pack.”
Pixie sat up and stretched. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
Dred gripped her chin. His gaze was fixed on her, the look in his eyes turned her insides to mush. “You still owe me a date,” he said quietly.
His mouth lowered toward hers, but Pixie put a hand to Dred’s chest. “Wait. You’ll get sick again.”
“Arguably I am still sick, but I’ll take my chances, gorgeous.”
His lips, soft and warm, crushed hers, and she felt the kiss to the very tips of her toes. His hands gripped the sides of her face and slid into her hair. Pixie felt as though she were swimming in a fierce riptide; just when she found her feet, he took her under again.
Dred stood and stepped away, his breathing as heavy as hers. “Come see me in Toronto, Pix. Please.”
It felt foolish and reckless to agree. It was the last thing she needed. Even the kiss had pushed her close to an edge she was scared of. He had the power to hurt her, and if she were in Canada, she’d have no easy means of escape. But then she looked into his eyes, and the pulsating fear halted.
“When?” she asked.
*
The downside of changing flights at the last minute was summed up perfectly in his seat assignment. A middle seat in economy. To his left was a douchebag who clearly believed aftershave would mask the fact he hadn’t showered for a week. The strong fragrance was giving Dred a monster headache. To his right, an admittedly hot-looking cougar was giving him the come-on. Once upon a time, he might have suggested a quick trip to the bathroom, mile-high club and all that. But his mind was on Pixie.
The way her lips had felt against his was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. She was so not his type. His phone was full of numbers belonging to supermodels and the occasional Playmate. Yet when her petite-frame had pressed up against his, he had the compelling urge to pick her up and press her against the wall. She’d be as light as a feather. And he’d bet money she was flexible. His cock started to stiffen at the thought of her, legs wide open for him.
The plane landed, the sudden jolt stopping his stray thoughts.