“Sure . . .” She steps out of the way as we charge by, me struggling to keep up in my heels.
“Fent! Slow down,” I giggle.
He turns and swoops down, picking me up. I shriek, tossing an arm around the back of his neck, my legs dangling over his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking you home. With me.”
He strides through the entrance and I spy his car sitting below. I’m in the passenger’s seat and we’re tearing through the parking lot before I know it.
It’s exactly how I envisioned it.
Fenton’s living room reflects everything I know about him. Sturdy, brown leather furniture sits around an oversized cinnamon-colored rug. One wall has a dark hued, built-in entertainment center with framed photos, books, and small trinkets that I’m dying to get a closer peek of.
It’s a mixture of responsibility and fun, of classic and modern. The room is sophisticated in some ways, yet comfortable in others. It’s just so Fenton.
He pulls me through the room, sliding one frame of glass to the side, and out onto an expansive deck. The view is stunning. The sea is as far as we can see, although I can’t currently see too far because of the night sky. Silver stars twinkle above, the water pushing in and going out, creating our own private white noise.
Each side of the house is lined with trees, so even though he has neighbors, we can’t see them. There are no lights. Just serenity.
I stand at the railing and gaze across the water. I feel him come up behind me, sense his presence, before he nuzzles his face against my neck.
“Do you like it here?”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
“My father built this for my mother.”
“Did you grow up here?” I ask, imagining a little Fent playing on the beach below. Maybe a dog chasing him or a group of little boys playing tag.
He laughs. “No.”
“You must love it though.”
“I feel close to my family. My mother loved this place. Dad had it built a few years before he passed away and it’s where she lived out the rest of her life.”
“What happened to her?”
“They said a heart attack, but I figure it was a broken heart.”
His arms come around me, grabbing the rail on either side. His chest is pressed against my back and I let my head fall back on his shoulder. His body rises and falls, his breathing regulating with the waves.
I’ve never felt so peaceful with a man before. Even though I’d prepared myself hours earlier to walk away from him, now after his explanation, I feel my walls crumbling. It’s so easy being with him, such a natural give-and-take. I don’t feel like I have to be anyone, give anything, or do anything I don’t want to, and that’s in stark contrast to any relationship I’ve ever been in before. And even though this isn’t a relationship per se, it is . . . something . . . and I like it, even if I can’t define it.
“A broken heart?” I repeat. “What happened?”
“She just couldn’t live without my father, I don’t think. He met her on a business trip and I think he proposed within a few days,” he chuckles. “That’s what they told me, anyway. I never remember them fighting, never remember them being anything but happy. Even when things got hard—and they did—they didn’t let it split them. Some things we didn’t talk about in our house, like politics and religion. But we didn’t argue about it either.”
“Sounds like a perfect relationship.”
“They were just so in love . . .”
His heart, so heavy against my back, skips a beat when he says the words. I grin, knowing he’s waiting on me to comment. I consider not saying anything, but I can’t help myself.
“I thought you didn’t believe in love?”
His delayed response is thunderous. My mouth slacks, my breathing quickening, as I wait for his answer.
“I might not,” he says finally. “But there’s a chance that I do too. Maybe I was just afraid to believe in it, that I wouldn’t be able to sort out real love from the shallow motives I’ve seen a hundred times. Maybe I was scared I’d never be loved for me and not just for my money or who I am.”
His breath dances across the sensitive skin of my neck, making me shiver.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” he breathes against me.
“Maybe love is hard to explain. Maybe it’s different for everyone,” I counter, my eyes closed as his lips press against my neck.
“Maybe it’s feeling like you can’t breathe without the other person,” he whispers, giving me my definition back. “Wanting to put their needs ahead of yours.”
I feel his throat bob as he swallows, the heat of our bodies together pooling around us, making it hard to breathe. His words stir something deep inside me, the hope that maybe he feels the same way I do. Maybe he loves me.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers.
“Yes.” I know exactly what he’s referring to. The feeling of an invisible rope winding around both of us, pulling not just our bodies, but us as a whole together.