Page 43 of Love Set Free

There’s only one response to that question. “Always.”

“I like it,” he says. “The way you need me. The way you can’t be without me. I like it.”

I suck in a gasp because, the way he says it, the heat behind it...it’s making me think Phoenix might just be looking to start some of those physical activities I was just thinking about. And those activities are not the sort we should be doing out in the open, in front of his parents, a half-dozen airport employees, his family’s employees, and God only knows who else.

That we’re locked in a tight embrace, practically melded into one person, and kissing for all to see…eh, that I don’t care about. Let them look. Let them know that I’m his and he’s mine. I want everyone to know that. I want Phoenix’s parents to know that. I just draw the line at public nudity—mine and Phoenix’s. That’s nobody’s business. And I need to get us back on topic, or elseI’m a mite concerned that that line is going to get thoroughly and inappropriately trampled all over.

“Good. I’m glad you like it. I kinda do, too. But what it does mean is that I have no intention of letting you ship me off anywhere but where it is you’re going. If you’re headed to Rhode Island…” I have to wince, because I’m really not looking forward to experiencing a true winter, a Northern winter. “…then so am I.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jackson

The trip on the plane, from Rio to Rhode Island, was long. Very, very long. But overall it wasn’t too bad. Although, what else would you expect when you get to take that flight on a luxury, million-dollar, private jet?

Mrs. Wilding spent most of the flight sleeping; waking up periodically to use the bathroom, talk to the crew and Mr. Wilding, and graze her way through some light snacks. The rest of the time, she was firmly ensconced in a bedroom at the back of the plane, with an eye mask over her eyes and the door firmly shut.

The fact that their plane contains an entire bedroom—a spacious, fully decorated, and looks-just-like-a-normal-bedroom bedroom with a king-sized bed—just blows my mind.

Mr. Wilding spent most of his hours of our flight seated at a small conference table toward the front of the plane’s main cabin, going over paperwork and talking to business associates on the phone. Phoenix quietly murmured to me that this was pretty typical for his father—he liked to get as much of his workdone and out of the way while Mrs. Wilding was occupied, so that, later, he could give her more of his undivided attention.

When we boarded the plane, Phoenix directed me, with a hand low on my back, toward a plush, two-person couch—one of several that ran along the sides of the back interior of the main cabin. It wasn’t a very large couch but, even still, I was thrilled by how closely Phoenix tucked me against him. And I loved that, every time he glanced in our direction, Phoenix’s father was forced to see Phoenix and I cuddled up together, much closer than two men who were merely ‘friends’ would be.

We passed the time munching on all of the various snacks and meals the flight crew was willing to serve us, dozing, and watching a couple movies—including a replay of the movie we hadn’t actually watched last night. By the time the end credits rolled on it, I still wasn’t sure if it was an adventure movie or a romcom, and I still didn’t really care.

It was dark when we landed in Providence, a few hours past dinner time, and it’s still dark out 45 minutes later when our limo rolls up to an ornate set of iron gates blocking the entrance to a long driveway.

I think I know what I’m expecting, after the gates open and the limo carries us down that long, white gravel driveway. But boy, oh boy, am I ever fucking wrong about that.

It’s one thing to know Phoenix and his family are loaded. Like, really, really loaded. It’s a whole other thing to be confronted with a mammothly huge, gleaming white mansion, brightly lit by a gazillion decorative outdoor lights, that could easily house a half dozen families. The separate garage, which clearly has some sort of guest rooms built into the space above where six vehicles could park, is nearly twice the size of any house I’ve ever lived in.

And on top of the several acres of perfectly groomed and landscaped lawn that the mansion is sitting on...the wholething is situated right on the fucking beach. Part of Phoenix’s childhood backyard is the goddamn Atlantic Ocean!

The limo driver slowly takes us down an elegant circular drive and glides the vehicle to a halt directly in front of the wide front door. Welcoming golden light spills from the large, arched window inset in the white door, and I watch it, anticipating that it’ll shortly be opened by a snooty, English-accented butler. Instead, after climbing out of the limo, Mr. Wilding, himself, unlocks the door with a set of keys he pulls from his pocket, like this imposingly giant mansion is just some ordinary, average house.

Phoenix clambers out of the limo before me, then he extends his hand out to help me get out. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it but, after seeing where he grew up, he has to practically yank me out of the limo to get me out of it. I want to be wherever he is; I just didn’t realize that where he’d be would be someplace even grander than the hotel we’d just left—a place I didn’t feel at all like I belonged at. Just looking at the exterior of the place, I already feel like a grubby hobo. I’m terrified of stepping foot inside and getting my dirt-poor, homeless-guy germs everywhere.

Phoenix doesn’t seem to share my worry, tugging me along after him as he heads toward the sweeping stairs leading to the front door, and saying, “Welcome to Stormview. My childhood stomping grounds.”

I think I choke just a bit on a shocked gasp. He grew up in a house with a name? To my mind, only super rich, ridiculously privileged people live in houses with a name. Which, I suppose…is exactly what Phoenix and his parents are.

The noise I make must be louder than I thought because it causes Phoenix to whip his head around to look at me. His charming, man-on-top-of-the-world grin comes out as he tells me, “Yeah, Mom named the place after they bought it.Something about loving how the curve of the shoreline lets you see storms coming in off the ocean from miles away.” His voice drops to just above a whisper as he says, “Don’t tell Mom, but I always thought it was sort of silly—giving a house a name. Especially because just about all the houses around here have a name that have something to do with the view, the sand, the cliff, the ocean, or whatever. And, of course, a lot of the streets are also named after the same sort of thing, so… Like Ocean View House just off of Ocean View Highway. Seriously, what were those people thinking when they named their house? But whatever. I guess it’s just a thing around here.”

Following Phoenix into his parent’s house, I enter a world I never thought I’d be in–one of casual, comfortable, overabundant wealth.

The foyer–that’s what they’re called, right? The spacious, room-like room that’s only where you leave your coat and exchange overly polite social niceties with the home’s owners before making your way into the rest of the giant house?–is big and airy, with an honest-to-goodness crystal chandelier hanging from the beamed ceiling. Smack in the center, on top of the highly polished wooden floors that flow from this room and on into the next, is a spindly wooden table that looks like it would collapse under the force of a stiff breeze, topped by a huge, lush bouquet of flowers and green leafy things. Good thing there’s plenty of room to maneuver around it because I’m afraid to get within breathing distance of it, lest I topple the whole thing over.

“C’mon, I’ll show you to my room,” Phoenix says, grabbing hold of my hand again, which had fallen limp by my side under the weight of my uncertainty of what the hell I was doing here, and tugging me after him. “Thankfully, I moved to the west wing of the house when I was a teenager. I needed a little bit of space and privacy between me and the folks, and the bedroom I was in as a kid was right across the hall from theirs. I’m sure you get it.”

I really don’t think Phoenix understands just how much somebody like me doesn’t get it. Everything about his life, his childhood home, is so far beyond the realm of my own experiences that it feels like we’re from two separate planets. When I was a kid, I didn’t get a choice in what bedroom I had; often there were only the two wherever we were living, my parents’ bedroom and mine. And the idea of living in a house that had different wings? Like I noticed earlier, the Wildings’ garage is larger than most of the houses I’ve ever lived in. And a lot of the time, my parents and I didn’t even live in a house; apartments were a lot easier to find and willing to sign on with a short-term lease.

But I don’t want Phoenix to realize how little I belong in this house, how little I belong with him, so I stay silent as I climb a grand, wide, central staircase to the second floor of this mansion he views as an ordinary childhood home.

My brain’s gone numb to the grandeur all around me, no room at all to be surprised that the upper level of the house is just as richly and comfortably decorated as the first. It’s all I can do to blink in resigned met expectations when Phoenix swings open a door at the far end of a long, wide hallway. My eyes sweep over a king-sized bed, topped with fluffy, expensive bedding and a mountain of cushy pillows, situated below a large window with a perfect view of the wild beach grass beyond the edge of the carefully groomed lawn, along with a sweeping arch of pristine sand and the seemingly unending expanse of the ocean beyond that.

“See, plenty of privacy. Not that Mom will let us get away with avoiding her while we’re under her roof. Oh, the bathroom’s just through here,” Phoenix adds, throwing open a door on the near side of the room. “And the closet’s just through there, too, for when you need to scrounge around for something to wear for the next couple days. I usually keep a small wardrobe of all sortsof clothing here for the few times a year it makes more sense to crash here than to drive across town to my place.”

“Sure. Makes sense,” I mutter, barely paying any mind to what I’m saying. But I know I need to fill the silence somehow; let Phoenix believe I’m participating in this mostly one-sided conversation he’s having, rather than revealing to him just how out of my depth I’m feeling.

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