Page 65 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
I steal glances at him beside me, maneuvering the Jeep along the stretch of road. His skin is lightly tanned, and his hair is perfectly disheveled. He’s beautiful in his navy board shorts, his backward baseball cap, and sunglasses. The picture of carefree youth, not a blemish or wrinkle anywhere on his spectacular body.
He places his big palm on top of my knee and gives it a squeeze. We sing along to the radio, which plays Fleetwood Mac, of all things. It feels like another world here, so far from the worries of Nairobi. With the wind in my hair and the sun on my skin and this man beside me, I’m completely at peace.
He grills dinner for us while I swim in the pool. I can’t believe we only have a couple of days left. I never want this feeling to end.
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” I ask, wrapping myself in a towel.
“Not a thing,” he confirms.
I decide to shower before dinner and blow-dry my hair. I’m guessing it will be a wasted effort with the humidity level here, but a girl’s gotta try. I put on a white eyelet sundress and make my way barefoot outside, where he’s placing skewers of grilled shrimp and vegetables onto a platter.
“You’re just in time,” he says.
I grab bottles of water from the outdoor mini fridge, along with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. We work together, carrying everything to the outdoor dining table. It’s perched on the perfect spot to overlook the tumbling ocean waves.
We enjoy our feast and finish with the cassava cake.
“It’s good,” I say to him, helping myself to another bite. He gazes at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
We skip the dinner cleanup and head inside, knowing the staff will handle it. This is the very best part of his wealth, I decide—not having to do the dishes.
Inside, I lounge on the bed while Hart heads into the luxurious master bathroom to shower.
Dressed in a pair of shorts and nothing else with his hair damp, he seems surprised to find me still on the bed.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he returns, leaning in to kiss me. “You look beautiful,” he says, stopping to gaze at me.
I blush, but I don’t have time to be shy, because he joins me on the bed, pulling me closer.
In his arms, our age difference doesn’t matter. The opinions of internet trolls cease to exist. The words of caution from my mother and even from Scarlet fade away. I place my hand on the stubble of his cheek, appreciating the way it scratches beneath my palm.
I’ve come to appreciate all the sides to him he’s shown me. Curious and thoughtful in Nairobi. Playful and flirtatious in London. Calm and relaxed in Napa. Happy and celebrating in East Hampton. But I think I like him best like this. Fueled by desire and reckless need.
He moves slowly down my body, kissing a path lower. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him with rapt interest. He runs his hands along my thighs, under my dress, until he finds the edge of my panties, which he draws down my legs.
Taking his time, he kisses me everywhere, and right when I’m convinced I’ll need to draw him a map, he moves lower, and my breath catches in my throat.
Wow.
“Alessia. Damn,” he groans. He seems to enjoy this almost as much as I do, which doesn’t seem possible, but his enthusiasm and the low sounds he’s making indicate that he’s very much enjoying himself.
When I finally come down from cloud nine, he’s smiling at me with a hazy expression on his face.
“Are you good?” he asks, voice deep and low.
If I were any better, I might burst. “I’mgreat,” I say, smiling.
He chuckles. “Then come here.”
He pulls me close, and I rest my head on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my cheek, wondering if any of this is real.
After using the restroom, I stand in front of the large mirror above the vanity. It strikes me that if this were any other situation, I’d want to brush my hair or maybe fix my makeup. Instead, I tug on one of Hart’s T-shirts and decide I like the woman staring back at me. Sure, my hair’s a little tangled and I’m slightly flushed, but I look happy, relaxed in away I haven’t before. Maybe Hart is good for me. Maybe this is exactly what I need in my life right now.
When I head back to the bedroom, Hart is perched on the edge, dressed in black boxer briefs with the remote control in his hand.
“The choices are”—he clears his throat—“a horror flick, a rom-com, or a documentary.”
