Page 73 of At First Flight
His eyes search mine, only the reflection of the back deck lights glistening in their depths. He cocks his head like he’s trying to be sure and not reading into something more.
“What are you doing out here tonight?” I ask, breaking the contact that was becoming too much to bear because I know Dean can see things I’m not ready to divulge.
“Fishing,” he replies, holding up the rod gripped in his other hand. “Something Talon and I used to do at the lake near our boarding school.”
“Oh. I didn’t know billionaires knew how to fish. I thought you’d just have someone do the dirty work for you while you sit atop your luxury yacht.”
Dean chuckles and rotates the handle of the reel one turn. “We do that, too. Want to join me?”
“That’s okay. I’d rather just watch.”
He dips his chin as if he understands my only reason for being out here is to be closer to him.
The earlier chill in the air is replaced by the warmth of being close to Dean.
“You make it hard to keep my walls up, you know.”
“I’m not trying to,” he begins, then pauses and settles the fishing rod in the PVC holder at the edge of the dock. “I don’t want to play a part with you, Lila. I’ve done that enough in my life. I want something real. I want this with you to be real. I know you have your rules, and I respect them, but I can’t deny wanting it all.”
I’m not sure how to answer. How do I vocalize all the things I’m feeling? The inward battle of right and wrong is suddenly nothing more than a mess of smoke and mirrors.
I scoot closer to him an inch, and then an inch more until our thighs are touching. I lean in and rest my head against his shoulder and let myself exhale. His arm comes around me like an impulse. Like he’s been waiting for me to give him an inch. I feel him kiss the top of my head—gentle, unhurried, careful.
“I’m sorry if tonight was difficult after everything,” he mumbles.
“It was just the wrong place. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be here.”
“You can stay, you know. You don’t have to find a new job and leave.”
Dean’s voice is quiet, but it vibrates against me, low and warm where his chest meets my shoulder. The words settle over me like a thick blanket, heavy and too tempting to ignore.
“How can I make a difference in the world if I don’t?” I whisper. The lump forming in my throat almost chokes the words as they come out. I hate how small my voice sounds. How uncertain I feel. Like maybe I’m afraid of staying because I want to.
Dean doesn’t move for a long beat, and I wonder if I’ve said too much, been too vulnerable. But then his voice returns, deeper this time, like a soft vow.
“You already have. You’ve made a difference in mine and those kids’ world, Lila.”
My heart stumbles over itself at his words. I press my lips together, trying to hold in the wave of emotion swelling in my chest.
“What if that’s not enough?” I murmur, my biggest fear unfurling in the quiet like a secret I didn’t mean to say aloud.
His response is immediate, quiet but fierce. “What if it is?”
He doesn’t look at me, just lets the question linger in the space between us, as potent and full as the scent of bay water and sea grass hanging in the warm air. His arm tightens around me just a little more, like he knows I need to be grounded before I float too far into my own doubts.
The sound of the water gently lapping at the shore fills the silence. A bird calls out softly somewhere in the distance, the night wrapping around us like we’ve stepped into a dream. And maybe we have because this moment feels too fragile, too perfect to be real.
I yawn again, my tenth at least, but my body feels anything but tired. My limbs may ache from the long day, and my eyes may sting with the promise of sleep, but every nerve in my body is wide awake. Lit up. Buzzing. Because I’m sitting this close to Dean and his warmth pressed along my shoulder, his hand resting on my hip like it belongs there. And all I can think about is the pull I feel toward him. The way his nearness makes it hard to think straight.
I sit up, slowly, the absence of his touch like stepping out of a hot shower into cold air. My skin tightens, every inch of me aware of how close we still are, even though his arm has dropped away.
When I turn to look at him, my breath catches. He’s silhouetted by the faint moonlight now, the silver outline tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the strong slope of his shoulders, the dark waves of his tousled hair. He’s always been handsome, painfully so in that sun-drenched, all-American kind of way. But like this, beneath the crescent moon, his expression unreadable and his eyes full of something deep and quiet, he looks likesomething ancient and powerful. Like he stepped out of a myth. A dark god forged from fire and earth, who knows how to hold a woman like she matters.
And I want him.
God help me, I want him more than I want to be safe, more than I want to be rational. I want to trace that sculpted chest with my fingers, feel his breath against my neck, let his lips wipe away every single one of my fears.
But I also know myself. I know what lines can’t be crossed until I’m ready. And I’m not there yet.
