#secretsprings

You’d found this place online on your quest for a bargain, the secondhand vintage vinyl shop is situated on a fashionable street at the top of town with picturesque mountain views. After stalking their social media pages, you decided you’d just come and see it for yourself. Having mentally prepared yourself for parallel parking, it was unusually stress-free for a Saturday morning, the sun just beginning to warm the air.

Reaching the landing and glancing around, the room is essentially wallpapered with band posters, crates and crates of records are alphabetically organised, and a gallery of LPs sits on shelves behind the counter. A few customers are rifling through the various collections, one man perched on a barstool with headphones wired into a cassette player. The space is light and vibrant, it feels like a sacred haven.

What really catches your eye is the man behind the counter — unruly silver-streaked hair, trimmed moustache and greying beard, unreasonably broad shoulders that fill out his faded thin t-shirt.

“Mornin’!” He looks up as you round the bannister and flashes you a winning smile, his brown eyes sparkling in the light filtering through the windows. “Anythin’ in particular you lookin’ for?”

You greet him shyly as you enter the room, “Just came to look around, thanks.”

“No problem.” He turns back to his newspaper and you can’t help but stare, stuck in place as you think you’ve found far more than you could’ve imagined.

-

The sheer number of records fitted into the quaint shop is amazing, with some dividers spilling over into two or three boxes. Flipping through the S category, you find Sade, Stealers Wheel, Steppenwolf, Stevie Nicks, and countless others — a never-ending supply of artists and albums, some popular and some obscure.

Your eyes go wide at seeing Pretzel Logic, a favourite album by a favourite band. You’ve considered for weeks whether or not to just buy the damn thing online at full price, but you never did. Now you see why, some sort of divine intervention leading you here to snatch it up at a fraction of the cost — or it led you here for that man.

You’ve been peering over to him every time you move to the next crate — crinkles around his eyes, plush lips, deft hands. It’s almost unfair how beautiful he is, hidden away up here from the rest of the world. Admittedly you tried looking if he had a wedding band on, but you scolded yourself before you could complete the task, not wanting to get caught.

Time slips away from you as you switch between scouring through everything and stealing glances at the mystery music man, your fingers cramping from holding onto far more records than you’d planned to take. You scan over the tables and check for anything you may have missed, slinking through the room and placing your selection on the counter. You rummage in your bag to find your wallet.

“Fan of Steely Dan, huh? Gaucho, Pretzel Logic, Countdown to Ecstasy… You’re cleaning me out here, darlin’.” You lift your head at his words, losing yourself at the endearment.

“Yeah, uh… couldn't help myself,” you huff a laugh, feeling heat under your skin as he keeps his attention on you, a half smile on his face. “I did pick out some others, too. For some variation, you know?”

He fans the records out on the table to see each one.

“Yeah, thought you might be a Fleetwood Mac girl, Eagles is a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one… Steely Dan, though? Wouldn't have pinned a girl like you as a fan of ‘em.”

“A girl like me…?”

“Far too pretty.” He winks at you with a tilt of his head, that half smile now spread fully across his face before he moves to add up the total. Your mind races as you try not to stand and gawk like an idiot.

“I saw online you had Dark Side of the Moon… do you uh, still have it, by any chance?”

“Full of surprises… I’m afraid we sold that one already, noticed it’s a bit of an elusive find ‘round here.” He drums his fingers against the wooden top and looks at you briefly, his eyes warm.

Shuffling papers around, he picks up a notepad, big hands and thick fingers dwarfing the pages. “I can keep an eye out for you, if you’re okay giving me your number? Won’t bother you, just business.”

“Yeah, sure.” His fingers graze across your skin as you take a pen from him and write down your information. Tearing the page off, you slide it across the counter and tease him, “Wouldn’t mind if you bothered me.”

“Well then, maybe I will. I’d love to know what else you got in your carefully curated collection.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you pay for the records, and he slips them into a brown paper bag, folding and unfolding the top like he doesn’t want you to leave.

“There’s actually this nice restaurant—” he turns to look behind him, grabbing a small carton and repositioning it on the counter, stalling as he tries to find the words, “—they have uh, live music on Friday nights… if you’d be interested.”

“Sounds fun…” You mull it over, impressed by his boldness but still wary. “Can I let you know?”

“‘Course, no pressure, here,” he writes his own number on a new page and tears it off, holding on as you reach for it and brush your fingers over his hand.

“And you are?”

“Joel Miller.”

Joel Miller. You quite like that.

-

You’d stared at Joel’s number for days, a constant back and forth on whether or not you should go. On the one hand, you knew nothing about this man except his name and where he worked; on the other, you’ve seen just enough of him to be well intrigued… 

You caved and said yes, which brings you to the present day — it’s Friday afternoon and you’re pacing in front of your wardrobe, worried about what to wear. To avoid losing your mind over this, you text Joel for some insight.

You: So, what am I supposed to wear tonight?Joel: Place is smart casual, I guess

Smart casual — arguably the worst fucking dress code description in existence.

You: That doesn’t help meJoel: Just wear a dress or something nice? I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect

Perfect? Well, that certainly raises the bar. You suspect that Joel isn’t impressed by material things, and isn’t phased by flashy appearances, but you still want to make an effort. He called you pretty once already and you’re hoping he’ll repeat it tonight.

-

Approaching the restaurant, the brick wall facade is lined with fairy lights, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and muffled music sounds through the windows and glass doors.

Joel waits out on the pavement like a gift from God himself — black dress pants, a hint of chest peeking out from behind his button-up, a blazer hooked on one finger over his shoulder. You can’t help the way your gaze runs over him, noticing how his tummy just pokes out past the waistband of his pants, and just how well fitting those pants really are. You swallow to steady yourself.

“Hey.”

“Hi…”

You fall into silence as you take each other in — a low heat settles at the base of your spine and you drop your eyes to the floor, holding back a giggle like an enamoured schoolgirl.

“Shall we?” He pulls the door open and gestures for you to lead the way, eyes sparkling and a crooked but warm smile on his face, a guiding hand on the small of your back as you step inside.

Black-framed minimalist posters line the walls, the floors are polished dark wood and exposed brass light fixtures hang at varying heights from the ceiling. You pass a long, elegant bar lining one side of the room as you’re led towards the back of the restaurant — this place oozes sophistication, even the waitstaff are in fancy uniforms. Not smart casual.

Joel pulls a chair out for you as you reach your table, a small reserved card rests against a floating candle and two red roses bloom in a slender vase. 

“Do you mind if I take the wall?” you ask timidly, pointing towards the opposite bench.

“Not at all.” His gaze is soft as he shakes his head, eyes trained on you as you both take your seats.

“I just— I like being able to see, it’s uh…”

You smooth your hands over the tablecloth as your voice fades off, resisting the urge to make a game of blowing the candle out. You flit your eyes up to look at Joel, finding he’s already staring at you, candlelight flickering in his eyes. You drop your gaze to the table again, failing dismally at suppressing the grin that spreads across your face.

“You look gorgeous, by the way — if you don’t mind me sayin’. Knew you would, of course, but…”

It seems your outfit choice has paid off — gorgeous?

After hours of flinging clothes off hangers, you’d finally settled on a black, mid-length dress — a sweetheart neckline with white piping, the same white mirrored on the hem, a daring slit up one side of the skirt. There’s nothing casual about it, but seeing Joel dressed up and the finely decorated restaurant has calmed your nerves.

You don’t dare look at him again as the waiter returns and places two menus on the table. The night’s barely begun, and you hope it doesn’t end any time soon.

-

There hasn’t been a lull in the conversation once during dinner, a sharing dessert now in the centre of the table as Joel swirls what’s left of his whiskey around the glass. He held back all evening, fingers twitching and curling into a loose fist alongside yours on the table until he finally allowed himself to dance them across the back of your hand.

“How’d you get into all this record business?”

“Started workin’ there on weekends as a kid, wanted to earn some pocket money. The old man who owned it was like a mentor, he taught me all about the world. He left it all in my hands when he retired, and I’ve never looked back.”

A fond smile on his face as he retells his memories, you saw the first day you met how happy and comfortable he was in his charming shop, and it seems that charm bleeds over into him, too.

“And you get to meet all kinds of people — loud, friendly, aloof… pretty ones, too.” He gives you the same wink and devilish grin as before, continuing his stories as if you aren’t burning across the table.

-

Sometime during the night, he’d moved to sit next to you, claiming he ‘wanted to see the band’ — the arm draped on the bench behind you and fingers trailing across your shoulder says otherwise.

He mentioned at the shop that there was live music here on Friday nights — the one thing he didn’t mention? That tonight’s particular band was a jazz quartet — the slow, smooth, romantic kind of jazz, the kind that acts as the perfect backdrop for a night of cheeky flirting, lingering glances and desperate touches.

“Joel, can I ask something?”

“Shoot.”

You roll the edge of the tablecloth between your fingers. “Is this a date?”

“It can be, if you want.” You drop your hands and eye him, unimpressed by his response.

“Alright, I’ll admit, I was hopin’ for a date. I wasn’t really sure how to ask, didn’t wanna come on too strong.”

You’re silent for a beat, considering how to respond. “I mean, you could’ve just asked.”

“Well then, you wanna go on a date?” He tilts his head, eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were already on one.”

He chuckles at your remark, downing the last of his whiskey and momentarily tracing a finger along the rim of the glass. You focus on his movements, imagining his fingers tracing patterns into your skin instead.

As if he can read your mind, he twists himself towards you and plants that same hand just above your knee, fingers curled towards the inside of your leg as he scrapes his nails against you.

“And?” His voice is almost a whisper in your ear, “Has it been a good one?”

He glides his hand up your leg and into the slit of your dress as you nod, higher, higher, higher until his fingers brush against lace. You wonder if he can feel the fabric dampening.

“Y’know the Pink Floyd you asked about? It wasn’t sold, I kept it for myself. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“You’re gonna talk about music? Right now?”

“What should I talk about instead? The delicate panties you got on? How wet they’re getting?”

Your breath hitches as he shifts his fingers, tucking them just under the edge of your panties and caressing your skin. Glancing around, the band are still playing low and slow, most tables having cleared out by now.

“Would love to see ‘em, if you’ll let me. I’d really love to see what’s underneath though. Pretty girl like you’s bound to have a real pretty pussy, too. Certainly feels like it, Jesus.”

He presses his fingers into you with more force this time and you turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and not from the dim lighting. He glances down to your lips and back up to your eyes again and you close the distance between you. He repositions the arm around your shoulders, hand holding the back of your neck as you lock your legs together and grind yourself against him.

His lips are soft, beard and moustache tickling your skin as he swipes his tongue against the seam of your mouth. You moan into him as you part your lips, letting him lick into you and you can taste his whiskey. He pulls back and you whine, teasing you with just enough to leave you reeling for more.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Take me home, Joel. Please, I need you.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna hear the music you can make.”

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

  The man that had turned your world upside down the moment he stepped foot into your kitchen that he would soon remodel. The kitchen that you got to enjoy for just shy of a year after it was completed before selling your home and moving in with him. The newly remodeled kitchen being the major selling point. The smug look on his face when you got well over the asking price. The look that you so often indulged in wiping off his face when you had him writhing beneath you. This burly, breadth of a man that made you believe in love again. 

  He most certainly noticed on the first night of your vacation. The one you had both worked so hard for. 

  Secret Springs Resort

  An all inclusive beach resort vacation that he had meticulously planned down to the minute. Even the daily naps were planned because he knew how you could get bratty when you were tired. 

  It pained him the way you picked at your food and shuffled it around the plate as if he wouldn’t notice. 

  The way you squint your eyes in fake pleasure to signal that you enjoyed the bite. 

  The look he so often noticed at home during a meal or out to dinner but he so foolishly thought you would be care free while in this oceanic oasis.  

  The second night. 

  When you blamed the sun burn and your headache as to why you couldn’t eat much more than a few bites. The way your eyes watered when he moaned eating his steak and you stared longingly at the buttery garlic noodles that you wanted to dive headfirst into.  

  You said you were too full for dessert and yet Joel knew you better than that. A small sliver of hope when he let you feed him some ice cream, but his hopes quickly squashed when you had one bite and pushed it away. 

  The third day was your day to relax. No excursions planned and the weather far too hot to lay on the beach. Joel opted to lay among the sheets with you for most of the morning. His head resting between your plush thighs as you played with his thick curls. 

  The way it always started out so innocent and yet he could have you falling apart beneath him in minutes. 

  It’s the most relaxed he’s seen you this entire trip, and even if he dies for lack of oxygen he’ll never come up for air if it means seeing you like this. 

  It’s why he opts to spend the entire day taking full advantage of the luxury suite. Finding different ways to bend you over every surface of this room…the balcony, the couch, the bathroom sink. The shower steams until the mirror fogs over. Fucking and laughing until he thinks he may have pulled a muscle. The way you call him an old man in jest because he knows he could outlast you any day. 

  It’s why as he watches you sleep, your soft curves peeking out beneath the rumpled covers as the sun sets over the water he decides you’ll just complete the day inside. A quick call to room service and the woman on the other line doesn’t balk when he nearly orders everything on the menu. All your favorites so there’s no room for argument. In the safety of your private room, away from prying eyes so he can finally put a stop to whatever is holding you back. 

  It’s the smell that first wakes you first. In the quiet comfort of the sheets you get the hint of the savory aroma of fresh baked pizza and garlic bread. Your stomach growling and heart warming at the familiar smells that fill the air. You blink sleepily as your gaze falls on Joel, shirtless with his jeans hung low on his hips as he bustles around the room. Plates and silverware clinking as he sets up a small table on the balcony. 

  He turns with a gentle smile as he hears you rustling in the sheets. “Hey there, sleepyhead. I hope you’re hungry.”  

  Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the spread. A large pizza with all your favorite toppings. One half with pineapple because Joel thought it was blasphemy. A steaming bowl of pasta with Parmesan cheese and marinara sauce. Golden slices of garlic bread arranged neatly on the side. 

  Your throat constricts with the unexpected sensation of gratitude and anxiety. 

  “You…you didn’t have to do all this.” You murmur, feeling a rush of vulnerability. 

  Joel strides over to you on the bed, draping the silky resort robe around your shoulders. “I know.” He says softly as he places a kiss on your forehead. “But I wanted to darlin’. Ya deserve to enjoy all your favorites without feeling self conscious.” 

  Tears well up in your eyes as you look up at him. Overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, at the way he surprised you everyday. “Thank you.” You whisper, with a slight tremble. “It means a lot to me.” 

  He didn’t expect you to bend so easily, yet he’s relieved all the same. A sense of pride blooming in his chest as you sit together on the balcony sharing bites of pizza and stories about your past. Things you want for your future, some things he’s heard and some things he’ll pocket for later. 

  He can tell as the meal goes on and you relax that you want to say it. To tell him why you’re this way, but he already knows it’s him. The reason he had to break down so many walls. The man whose name is rarely mentioned in your home because anytime it is Joel wants to find a way to make him a missing person. 

  When he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars as he twirls the pasta on the plate and holds it out for you, like an olive branch to open up. 

  You start tentatively to explain your past insecurities. How your ex made you feel ashamed for enjoying food. How he always made sure you knew to eat less than him. 

  “I always felt like I had to justify why I ate.” You say quietly as you sip your water. “But you…you make me feel comfortable just being myself.” 

  Joel reached across the table to take your hand, placing a kiss to your palm. “You don’t ever have to justify anything with me baby.” He says earnestly. “I want you to be happy and feel good about yourself. You should cuz you’re fuckin perfect.” 

  You smiled gratefully as he wiped a stray tear from your cheek. You knew with Joel beside you, you could let go of old hurts and embrace moments like this. Where kindness, understanding and a simple meal could say so much more than words could express. 

“Hey, there, sugar. What can I get started for you tonight?”

The bartender’s voice is warm and masculine, colored heavily with a slow, southern drawl that on any other day would have had you fighting a flush the moment it touched your ears. In this moment, however, it grates on your frayed nerves, and you release a frustrated sigh.

“I’ll, uh.” You hesitate, rubbing the back of your neck, feeling the gathered sweat there from your day in the blistering summer sun. “I’ll just do a vodka soda, please. With lime.”

The man on the other side of the bar quirks a dark, prominent eyebrow at you, but nods all the same. “If that’s what you want, I can make that happen. But you know, we’ve got a whole menu of craft cocktails to pick from,” he replies, plucking a long, black slip of heavy cardstock from a pile behind the bar. He slides it across the polished wooden surface toward you, and the menu’s gold embossed script glints mockingly back at you in the lowlight. “Sure you don’t want to try something a little more excitin’?”

You offer him a close-lipped smile, a self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, I saw. I…got overwhelmed. Couldn’t decide what to pick so I just decided to go for something…safe.”

You’ve never been anywhere like this before. Every bar you have ever stepped foot in before now had sticky laminate flooring and a dusty collection of neon signs adorning the walls, well liquor on the single-shelf backbar and a refrigerator full to bursting with Bud Light. They were the kinds of places that offered two-dollar drinks during happy hour on Thursdays, the kinds of places that had a single scuffed pool table in one corner and a jukebox that no one had touched in a decade in the other.

The bars you frequented back home didn’t have sleek black menus with a dozen cocktails featuring ingredients you had never even heard of. They didn’t have menus at all.

You are out of your depth here, and you hate how much it shows.

Thankfully, the bartender seems completely unbothered by your ignorance. Instead, there’s something earnest and empathetic in his deep brown eyes as he nods at you. “I understand. It’s intimidatin’ if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”

Relief passes through you, and you feel your smile softening. “Yeah, exactly.”

“Well, sugar, it looks like it’s your lucky day. ‘Cause I wrote that menu, and I can answer any questions you might have about it. How can I help?” He winks at you, and there’s that flush, creeping up your cheeks, spreading down your chest.

You have to hand it to him, if this is how all the bartenders in this place treat their customers, you can understand why it’s so popular, why it was the first place the concierge at your hotel had recommended when you asked her for the best place to get a drink on this side of town. This guy is making you feel like the only person in the room even though all the barstools around you are full, even though all the little booths lining the walls are packed with patrons, and it’s starting to go to your head.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you confess, feeling a bit less ashamed now but no less shy.

“Well, then, I’ve got an idea. How ‘bout I ask you a couple questions, get a feel for what you like and what you don’t like, and then I’ll make you somethin’ to try.” He leans heavily on the bar, his long arms spread wide, the heels of his hands pressing into the cherry wood in a move that conveys confidence, power.

You blink up at him, throat suddenly dry at how broad his looks like that, his white dress shirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders. Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you ask, “What if I don’t like it?”

“Then it’s on the house, and I make you that vodka soda and leave you be to enjoy the rest of your evening.” He extends a hand to you, offering to shake on it, and the gesture has you grinning in spite of yourself. “No hard feelings.”

You accept the handshake, and god, his hand is huge – warm and dry and a little calloused, the feel of his skin under your fingers making your heart stutter in your chest. You hope your voice is steady as you agree. “All right. Deal.”

The smile that breaks across his face is infuriatingly charming, and with a self-satisfied little sound at the back of his throat, he immediately starts gathering supplies, moving with a grace and fluidity that makes him look as though he’s doing an intricate dance or putting on some kind of performance rather than just collecting items from around the bar.

Two stainless steel shaker cups, a dual-ended jigger, a tall mixing glass, a barspoon, a cocktail strainer. He piles it all on the textured black mat before him, and then he says, “Let’s start simple. What kind of liquor tickles your fancy? Assuming you like more than vodka, of course.”

He’s teasing you, and you grin back him coquettishly. “You have something against vodka?”

“Not at all! There’s a time and a place for it.” He shrugs. “But it doesn’t always bring much to the table in terms of flavor.”

“Suppose that’s true. Then I guess I’d say…rum maybe? Or whiskey? Probably whiskey.”

A wicked grin curls the bartender’s upper lip, his dark eyes flashing across the bar at you in the low light, and you get the distinct feeling that you have just said something that pleases him, even if you aren’t certain what.

“A woman of taste,” he says, tipping his sleek black Stetson at you in admiration, and the gesture has you shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together involuntarily.

He asks you a few more questions then – how strong you like your drinks, whether you prefer them fruity or herbal, sweet or savory, classic or adventurous. You answer as best as you’re able, knowing that some of your responses are purely theoretical, as you’re not certain you’ve ever had a drink you would describe as “savory” or “adventurous” before, but they seem enough for him. After a few moments, he nods decisively and claps his hands once, the sound loud even through the din of the Friday night crowd.

“Think I’ve got just the thing for you, sugar,” he says. “You just hold tight, now. I’ll take good care a’ you.”

You cross your legs completely, hooking your calf over your knee as you feel that flush spread down your spine and pool somewhere between your hips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He assembles your drink with easy confidence, the motions practiced, almost automatic and yet with a showmanship you’ve only ever seen from bartenders in movies or television shows. It’s mesmerizing to watch, to the point where you almost wish he would stop chatting with you as he worked so you could give his hands your full attention.

And yet, talking with him was easy, too. He asks you what brings you to Secret Springs, and you tell him about the girls’ trip that starts tomorrow – that you had come into town a day early to have a little time for yourself before the week of beach days and too many margaritas and late nights at the club began. Not that you don’t enjoy those things, you tell him, because you do, but your friends have always been a bit more wild than you, and more often than not, you find yourself taking on the “mom friend” role when you travel together. You wanted a day that was just for you, you say, a day when you didn’t have to worry about what anyone else needed and you could take things at your own pace.

Your words have the bartender offering you a soft, kind smile, peering up at you from beneath the brim of his Stetson with a warmth in his eyes that feels almost like tenderness. When he slides your completed drink across the bar, his fingers brush yours, and you find yourself wishing this damn bar weren’t between you so that you might get a little closer –  just to see if the rest of him was as warm as his hands.

“I’m flattered you chose my humble establishment as the first stop of your visit,” he says, and suddenly it hits you – why he has been so attentive all night, why he is able to give you so much of his time without being pulled away by a manager or by another customer.

The man isn’t just a bartender; he’s the owner.

“This is your bar?” you ask, brows raised, and he nods once.

“Yes, ma’am.” He offers you a mock salute off the brim of his hat. “Jack Daniels, at your service.”

You choke on a laugh. “Jack Daniels?” you echo dubiously.

The man nods, grinning back at you with good humor. “Friends call me Whiskey. For…obvious reasons.”

You recall the red neon sign outside, the one with the art deco border and the brass hardware mounting it to the building’s brick exterior. Whiskey’s Sour, this place was called, and you inclined your head at him in recognition. “A cocktail from Whiskey himself? I’m honored.” Your words are playful, and yet you would be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little serious.

Jack laughs, and the sound is rich and warm, settling like spiced brandy in your belly. “Why don’t you give it a try first, sugar? Then you can tell me how ‘honored’ you are.”

You grip the low tumbler in your hand, cold and damp under your fingers, condensation already beading up along the surface of the glass, and for the first time, you allow yourself to examine what exactly he has made you.

The liquid in the glass is a pale amber color, more opaque than you would expect of a whiskey-based cocktail, poured over a single large ice cube and garnished with a dehydrated lemon wheel and a sprig of fresh rosemary. You bring the glass to your nose and inhale, getting a bright whiff of citrus and something tropical, and your mouth waters. It smells incredible – fresh and sharp and herbaceous, the smoky, nutty notes of the whiskey still detectable even through the juices and syrups. You take a dainty sip, and you have to swallow an undignified sound as the flavor washes over your tongue. Tart and sweet, strong yet round and soft in your mouth, the combination is divine and unlike anything you have ever experienced.

You have never been more grateful to be drinking something other than your old standby – the vodka soda.

“Well?” Jack shifts from foot to foot behind the bar, watching you eagerly as you take a second drink, this one deeper than the first.

“Whiskey, this is so good,” you tell him earnestly, and the joy that spills from him with those words could light up the room.

“Yeah?”

You laugh, shaking your head with enthusiasm. “Yeah. It’s…kind of perfect actually.” Taking another sip, you roll your head back on your neck, stretching your muscles, feeling all of the tension and stress that had accumulated over the span of months – planning your trip, scheduling time off work, packing, the long day of travel – melt from your body. It was as though it all had been leading up to this moment, leaving you inarticulate in your sheer relief.

“Fuck me,” you sigh to yourself, almost unconsciously, but somehow, the sound reaches Jack’s ears across the bar anyway.

The filthy, shit-eating smirk he sends you has you blushing down to your toes as you realize what you just said, who you had just said it to. You watch as he swipes his tongue across his teeth, leans forward against the bar, and pins you with a stare so hot it threatens to melt the giant ice cube in your glass.

Voice low and intimate, that southern drawl making his words drip like honey in your ear, he says, “Well, I like to consider myself a gentleman, so I’d prefer to take you to dinner first, but if you’re askin’? Who am I to turn a pretty thing like you down?”

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold drink in your hand trips down your spine, and you meet his eyes through your lashes. Your head feels light on your shoulders, and you know it’s not just from the alcohol. God, he’s even more handsome up close – golden tanned skin, soulful brown eyes, a soft, slightly downturned mouth, and a full, impeccably groomed moustache. He looks like a modern Burt Reynolds, like someone your mom would have swooned over in the 70s, so masculine it makes the apex of your thighs throb.

Wetting your lower lip with your tongue, you murmur, “Thank you for the drink, Jack. You’ve been very patient with me.”

“‘Course, sugar.” Boldly, he reaches out and brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, right at the corner of your mouth. “Best part of my job, getting to make people smile like you just did.”

He shifts back to his side of the bar then, reaching up to scratch at his jaw in a gesture that reads like embarrassment, like he has surprised even himself with his own audacity, but you’re not bothered. In fact, you almost wish he hadn’t pulled away just yet.

But then you remember that this bar is his, that the other bartenders and the servers hustling up and down the place are his employees, and you understand why he did.

“I’ll let you enjoy the rest of that in peace,” he says with a small, resigned smile, motioning at the drink in your hand. “You need anything at all, just flag me down, okay, sweetheart?”

You nod, raising the sweating glass to him in salute, and he tips his hat at you one last time before moving down the bar to help another customer.

You savor your drink, nursing it for far longer than was probably necessary in an attempt to make it last, but when you finally down the remaining drops, you ask another bartender for your check. She brings it to you with a pleasant smile, and after you’ve paid, you swallow your nerves and leave your number written across the merchant’s copy of the receipt. You hope he sees it, you hope he calls, but even if he doesn’t, you tell yourself that you won’t be disappointed. You’re only in town for the week, and you had never really been a “summer fling” kind of girl. In fact, you tell yourself as you slip off your barstool and out into the night, it would probably be best if he didn’t call you.

Of course, that doesn’t stop the riot of butterflies or the rush of happiness you feel when you wake up in your hotel room the next morning to a series of texts from an unknown number. They read:

happy 2 see i left an impression sugar. i know u did. feel free 2 bring ur girls by the bar sometime this week. i’ll save y’all a table. also i’d love 2 take u out sometime while ur in town. wanna 2 take u up on that offer u made if ur willing

Featured cocktail based on a recipe for a Whiskey Passion Cocktail by Ricky Alvarado for Bordel in Chicago, as shared by Imbibe Magazine

1 1/2 oz Rye Whiskey 3/4 oz. Grapefruit Juice 3/4 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice 1/4 oz. Passion Fruit Syrup 1/4 oz. Vanilla Syrup Garnish: Dehydrated or fresh lemon wheel, fresh rosemary

  Appointments only. No walk ins. High end. Serious inquiries only.   And part of you balked, new to this possibility, had your ears pierced at Claire’s when you were twelve or so, and you’d felt stupid when you sent the e-mail off with some images attached. Sorry to bother you.   What a lovely idea. Water bears and fireweed together speak of resilience. The awakening of something new after a time of trial. There are species of pine that require the heat of wildfire to dry out their cones enough to spread their seeds. I would gladly meet with you to discuss this further.   And that’s how you ended up here, in this air-conditioned cave, narrow space full of framed flash art and old maps and framed photos of Ezra and the girl behind the counter, C? Sea? You didn’t quite register her name, flustered by the cool dark in contrast to the blazing heat outside.   “No need to yell, Birdie, I’m comin-“ Ezra rattles through the curtain. Broad is the first thing you notice, loud is the second. He is a confusion of color, heavily inked arms and a Hawaiian shirt bedecked with flamingos in sunglasses, spangled ears and a gold ring through his lip, bright shock of blonde hair amid his unruly curls. Smiling bright and wide,   “Hi there,” he says, purred southern drawl, and offers his hand, “I’m Ezra.”  “I figured,” you say and take his hand, warm fingers around yours and then he folds his other hand over yours, and you see that his right hand is an elaborate prosthetic, his whole arm up to his shoulder,  gold on black, a fearsome dragon framed in blooming orchids. You barely have time to register this and Ezra is ushering you through the curtain.  “I am guessing by your demeanor that this is your first tattoo,” and you smile, but can’t quite meet his eyes, his hand finds yours again and squeezes gently. “I’ve got several sketches based on our initial discussion, but i want you to know up front, if the art is not to your liking or if you change your mind about this entire venture I’ll not judge you for it.  “But the deposit—“  “A formality. Tends to keep people who aren’t sure of themselves away. I will never ink someone who isn’t fully committed, if you decide this isn’t for you i will refund you. No harm no foul. No pressure, clear?”  “Yeah. We’re clear.” Ezra smiles, dimples sinking into his scruffy cheeks, eyes crinkling into crescents.  “Excellent,” he says, “Let me show you what me and Cee came up with.”

 “That one.” A tardigrade drawn in the traditional style, brilliantly colored in blues and greens with bold outlines, with two crossed fireweed fronds in watercolor.  “This is an approximation-“ says Ezra, “I will replicate the colors as best I can—“  “That one.” You say, “I like the hard and soft together.”  “I do as well,” says Ezra, “I must admit that I was hoping you’d choose this design. Strength and softness are not mutually exclusive. I should warn you though.  Watercolor tattoos tend to fade a bit faster than the more traditional styles-“  “Sunscreen and plenty of it” you say, and he smiles.  “That’s right, and A&D ointment as you heal. There’s plenty of fancy tattoo healing ointments to be found but A&D has always got me through. Why fix what’s not  broken? We’ll send you home with some instructions.” He takes the sketch you’ve picked out, “Hey, Cee! Can you finagle the scanner-“ Cee pops her head and arm through the beaded curtain. She grins, devilish and sharp like a crescent moon. “Old man, still can’t figure it out, huh?” Takes the sketch from his hand.  “Oi! You are but a humble apprentice,” says Ezra, but he smiles, “An initiate! A novice even!” Cee smiles back. This seems like an exchange that happens at least three times a week, and you feel yourself smiling along with them.  “Get her prepped. I’ll do the hard part.”  “That girl,” he mutters, “You take a seat right there—“ He gestures towards a set up that looks uncomfortably like a dentist’s chair, “Cee has my station set up, I just need to glove up and we’ll talk placement.”  “Left inner arm,” You frown. You’d said so over e-mail. Can’t help but watch the flex and bend of him as he pulls a shoulder length veterinary glove over his prosthetic, and then gloves his left hand, “It’s a bitch to take apart and sanitize. I can if needs be, but best to avoid all of that. I cannot exactly autoclave this thing. And I find the calving glove less unwieldy than Saran Wrap-“  “Wait a sec, Saran Wrap? Like on a plate of leftovers?”  Ezra dimples at you.   “Exactly like that. First time Cee witnessed it, she laughed so hard i thought she might drop dead right there on the spot. Next morning there was a case-pack of calving gloves on our front stoop like some sort of-“  “It’s Amazon, Ez, not witchcraft,” says Cee, popping back through the curtain with a sheaf of papers, shoots you a knowing can you believe this guy look, “You’d be lost without me. Just admit it.” Ezra takes the papers from her.   “Go on now, don’t you have fanfic to read? What’s that Star Wars thing? Reylo?” Cee’s face scrunches in a cartoonish display of disgust.  “Man, I never should’ve told you about AO3.” And with that she’s gone.  “Your daughter’s really something.”  “She ain’t mine,” says Ezra, leafing through the stack of prints Cee handed him, draws a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket and perches them on his nose, “I don’t have that honor. Her parents kicked her from the nest and she found her way here.” He holds two of the prints in front of his face. “Show me your arm.” And you offer him your left arm, hand turned palm up. He cradles your arm, runs his gloved fingers over the thin skin there, noting the network of silvered scars, like contrails in a hazy sky, because how can he not? Old enough to be flattened and flush with the rest of your skin, no one’s noticed in years, but you know he must and you tense, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, just selects a printed sheet at holds it up to you arm.  “This the orientation you want?”  “Yeah, I want him standing on my hand. Um, Ezra, the scars-“  “won’t be a problem, darlin, they’re old and soft-“  “I’m not gonna screw up your handiwork,” you say, and he folds your hand in both of his, gentle pressure that grounds you and when you look up at him, his eyes are soft.  “I know you won’t,” he says, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.  We can rewrite this part of your story. I trust you.” 

 Ezra preps your skin, alcohol wipes and mild soap and he shaves your inner arm with a disposable razor, rubs some gooey stuff on you that makes you think of putting on aloe after a burn. Gotta let this dry a beat, he says, we want the stencil to come out nice and clean, rests his hand over yours while the transfer solution dries, got to let it get tacky, he says.  Not quite holding your hand but not letting go either.  “I should warn you, the bit over your inner wrist will likely be the most painful,” swipes his hand over your skin, testing the resistance against his glove, “Skin’s thin there. Not a whole lot of meat between the skin and all the veins and little fiddly bits.”  “Fiddly bits,” you echo, and feel yourself smile, “You mean the bones?”  “And tendons,” says Ezra, clips out the stencil.  “That looks like carbon paper,” you say, and Ezra grins, “It’s functionally the same, but Cee insists that the thermographic printer makes cleaner stencils than the old methods, so here we are.” He lays the sheet of paper over your arm, rubs at it with a balled up paper towel, “We want the transfer solution to soak into the paper. It’ll leave the stencil behind on your skin. There’s some tricks involving deodorant, but i find this method works the best-“ you can’t help but notice how pretty he is, face pinched in concentration, pout of his lips, those dark eyes focused on the strip of skin between your wrist and elbow like this bit of you is the only thing in the universe. “—hey! you still with me?”  “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”  “You got a hotel room for tonight? It’s not by business, but i know you’re not local and getting tattooed blows a surprising amount of adrenaline-“  “I’ve got a  room booked,” you say, “Up over Peli’s.”  “Hope you brought earplugs,” says Ezra, “That place can get a bit rowdy on a Friday night.”   “I’m counting on it,” you say, “It’s been forever since I’ve gone to a bar.”  “Hmm,” he rubs at the transfer paper, “Do you feel your skin tightening a bit? We should be just about ready. I’m gonna click the gun on for a beat so you can hear it.”   “I’m not scared.”  “Didn’t say you were.” says Ezra, “I find this tends to go easier if people know what to expect. This buzz and my endless yap are going to be filling your ears for the next few hours-“  “It’s not bad. The tattoo machine, I mean.” And Ezra grins, slow curve that just hints at a dimple.   “My Ma always said my tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. If, at any point in this venture, you need me to shut the fuck up do not be shy in saying so,” his face falls, eyes flick away a little, “There’s one more thing before we peel this stencil and get on to our business. I will need to stretch your skin, to make sure the lines are nice and clean, and for that i must rely on this foolish thing.” Ezra catches you around your wrist with his prosthetic hand and squeezes slightly.   “I do not have the sensitivity nor dexterity that i once had,” he says, “I have some haptic feedback, but it’s not the most reliable. If I grip or pinch too hard, you sing out and I will manually adjust the pressure.”  So focused on your left inner wrist and the tracery of your skin that he startles, flinches when you reach for him and grip his upper arm, brief squeeze and then gone.  “I trust you.” His eyes widen for a second, and flick away from yours.   ‘I suppose you do. Else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s get a good look at these lines before we get to fencin’.” Ezra peels the transfer paper up and you feel the pull of it, dark purple lines printed on your inner arm. And that makes it feel real.

You’re going to walk out of here with something like a story in your skin forever.   “The fireweed—“  “I know. The stencil lines are just there to keep me from going too loosey-goosey,” says Ezra, “That being said, how would you feel about some slight splatters? So the stems do not rise so harshly from the water bear’s back, perhaps a bit darker than the color of the fireweed. Something to really make this little fella pop.”  “Dark. Like a dark purple fading up into the pinks.”  “Yeah? What do you think?”  “I like it,” you say, and you feel yourself grin wide, and Ezra’s smile mirrors your own, “This is gonna be so fucking cool.”  “It will,” he says, those dark eyes bracketed in delighted crinkles, “I’ve got you, darlin. We’re gonna make some magic.”

 It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, and you tell Ezra so, and he smiles, bent over your arm.  “Everyone’s pain threshold is a bit different,” he says, “You are squirming very little for your first ink.”’   “I was in labor with my oldest for twenty three hours. This doesn’t even register.”  “The linework is usually worse in terms of sharp pain,” he says, “The color and shading tend to be more persistently annoying. Like a shirt collar rubbing on a sunburn.” He has a light on a swing arm like a dentist uses, framing him in a bright halo as he hunches over your arm, catches his curls in bright filaments, the scruff of his cheeks, slope of his neck, breadth of his shoulders. Sharper pain as he touches the crease between wrist and hand, bracelets of fortune, you think they’re called, draw your breath in a sharp hiss, little hooked curves of the tardigrade’s claws.  “Breathe, sugar, you’re doing just fine. Worst part’s nearly done.” His eyes flick up to catch yours, warm soft and magnified by his glasses. “And I really must know. what’s your favorite dinosaur?”  “Deinonychus,” you answer unthinking, “Dromeosaurs are pretty cool in general, but Deinonychus is my favorite.” And you smile. Knowing exactly what he’s doing and thankful for it. “The raptors in Jurassic Park were actually Deinonychuses. Modeled on them at least. Actual velociraptors are turkey-sized.” Ezra smiles up at you, perfect plump lower lip bisected by a gold ring, damn he’s pretty, and nothing hurts at all.  “Huh,” he says, “And here I was thinkin you were a T-rex girl. S’pose that’s what i get for making assumptions.”  “Well you know what they say about assuming—“  “Indeed I do. My mother was very fond of whipping out that particular turn of phrase.” He stretches your skin so he can get the tardigrade’s odd little mouthparts just so.  “What’s your favorite?”  “Favorite what?” The curved, segmented back takes shape.  “Dinosaur. You can’t just ask someone that question and not answer it yourself.” Ezra stills for a beat, and then the needle starts up again, line sloping down to meet up with a hook-plated foot.  “Ankylosaurus.” he says.  “Really?”  “Sure. Mother Nature took a cow, a snapping turtle and a panzer tank and stuck em in a blender and then tied a cinderblock to the end of it’s tail. What’s not to love? Hmmm,” he swabs at the beaded blood and oozing ink, “Hard part’s done. How about a little breather?” Ezra stands and stretches like a lazy cat, rolls his neck side to side, heads for the refrigerator, tucked in the corner and plastered in stickers, punk bands or microbreweries, you can’t really tell.   “Stretch your legs,” he says, “This next phase will take some time.” You swing your legs over the side of the chair, stand up and then plop back down.  “You okay, darlin?”   “Stood up too fast.”   “Apple or orange?”  “Huh? Orange,” You feel your face going hot, “I followed your instructions—“ Ezra hands you a cold, sweating bottle of orange juice.  “I know you did,” he says, “When you get tattooed, you are signing up for an injury. One that happens over the course of several hours, but an injury all the same.  Everyone reacts a little different. Your sugar just dropped is all. You drink that juice and you’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”  “I thought I’d be okay-“  “And you are,” says Ezra, “I’ve had three hundred pound bikers slither out of the chair at the first sight of blood. It happens sometimes. I’ve gotten woozy a time or two myself.”

He shoves up his shirtsleeve and shows you a dog in a space helmet,   “That’s Laika,” you say.  “Patron Saint of one way trips,” says Ezra, “You can see a bit of wobble in the curve of her helmet. It was far from my first ink and it still hurt like a sonofabitch. You didn’t do a thing wrong, okay?” He rests his hand on your shoulder briefly, warm weight of it grounds you, and he hunkers down so his eyes meet yours, no judgement there, just concern, and without thinking, you mirror him, rest a hand on his vibrantly inked bicep, Laika brave and doomed amid a swirl of watercolored nebulae, his skin warm beneath your palm and you feel the breath rush out of you, didn’t know how hard you were clenching your jaw, didn’t know you tight your chest was.  “Thank you.” And for a beat those lovely, dark eyes hold yours, before they slide away, cheek curved up in a half-smile.  “You are most welcome. Shall we proceed?”

 The color inking goes much as he described, more annoying than painful, like a constant pressing of fingernails against your skin, different gun with more needles packed together, ink laid in, blood wiped away, back and forth over the same bits of skin, needles dipped and rinsed, tiny plastic cups of color that make you think of a child’s paint set, and the two of you settle into easy conversation, a flow back and forth like a gentle tide, mostly Ezra explaining all the hidden delights of Secret Springs, you simply must get breakfast at Cisco’s, it don’t look like much but they’ve got the best biscuits and gravy i’ve ever tasted, and Cee swears by their Hangover Helper, it’s like a layer dip of grease. Hash browns and corned beef hash and scrambled eggs with sausage gravy and cheese sprinkled over it. I keep tellin Frankie he should rename it the Heart Attack Platter, but he won’t hear it— Ezra’s voice and the buzz of the tattoo gun and the rhythm of him pressing into your skin and wiping away the blood and excess ink set you drifting, content to listen to him ramble, like the patter of falling rain.  “So what got you here?” asks Ezra.  “Moira. I saw her ink and asked—“  “No, darlin, what got you here?” And you find it hard to speak, to put into words, did everything right, married and had kids and a house and a good job and a husband who loved you until he didn’t, did everything right and still ended up with an empty house and no one to come home to except the cat. Lilly and Liam and Joey off on their own and settled and they all call you on Sunday like clockwork, as if you are an obligation and not someone who held them when they were small, talked them through the fears of monsters in the closet, talked them through the humiliation of first love, you know they love you, they tell you every time, at the end of every visit, hug you so tight and tell you they love you. Love you too, but you still come home to a dark house and an empty bed, you honestly can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched or kissed or held. Been so long since you did things for you without thinking of him and the kids that it feels wrong, shameful.  “I wanted to do something just for me, I guess.” You frown.  “I’m guessing you are not in the habit,” he says, “Of doing things just for the joy of it.” You laugh, a bright and brittle sound that pulls itself from your throat, even as your eyes burn, his eyes flick up from the brilliant pinks and oranges and purples, and you turn your head away.  “I’ve prodded a raw nerve, I’m sorry. Cee rightly says I have no filter-“  “It’s okay. It’s just…you do everything right and you still end up all alone, you know? Lil and the boys are all doing fine. They call me every Sunday, and I know I should be happy, and I am happy. Happy for them-“  “But not for yourself,” says Ezra. And you think of how the intimacy slowly bled out of your marriage, held on so tight for so long, thought you could muscle through it like you do everything else in your life, but love wasn’t enough, determination wasn’t enough, gritted teeth and stubbornness weren’t enough.   “No. Not for myself.” You frown. You haven’t put it in words before, too busy keeping it together, trying to gut through it like you do everything, keep your head down and push through, “You think your life is one thing and then it just isn’t anymore— this probably seems silly to you.”  “Not at all. I often think of cicadas,” he says, and returns his attention to the fireweed blossoms.  “Cicadas?”  “Yes. They live the majority of their lives under the ground, feasting on roots content with living in the dark and then something calls them up above. They split themselves open, crawl out of their old skins and take flight.”  “You’re saying I’m in the process of crawling out of my own skin,” you say.  “I’m saying that your future doesn’t have to look like your past,” says Ezra.

You hadn't needed to ask or say anything for him to cover your head with it. Your pout, the cute way you have of furrowing your brows when things don't do what you want, the one that came out as you tried to keep some order in your messy strands of hair, had been enough for him to move. To do something he had never done before, to give it away and make you smile, say thank you, Frankie, in that way you do, with your soft voice, giving those words a sweet taste that makes his heart beat faster and colors his cheeks.

With you, everything is easy, easier to do, to face, to be, to feel, just be himself, not feel judged or self-conscious about his past, not feel shame for how his brain works sometimes, to share his feelings, his secrets, his dreams because you're his trouble, his zephyr, his gentle breeze, his blast of fresh air, his best friend, the keeper of all his secrets except one -that he's in love with you- his forbidden fruit. The girl he should never think about in the way he dreams about you, the girl who's off limits just for who you are, Will and Benny's younger sister, that little girl born when no one thought the family would have a new addition. The little girl who sought him because he didn't mind being quieter or staying behind to sit with you to read a book or tell you a story, the girl that kept growing and called him when in trouble, when she needed a judgemental free drive because she had drunk a little too much, or she had broken the nose of the guy who didn't want a no for an answer, just as her brothers had taught her.

A girl with a wild side, always ready for a new adventure, to capture everything with your cameras, who still puts up a fight when asked to be on the other side of the lens but also caring and gentle, loving. A girl he lost track of when you left your home to explore Europe, and he got consumed by the harshness of his work, of the civil life that came afterward, of the drugs he used to escape, of the nightmare that South America became. 

A girl who is not a girl anymore but a woman. A beautiful one, strong, with lustful curves, a radiant smile, and eyes full of mischief, always full of everything you feel, deep windows to your soul he's addicted to, a soul that has been calling for his since the day he saw you again a few months ago when the summer was just hinting his upcoming presence, and you came to this place. To Secret Springs, this piece of land that Pope convinced him and your brothers to relocate to, invest the money they stole, and create a security business, an unexplored venue in this growing place. To have a simpler life. A life that he loves but has been feeling lonely in, walking a step behind the others, the only one without a partner, still looking, still unlucky in his search for his other half. 

You had come, looking for a few weeks to think, a bit of space, a respite, and those weeks had turned into months, into you finding a job you seem to love, a place for yourself, changing everything, turning those few stalled interactions when the whole group was together into a friendship, sweeping him off his feet. Filling him with equal amounts of exhilaration and terror at the idea of ruining it. Making it impossible for him to not fall in love with you, to crave you, desire you, want to keep adding things to the growing bond, nurture it, create memories, share experiences, want more and more. Making it impossible to not want to give freedom to the feeling of potential he keeps feeling, that push coming from his gut to destroy the walls he's built around himself to keep you at a safe distance with how you break his fears more and more each day, craving his company as much as he desires yours, helping him forget about the many items on his cons list, what your brothers might say, what the world might think, daring him to ask for a date and steal a kiss if you're willing to give it. 

A question he couldn't have constructed a more perfect setting to ask if it wasn't for the reasons why he's brought you here, to this adventure, this wish you once mentioned you'd love to experience that has him crossing his fingers. Praying it will help you forget for a little while what has been shading your eyes with melancholy, the thoughts you've not shared with him, the ones staining your smiles with sadness, shortening their length, stopping them from being the ray of sunshine they usually are.

He wants it to be perfect.

So far, luck has been on his side, able to keep you in the dark, unknowing of his surprise for you, and hopes his silent cooperators, those who have a special place in your heart, your favorites, will indulge him a little bit more and come up now that you're in the secret spot he'd been told was the best one for this. 

You don't move from where you're sitting as he stops the boat and deals with its engines to keep it in place, looking at him as he walks towards you and sits beside you, breathing deeply to control his nerves.

“Now, is this when you kill me and throw my body to the sea?" 

"Something like that, Trouble.” You always have this uncanny ability to read him like an open book, put him at ease with a few well-placed words, feel seen and understood, making him laugh or sigh more than chuckle when those words turn out to be your trademark teasing towards him. A skill he likes to think he's gotten quite good at when it comes to you. And any other time, he'd be happy to indulge you, take this offer to answer you back with a gibe of his own, but the need to help you in any way he can budges him to ask. “You’re awfully quiet today. Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Hermosa (Beautiful).” His hand touches yours, calling for you to trust him, nudging you to look at him thoughtfully, in a way that feels pondering, a careful deliberation. He doesn't want to push you. You're allowed to have your private thoughts, things he doesn't have to be a part of, but he hopes you'll confide in him, share with him the burden you're shouldering alone.

“Are you dating someone?” The question comes out of nowhere, taking him by surprise with your words and the seriousness of your face. His first reaction is to laugh. Guffaw at their absurdity until mortification floods your face, and he sees you biting your lower lip as you try to look away, hide from him and his lack of tact. 

"Hey." His fingers land on your chin, halting your movements, caressing with his thumb the lip you have kidnapped with your teeth, easing the hold they had, searching your eyes with his. "Hermosa, I wasn't laughing at you. Ok?" You're still not looking at him. Opting for being evasive, not letting your gaze settle until his hold on you tightens, claiming your attention, and you finally glance at him. "I'm sorry. I truly wasn't. You just surprised me. Who put this idea in your mind?"

“My brothers…” Your voice is no more than a murmur. He hates it. Makes him long for your brazen words and attitude.

“What did they say?” He articulates his question neutrally, as much as he can, offering you space to explain and not get angry at what your brothers might have done or remarked. Trying to not let his hope rise too much at your reaction, at what the idea of him dating someone made you feel. 

“I had dinner with them a couple of days ago. They kept complaining about how they barely see you. That the only reason to be so busy is because you’re wooing a lady.” There's an aftertaste of jealousy in your words, a hint of possessiveness in your eyes as if you'd been considering him yours. Unconsciously feeding the anticipation in his chest, making his heart soar and feel lightheaded. 

“Why didn’t you ask? I thought we had enough trust between us.” Shifting his fingers, moving them so he can hold your cheek in his hand, feels instinctual. Shivering at how you nuzzle his skin and lean on his touch, how you fit perfectly and look at him through your eyelashes, and his heart skips a beat.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought… I know my brother’s are your best friends, but…”

“Hermosa.” Insecurity is the first word in his mind, what he thinks he's seeing in your eyes, sensing in your voice, the lack of sureness of your place in his life. It hurts him. Fills him with guilt. He's been working so hard to hide his feelings he's left you in a limbo of uneasiness, prey of the memories that brought you here. “Benny, Will, and Santi are my brothers. You’re my best friend.” He looks at you meaningfully as he speaks, wanting to instill in his words how important you are to him. How much he needs you and wants you. "Between work and you, I don't have the time to date, nor want to.”

You open your mouth, frowning with the same hope he's feeling shining in your eyes, ready to say something, question the meaning behind his words, what he still hasn't said, be sure of the interpretation you've made, but a sudden noise breaks the moment. A presence coming out from the water, breaking the stillness in the ocean, a massive entity of a deep blue color and specks of white jumping, slapping its head against the water, followed by a second and a third. Humpback whales. Gentle giants, having fun. Speaking to each other in their language, mothers enjoying their last days of calm with their calves before starting their journey north to colder waters.

They are elegant, stunning in their size and movements, but not enough to capture his attention when you're giggling like the little girl you once were, when your face is full of wonder as you watch them. Squealing every time one of them comes out, calling his name, holding his arm, squeezing him to make sure he's watching too, looking at him, wanting to share the moment with him.

Until one of those looks lingers. Grows, stills the time, erases everything that's not you and him. And he dives in, surprising you, just for a second, the time it takes you to realize what he wants and reciprocate, showing him delight and eagerness as you lean into him. Miscalculating the distance, crashing the visor of his cap into his forehead, making him chuckle with how you huff at its audacity to be in the middle as you take it away, letting it land on your lap without desisting in your wishes, trying again with your hands sinking in his hair, making sure he doesn't stray, letting yourself be pulled closer to him. Whispering his name on his lips.

The first taste is heaven. A tender caress. A chaste peek. Lips against lips with his hands cradling your face. An exhalation of pleasure, a siren’s call for him to ask for more, to lick your lips, asking for permission to taste you and let his tongue dance with yours. A permission you give just as fast, pushing him closer to you, drinking him, mewling, stealing his breath, his name, his soul, branding his heart with your name.

There’s barely any space once you separate, just a few inches, enough for him to see your eyes still lighted by your joy, bliss, the same he can feel in his, to feel your smile in his hands with how your face still rests against them. He has no words to voice, but he knows you do as he stays quiet, raising an eyebrow in expectation, waiting for what you have to say, the cheek directed at him, tingling your lips, wanting to come out.

“Took you long enough, Morales.” Your mischief makes him laugh, filling his heart with love. 

It’s too soon to say it, but it won’t be for much longer.

“Your brothers…” He knows how protective they are, how they have behaved when one of your boyfriends had been in their proximity. He's been there to help them. He needs to know you’re aware of it, ready for the mess that could happen, the fight that might arise.

“Leave them to me. I’m grown woman, and while some sibling concern is appreciated, I won’t let them tell me who I can or cannot date.” Your words are a declaration full of assertiveness until a thought invades your mind, stealing some of your conviction. Inciting you to voice it. “Unless you don’t want to…”

“I want to. I want to. Fuck, Hermosa. I want it so bad.” He cannot put into words how much he wants this, wants you. He doesn't care if he sounds desperate. He needs you to know.

“Good, because I want to take you to my place after this.” 

“Fuck.” Your boldness never fails to make him flush. Give him the trouble he calls you, make him fall in love with you a little more, captivate him with your giggles, letting you move him as you will, by the hold you have of his curls, pushing him closer to have another kiss, one he wants just as much. One he can already taste, smelling your flowery perfume with how close you are until the whales strike again, drenching you with the water they raise, moving the boat, swaying it with the waves they create as they come up close enough to feel like they are at touching distance, seeking the attention denied. 

Causing another stream of delight. Squeals, strong enough to throw your head back, compelling him to keep watching you. Stare at you, smile with softness, completely sure you're worth any hardship that might come. That what you have, what you can become, is the real deal. 

No pressure tags (because there was interest in my WIP Wednesday)! @burntheedges @mermaidgirl30 @milla-frenchy @thundermartini @joelmillerisapunk

This hostel was the worst idea. Especially when you were trying to finish this chapter in your book, but the guy in the bunk above you was snoring like a fog horn and you couldn’t handle the woman across from you who insisted she tell you the same story of her trip to Switzerland for the 18th time today. You had to get out of here. Quickly you searched your phone for the nearest coffee shop and all the chains popped up first. You scrolled past them, not interested in some corporate super shop. 

One name in particular stuck out to you. Catfish Coffee. That sounds promising. You thought and quickly packed your backpack before the storyteller returned. With the directions on your phone, you followed the winding paths of the city. 

The quaint town was one of many options in what can only be described as a vacation country. Your friend had convinced you to take a trip for yourself after your recent divorce, and  you weren’t going to argue with them. Spending a week just reading and writing to your heart's content sounded like a dream. 

The voice on the map took you out of your thoughts and you looked up to see the sign for Catfish Coffee. The logo was a simple design with a cute cartoon catfish holding a coffee shop wearing a hat with the logo of Standard Heating. You smirked not expecting how cute this shop would be. Excitedly you pushed open the door making a small bell ring. 

You were greeted with the cool air conditioning making you shiver just a bit wishing you had brought your cardigan. Soft music sang through the shop helping add to the relaxing environment. There weren’t many customers in at the moment which gave you some relief. Finally you could find some comfort in your own company. 

The single barista turned at the sound and smiled when he saw you. He was older than you were expecting, maybe in his late 40s. Curly hair poke out from his well loved hat and he wore a dark blue apron with the logo of the shop in the center which when you got closer to the counter you realized that it was the same hat the catfish was wearing. 

“Welcome to Catfish Coffee. What can we get you?” He asked in a friendly tone.

“Well this is my first time here. What would you recommend?” You asked, adjusting your bag. 

“Depends on what you like,” He stated as he turned to point at the menu behind him. “If you want something to beat the heat we got plenty of frozen drinks. Looking for something more casual we got plenty of lattes hot and cold, coffee and tea based. Want something more simple we got plenty of roasts from local farms that you can sample on our coffee flights.” He turned back to look at you smiling. 

 “That’s quite the selection you offer,” You commented looking over the menu again.

He blushed and rubbed the back on the neck. “Gotta make sure there’s something for everyone.” 

“And that gives me an excuse to come back and try all of them,” You reply.

You might have misread his expression but you might have caught a hint of a blush on his stubble cheeks. “You are always welcome back.” 

“I’ll take the honey latte then,” You said when you finally decided. 

The barista rang up your order with a flurry of hands. “Great choice, that one’s quite popular. We get the honey locally as well.” 

You hand him your card. “I didn’t realize this resort had so many local businesses.” 

“It’s amazing what they were able to make here,” He added, handing your card back to you. “That’ll be out in just a minute.” 

“Thank you…”  You paused to look down at his name tag. “Frankie.” 

“No problem. Love seeing new faces,” He added as he grabbed a cup. 

“You must get a lot people coming and going,” You commented. 

“That’s mostly who we get, but we have some regulars that come in,” He adds over his shoulder as he pumps the syrup into the plastic cup. 

“I’m glad you have dedicated customers,” You said as you look around the cafe. “It’s a very cute place.” 

“Thank you,” He replied as he poured the milk into the cup. “I’m very proud of it.” He finished making the drink and set it on the counter in front of you. 

“As you should be,” You smiled and took your drink. You turned and headed toward one of the empty tables. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the customer that just walked in. They weren’t the usual clientele he attracted. But there you were sitting at one of the booths holding what can only be described as a tome in your hand. That book must be at least 600 pages, and you were reading as if you were on a deadline. And you had been here for a few hours at least. He was surprised you weren’t interested in any other vacation type activities. 

You seemed so sweet despite the small interaction he had shared with you, and he did want to get to know you. Though he didn’t want to come off as weird so he continued with his business. 

A couple more customers came and went, but you persisted. He checked the time. It had been well past three hours since you entered the store. Though you were no longer reading that encyclopedia. You were typing away at a tablet now with a look of determination etched on your cute face. Wait, did he really think that you were cute? Frankie shook his head rubbing his eyes. Maybe he needed more coffee. 

He made himself a simple cup of coffee and when he turned around he realized you were now the only one left in the shop. Frankie tapped his fingers against the counter and quickly set his own coffee down. He quickly made another honey latte for you, and took a deep breath before bringing it over to your table. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Writing was hard. You were on a roll, the plot and scenes were all coming together, but then you swear to any god out there it just left you. There your main character was having a triumphant monologue, and then blip! It was gone. You groaned and rubbed your eyes. 

“Troubles?” You heard a voice and looked up. You smiled when you saw it was Frankie. “Sorry, I know you’ve been here awhile and thought you could use a refill.” You held up a hand to protest, but he interrupted with a smile. “On the house.” 

“Thank you,” You smiled and happily received the additional drink. You took a sip and it felt yourself relax once again. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what has you all stressed out?” 

“Oh just the masterpiece I’m supposed to be creating,” You answered with a bit of sarcasm in your voice and gesture to your screen. 

Frankie leaned over to peek at the screen. “You have a good amount so far.” 

“And that’s the problem. I was on a roll but then some writing demon decided to take away my ability to form basic sentences,” You sighed and ran your hand through your hair.  

“I don’t know much about writing. Never did well in English class, but I can tell you if you force something it will break. Maybe come back to it with a fresh mind tomorrow,” Frankie offered. 

You sighed. “I know you’re right, I'm just impatient. I’ve been trying to write this for months now.” 

He chuckled, “I know that feeling, but you might also feel better with some food in you too.” He glanced at the clock then continued. “I close up here soon and my buddies own a bar not too far from here. I can take you there if you want.” He offered rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smiled softly. “I actually would really like that.” 

Frankie smiled. “Then that’s what we shall do. In the meantime, read more of that book of yours. It seems like a good one.” 

You blushed. He noticed you were reading? Frankie was really quite thoughtful. “It is.  It’s got me on the edge of my seat.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes,” He says, heading back to his counter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie was right. Reading more of that book helped with your stress and even gave you an idea for your own book. Before you knew it, Frankie was closing up shop and the two of you walked out into the cool summer air. He quickly locked up the front. Instead of wearing his barista apron, he switched his wardrobe for a worn flannel. 

“The bar is just down this way,” He gestured down the road where you could see a neon sign outside the restaurant. 

“It looks like a cute place,” You mention as you started down the sidewalk. 

“It’s quite the popular bar. They’ve really done a lot with it. Turned it from a almost condemned building to one of the more popular restaurants in town.” Frankie beamed as he talked about his buddies. It was clear he was very proud of what they had accomplished.

You smiled. “That’s amazing to hear.” You took in a deep breath and caught a scent of Frankie’s collonge. He smelled of sandalwood and other earthy tones which you had to admit was one of your favorites. When you reached the door, Frankie held the door open and you thanked him. He really is a gentleman you thought as you entered the establishment. 

The Ironhead Bar was quite the place to be. All sorts of sports games were playing on the screens with plenty of what could only be described as “manly decor” lined the wall. Anything from sports memorabilia to old army collectibles covered the different sections. As if he owned the place Frankie took a seat at the bar and you sat down next to him. Usually bars weren’t your scene, but you felt oddly at home at his establishment. 

A young man wearing a hat almost as worn as Frankie’s hat looked up and smiled a wide smile when he saw you two. “Catfish! Fancy seeing ya here tonight.” he saddled up to the two of you cleaning a glass with a rag. 

“Benny I come here every night,” Frankie rolled his eyes, but smiled. 

“Maybe I should make you start paying your tab,” Benny joked and smacked Frankie lightly on the shoulder. He then looked over at you. “You though are a new face. Frankie, who’s this handsome person?” He asked, gesturing with his thumb. 

“I just so happened to stop by the coffee shop today,” You said looking over at Frankie. “I guess I overstayed my welcome, but Frankie invited me to get dinner with him.” 

That seemed to make Benny smirk. “I see,” He glances between you and Frankie, his smile growing even bigger. 

Frankie rolled his eyes and lightly pushed Benny’s shoulder. “Just get us a couple of Pope burgers and beers.” 

“You got it boss,” Benny winked at you before heading back to the kitchen. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the interaction. “I’m guessing you’ve known each other a long time.” 

“You can say that. We’re old army buddies. Once we got out we decided to stick together and open our dream places. He opened this place with his brother, and well you know the coffee shop.”

You smiled softly and leaned your head on your hand. “Ah that’s where the catfish came from,” You said more to yourself. “That's really nice actually. You must really like coffee.” 

Frankie chuckled. “You can say that. You could also say it saved my life.” 

“I feel like there's a story there,” You say as Benny sets your beers down. You didn’t miss it when he gave Frankie an eyebrow wiggle before talking to more customers. 

“There is,” He said, taking a quick sip of his beer. “I’m actually a recovering addict.” Your eyes widened and he held up his hand. “Not beer hermoso. It was cocaine. Got addicted in the army and could never get over it. It wasn’t until Will, Benny’s brother, knocked some sense into me. We found out that coffee was a good substitute for the way I felt high, and well here I am. Five years clean.” 

You smile softly. “That’s really amazing.” 

Frankie blushed and took another sip. “Thank you. It was a hard journey, but it helps when you have friends as loyal as them.” 

“I second that. I wouldn’t be where I am without my best friend either,” You smiling thinking about all the times your friends saved you. 

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Frankie asked before taking another sip of his beer.

“I was planning on taking a vacation to work on my book, but um,” You chuckled a little sad. “I found my husband cheating on me so this vacation became the ‘write and not thinking about the divorce’ vacation. Sorry I didn’t mean to that deep.” 

Frankie’s eyes were sympathetic. “I get it. I’m divorced too.” 

Your eyes were caring in return. He sighed “Took the kid in the middle of the night and I haven’t heard from them since. But I think it’s for the better.” 

“Most of the time it usually is, but it's that mountain of emotions that you have to drill through first.” 

Frankie raised his glass to you. “I’ll drink to that,” He said and you brought your own glass to clink with him. You both took another sip and set your glasses down. 

Benny returned with two red plastic food trays and set them down in front of you. “Two Pope burgers on the house for Frankie and the lovely fella.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes and thanked him. Benny patted his shoulder again and continued making drinks. You grabbed the big burger with all the workings and carefully took a bite. You moaned at the taste. “Damn that’s a great burger.” 

Frankie moaned in agreement. His face was as messy as your spots of ketchup dotting his salt and pepper beard. You chuckled and handed him a napkin. He blushed and took it from you using it to wipe up the mess. 

You swallowed your bit. “Don’t worry. I bet my face doesn’t look much better.” 

“I think your face looks handsome,” Frankie semi blurted and blushed. 

You giggled and took a sip of your beer. “Is that so?” You tease. 

Frankie cleared his throat. “So um how long are you on this writing vacation?” 

“About a week. That should hopefully give me enough time to write what I want. And -now that I have a comfy place to work- I should definitely finish this book on time.” 

“Well you have a table whenever you want,” Frankie blushed. 

You pick up your glass. “I’m definitely taking you up on that offer.” Frankie raises his glass to you, giving it a small clink. You had a feeling that this was the start of something really nice.

-------

Pedro Characters Only Taglist

Dave refused to tell you a thing about this surprise getaway to celebrate your first anniversary together, the only information he offered limited to advice on what to pack. Even in your wildest dreams, you didn’t expect a trip to somewhere so extravagant.

Quaint like Cape Cod, the town was rich with culture and life, an air of money and vibrant excitement wafting through town the moment you stepped out of the airport. Artisanal shops and cafes lined both sides of the cobblestone street, the hired driver pointing out his favorite spots to recommend. Dave nodded in response to the recommendations he agreed with – apparently, he did a lot of preparation for this little getaway.

Your mouth dropped open again when the car pulled up in front of a stately inn, the wrap around porch and beautiful awnings restored to its once historical perfection. “Dave,” you breathed in astonishment as you walked inside, eyes widening at the silver leaf domed ceiling and hand carved wooden grand staircase. “This is too much.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, placing a kiss on the crown of your head after slipping the attendant a tip for taking care of your luggage. “This is exactly enough. Come on.” His handsome face split into a cheeky grin.

A weight had lifted from Dave’s shoulders after he quit the DIA and the contract work. Now, there was a bounce to his step and a brightness to his burnt umber eyes. You smiled lovingly watching him stride to the concierge and followed as Dave led you up the grand staircase to your third-floor suite. Good thing the attendant took care of the luggage for you both – there was no elevator in this historical treasure.

Breath once again stolen from your lungs, you shuffled into the large room, eyes taking in every little detail from the ornate, mahogany four-post bed to the clawfoot tub to the bay windows overlooking the lush landscape below. You could just see the water sparkling in the sunshine in the distance. The room was resplendent in antique furnishings, and, certain you’d never stayed anywhere quite so beautiful, you hesitated to touch anything for fear of breaking something priceless.

Flopping back onto the plush mattress, you giggled when Dave plopped down on his side next to you. Right arm bent to support his head, he stared down at you with those soulful puppy eyes, a smile curving his pouty lips.

“Did I make you happy?” Dave asked, fingertips blazing a gentle path down the side of your face.

“You always make me happy, Dave,” you replied in a soft voice. “But, right now, I’m downright euphoric.”

Chuckling, Dave leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm,” you giggled, pulling his face close for another kiss, this one deeper and sweeter, stoking the fire building inside you. “I think I should show you special thanks for making me delirious with happiness.”

“I like the sound of that,” his voice rumbled from deep within his chest as he pulled you up from the bed. “Let’s test out that tub before dinner.”

Filled with hot water and copious amounts of bubbles, the clawfoot tub was a luxury you wished you could take home with you when this trip ended. More than large enough for two, you could spend all night in there cuddled against Dave’s chest with his arms wrapped around you. Lovely and romantic, it gave honeymoon vibes, and, not for the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be married to Dave, though you dared not mention if for fear of scaring him away. During your time together, you got the sense he didn’t want to get married again, though he never explicitly said so.

Your vivid dreams and imagination pictured lazy afternoons, sketching him and the girls in your book as they played together in the yard, trips to the park and the mall, holidays full of merriment, maybe even a dog. A large, fluffy thing always happy to see you and chase the girls around the yard.

You pictured a house in the mountains, exchanging suits and dress skirts for jeans and hiking boots at the end of the day. Taking long hikes on the weekends. Romantic candlelight dinners on the patio during the weeks the girls were at Carol’s.

There would be the usual responsibilities like work and school and bills and… but you shook that reality away in favor of focusing on the happiness and love of being together, of coming together and changing each other’s lives the way that you did.

It was a pretty picture.

Your fingers itched to draw it.

Your heart longed to live it.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, sweetheart?” Dave questioned after a period of prolonged silence. He always read you so well.

“Hmmm,” you hummed,” just imagining the future.”

His broad body practically engulfed you as his arms tightened. “Tell me,” Dave’s voice purred in your ear, a command you could not deny. So, heart in your throat, you told him all the precious things you imagined while he nuzzled into your neck. When you finished, he peppered kisses across your shoulders. “Is that what you want? A life with me and the girls?”

The moment of truth… and you froze. Dave’s tone gave nothing away. Terrified of rejection, however soft he was with you, you merely hummed noncommittally.

Dave chuckled warmly. “Mmhmm, I get it. We haven’t talked about the future yet and you don’t want to get hurt if I don’t want the same things as you,” he murmured, hot breath in your ear causing a wave of gooseflesh across your skin. He was too good at getting right to the heart of the matter.

“I’ll go first, then. Ok?” he asked, placing a kiss on the tender flesh right beneath your ear. “That is the life I want… with you. Getting married and living somewhere exactly like this, spending our lives together in a quaint town with lots to do and see, watching the girls grow up and flourish. In fact, I can’t think of anything I want more.”

“Really? That’s what you want?” Turning your head, you saw him nod reassuringly. “It’s just… you always made it seem like you didn’t want to get married again.”

A laugh slipped past his lips before he could stop it and your shoulders hunched in dejection. “No, sweetheart…” his arms tightened around you until your skin practically melded together. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

Part of you didn’t believe him, your breath catching in your throat as he tried to explain himself.

“My life was so different before I met you, sweetheart. I didn’t think finding love again was possible, not the way that I lost myself in the darkness of the contract work. Carol and I had been together so long, it was comfortable, but not romantic, not like it used to be. I thought I’d never have that again, so I put it from my mind.”

Dave’s thick fingers grazed across your skin as he spoke.

“I fell for you fast and hard, and if I’m being honest, it scared me a little. I couldn’t bring you into my life the way it was – it would have been unfair to you. It was already unfair to Carol and the girls… I couldn’t tell her everything, that’s part of why Carol wanted a divorce. I found myself wanting to tell you everything, to be a better man for you and the girls.”

“Dave—” He cut you off to continue his train of thought.

“Without realizing it, you gave me a reason to quit that life and all the things that made me unhappy,” he said, strong arms turned you to face him. His dark eyes glistened in the low light of the bathroom. “The past year has been amazing and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you how seriously I take what we have. I do want to get married again… to you. And only to you. When you’re ready.”

Tears leaked from your eyes, mixing with the tiny droplets of water still falling from your wet hair. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m glad we want the same things,” you said, voice rough from fighting back the tears for so long.

“Me, too. I love you, sweetheart.” Dave kissed you deeply then, teasing his tongue into your mouth. When he finally pulled back, he added, “I have another surprise to show you after dinner. After this conversation, I’m certain you’ll love it.”

“Just how many surprises have you been hiding from me?” you questioned with a grin.

“Just this last one, I promise.”

“I love you, Dave York.”

Dinner consisted of exquisite, tapas-style portions of tuna tartare, pan-seared scallops, mini beef wellingtons, and a few other delicacies cooked to perfection. Savory flavors burst across your palette with each bite. You didn’t want the culinary experience to end, especially when dessert included the most decadent chocolate mousse concoction that nearly had you orgasming at the table.

Appetites sated and senses dulled by a heady wine buzz, Dave escorted you down the sidewalk along the main street, your hands clasped with fingers entwined. The evening air was warm and dry without being oppressive, a gentle breeze tickling your skin and rustling your hair as you walked.

“I love you,” you blurted happily, feelings for this amazing man suddenly overwhelming, especially after your confessions earlier and the romantic dinner you just shared. His grip tightened around your hand as his lips curled up into a smile. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

Could this evening get any better? Could this life you were building together get any better? You didn’t think so.

Dave slowed to a stop in front of an empty store front. “Here we are.”

Confused, you glanced around, searching for evidence of the surprise he told you about. All you saw were dark, empty windows and a tinted glass door giving nothing away. Seeing your bewildered expression, Dave stepped back towards the cobblestone street, pulling you with him, and pointed upward.

An artful marquee sparkled brightly above you, finally cluing you in to what he wanted you to see. “Whisked Away Art Gallery,” you read aloud in a shaky voice, “very whimsical.” After a moment, you turned to Dave with wide, wondrous eyes. “What is this?”

His resulting grin and excited, warm eyes melted your heart. “This is your art gallery, sweetheart.”

You gulped. Did you hear that right? Surely not. “Mine?” you questioned. “What do you mean my art gallery?”

Smile never dropping, Dave motioned you to follow him as he unlocked the door and led you inside, one hand reaching out to flick the lights on.

“I bought it, for you. It’s yours, baby. You can display your work and that of any other artists you chose. It’s time you shared your work with the world. It’s too good to keep hidden in that sketchbook of yours.”

His words washed over you without absorbing into your bewildered brain. Too fixated on staring around the large, empty space with your mouth open, imagination running wild as you envisioned various pieces artfully displayed on the walls. Shaking your head, you asked him to repeat what he said. You couldn’t believe it.

“But… how? I mean, it must have cost a fortune in a town like this. And how am I meant to—”

Pressing a thick finger to your lips, Dave cut off your impending spiral. “Remember that future we talked about earlier? This is the next step in building the life we want. You fell in love with this town as quickly and deeply as you fell in love with me. That’s gotta be a sign, right? This town was meant for us.”

You melted against his chest. How did he always know exactly what to say to you?

“You want to live here in Secret Springs? Together?” You spoke into Dave’s neck, lips grazing the skin.

“I know we haven’t talked about officially moving in together, but we’re always together at your place or mine. I thought maybe it’s time to take the next step,” he explained. A moment later, he hesitantly added, “Would you like that?”

You leant back, placing your hands on either side of Dave’s face, and stared directly into his beautiful brown eyes. “I would love that. A life with you is all I want.” You kissed him, letting your lips convey the depth of your feelings, your happiness instead of your words.

The world around you disappeared as Dave gave in fully to the kiss, the coil inside your core tightening with each playful stroke of his tongue against yours. At the first moan that slipped past your lips into Dave’s mouth, he pulled back, eyes full of lust and breathing heavily.

“Let’s get back to the inn, sweetheart. I have an idea on how we can celebrate taking the next step in our relationship.” Without waiting for a response, Dave grabbed your hand and practically dragged you out of the gallery, stopping only long enough to lock the door behind him.

The inn wasn’t far, conveniently located in the heart of the small town, but the journey back still took too long for your liking. Your need for Dave nearly overwhelmed you when he tugged you through the front door of the inn and up the three flights of stairs, all the while ignoring greetings from the staff and other guests. He was a man on a mission.

The door to the suite barely clicked shut before Dave pounced. He left a trail of searing, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and along the bare skin of your shoulders, slipping the thin straps of your dress down your arms. Dexterous fingers pulled the zipper down as his mouth blazed a trail of kisses right behind the falling fabric.

Dave stepped back when you stood before him in nothing but a pair of black, lacy panties. “Damn, baby,” he breathed, dark eyes burning with desire as he drank in the sight of you. Pointing to the large, cushioned ottoman near the antique settee, Dave added, “Face down and ass up on the ottoman, sweetheart.”

Later that night, you laid in bed with your head resting on Dave’s chest, one ear pressed to his skin listening to his heart thump. Having forgotten to close the curtains earlier, moonlight danced across the room from the bay windows. You loved the ethereal glow it left on yours and Dave’s skin.

“Dave?” you asked, lifting your head to rest your chin on his chest. Head resting on a pillow propped against the wooden headboard, he peeked at you with sleepy eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” You felt more than heard his response, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest.

A million questions swirled in your brain from the conversation earlier, but where did you start?

“How were you able to buy the gallery? It had to be expensive in such a hidden gem like Secret Springs.”

With a yawn, Dave ran a hand over his face before smoothing it down your back. “I, uh, made a lot of money doing that contract work. That’s why the boys and I started doing it to begin with – to support ourselves and our families when the military kicked us to the wayside. It turned out to be more lucrative than any of us expected. I made more than enough to make sure the girls are taken care of and build our new life together.”

He paused, giving you the opportunity to ask for specifics if you felt the need, but you didn’t. You knew enough of the man he used to be and the things he thought he had to do to give Carol and the girls a life worth living. He wasn’t proud of the things he had to do to survive, but at least he did them with good intentions.

“Besides, it wasn’t nearly as expensive as you might think. I am a very thorough negotiator.” Dave smirked as you rolled your eyes.

“What about the girls?” you questioned.

“What about them?” he returned with furrowed brows.

“Won’t we be too far from them to keep the visitation the way it is? I don’t want you to miss out on any time with them, not with how fast they’re growing up.”

This was probably your biggest concern. You didn’t want Dave to regret any moves he made with you if they impacted his relationship with his girls. A truly devoted father, he loved Alice and Molly to pieces, and you refused to be an impediment to that.

Silence filled the air like static and you panicked for a moment. Was this the moment he realized being with you, starting a new life would cost him too much in terms of time with his girls?

Dave shifted down the bed until your bodies curled together from head to toe and his dark eyes stared into your worried gaze.

“Stop worrying, sweetheart,” he said, his deep voice gentle and smooth. “It will all work out, I promise. Carol was offered a promotion with a relocation; her new office will be in the next town over. Believe it or not, she’s the one who told me about this place and set all this in motion.”

You beamed at him. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it?” You couldn’t help the ‘what if’ thought of what would have happened if you weren’t both ready to move into together? Would you have tried long distance?

Looking at you with a gooey warmth in his eyes, Dave kissed your lips. “I know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. Stop worrying. Everything is working out just as it is meant to. Don’t waste energy thinking about the what ifs. Besides, if things didn’t work out like this, I would have figured out another way to have you with me wherever life took me.”

Tears sprang to your eyes unbidden. You couldn’t help it. Strong feelings always made you cry, and you felt such overwhelming love for Dave in that moment, fighting back the tears would have been a complete waste of time.

“Baby,” Dave cooed, pulling you impossibly closer, worried about your tears.

“They’re happy tears, I promise,” you blubbered, the tears only coming faster as you added, “I’m just so in love with you.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m so in love with you, too. It would really suck if I was in this on my own,” he teased, one hand cradling your as he pressed his lips to yours in a watery kiss.

“Are we really going to live in this amazing town?” you asked a little while later after the overwhelming emotions settled.

“As soon as we find the perfect house. Speaking of, I talked to a realtor, and we have a few lined up to see the day after tomorrow.”

How was this your life?

Exhaustion finally took over and you dreamt of finding the perfect house and building a life in this beautiful paradise.