"Like a festival?" I try to make sense of the words he says as I look at the lights, the strange beauty unfolding before me.
"It's electric, Liana." His voice softens, almost gentle. "The experience of the desert at night."
Then he gestures for me to follow. As we walk, the path opens up to reveal the Desert Gardens transformed. Thousands of luminarias line the walkways, cacti glow with strings of lights, and massive art installations pulse with color against the night sky. It’s enchanting.
"I never knew the desert could be so beautiful," I whisper, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
"Neither did I," Frankie says, and when I look at him, he's not watching the lights…he's watching me. Something unspoken burns in his eyes, making a shiver race up my spine.
I blush and turn away, suddenly shy under his gaze, which is ironic considering I just stood naked in front of him not even an hour ago. For the next hour, we wander the paths andhe watches as I explore everything. We don't talk much but every now and then, his hand brushes mine, an accident that doesn't feel accidental at all. Each touch sends electricity up my arm and straight to my core. I wonder if he feels it too…this dangerous pull between us? I wonder what would happen if I gave in to it completely? If we both did?
Chapter Eleven
Liana
Frankie and I have wandered deeper into the gardens, away from the main paths where families and their sticky-fingered kids cluster around the big, flashy displays. Here, it’s quiet…intimate even. Just me and him in a desert that’s somehow more alive at night. I never thought it could be this beautiful.
“It’s so different at night,” I murmur, dragging my fingers along a string of tiny blue lights. “Almost magical.”
Frankie makes a sound in his throat that might be agreement, but doesn’t speak. He’s been off and on all evening. It’s like he’s here, but he’s not really present. I can see him watching me with those unreadable eyes every time he thinks I’m not looking but the second I catch him, he looks away with his jaw clenched tight.
We turn a corner and I’m hit with a wall of white. There’s a small garden area, glowing under spotlights. At the center are these tall plants with trumpet-shaped flowers, white as bone with their petals flaring out like stars against the night.The flowers look almost radioactive in the moonlight. They are so perfect looking I want to touch them just to see if they’re real. As I continue to stare at them, something clicks in my brain.
“Hey, isn’t this just like your tattoo?” I point to the white flower inked on his neck…the one I’ve been sneaking glances at all night.
His hand flies up to his neck and I watch as his fingers brush over the tattoo like he’s trying to hide it. His eyes meet mine for a second before he looks away.
“Could be,” he says with a shrug, already moving past like it’s nothing.
He’s acting so nonchalant, like I haven’t just found something important. I frown, watching his back as he moves past me.
‘Liar.’
I know it as sure as I know my own name. That flower matters to him. It means something. I lean over to read the little sign at the edge of the display and the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
Sacred Datura (Datura wrightii).
Datura. That’s what he called me that day in his office, when I walked in on him touching himself. Little Datura. He’d said it as if it was something appalling or at least that’s how it sounded to me. Did I misunderstand him? Because he keeps calling me that nickname and now I’m more confused than ever.
My heart starts pounding as I straighten up, eyes glued to Frankie’s back. He’s stopped a few yards ahead, pretending to check out another plant, but his shoulders are tense. He’s waiting to see if I’ll ask more questions.
I walk toward him with my mind racing. What does it mean that he has this flower tattooed on his skin? What does it mean that he calls me by its name?
“Frankie,” I say when I reach him, my voice coming out more even than I expect. “What does datura mean in your language?”
He doesn’t look at me.
“It’s just a flower.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes widen at my small outburst and satisfaction pulses through me.
“You called me that. Little Datura. Why?”
His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he’ll stonewall me like he normally does. I’m fully prepared for him to go silent, but instead, he turns, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks me flat. There’s heat there, yeah, but also something darker. Something dangerous…
“In Italy it means a poison. Is that what you think of me?” I press.
