I nod, suddenly at a loss for words. My dress feels impossibly tight, as if my lungs have forgotten how to process oxygen. My hand travels to my hair, where the bobby pins are digging into my scalp. Unfortunately, Mami did too good a job fastening my unruly curls, so that try as I may, I can’t reach the pins hidden in the back of my head. Watching me struggle, Eli steps closer.
“Let me,” he says, reaching for my waist, slowly turning me around with both hands. I close my eyes, a drumline exploding in my chest. He reaches for my updo, carefully pulling pins out of my hair. The release is instant, causing a soft moan to spill out of me.
“That feels so good.” I exhale as the tendrils come loose over my shoulders, and a strange combination of relief and yearning flushes through my body. His fingertips dig into my hair, sending my long curls cascading down my back.
“Much better,” he whispers into my ear. His warm breath turns my skin to gooseflesh, melting what little resolve I have left. I can’t help but dissolve into him, relaxing my back against his chest. His hands settle over my hips, holding me in place.
“Where to?” he asks, his face angling down so that his lips are brushing my temple. I tilt my head upward, pressing my nose against his neck. His scent is so deliciously warm and honeyed that I can almost feel it trickling under my dress, sticking to my skin like dew.
This is a terrible idea.I know it, but I can’t seem to get out of my own way. At this exact moment, I should push hard on the brakes. I should shift to reverse and add a few feet of distance between us before these runaway feelings collide into one fiery crash.
This gorgeous man seems full of secrets he’s not willing to share. And the few breadcrumbs he’s scattered have only made me more ravenous. What exactly is he serving me here and now?
“Wherever,” I say, biting my lower lip.
He gazes down at me, then moves one of my curls behind my ear, grazing my cheek in the process. With his free hand, he skims my fingers, tentatively taking me by the hand. I let him hold on, too overcome by the sensation of his touch, of his skin on mine.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, leading me down a dimly lit path to the golf course. We amble toward a pond, deserted this late into the night, stumbling upon a magnificent maple tree that’s set on a hill overlooking the party. Eli takes off his jacket and spreads it across the ground, gesturing for me to sit on it. I oblige, and he takes a seat beside me, then digs into the box of cake. We indulge in the silence for a while, gazing at the fireflies, breathing in the scent of gardenias in full bloom, passing the cake between us.
“The entire time we were down there”—he nods toward the lights of the tent in the distance—“I kept thinking of all the things I would do with that kind of money, you know?” The faint sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” reach us. Eli turns to me, his eyes bright and expectant. “Instead of blowing it all in one party, one night.” He glances down at his feet. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and is sinking his toes into the grass. I follow his lead. It feels good to toss aside my heels, press my soles into the ground.
“What would you do?” I ask, curious. I had the same thought at various points in the evening, and my answer to the question came easily: I would give the money to the Castillos, to save their home.
Eli sets the empty cake box on the ground beside him and wipes his fingers with a napkin. “Help a person out,” he finally answers. “I know what it’s like to be in a bind. I’d love—just once—to give somebody a chance that they couldn’t afford otherwise.” He turns to face me. “I reckon that would feel pretty darn good.” He tosses me a sly, crooked grin.
I smile back, unsure what to make of this heartfelt revelation, of the genuine kindness in his voice. He sits back, hands resting on the grass, lost in his thoughts. I wonder if he’s talking about himself. His life. His chances.
“My dad used to say, you have to make your own luck in the world,” I tell him. “?‘Take what you want, Luisa,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t wait for things to come your way, because you may be waiting forever.’?” I can almost hear the echo of Papi’s voice, the beautiful cadence of his Puerto Rican Spanish. I haven’t spoken about him in a long time. Mami’s expression would sour every time Carolaand I mentioned his name, so at some point, we stopped. “Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if he was wrong.” I hear myself continuing, “Maybe even the strongest people need someone to rely on. And maybe it’s okay to ask for help.”
“What does your father think about all this?” Eli asks, gesturing toward the tent. “Everything that’s happened to you? The risks you’re taking to help a family you barely know?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” I say truthfully. “He left us when I was fifteen. We shared the father-daughter dance at my quinceañera, and a week later a drunk driver pushed him off the road, wrapped his car around a tree. He died instantly.” I leave out the rest of the story—about Papi’s second family, how we discovered his betrayal at his funeral. Telling Eli about his death is enough for this moment.
Eli stares at me, mouth slightly parted. His expression is serious, warm even, instead of the pity that usually follows that pronouncement. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to ease the pain or smooth over the scars. I’m deeply grateful for his silence. Instead, he takes my hand in his and runs slow circles over my palm, sending soothing waves of energy up my arm, into my chest. I melt inside. My heart softens more with every circle, until I’m leaning into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin through his cotton shirt, the woodsy notes of the cologne I picked out for him, weaved with a bouquet of freshly cut grass and a Georgia summer breeze.
I glance up to find those deep gray eyes staring at me—into me—like I’ve seen him do every time I walk into a room. There’s no Tripp in these eyes, they are pure Eli—Eli searching for me; Eli finding me.
I know I shouldn’t let him in. I know at this exact moment I should build a wall, protect myself, my heart. After all, we purposely sought him out because of his ability to deceive. Is he pretending to be caring and kind just to get what he wants out of me? Whatever that may be?
His open palm brushes my cheek, and I close my eyes, captive to the sensation of his soft touch on my face. And in an instant, reason loses out to all physical sensation.
Unable to hold back—or maybe unwilling to fight—I surrender.
His fingers gently slide down my jawline, then he tenderly cradles my neck. I rest my head into his hand, succumbing to his touch. My lips part, and I offer one hesitant kiss, then another, full and feverish. Eli wraps his free arm around my waist, tugging me toward him. I curl into him, letting my legs drape across his, aching for his hands to travel under the skirt of my dress. Aching for the raw sensation of our bare skin touching. His hand wraps around my hip and he pulls me closer, as I cling to his chest. I run my open palms past his shoulders, then grasp the back of his neck, sinking my fingers deep into his hair. I’m out of breath and so desperate for more. Now that I’ve had a taste of him, there is no satisfaction to be had.
Into the silence and the echo of another jazz song, a ringtone cuts through the darkness around us. Eli freezes in my arms. His shoulders sink and his head drops into my chest, as a heavy exhale escapes his lungs.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, gently guiding me back onto the solid ground next to him before he takes out his phone. “My sister is home alone. I should get this.”
As he stands, I glimpse the screen of his phone—a photo of Virginia, blowing an air-kiss.
Maybe tonight was just another deception after all.
CHAPTER 22Holly
Eli’s official introduction to Griggs at the wedding couldn’t have gone any better. This morning, our Tripp begins dismantling the evil machine that Griggs and his cronies built. And for the first time since this whole thing began, I’m feeling confident, optimistic, and, frankly, quite fabulous.
Maybe it’s because I know we’ve done absolutely everything we can to prepare Eli, or maybe it’s because tomorrow I’m going on my very first date with a sexy British professor. I can almost see Hugh sauntering into the Switchyards in that buttery leather jacket; I can practically feel the ice-cold martini in my hand and hear the jazz wafting around us as we speak in hushed whispers. But first, I have a golf foursome to stalk.
