Today, her hair is wrangled into two braids that start at her scalp and continue down to rest on her shoulders. They’re thick and intricate, little flower clips scattered throughout the style, and I reach a hand out to trail a finger over the weaving.
She’s wearing a floral Dior dress I can only imagine Dane got for her on their date. Of course he took her shopping—the man is such a fucking cock about his credit card.
The dress looks damn good on her though, so I can’t give him that much shit about it.
As much as I want to take it off her right now, fuck her on the jet, I don’t. I have better plans for her, later.
We land on the island—not the one we use for the retreat. This one is mine alone, one I fly out to when I need time to think. Space to recoup from my normal hard-and-fast life.
It’s where I was when Lucy first arrived at Ember. When the idea of individual dates came up, I knew this is where I’d want to take her.
Lacing my fingers through hers, I guide her down the dock and into the bungalow.
“It’s beautiful, Nico,” she says, and I keep tugging her along.
Itisbeautiful—I hired the best architect in the world to design the house, which hangs off the side of a cliff, the waterfall beside it concealing the front porch from view, glass protecting the deck furniture.
But it’s not what we’re here for. The sun is already setting, so I take her right down to the boat, which is already stocked and ready for our date. Lucy relaxes, the warm wind blowing through her hair, as we take off from the dock and head out into the water.
This is a smaller boat—not a yacht, technically—though still plenty big enough for the two of us. I steer us out into the ocean until the island is no longer visible behind us. Lucy chats to me, takes a crack at steering, wanders around the deck until I’m itching to forget the quest and go to her.
But I follow through, steering us far enough from the island that even the small solar lights dotted along the path won’t bother us out here.
Lucy shivers as I fire up the grill and start laying meats, cheeses, and tortillas across it.
“It’s so… spooky,” she says, her eyes wide and dark now that the sun has gone down. While my eyes are a darker blue, hers are usually lighter, a periwinkle. In this light, hers look more like mine.
I laugh at that description of the ocean. Something most people would describe as intimidating, forceful, divine. Ancient, immeasurable. Even eerie.
But not spooky, like how you might describe one of those cheap haunted houses they used to put on in the city, to raise money around Halloween.
“What?” Lucy laughs, nudging me with her foot. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, because I don’t want her to mistake my teasing for criticism. I don’t want her to change. “Here, try this.”
I’ve scooped all the grilled meats and cheeses into a stone bowl, then topped them with some cotija, guacamole, and pico de gallo from the cooler. I settle the bowl between us, the tortillas stacked to the side.
“What is it?” she asks, head tilted, curious but not cautious.
“It’s my version of a Molcajete. That’s grilled cactus, along the sides. I had it like this at a Mexican restaurant in Houston, once.” I wait for her reaction.
It’s a good one. She scoops up a dollop of the melting cheese, shreds off some of the beef, plops it onto a tortilla and bites into it. The sound that comes out of her ripples through my body, pure and simple. Wanting.
I love watching her eat the food I make.
“Why didn’t you become a chef?” she mumbles, through another bite, her eyes flying up to mine. I take my time putting together my own bite, not knowing how to answer.
Shrugging one shoulder, I say, “When we stopped getting checks from my biological father, money was all I cared about. Once I had it, it didn’t make sense to pursue that career. I like cooking, but I’m not sure I would like being a restaurateur. Or a chef.”
Lucy nods, like that makes sense to her, and the peace that surrounds us is like sinking into warm, still water.
While she finishes up her food, I find a blanket and lay it out over the couches on the deck, preparing for the part of the night that I’ve been most excited about. Pushing the ottomans in, I turn the couches into something more like a bed, one continuous surface.
“What’s all this?” Lucy asks, migrating over to me. I take her hand and tug her down onto it with me. When we’re on our backs, she gasps.
The stars above us are galactic. Nothing like the pin pricks you pick out everywhere else. I’m sure that even Lancaster doesn’t have stars like this. It’s too close to St. Louis, to Des Moines and Kansas City. Light pollution is a real thing.
But out here, drifting in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, we’re far enough from the nearest urban areas that we can drink in the cosmic soup, let our gazes trail over the twisting, helix light reality of the space above us.
