Page 96 of Big Stick Energy
I look up at him, and those clear gray eyes gobsmack me like always. “Apparently, I have a trust fund. I’m… a trust fund baby.”
He gives me a worried smile. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head.
“Remind me—how old were you when your father left?”
“Thirteen. My mother said she’d never take a dime from him.”
“Okay, but…” Eric holds out a plate. “First of all, I snuck into the cocktail hour and got appetizers. I was channeling you. So have a couple of mini potato skins with bacon and chives.”
“Ooh!” I say automatically, reaching for one.
“… So, you’re thirteen, and your mother decides to go it alone, right? But maybe your dad still understood his obligation. I mean—I’m not the guy’s number one fan.” He glances toward my father, who’s grinning for the photo. “But you were achild, Darcy. He wasn’t about to cut you off like Oliver Twist.”
“I guess.” I think back to that awful time and my mother’s rage. Money wasn’t the first thing on my mind.
“Did she let you choose?” he asks gently. “Did your mom let youdecideif you wanted your dad’s help?”
“Sort of? It felt like my choice at the time. I guess.” But I wasthirteen. I thought UGG boots were hip, and Justin Bieber was cute.
He offers me the plate again. “Your dad behaved like a selfish asshole. There’s no denying it. And he has a pathological need to avoid conflict. But he’s still looking out for you in his own weird way.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “He also told me that my Diamond membership is all his doing. But that I shouldn’t tell anyone, because he’s not supposed to set me up for a lifestyle of free grapes and cheese in my hotel rooms.”
“I had a feeling,” he says, munching a mini potato skin.
“I’m so confused,” I admit. “I don’t know what to think. But at least I now know I can afford these shoes.” I kick one heel into the air. “They were a splurge.”
Eric looks admiringly at my legs. “I hope they’re comfortable enough to dance in. I think you owe it to your date.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 35
We Said a Weekend Fling
Eric
The reception is held in a ballroom with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean, and the whole thing feels like something out of a movie. We’re seated at a table with some of Theo’s college friends, who are hilarious company. The food is incredible—lobster bisque, beef tenderloin, and a rosé sherbet that Darcy and I probably shouldn’t share as suggestively as we do.
The champagne flows freely, and by the time the dancing starts, we’re both loose and laughing. But there’s something wrong with my watch, because the night slips by much too quickly. Before I know it, the cake is cut, the bride and groom have departed in their limo, and the emcee announces the last dance.
The band shifts to “The Way You Look Tonight,” and I pull Darcy close again. The champagne has made her cheeks flushed and her laugh even more infectious, but now she’s quiet in my arms, swaying gently as the singer croons about foolish hearts and lovely faces. The ballroom has dimmed, and most of the older guests have filtered out, leaving just the die-hard dancers and us. Ican feel the warmth of her skin through the silk of her dress, smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the ocean breeze drifting through the open terrace doors.
I lean down and kiss her, soft and slow, tasting champagne and wedding cake and something that’s purely Darcy. When we break apart, she’s looking up at me with those turquoise eyes that have been driving me crazy all weekend, and I know I should say something. Ask her about dinner next week, maybe a real date where we don’t have to pretend. Tell her I don’t want this to end when we get back to the city.
The words are right there, forming in my head like a reasonable adult conversation. But then she shifts against me, her body soft and warm and perfect, and instead I hear myself whispering, “I want to take you upstairs.”
And it’s like a repeat of our first time, but without the thunderstorm. We barely make it into the room before the clothes start flying off.
Here I’m on solid ground. It’s only been a few days, but I already know what makes her tick. I know the little gasp she makes when I trace the freckles on her shoulders and how she gets bossy when she wants something—tugging my hands exactly where she needs them, directing me with soft commands that make my pulse race.
I know she feels like silk and moves like she was made specifically to drive me out of my mind.
This time, I force myself to slow down. Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s the way she looks at me in the moonlight streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows, but everything feels heightened. More real. When she whispers my name against my throat, it sounds less like performance and more like prayer.
“Come here,” I say needlessly, as we strain against each other. “I’m going to give it to you so good.”
