Reckless (39 page)

“How are you?” I ask.

“Good.” She yanks the cream-colored scarf from her neck and unbuttons her coat before stepping out of snowy boots. “Busy. But good. One more semester of grad school. Thank God. And then football season should be over in the next month or so. I’m ready for summer already. How have you been?”

She hooks her arm into mine and we walk in tandem down the hall, taking our time and tuning out the hustle and bustle coming from the kitchen.

“Everything’s great,” I say. “Royal’s finishing up his pre-law degree and trying to decide where to go for law school. We might stick around. We might not.” I shrug. “We’ll see which direction the wind blows us, although I kind of like not knowing what’s going to happen next.”

Delilah rolls her eyes and bats her hand. “Give me a break. I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen next. You two are going to stick around Rixton Falls, get married, have a couple kids, and live happily ever after. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.”

I bump into her with my shoulder, my heart feeling ridiculously full at the thought of spending a lifetime with the man I never stopped loving.

“Aunt Delilah!” Haven runs into my sister’s arms, and she scoops her up. “I’ve missed you so, so much. Have you missed me?”

“Of course I have.” Delilah gives her a peck on the cheek. “You’re my favorite niece in the whole, entire world.”

“Who’s that man in the kitchen with Mimi?”

“That’s my boyfriend,” Delilah states proudly. “His name is Zane.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Haven seems shocked by this, though I’m not even sure she understands what a boyfriend is. “I don’t like boys.”

“Good,” Derek says from across the room.

Haven wraps her arms tightly around Delilah’s neck and then slides down. “Guess what?”

“What?” Delilah asks.

“Santa came here last night when we were all sleeping.” She swings her hips back and forth. “
And
he brought presents!”

“That’s amazing, Haven,” Delilah glances toward the living room. “Want to show me?”

They run off together, and I gaze toward the kitchen island where Mom’s already putting Zane to work. His sweater sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he’s wearing one of her home-sewn aprons. At least it’s the lobster one and not the granny flowers.

I chuckle to myself, hoping Delilah comes back in time to see what Mom’s done with her boyfriend.

“How’re you doing?” I place my hand on Daphne’s back, taking the spot beside her at the far end of the table. She seems almost despondent today.

To my right, Dad, Derek, and Royal are deep in some heated debate about some legal case the practice has recently taken on, paying us no mind.

Daphne rests her elbows on the table, placing her chin against the top of her folded hands as she stares out the window toward our backyard. She focuses on the old treehouse, and I still can’t believe my parents haven’t torn it down. Mom says it has too many good memories attached to it, but I think Dad’s too cheap to hire someone to get rid of it.

“I don’t know.” Daphne sighs, her shoulders slumping. “It’s nice seeing everyone so . . . happy, but . . .”

“But what?”

Her lips form a pained smile, and she blinks slowly. “The holidays are kind of lonely when you don’t have anyone, you know?”

“What are you talking about? You have us? You have an entire house full of people to spend time with.”

“No, not like that,” she says.

I tilt my head to the side, studying her angled features and the way the corners of her mouth seem to droop just a little, like they’re stuck that way. She always used to be so happy, so full of light and life. Ever since she came back from Paris last May, she’s been a different person.

“I just want what you guys have.” Daphne turns to me. “You and Royal. Delilah and Zane. Derek and Serena.”

“Aw.” I slip my arm around her shoulders, leaning in closer. “Sweets, it’ll happen for you. You’ll meet someone amazing when you least expect it.”

“That’s what I thought when I met Weston.” She offers a bittersweet smile. “I was convinced we had something going there for a while.”

“But you broke up with him,” I gently remind her.

“I had no choice,” she says. “He was still in love with his ex. And I’m not mad at him for it. The man couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to be in love with her anymore, but she was his first love, and they were together a long time, and moving on wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. I couldn’t compete with that. I shouldn’t have to convince anybody to fall out of love with someone else in order to fall in love with me.”

“You’re exactly right.” I rub circles into her back.

“If I hadn’t have called it off, he’d probably be here right now,” she says with a sigh. “And I guarantee you he’d be thinking about her the whole time.”

I press my forehead against her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you realize, Daph. There aren’t a lot of people who would’ve had the courage to call it quits. Most people would’ve stuck around, waiting for things to get better, convinced all it’ll take is a little more time.”

She pulls herself away, sitting up straight. “Yeah, well, there are only so many times a girl can catch the guy she’s dating checking his ex’s Facebook page. It was sad the first time. The third time, I was a little taken aback. But the twentieth time? That’s when I knew this wasn’t going to get better with time.”

“I’m baaaaack.” Serena flounces through the garage entry, plastic bags in hand. “That place was an absolute zoo. They should really consider offering valet parking, especially on holidays.”

She places the bags on a small cleared section of the island. Mom unloads the items, giving Serena a tight hug and thanking her before introducing her to Zane. Serena makes small talk with the brawny football player who completely dwarfs her, and Derek watches closely. Not that he’s jealous, but whenever she’s around, no matter what she’s doing, he can never seem to stop staring at her.

“Okay, rolls are in the oven along with the breakfast casserole,” Mom announces a few minutes later. Zane rinses his hands in the sink and unties his apron. “Should we all head to the living room for presents?”

One by one, we shuffle into the next room, the sofa cushions and chairs quickly becoming occupied. I take a seat on Royal’s lap, and he slips his arms around my waist as we watch Haven grabbing presents and shaking them.

“You want to be the official present passer-outter?” Mom asks Haven.

“Yes, yes, yes!” My niece jumps up and down, her tiny fists clenched in excitement as her flaxen hair falls in her eyes and the frilly hem of her nightgown sways around her knees.

For the next hour, we rip into our presents, spreading good cheer in the form of silver tinsel, reindeer and snowman wrapping paper, and shiny, red and gold bows, effectively destroying the living room until someone has the good sense to grab a trash bag from the kitchen.

Royal received a new Xbox game from Derek, and Delilah got me a sweater from this boutique in Chicago that I love. And just as I predicted, Haven went bananas over the life-size, talking Elsa doll we got her. For the rest of the morning, she wanted nothing to do with any of her other gifts, dragging her new pal by the hand, going from room to room. By two o’clock, we were all sleep, hanging around various parts of the house with full bellies and drooping eyelids. Haven and Elsa crashed on the floor in the dining room, and Derek had to carry them both upstairs.

Downstairs, Zane and Royal were talking all things football. I had to try not to laugh when I saw that twinkle in Royal’s eyes. He was trying so hard not to act like a crazy fan-boy, but I saw clear through him.

Forget anything I could’ve possibly given him for Christmas. Being able to hang out with one of his football idols trumps everything. I’m not sure I’ve seen this man smile so much in my life.

When I finally find the energy, I head to the kitchen to help with clean up, but by the time I get there, Delilah and Daphne are already hard at work, and all that’s left to do is shove some mashed potatoes into some Tupperware and call it good.

At the table, Mom is teaching Serena how to play Gin Rummy.

“You guys want to watch a movie?” Daphne’s question is directed at Delilah and me. She tries to smile, but her baby blues still hold a wistful gleam. In the chaotic craziness of this morning, I forgot how much she was struggling. “I could use some sister time.”

“Of course,” Delilah says. “Anything you want. You pick.”

“High School Musical?” Daphne scrunches her shoulders to her ears, and Delilah groans.

“I knew you were going to say that.” Delilah gives Daphne a playful slug on the arm. “But fine. I’ll watch it. Just for you.”

We head upstairs to my room, offering an invite to Mom and Serena who politely decline, and within minutes, we’re piled on my bed watching the opening credits of the one movie Daphne was once uncharacteristically obsessed with.

She smiles a genuine smile for the first time all day, quietly singing along to the opening number, never having forgotten the words. And then Delilah sings along. Then me. And pretty soon, we’re singing at the top of our lungs, dancing on my bed like a bunch of little girls. When the song ends, we collapse, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and settle in to watch the rest of the movie.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, and I don’t particularly want to know. The only thing I’m one-hundred percent sure about, is that no matter what, everything’s always going to be okay.

C
hapter
One

D
aphne

I
’m pretty
sure wine is the only thing that going to save me today.

Or one of those tiny bottles of vodka they give you on the plane.

And at this point, I’m willing to save a little time and drink it straight; no mixer, no chaser.

Checking my watch, I mentally calculate that I’ll be on my flight in less than an hour, biting my nails until we take off and the in-flight beverage service comes by.

Shoulder to shoulder with grouchy holiday travelers on New Year’s Eve in a small, southern California airport isn’t ideal, but my twin sister, Delilah, called me this morning, frantic and telling me the doctor thinks she’s going to go into labor any day now despite the fact that she’s not due for two more weeks. She was spouting off a bunch of things about centimeters and contractions all the while sounding like a crazy person. I tuned out the part where she discussed the current state of her cervix in great detail and tuned back in just in time to hear the panic in her voice when she realized there was a good chance I might not make it home in time.

“
I’ll be there
,” I promised her at the time. “
No matter what. I’ll move heaven and earth. I won’t miss it. Don’t worry. Just keep your legs squeezed together really, really tight
.”

She laughed at the time, but I still heard the worry in her voice. Our oldest sister, Demi, will be there, and obviously Delilah’s husband, Zane, but being twins, we’ve always done everything together. We’re impossibly close. And it would
break my heart
not to be there.

Glancing around the crowded airport, I scan the length of the line behind me. At least eight people wait ahead, and the woman currently congesting this process seems to have her shit strewn out on the tile floor, rearranging items and shoving her giant hair dryer and moving several hardcover Stephen King books from her checked bag to her carry-on.

Sighing in commiseration with my fellow travelers, I watch as she zips her bag and hoists it back onto the scale. The face of the Jet Stream airways attendant says it all, and the woman begrudgingly yanks her bag away and attempts to reconfigure her baggage situation once more.

It’s safe to say we’re going to be here a while.

Out of pure boredom, I take another gander at the folks in line behind me. It appears I’m in the company of predominantly baby boomers and parents with young children who aren’t having any part of this travel stuff. I’m guessing all the people my age are wisely out living it up, ringing in the new year with cheap champagne and bad decisions.

God, I was hoping I’d get a chance to make a bad decision tonight.

Guess there’s always next year . . .

Two years ago, I rang in the new year in Paris with my Parisian lover who turned out to be a royal scumbag.

Last year, I rang in the new year at home, with my family, quietly nursing a recent break up with a professional football player named Weston. He was still madly in love with his ex but kept his feet planted in denial until I finally showed him the writing on the wall. And that was the end of something that could’ve been pretty freaking amazing.

A job interview at a small, private fine arts college landed me here this week, and I was planning to meet up with some old college friends in Vegas tonight, but Delilah’s cervix thinned, or whatever, and now here I am.

I’m seconds from facing forward again to reassess the state of this slow moving line, when my eye catches a tall man, approximately my age, with messy dark hair and a laser sharp stare pointed directly at me.

My heart skips for a second, and I face the front of the line. I’m not sure it’s possible to physically feel someone staring at me, but my entire backside is tingling and warm. Not the front. Just the back. My ass, if I want to get specific.

I’m half flattered, half annoyed, and one-hundred percent determined to ignore his shameless behavior when all of a sudden a loud chime plays above the chatter and drone of anxious travelers.

“Attention passengers,” a muffled, muddled voice comes over the intercom at Seaview International Airport. “Flight 802 with nonstop service from Seaview to Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. has been canceled. Please report to your nearest Red Jet Airways desk for further information.”

I lift a brow, release a breath. and silently sympathize for the hundred-plus passengers whose hopes of ringing in the new year in another part of the country have suddenly been dashed.

The line moves ahead, and I grip the handle of my wheel-y bag and move ahead an entire eighteen inches.

Yay, progress.

A man in front of me wears a frown as he checks his phone.

“They’re saying almost two feet of snow in some parts,” I hear him tell his wife. “And even more tomorrow.”

His wife covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes holding worry. “I was hoping we’d be able to get back before the storm hit. You think they’ll cancel ours next?”

The man shrugs, dragging his thumb down the screen of his phone as he reads. “Possibly. The storm’s moving north now. Parts of Maryland are without power already. All of Baltimore is covered in a sheet of ice.”

She clasps a palm at her chest, twisting a gold cross necklaces between her fingers, the corners of her mouth pulled down. “Surely they’d have said something by now. Our plane boards in an hour.”

“You’re right, Margaret,” he says, slipping his phone in his pocket and his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We have nothing to worry about. They’d have canceled by now.”

The line moves ahead once more, and I check the time before scanning the area behind me again. Tucking a strand of white-blonde hair behind my ear, I peek from the corner of my eye and accidentally meet
his
gaze again.

The dark-haired guy.

He’s
still
staring at me.

Whipping my attention toward the front of the line, I realize there’s a good three-foot gap between me and the couple ahead. That’s what I get for paying more attention to the Greek Adonis behind me and not watching the line ahead.

Clearing my throat, I pick my ego off the floor and pull my bag ahead. The lady with the overweight bag appears to be long gone, which explains why the line’s finally moving.

Dragging in a long breath, I dig my hand into the front pocket of my jeans to retrieve my ID. I stuck it in there before I got in line because I hate to be that person standing at the desk, dumping out their ridiculously overstuffed purse in search of their license because they failed to prepare for their turn.

I’m a bit of a world traveler. I love to fly. I love to jet-set across oceans and continents, countries and states. I’ve done this dozens of times. Preparation is my middle name.

My heart jolts a little when the tips of my fingers feel nothing but the cotton lining of my pocket. I check the other side, my blood running cold with panic. The line moves again. I’m next. Sitting my purse down, I shove both my hands down the front and then back pockets of my jeans, digging deep and coming up with nothing but lint. I’m sure I look like a crazy person, but I’m dead set on finding my ID.

It’s in here.

I
know
it is.

My mind functions in warp speed, replaying my earlier steps and wondering if there was any possible way I somehow
thought
I put my ID in my pocket but actually forgot. Mentally retracing my steps, I think back to my hotel room. My bag was packed. My purse was lying on a table by the door. I checked out. Hailed a cab . . .

My mind runs blank.

I could’ve sworn I grabbed my ID from my wallet after I paid the cab driver.

Yes
.

I was standing on the sidewalk of the drop off lane.

I
know
I did.

There’s a quick tap on my shoulder and a shadowed presence behind me. My body freezes as I’m startled out of my own thoughts, and I turn to face this person that dares to beckon me at this horribly inopportune moment.

“You dropped this . . .
Daphne
.” The handsome stranger wears a half smirk and flicks my driver’s license between two fingers before handing it over.

“Oh, God.” I swipe it from his grasp. “Thank you.”

“Sorry for staring,” he says, his eyes almost smiling, as if he’s not
truly
sorry. “I wanted to make sure this was you. You should be more careful. This gets in the wrong hands and you never know what could happen.”

My words catch in my throat as my brows meet. I’m appreciative of his good deed but not in the mood for a lecture.

“Next,” the woman behind the desk calls out.

His gaze flicks over my head, and I turn around to see that I’m, in fact, next.

“That’s me,” I say. Turning back, I start to tell him, “Thanks for . . .”

But he’s already returned to his place in line.

I check my baggage, get my boarding pass scanned, and make a mad dash toward security. The waiting area just outside security is packed like sardines in a can, and squeezing myself through the thick crowd proves to be a bit of a challenge, but I make it to the escalator and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the actual security line isn’t half as long as I thought it would be. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with stranded travelers, and I can’t help but feel for them.

I’d hate to be in their shoes.

I’d probably cry.

By the time I make it past the first initial checkpoint, I’m yanking off my shoes and shoving all of my things into a gray bin. Checking my jeans pockets, I’m doubly relieved to feel the hard plastic of my ID in the left front pouch.

As much traveling as I’ve done over the last couple of years, I should be a pro at this. This
so
isn’t me. I’m not this disorganized. I’m not so easily rattled.

“Next,” the security guard calls. We make eye contact and he motions me forward, his front two fingers bent and his lips holding a flat line.

I step forward, let them scan my body, and immediately receive a green light. Glancing back, I watch for my gray bin to come down the conveyor and unintentionally spot the tall, dark, and mysteriously fetching stranger readying to come through. Wearing fitted indigo jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to the curves and muscled bulges that make up his torso, he motions for the guard to step closer, and then he says something. The guard then turns to another and makes some kind of hand signal. A third guard appears from out of nowhere and pulls the stranger aside to begin a pat down.

Weird.

My bin finally comes through, and I grab my purse and leather Oxfords, locating a nearby bench so I can get these things back on. They’re easy to pull off, impossible to put back on. I should’ve known better than to travel in these, but at least I won’t have to take them off again. This is a non-stop, direct flight from Seaview, California to JFK International in New York.

Tugging and pulling, I wriggle my heel into my left shoe and prepare to begin again with the right.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” a man’s voice says from my right.

I glance up.

It’s
him
. Again.

“You don’t have to go through the x-ray machine,” he clarifies. His brows meet when he glances up at it. “It’s invasive. I don’t like it. You can request a pat down.”

I snort. “Because having someone’s hands all over you is somehow
less
invasive?”

“I’m fine with someone professionally touching the outside of my clothes,” he says. “I’m not fine with someone checking me out naked because the government tells them it’s okay.”

I shove my right heel into my shoe and stand up to jam it in a little better, bracing myself on a nearby window ledge. Outside it’s sunny and these Californian skies are baby blue and cloudless. It’s hard to imagine there’s a snowpacalypse sweeping the northeast as we speak.

“Good to know,” I say with a mild smile, politely pretending to be appreciative of his second round of unsolicited advice. I could give a rat’s ass if someone sees me naked. I’ve modeled nude in enough art classes that taking off my clothes is a bit of a pastime at this point.

Glancing at my phone, I realize I’m boarding in fifteen minutes, and I still need to grab a book and some coffee for the plane.

“Have a good flight.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and trek toward the coffee cart halfway down Terminal A. Perusing the menu, I decide on a half-caff soy latte with cinnamon and sugar-free vanilla syrup because just thinking about the snowflakes I’ll be feeling on my face in a mere five hours and some change makes me crave something warm and comforting in my belly.

I place my order and slip the cashier a five-dollar bill and exact change.

“Thank you,” I say to the cashier, re-adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder and tightening my grip on the coffee. The paper cup is comfortably warm in my palm, and I can already practically taste the rich, bold flavor on my tongue.

Turning on my heels, I find myself face to face with
him
again. He’s right up on me. His deliciously clean scent invades my airspace, and I could probably calculate the distance between our faces in mere inches. But the sheer unexpectedness of his proximity to me causes me to stop hard in my tracks, which then proceeds to cause the scalding coffee in my cup to splash up over the lid, dribbling molten brown liquid all over my shoes.

“Wonderful,” I sigh, lifting my cup and moving out of the way.

His hand reaches for me, gently gripping my forearm. “I’m so sorry.”

He sounds genuine. This time. It’s not like earlier, when he was “apologizing” for staring at me. This time his eyes are softer and his expression is void of any kind of ornery glint or smiling eyes.

“I was looking at the menu. I didn’t mean to stand so close . . .” he says, exhaling.

There’s a small stand to our left that holds straws and cream and sugar, and I watch him yank a half a dozen paper napkins from a dispenser before lowering himself to my feet and dabs, pointlessly, in an attempt to salvage my Oxfords.