Maybe that’s a question for someone who’s paid to see things objectively.
For the first time since Chris badgered me into therapy, I’m seeing a possible use for the advice of a professional.
“I’m not trying to scare you away. I just want you going into this with the right mindset. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you don’t regret it,” he says earnestly as he reaches up to take a curl from my shoulder. He brings it to his nose and inhales before he lays it against my chest, the backs of his fingers barely brushing the curve of my breast. Chills shoot down my arm and my nipple puckers, a silent vote on behalf of my body. “And trust me when I say, I’m a very determined man.”
I’d all but forgotten the rest of the room when a familiar voice calls my name from somewhere over my left shoulder. I turn toward the woman I consider to be my real mother.
Her smile is quick and bright inside her mocha face, and her dark brown eyes are wide with delight. “Samantha! I knew you’d make it.” I see her eyes dart to Alec before she kisses my cheeks and hugs me to her. She whispers in my ear, “I’m so glad you’re not alone, baby girl.” When she leans back, she winks at me and then turns her attention to Alec. “Who is your friend?”
“Mom, this is Alec Brand. Alec, this is my mother, Deandra Johnson.”
“Ma’am, it’s a pleasure,” Alec says with a nod, his smile warm and polite.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Mom says. Her thick Southern accent is evident in the dropped R, making the word sound like pleashuh, and the fact that each word is drawn out to twice its normal length.
“Sammy,” Dad says as he steps up behind my foster mother, interrupting the conversation. “There’s my girl.”
He reaches around to envelope me in his arms, arms that seem to shrink each time I see him. I feel a pang in the vicinity of my heart. It’s so hard to watch age claim him.
“Dad, I’d like you to meet Alec Brand,” I say when he releases me. “Alec, this is my father, Andre Johnson.”
Alec extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Alec says, shaking my father’s hand and nodding at my mother. “I’m familiar with your work, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”
I watch as the two men quietly size up each other. I’m not surprised to find that Alec is impressed by my father; most people are. What does surprise me is his comfort level with it. I’m beginning to think Alec is never intimidated, that he’s accustomed to doing all the intimidating himself.
Along that vein, what surprises me most is the look of respect and approval that comes over Dad’s aging, dark brown face. While he’s an extremely kind man and always polite, I haven’t often seen him genuinely impressed. Yet it seems in two minutes, Alec has managed it. It only makes him that much more appealing, and he’s already dangerously fascinating to me.
“What is it that you do, Mr. Brand?” Dad asks curiously. It seems that Alec can sink his claws into practically anyone with ease.
“I have a consulting firm in Atlanta with one office here in Charleston. We work with hospitals across Georgia, as well as North and South Carolina.”
Dad nods in approval. “What is it that—”
The lights dim, cutting off his question. A spotlight accompanies the squeal of a microphone and everyone turns toward the podium set at the front of the room.
“How many of you would like to hear from our guest of honor?” the guy with the microphone says. Although I’ve seen him at one or two of these events, I can’t remember his name. He’s just that kind of guy—bland and completely forgettable.
“You’ll have to excuse me. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Brand,” Dad says. They shake hands again and Dad nods at Mom and she follows him to the front of the room. He always mentions her in some way in his speeches, so he likes her to be nearby to receive her due credit.
I turn to face the stage, watching my parents as they assume their positions. Although my attention appears focused on them, it’s almost entirely concentrated on Alec, like it has been all night. It’s as though there’s an invisible string that’s stretched between us, and every time he moves or even shifts, I can feel a tug on that string.
I’m hyper aware of Alec moving to stand at my side. His right shoulder is behind my left, close enough that I can feel the material of his tux brush my skin. He brings his hand to the small of my back.
I pretend to listen to my father, when in reality, all I can think of is Alec’s hand tracing the edge of my dress along my waistline.
He stops, as if sensing my train of thought. I exhale the breath I hadn’t been aware of holding.
He reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my neck and shoulder as he drags his hand away. Chills spread across my chest and back.
“I don’t think I told you how beautiful you look tonight,” he says softly into my ear. “But I meant to.” I say nothing. He brushes the backs of his fingers down my upper arm. I stand perfectly still, afraid to move. “Your skin looks like peaches and cream, and I’d be willing to bet it tastes just as sweet.”
Heat pours through me at his words. He is seducing me. A veritable stranger, with words alone, is seducing me. And I want him to. I know I should object. I should feel morally outraged, maybe even gravely insulted. But I don’t. I feel only desire and anticipation, and an inexplicable force drawing me to him.
I turn to Alec. He stares down at me, his eyes searching mine.
Heat flares between us. Ambient noise is lost behind the loud thud of my heart. My skin feels flushed and dewy. My legs feel heavy and weak.
In this moment, again, I’m Daire Kirby. I feel her struggle as if it were my own. Because it is.
I feel her compelling desire to explore what’s between her and Mason. I feel her fear of what might happen if he discovers the real Daire. I feel her desperation to know him, to risk it even though it might destroy her. And more than ever, I understand how she can be so lost to everything except Mason, how she can ignore common sense and warning flags for just one more minute in his presence.
Alec is so close, I can feel the warmth of his chest, radiating toward my br**sts like the heat of the sun. His lips are firm, his jaw is set, and, in the dark of the room, his eyes are sparkling chips of onyx.
Of all the things I hope and suspect, dread and anticipate, there’s one thing I know for sure as I stand looking up into the eyes of this man.