Some of the tension left his shoulders as he glanced at me, relief and surprise in his eyes. I smiled at him, wishing I could make him understand how much I wanted to be with him. “I want to come back to your home with you.”
“Okay then.” He nodded, a deep breath leaving his chest. “I’ll wait here.”
“I can get a few things and walk over.”
“With your track record of the stairs leading up to my house, I think I’ll wait,” he deadpanned, then turned his head and winked at me.
Winked.
Zachary winked at me again, while teasing me. That was twice today.
I liked that side of Zachary—very much.
Pushing up on the console separating us, I grazed my lips across his cheek. I was thrilled when he didn’t pull away or tense up but, instead, leaned into my caress.
“Thank you,” I breathed into his skin.
He turned his head, slipping his hand around the nape of my neck, holding me close as he kissed me. His lips were gentle and warm on mine, and he tasted of the peppermints he loved. He slowly deepened the kiss, cradling my head, his fingers caressing my skin as he held me close. I felt his smile against my mouth as I shivered from his warm touch. His eyes were dark when he pulled back, breathing heavy.
I liked this side of Zachary, too.
“Thank you.” He smirked, tapping the end of my nose. “Now go get your stuff.”* * *We were greeted with great enthusiasm when we returned, happy barks and excited chuffs coming from both pets. I picked up Dixie, nuzzling her little head as I stroked Elliott’s much larger one. Zachary carried in some bags, and once I put Dixie down, I helped him unload the groceries including what I bought. Zachary’s good mood seemed to have returned. He teased me about the cream for my coffee; said I was spoiling the flavor by adding anything to the brew that he drank black. He grimaced in mock disgust when I confessed to also adding sugar. He joked about the food I had purchased, since most of it consisted of snacks like popcorn and ice cream. He shook his head at the large bottle of corn syrup but didn’t ask as he shoved it into the cupboard. When he went out to get the supplies he picked up at the gallery and bring in the painting, I heated up some soup and then we ate in relative silence, both dogs watching our every move.
“I’ll take them for a walk,” I offered. “I’m sure you have things you need to do.”
“Yeah, I do. I want to set up some canvases and shift a few things around up there. Let them run on the beach. I’ll join you soon.”
“All right.”
He disappeared upstairs, as I grabbed my jacket off the sofa, pausing when my eyes landed on the Tempest painting he’d brought home with us. Even leaning on the wall, it was powerful—the imagery, once again, capturing my attention. I traced the initials in the corner—the Z D A so strongly etched into the canvas. Adams, he had told me when I asked. Zachary Dennis Adams. I thought the strong name suited him, and he had grinned shyly when I told him so. Smiling, I shrugged on my coat. There were so many sides of Zachary I hadn’t seen yet, but I found the more I discovered, the more I liked him.
It was bright out on the sand as I strolled along, the dogs running and chasing each other around. My ankle felt much better today, thanks to Zachary’s ministrations. The sound of waves crashing on the rocks was peaceful; the sky was clear above me, the scent of ocean rich and pungent in my nose. With a grin, I toed off my sneakers, yanked off my socks, and rolled up my pant legs. Hesitantly, I walked into the surf, allowing only the smallest ripples of water to cover my feet, gasping at the icy cold. How on earth Zachary strode through the water daily without it affecting him, I had no idea. I backed up away from the surf and kept walking, trying to get used to the temperature of the icy sand. My blue-painted toenails looked pretty beside the wet granules though; they matched the ocean. I breathed in deep, feeling relaxed and content. I didn’t know what was happening later today, or tomorrow even, in regard to Zachary, but at the moment, I was happy, and I was strangely okay with that.
All my life I had done what I should do, what I was expected to do—always what was right. I went to school, got a job, paid my bills, acted like a responsible adult. My writing was always a dream and I never let it interfere with what I was supposed to do. I put everything else first, and what did it get me? No job, no book, just a lot of grief. I trusted someone I thought cared about me and he let me down, hurting me on every imaginable level.