Now we stand on the front porch, tightly wrapped in each other—our arms, our thoughts, our hearts refusing to let go. Every part of us tangles and melds together. One soul. One future. Distance be damned.
He cups my face and kisses me, his tongue rubbing against mine, our breaths fusing tenderly, passionately. But the heartache is overpowering, striking against my breastbone and shooting pain to the deepest reaches of my being.
Staring into his eyes, I seek, interlock, and connect with him on a soulful level. Like it’s the first time I’m seeing him.
Or the last.
I feel like I’m losing him. We’ve only known each other ten months, and he’s going to be gone a year. Will our newborn love withstand this separation? What if he finds someone else? An exotic beauty to pass his lonely nights with?
“Let me transfer my income into your account,” he says at my ear.
“No.”
We’ve been over this. He wants to pay my living expenses and cover the wedding deposits while he’s gone. I want to put all our money together when he returns. When we’re married. My way makes more sense.
“So fucking stubborn.” He kisses me tenderly. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive a year without you.” His lips whisper against mine. “I won’t do this again.”
“Again?” My pulse jolts. I’ve been so focused on getting through the next year, I hadn’t considered there would be more deployments after this one.
“No.” His hands flex against my jaw. “This is my last job. I’m quitting when I get back.”
“Quit now.” Hope rushes through me. “Don’t go. You can find a new job and—”
“Shh, baby.” He rests his lips against my hair, holding my cheek against his pounding chest. “I’m under contract for the rest of the year. But when I return, I won’t renew.”
My shoulders sink, and the cab driver lays on the horn. We both tense.
I hug him harder, my sinuses flaring against the assault of tears. But I refuse to cry. Not yet. This is hard enough for him. I won’t make him leave a sobbing, miserable wreck of a woman.
“Call me when you arrive at the al-Bashrah oil terminal.”
“I’ll try, Danni, but we went over this.”
My fingers sink against his back as my worry for his safety courses and spikes anew.
Americans live in converted cargo containers at one end of the oil platform. Their meals are delivered from the main ship. Access to a satellite phone is limited, and Internet is spotty. It could be months before I hear from him.
At least I don’t have to share air time with his family. His mother left when he was a child, and he hasn’t spoken to his drunk of a father in years. I’m his only phone call, as well as his next-of-kin in case of an emergency.
The taxi driver honks again, smacking the horn in rapid succession.
“By the grace of God, give them a minute,” Virginia shouts from her open window next door.
Cole smiles down at me, popping those dimples, and I commit every detail of him to memory. The soft scruff on his jaw, the deep chocolate of his eyes, the snake tattoo that coils around his strong neck, and his proud posture clad in black leather and denim.
“Say it again.” I kiss his full lips.
“I promise to return to you.”
“In one year, Cole.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders, blinking back the burning ache in my eyes. “I’ll be waiting at the altar.”
“My beautiful bride. My Mrs. Hartman. It’s all I’ll think about.” He untangles himself from my hug and steps back. “Keep the doors locked.”
“Yeah.” I glance back at the deadbolt he installed. “Okay.”
“I love you,” he whispers softly, achingly.
“I love you.” I fade into his adoring gaze, barely holding myself together.
The moment he turns away, the tears spill over. I swipe at them, but there’s too many coming too fast. By the time he’s in the cab, my face is drenched and my vision is blurred.
As the car shrinks and disappears in the distance, I force myself to stand taller, stronger.
He’ll be home in a year.
I have a year to plan a wedding.
Most girls dream about the cake, the flowers, the dress. This girl dreams about choreographing the first dance, and it’s going to be the biggest production in the history of wedding dances.
My heart feels like a trampled, miserable pile of shit at my feet, but I have a sure way to channel the pain. For the next twelve months, Beyoncé will help me through it.
The lyrics to XO swirl through my head, and I see a crowded reception hall with Cole and me at the center. Him, holding me in his arms, rocking his sexy ass to the beat. Me, sliding through Lambada Zouk steps with flowing body waves, hair flicks, and sensual footwork. Together, we’re smiling, twirling, lost in the intimacy of our eye contact.
No one’s going to out-dance us at our own wedding.
Chapter Fourteen
PRESENT
The roar of thousands of concert-goers echoes through the dome. The lights, the music, the energy of Beyoncé’s dancers pulls me into the moment, gripping my hips like a lover’s hands and leading me through the rhythm.
I harbored doubts on my way here, sitting beside Trace in the back of his fancy sedan and squirming in the uncomfortable silence.
Spending time with him, being casual with him, pretending like he didn’t spend the prior evening with another woman—all of it twists me up and turns me inside out. But now that I’m here, I intend to enjoy the experience to its fullest.
We have the suite to ourselves, and Trace keeps his distance. Reclined in the back row of the balcony seats, he rests an ankle on a knee, a hand against his jaw, and watches me in that way he does. Intently. Unnervingly. Compulsively.
I haven’t asked about the brunette, and he’s made no attempt to explain his actions. Why would he? We’re not a couple. Are we even friends?
Standing in the front row of the closest balcony to the stage, I hold onto the railing and shake my ass to the thumping beats. Over the years, I’ve created dance routines to all of Beyoncé’s songs, and while I don’t have a lot of space to work with, I make use of every square inch.
But every time I glance back at my audience of one, it takes a few moments to catch my breath. That isn’t the look a man gives a woman he doesn’t want. His gaze trails over me like a blistering fire that melts through my skin and sizzles in my blood. It’s the kind of look that brings two bodies into complete union, a wild uncontrollable fusion of kissing, licking, and fucking.
If he were to step behind me and lift my dress, would I try to escape? Would I fight him? Withhold my desire? Or would I let him use me until we were both exhausted, limp, and satiated? Then could I let him go, to return to his women and un-messy lifestyle?
I must be falling for him, because I couldn’t live with being one of his flings in a rotation of bed partners.
So as the concert continues, I block out the heat of his gaze and dance for myself, possessed by the vocals, controlled by the rhythm, completely immersed in my element.
Until the one song I hoped Beyoncé wouldn’t sing echoes through the dome.
The song I passionately, painstakingly choreographed for a year.