Everything: A Singed Wings Novel (22 page)

“
OH LOOK! OVER
there! Let’s go to that one!” I exclaimed, grabbing Everett’s hand and dragging him toward another shop in the open-aired market, both of us loaded down with bags of stuff I’d already bought.

We’d arrived in San Antonio right at lunchtime after a three-hour car ride that consisted of us playing the ABC Highway Billboard game (that I won) and our version of Name That Tune (which he won). By the time we’d pulled up and parked at the famous Mi Tierra Café & Bakery, I had faint black lines of mascara streaming down my cheeks from tears of uncontrollable laughter while watching Everett do his Elvis impersonation during the last thirty minutes of the road trip. I think it was when he told me he was taking me to the “Heartbreak Hotel,” then broke out into song that I’d lost it, doubling over in a fit of hysterics. I loved how he always tried to make me laugh or smile, even at the cost of making himself look like an idiot.

Once we scarfed down our out-of-this-world tacos, careful not to stuff ourselves before the fancy dinner he’d planned, we embarked on the three blocks of shops in the outdoor plaza called
El Mercado
, or Market Square. From the very first shop we stepped into, I was in heaven, finding all kinds of different trinkets and artwork that I absolutely
needed
to decorate my characterless apartment.

Surprisingly, Everett seemed to love the shopping just as much as I did. Each store was like its own treasure chest, and we would search and dig around the shelves to see who could find the best hidden gem. He’d teasingly started calling me Tinker Bell, claiming I looked like a little fairy fluttering around from place to place, leaving a trail of pixie dust in my wake. At one point, he disappeared for a few minutes, only to come back with some sparkly wings and a crepe-paper flower crown with flowing streamers he’d bought for me to wear.

Normally, I was overly sensitive to people poking fun at my tiny stature and it annoyed me, even when the teasing was good-natured, but with Everett, it was different. His nicknames for me, whether it was Tinker Bell, goddess, or when he just called me “beautiful,” caused warmth to blossom inside my chest and a kaleidoscope of butterflies to swarm in my stomach. So, I’d happily donned the glittery nylon wings and colorful head wreath, feeling like the most treasured fairy in the world, living in our own little Neverland.

“This has to be the last one, Tink. We still need to go check in at the hotel and get ready before dinner,” he said with the megawatt smile he’d been sporting all day, allowing me to pull him across the street to the display window that had caught my eye on the way back to his truck.

“Okay, I promise, and I’ll make it quick,” I agreed, lifting up on my tiptoes to plant an appreciative kiss on his scruffy jaw before we went inside. Per my request, he hadn’t shaved this morning, and I was hopeful I’d get to feel that stubble between my legs later when he had his dessert. The thought sent a shot of lust jetting through my veins and I squeezed my thighs together in response. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him.

Unlike most of the other shops, which featured knickknacks, clothing, and souvenirs, this place was set up very much like a real art gallery, only it had prints of famous paintings mounted in detailed, hand-carved wooden frames, each one uniquely tied into the scene in the actual piece of art. They were exquisite.

“Do you know most of these?” Everett asked, as I stood slack-jawed in front of an entire wall of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist pieces from late nineteenth century artists such as Manet, Degas, Renoir, Monet, and Van Gogh.

I twisted my neck to look over at him as a giant, enthusiastic smile spread across my face. “All of them. This movement — Impressionism — is what I wrote my master’s thesis on. It’s my absolute favorite. These artists completely rejected traditional European styles and rules of painting, and they brought their scenery and their subjects to life through bright colors, varied depiction of light, and unusual angles,” I explained, unable to hide the passion in my voice. “They were brilliant and not afraid to step outside the box. And when the old academies and galleries in France refused to show their work, they basically said ‘to hell with you then,’ and opened their own place, which they called
Salon des Refuses
.”

“So they were like the rebels of the art world back then?” He chuckled while pulling me in front of him, adjusting my wings so he could wrap his strong arms around my shoulders.

Nodding, I pointed to a full-length picture of a man in a dark cape and top hat with an empty bottle of liquor at his feet and a half-full glass next to him. “See this one right here? It’s called
The Absinthe Drinker,
the first original piece by Edouard Manet, who many consider the founder of the movement. Even though he still used the traditional dark colors and lighting from his training, it was rejected by the Paris Salon because he had used an alcoholic as his subject, which, back then, it was unheard of to depict a moral degenerate or to socially discredit a person in a work of art, and also because he purposely left some of the brushstrokes visible in places. His own mentor had told him that he must be the drunk who had lost his senses to paint such an abomination.”

“Wow, that’s pretty harsh,” he murmured, as he studied the print. “I don’t know. I kinda dig it. The guy’s expression has that same go-fuck-yourself attitude that I imagine Manet did when he painted it. I like his style.”

“Yeah, and in the end, it only fueled him to prove them all wrong, triggering the start of an artistic revolution that still influence modern-day painters.” I turned around in his arms to face him, tickled pink that he showed interest in what I loved. Jonah used to hate whenever I’d rattle on and on about anything to do with art, and often, he’d just tune me out.

Everett grinned down at me as he adjusted the flower crown resting on my forehead then kissed the tip of my nose, nearly melting me straight into the floor. “Just like Elvis did with rock-n-roll.”

“Exactly like that,” I giggled, losing myself in his warm, doting gaze, “but I’m not sure Manet liked peanut butter-and-banana sandwiches.”

“That’s a shame. He didn’t know what he was missing,” he joked, shaking his head. “But I know what meal we’re gonna miss if we don’t get out of here and to the hotel soon.”

Then abruptly, with complete disregard to the other people around us and the fact that we were in a public place, he picked me up by the waist and threw me over his shoulder. Ignoring my squeals and protests, he lightly slapped my ass and carried me out of the gallery, the deep rumble of his laugh vibrating throughout my body.

“Everett! I can walk! Put me down!” I demanded, while hiding my face in his back so that I couldn’t see everyone around staring at us. Even though, secretly, I loved every minute of it.

I’d known that he was super playful and affectionate when we were together behind closed doors, but I had no idea what to expect from him out in public. And much to my delight, he was exactly the same. Such a dichotomy to the brooding, mysterious rocker image he exuded on stage.
Which is something I’m dying to see again…

“Can’t do that, Tinker Bell,” he grunted, as his feet hit the pavement of the street, moving toward the parking lot. “Not taking the chance you’ll fly away again into another store ‘til I can strip you down and get these wings off.”

“I promise I’ll be good,” I sing-songed.

He swatted my ass again, hard enough this time to shoot tingles in between my legs. “Don’t want you to be good either. I like my little pixie naughty, especially tonight.”

Groaning, I squirmed under his tight grip, less as an attempt to escape and more trying to appease the throbbing in my core his promising words had stirred. “You sure we can’t just order room service tonight?” I whined.

“Can’t do that either, beautiful. You deserve to be spoiled over a nice dinner.” He stopped walking then flipped me right-side-up and slid me down the front of his body until my feet hit the concrete next to his truck. “Plus,” he added with a wink, as he opened the passenger door and ushered me in, “you promised me heels and sparkly eye shadow and shit.”

WHY IN THE
hell didn’t I agree to her room service idea?

Leaning against the wrought-iron railing of the balcony in our seventh-floor room, I peered down over the bustling River Walk below and silently scolded myself. Instead of waiting for her to get dressed for dinner right now, where a bunch of other fuckers I didn’t know would be eyeing her, I could be lying naked in that big-ass, fancy bed with Belle, eating sushi off her stomach while we got ready for round two.

But first you have to get through round one, dipshit.

I nervously tugged at the collar of the light blue button-down shirt I wore. Then glanced down at my charcoal gray slacks, hoping I didn’t look as stupid as I felt. I never dressed up. Like, ever. But I also never took a girl out to an upscale dinner with plans to take her back to our hotel room later and give her my virginity. Even if she wasn’t aware of that last part.

“All right, rockstar, I’m ready to go,” she announced from behind me. “I hope you like.”

Turning around to face her, I was eager to see how she looked all dressed up, and when my eyes slowly travelled up and down the body of the drop-dead gorgeous woman standing under the frame of the open French doors, my mind was blown. There was no way this could be real. I had to be dreaming the entire fucking thing.

She wore a form-fitting, sleeveless green dress that hit her thigh a couple of inches above her knee with a plunging neckline, showing the perfect amount of cleavage to be sexy and not slutty. Her long dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves, begging for me to bury my hands in it, and the way she’d put on her makeup made her sultry eyes shimmer. The strappy tan heels on her feet completed the sinfully sexy look, and images of those shoes propped up on my shoulders as I buried myself in her immediately popped into my mind. My dick took notice too, twitching to life at the stunning sight of her. She really was a fucking goddess.

“Is this a good silent staring thing, or should I change?” she asked nervously, smoothing down an invisible wrinkle in the front of her dress.

Snapping out of my lustful fog, I smiled so damn big I was afraid my face would split in half. “Much better than good. There isn’t a word for it, beautiful.” I closed the gap between us with one long stride and cradled her porcelain face in my hands. “I’m the luckiest fucking guy in the world. Thank you for coming with me this weekend.”

Her brown eyes twinkled up at me as she reached up and grasped my forearms, squeezing them as she spoke. “There’s not another place I’d rather be than here with you. Thank you for planning this for us.”

Careful not to mess up her shiny red lips, I softly kissed her forehead then released her face and grabbed one of her hands. “Let’s go enjoy a nice dinner so that I can bring you back up here and have my dessert. Ever since I met you, I’ve developed a killer sweet tooth,” I teased.

An hour later, we were cuddled together at a private, candlelit table at Biga on the Banks, finishing up the best dinner I’d ever had in my life
— a ribeye for her and the Hill Country venison and quail for me. The entire evening couldn’t have gone any better. Delicious food, excellent service, conversation that never stopped flowing, and the hands-down most spectacular view in the world as I stared at the woman sitting next to me.

“Mr. Templeton, may I interest you or the lady in one of our desserts tonight, or perhaps a cup of coffee?” the server offered, as he removed our plates from the table and cleaned the crumbs off with a straight edge.