Page 77 of Austin

Having this meeting was both for me and for him. I want to make this the end to my own story as well, so I can close the book on that part of my life. This is the exact closure I needed.

18

JALYNN

All day, I’ve been trying to fight back tears after sitting and listening to Sergeant Miller tell the story of when he’d saved twelve men’s lives, including a certain man that I find myself falling for more every day.

I was in shock as I started putting things together. When our eyes met, every question I’d had was answered. One expression of sorrow begged me to both understand what he’d been through and not change the way I looked at him, all in a matter of three seconds.

I’m emotionally drained, and all I did was sit and listen. I can’t imagine what’s going through Austin’s head.

When everyone said their good-byes, Austin briefly glanced up to me, making sure I knew to come with him.

Though he hasn’t said a word since we got in the car three minutes ago. I’ve done all I can to fill the time, and when I finally turn to see him, his head is back against the rest, and his eyes are closed. I watch as he slowly takes deep breaths in and out.

I reach my hand to cover his, and when I do, I see his eyes clench tighter for a brief second before he opens them to meet with mine. Nothing is said, but I’ve never felt so at peace, sitting with someone in such close quarters.

His lips tilt up in a small smile as he reaches his other hand around the nape of my neck, bringing me to him and kissing me with a sense of urgency and relief, all wrapped into one.

My body melts in my seat as I let him explore my lips, my tongue, and my soul. I’d give him my world right now; all he’d have to do was ask.

He slows our kiss by closing his mouth, but he leaves his upper lip wrapped around my top. Taking a shaky inhale, he kisses me like this a few more times, tasting the difference between my top lip and my bottom. A man’s mouth has never felt so sensual, pressed against mine.

When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine, taking a deep breath in, like he’s trying to gain his strength from me. I’m more than willing to give it to him. To give him anything he needs. In this moment, I want to be his strength. I want to take all the pain he’s experienced away.

“Come home with me,” he whispers, keeping his eyes closed like he’s scared for my response.

I wrap my hands through his hair, slightly pulling back so that he can see me. I want him to understand the switch I felt coming but know now for sure. I won’t fight him anymore. Once he lifts his long lashes, I nod before saying, “Okay.”

Relief washes off of him as he leans in to kiss me again before starting the car and backing out of the parking spot.

He holds my hand the entire drive back to his place. It doesn’t matter one bit that he’s completely silent. The way his thumb rubs over my fingers says everything he needs to say.

I’m surprised when Austin drives down Market Street, heading away from the Embarcadero and the Financial District. I assumed he either lived in a high-rise apartment downtown or in the Marina with all the other wealthy people. Instead, he drives past the Tenderloin, Van Ness, and even Castro. I glance out the window, surprised when such a major street as Market suddenly turns into a residential area as we start to climb a hill.

We come to a Stop sign, and he makes an extreme sharp right, almost turning around completely before ascending an even steeper hill.

The way he works the clutch in his Corvette is flawless as he maneuvers through the narrow street. We turn onto Panorama Drive and go even higher up the hill until we’re on Mountview Court. Both street names are spot-on descriptions for the landscape of San Francisco—from its burnt-orange hills in the foreground to the pinkish sky of the West Coast sunset—providing a view that is seemingly on top of the world.

At the end of the court is a small house that looks like it was built on the side of the cliff. He drives up to the garage door and parks in the driveway.

As he puts the car in park, I admire the art deco facade that was once popular in the 1950s yet looks quaint today. While I assumed Austin lived in an expensive bachelor pad in the center of the city, now that I’m here and looking at the brown-and-white stucco, I find it’s actually quite perfect.

To my surprise, the inside is not extravagant at all with a low ceiling and wall-to-wall wood flooring. There’s a standard kitchen with espresso-colored cabinets and stainless steel appliances. The front room has family photos on the wall, many of them are him with his two brothers.

I easily recognize Bryce, and the other man with shoulder length blond hair in one photo that’s pulled back into a man bun in another must be his younger brother, Tanner. Edward is in a few of the photos along with a woman with light-blonde hair and blue eyes, who I can only assume is his mother. I stop and look at her kind smile while she hugs all three boys, and they beam from their mother’s embrace.

I step away and walk around, further inspecting his place. There are soft chenille couches and angular furniture with knickknacks and mementos from vacations, award ceremonies, and various life experiences that he brought back with him, including a vile of sand that sits on his end table with a piece of duct tape on the outside and the word Fallujah written on it.

This is a home. A home that anyone would have, not at all what I would expect from a multimillionaire bachelor living in a city like San Francisco.

While everything about the home seems to be understated, one thing that is not is the back wall, which is lined completely in windows that overlook the entire city.

Austin walks past me, and he takes his suit jacket off, laying it on the back of the couch before removing his cuff links. He heads straight into his bedroom but leaves the door open.

I’m not entirely sure what he needs from me right now. I sit on the edge of the couch and wait for him to come back. The bottle of sand is sitting on the table, so I pick it up and tilt it, watching each grain roll to one side and then back to the other.

I’ve never understood why people kept sand as a token. The best part of sand is the feel of it, yet I bet no one ever pours it into their hands, for fear they’ll lose a precious grain.