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“Perhaps you made the best decision ever to leave your golden cage and spread your wings, Lovebird.”
When her eyes snap open, her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings against her cheeks.
“And how about you, Mark, what questions can I ask about your life without triggering a minefield?”
Panic streaks through me, zapping me like a lightning bolt.
But afraid to push her away, I force the words out. “Ask me anything.”
Her penetrating gaze studies me in silence with such intensity I can feel it with every atom. I uncork the bottle and fill up her glass, trying not to snap under the pressure of her scrutiny. It feels like she’s touching something profound inside of me, undoing my restraints and opening the doors I kept shut all my life.
“If we can’t talk about your past then share your happiest moment with me,” she demands, and I’m tempted to give her everything as long as I see that spark in her ocean blues.
“Happiest memory for me was the first taste of freedom.” I study her face for pity before continuing, but I find none. “I escaped my foster parents and ran off. I was twelve. Robert was fourteen. He also wanted to get away from his situation, so we teamed up.”
I swirl the wine in my glass, remembering the thrill followed by relief as days passed and no one came to bring us back. “We ended up in this area full of poverty and crime. We had nowhere to live or eat for a very long time. We didn’t care. We thought we were the kings.” I chuckle, feeling no humor, remembering the things we had to do to survive the streets.
“How did you survive?” she asks, her voice rasping with emotions.
“We would wait at the end of the day at restaurants or grocery stores for the trucks to collect wasted food,” I simply tell her. “We would sleep anywhere we could and sometimes steal. Once we found this forgotten, old building that was falling apart. It looked like a concrete skeleton overgrown with grass and shrubs. We knew exactly how to climb it to the top without killing ourselves. It was our home for two years until someone demolished our safe harbor and built a store.”
She slides closer to me and nestles under my arm, bringing warmth and comfort with her. Cassandra’s chestnut hair smells of peaches, and her delicious curves pressing to my side make me content. “I don’t get it how it’s a happy memory, Mark.”
“Because we slept under the stars above all the crime and poverty and dreamed about a life that didn’t exist.” Her head cranes to look at me, and my lips graze her temple as she waits for me to explain. “But at least we had a chance to dream,” I confess, leaving all the dark memories tucked away. But Cassandra’s face bleeds out all the color until I see some deep understanding take root and her gaze intensifies with empathy.
And when she sits straight, grasping my face in her warm palms, Cassandra attacks my lips, feeding me with comfort that words could never bring me. Like a starved man, I seize her waist and bring her flush against me, taking control of the kiss, turning her breaths into silent moans.
Someone clears their throat, and we stop, turning to the servers with plates of food in hands. They discretely place them on our table and leave us alone after filling our glasses with water and wine. As we eat, I sense Cassandra retreating into her mind.
“What are you thinking?”
She chews slowly, casting her piercing gaze to me. “Fading Ink is somehow connected to this story, isn’t it?”
“It is.” I smile, impressed she connected the dots. “We used to hang out a lot in the library, and I’d bring home some of the books. We used to read a lot during the day so no one would notice two kids wandering around. Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was my favorite back when. It was so faded, and I had to scrunch my eyes to connect the words since the pages were so flailed. I remember, sometimes, the librarian would leave books on the desk, as if taunting me with new adventures. I admit I’ve stolen books from the library.”
“I don’t get it. How did you get from there to here if you lived on the streets, fighting for your survival without education and money to build this dream?” She dabs the corners of her mouth with a cloth, waiting for me to explain.
“I was found by the private investigators who were hired to look for me by blood relatives soon after we lost our shabby dwelling. They took me in, and the rest is history.”
“And Robert?”
“I refused to leave him on the streets, so they took him in and he found a new home, too. He’s like a brother to me. It was a no-brainer to build our business together, since we shared the same vision. That’s why we both treat Fading Ink as our home.”
“Is this where I should stop asking questions?” Her gaze turns contemplative as she reaches for the glass of wine, crossing her arms over her chest as if she’s shielding from me.
I pull her chin toward me and brush my lips against hers. “Let’s leave the rest of the story for the next time.” I smile as she gently nibbles my mouth with her teeth, daring me. Jesus, I want her like a thirsty man wants a drink from the cold stream on a hot day.
Instead, I settle for a little taste of her lips, enjoying this enticing energy coursing between us. After the meal, we decide to go for a walk down the street. Her eyes sparkle with happiness that I want to see burning in passion.
“Tell me about your children,” I ask, needing her to know I don’t shy away from her being a mother.
“Where do I start?” Her face softens as she looks up at the darkening sky. “Well, those two are a team of cute masterminds.” She chuckles, her face lit up with pride and love. “They operate together like they know what they’re going for. They can finish each other’s thoughts and are very protective, smart, and if they have to be, cunning. I think their teen years will be painful to handle. Right now they’re two sweethearts who need a lot of love and attention and less material things.”
I don’t miss the last remark, but I’m curious about Logan.
“Do they ask about their dad?”
Her shoulders stiffen at my question and she sadly smiles at me.
