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CHAPTER 39
LOSING all track of time while in the fancy liquor store she found on the way to Sloane’s house, Ari emerged with a bottle of wine she hoped would satisfy Sloane’s highly discerning taste. Dressed in a gauzy olive-green dress and brown leather sandals, Ari felt like something of an imposter.
The alien sensation was compounded by the make-up on her face and how straight her hair turned out after her mom got ahold of it. By the time she passed Crandon Park, the beach where Hispanic families went to avoid the chaos of Miami Beach, Ari was well and truly nervous.
The GPS took her to a secluded part of Key Biscayne she’d never been to before. There’d been no reason to visit walled o mansions the size of her apartment building. Ari kept her eyes on the road and tried not to be intimidated by the palm lined, manicured perfection that should only exist in movies.
After a hesitant drive up an unmarked road, Ari came to a gate where a nice man in a uniform and an alarmingly large gun at his side made a copy of her driver’s license and car registration before letting her inside. The imposter
syndrome created a hole in her stomach and a tremor in her hands.
Ari stopped where her phone told her to, right in front of an enormous square house that belonged in some modern architectural magazine. She hesitated to drive over the rectangular slabs of concrete grouted with lush grass, but she didn’t want to leave her car on the street. It already didn’t belong; making it stand out wasn’t going to help.
Gently, Ari let her car roll over the driveway, stopping short of the garage suitable for at least three cars. With a deep, cleansing breath, she scurried up to the glass double doors and rang the bell.
Sloane, dressed in rolled up jeans, a loose, white, buttoned-down shirt and bare feet, opened the door. The tips of her wavy hair were still wet, making them look darker than the rest of it. The e ect of her casual appearance was devastating.
“I was wondering if you got lost. It doesn’t take that long to get here from the gate,” Sloane joked as she let her inside and gave her a peck on the cheek.
The scent of suntan lotion and laundry detergent whirled around Ari like a cloud of hallucinogenic potion. Before Sloane could step away, she pulled her in again, taking a deep, greedy breath like she was drawing on her essence to survive. Sloane stilled and then wrapped her arms around Ari’s waist, holding her close.
“Thank you for coming,” Sloane whispered against the shell of her ear.
The four words, spoken so softly, were the sound of a barricade crashing to the ground in a thunderous crescendo
accompanied by a cloud of dust and debris.
“Always,” Ari promised, hoping Sloane understood the weight of her assurance.
Sloane kissed her cheek again, pressing her lips tightly against her skin as if wanting to leave an indelible mark, an invisible tattoo that would burn in the absence of her kiss.
Ari’s skin tingled as Sloane pulled away.
“Hungry?” Sloane asked, leading her through a foyer and a sitting room full of white furniture she was sure hadn’t been used, until arriving at the sprawling kitchen with gleaming white cabinets and professional looking appliances.
She must think I live in a hovel. Ari tried not to wear her belated shame on her face.
“Yeah,” she smiled and tried to mean it. “Are you cooking?”
Sloane passed the pots simmering on the stove and went for a wine fridge twice the size of Ari’s actual refrigerator.
Before she could pull a bottle out, Ari stopped her.
“Wait, I brought you one,” she said, holding the paper bag in her hand.
Sloane glanced back. Either she really hadn’t noticed it or was pretend
ing as some form of hospitality.
“Thanks,” Sloane accepted the bottle. “You didn’t need to do that.” Judging by the wall of wine, she didn’t need the additional bottle, but she took it graciously. “Nice. Let’s have this.”
Ari slid onto a stool on the other side of a poured concrete counter while Sloane moved like silk throughout the kitchen.
With practiced fluidity, Sloane opened the wine and poured two generous glasses.
“I don’t really know wine. I hope it’s okay,” Ari blurted despite her desire to play it cool.
Sloane picked up the bottle and studied it. “Austin Hope Paso Robles,” she muttered before swirling the dark red liquid around and sticking her nose in the glass. Her expression was intense as she studied the aroma as if solving for x.
