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“So you’re saying what I need works for what you need, too.”
“Count on it. And there are plenty of things I don’t know about you, too. I want to know them all.”
“You get nothing else, until I see one of those dance moves.”
He considered, those fine lips pursing. “All right. But only for you.”
Stepping back, he spread out his arms, a mock gesture to clear the immediate area. With grave concentration, he executed a spin, followed by the steps and finger snaps Rufus had done.
As she’d noted before, Brick had exceptional grace for a big man. Which made his complete lack of rhythm nothing short of astonishing.
“Rufus might be right about you killing your team’s chance of winning.”
He lunged at her. She tried to dash away, but what he lacked in rhythm he made up for in speed and hand-to-eye coordination. He swung her over his shoulder, threatening to drop her as she shrieked and grabbed onto his belt. Grinning, he put her back on her feet, hands sliding over her sides and hips. “I can’t be awesome at everything. Give me a break.”
“My apologies,” she said gravely. “Modesty and dance skills, both subpar. Check.”
“There’s my smartass.” He offered her a hand and they strolled toward the bridge. “Your turn,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“My birth name was almost Celestial Joy Wilder, instead of Celeste Joy Wilder.”
“That had to be your dad’s idea, and your very practical mom nixed it.”
They crossed under an old train trestle to reach the bridge entrance. A historical plaque indicated they were beginning the Three Days in April 1865 exhibit.
“Markers along the bridge offer eyewitness accounts of the burning and taking of Richmond,” Brick explained. “When it was the Confederate capital.”
She read the entry plaque. Follow the timeline of the devastation and of the emotions of defeat for many, and triumph for others, as expressed by witnesses during the evacuation and burning of Richmond…
In her peripheral vision, she noted Brick reading with her. Watching him go over words he likely knew by heart, she wondered if Brick’s father had ever figured out what she had. It wasn’t the history that drew Brick. It was the poetry of people’s emotions that historic events drew forth, as they suffered and triumphed.
Like her and Rufus, and Brick himself. “I can see why you like coming here.”
She remembered at the diner, when talking was so easy between them. Kindred spirits understanding and connecting with one another. He met her gaze, and they started walking again. Their shoes, passing over wood and metal, made soft thuds and tinny echoing noises.
The witness markers were part of the decking beneath their feet, metal engraved plaques fixed to the wood. She thought of how three short days had perpetually changed the direction of so many lives. Hopes, dreams, fears. Triumph and devastation. What words could she say about the last two days of her life?
“My mom is practical,” she said. “But when I hit puberty and she and I went through that rough period that a lot of mothers and daughters do, my father reminded me she hadn’t always been so practical. That she’d been a girl once, and that girl was still there, a part of who she is now.”
Just like the boy who fell in love with her is always a part of me.
Brick slid an arm around her waist, as if he knew talking about her father meant she needed more support. “There’s more to the story about your name, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But will you tell me something else about you first?”
His fingers glided along her shoulder, under her neckline, in that distracting way that was part possession, part shelter. All Dom.
“You asked, so yes. I like women with long hair. Before I have a session with a submissive, I French braid it, let them feel the pull as I bind their hair. Before I bind them in other ways.”
“That’s why you looked at me this morning the way you did, because I’d braided it that way.”
After their erotic experience in the living room, she’d decided to leave it down, probably in anticipation of him doing what he was doing now, letting his fingers glide on that track, play in the strands. But thinking of why he’d liked it braided gave her a pleasant shudder of reaction.
“Yes.” His gaze passed over it. “I like it this way, but I’d also like to see you react to me braiding it. What happened with the name?”
She couldn’t go straight to the answer. Not yet. “Dad was a romantic. He was always working, but he also brought her wildflowers a lot. Or he’d stop at a yard sale and find something for her. He’d pick up something to justify the stop, like a rusty tool he’d clean up and use. But she knew. He liked to see her smile, and sometimes smiles were a little tougher to come by for them. But he could get her to do it, no matter what.”
She glanced up at him. He was so tall, but when he looked at her like this, he felt so close. “Right after my grandmother died, my mother was having a hard time with it. One day, while we were all sitting on the porch, my father got up from the porch swing. He went out into the yard, looked up at the sun, and talked like he was having a conversation with it, though we couldn’t hear what he was saying. He opened his palms, held them like that for a minute.”
