Gloria and Skyler: A New Beginning

Gloria and Skyler:

A New Beginning

 

Paradise was the destination. Passion was the discovery.

 

 

A mother and son love story

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2026 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Gloria and Skyler: A New Beginning

Chapter 1: Paradise Found

 

This trip to the Spanish coast with my son, has been on mind for some time. Honestly, he’s a wonderful boy, and turning into quite the handsome young man. The sad truth is, Skyler can hardly remember his father. In truth, raising him on my own was quite a challenge.

 

When you consider his cheating father filters in and out of his life, a new chippy in toe each time. Fills his head with nonsense about how important business is, while he goes through women like tissue paper. Well, frankly, I’ve done a wonder.

 

A bellhop in white gloves leads us to the suite, shoes clicking across marble so pale the tiles sound forbidden. Skyler’s taller by a head, but he follows me, my heel tips scraping tiny black streaks across the stones. The air’s thick with lemon, beach salt, a haze of luxury. Once we’re in our room, I do what any human with a pulse does, race for the windows.

 

The entire wall’s a sheet of glass, no frame, no seams, the kind of design that only rich European movie villains afford. I lean in, palms pressed to cold, ocean-sprayed glass, drag a streak of condensation with my breath. Down below, the beach’s a thousand bright towels, umbrellas, blue, red, and yellow.

 

Laughing, loud, honest.

 

“Baby, you see this?” I say, my voice bounces off every surface: glass, polished plaster, the stone Buddha hunched in the entryway.

 

Skyler hauls the duffel bags inside, sets them in the shadow of the Buddha, careful not to knock over its beaded necklace. Always so careful, this boy. The bellhop bows, mumbles about the mini-bar, vanishes. The door clicks with the drama of a bank vault. We’re alone.

 

“Mommy, there’s two bedrooms.”

 

Hearing him without it registering, I say, “Not big deal, we can make this work, Skyler.”

 

“What?”

 

“You said there’s only one bed, didn’t you?”

 

“No, there are two separate bedrooms.”

 

“Oh, I thought you meant...Never mind that’ll work.” Disappointing, I’d booked one bedroom with one king sized bed.

 

I swirl across the suite, feet slipping on the marble, summer dress feathering up at the knees. I pretend I’m still runway-ready, a slip of a thing in aquamarine cotton, when really I haven’t done a single plank in weeks. I toss my purse on the giant white sectional, flop next to it, bounce once, twice, grabbing the throw pillow. It’s velvet, dove gray, absurdly soft. I hug it to my chest, sink in.

 

“This is sick. Insane. Come sit, you have to feel this,” I say, but Skyler hovers by the minibar instead, prodding the Nespresso machine like he expects it to explode.

 

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” Sky says, his face is so much like his dad’s, sometimes I can’t look at him straight on. Same dimpled chin, same lashes. At this angle, though, he’s all mine. Hair sun-bleached, the old childhood cowlick still fighting the comb, and eyes narrowed like he’s bracing for an earthquake.

 

“This is great,” I say. Patting the seat next to me, but he won’t come. Fine. I pull my feet up, crisscross, tossing the pillow at him instead. He catches it, barely.

 

“This place is nuts,” he says, his mouth curves, almost a smile. He’s trying, I know it, I can’t stop myself from pushing harder.

 

Hopping up, I run my hands along the wall. Tracing the seams, admiring the god-tier finish. I flick the light switches. I open the credenza. Riffle through the minibar, I count the shiny liquor bottles the little glass jars of cashews. I keep talking the whole time.

 

“You want a drink? Wait, don’t answer that, you’re still a child. Shouldn’t’ve raised you so pure, huh?”

 

“Well, Mommy, I could try a drink.”

 

“Let me think on that, okay?”

 

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes, and flips through the welcome book, page after page. He doesn’t read it, really, but I catch the flush at his collar when I tease him. He’s pretending he’s not watching me, but I know the game. I’ve played it since before he existed.

 

Spinning, I ask, “How do I look?”

 

“Beautiful,” Skyler says.

 

“You’re going to love the pool here,” I say, I float over, drop a hand to his shoulder, light as a flower. The muscle there’s gotten solid, more than I expect, I squeeze, testing. He stiffens, but lets me. I could swear his pulse jumps under my thumb.

 

“Oh, sweetie, you could use a tan,” I add, giving his butt cheek a gentle little slap, more affection than force.

 

At last, he puts the welcome book down, finally, and looks out the window past my shoulder, eyes extra wide.

 

“Don’t want skin cancer,” he says, deadpan. So funny, this kid. He gets that from me, at least.

 

Throwing the sliding door open, I pace to the balcony. The wind slams my hair into my face. The ocean’s louder out here, as if it’s right underfoot, I inhale so deep my lungs might burst. I stretch both arms over my head, arching back. The way I used to when photographers asked for something “more feline.” My dress pulls tight at the chest the breeze plasters it against my legs. I can feel him watching now, really inspecting me, though he tries to hide it behind the pillar of the doorframe.

 

“You were a model before you married Dad, right.”

 

“Uh, hu, sure was. Come see,” I say, beckoning him to join me.

 

With his hands in pockets, he moves slow, but I don’t miss the way his eyes flicker at my bare thighs. Or how he licks his lips when he thinks I’m not looking. I feign not seeing his interest. I learned ages ago the best way to handle a man’s attention is to let it simmer.

 

The terrible truth is, Sky’s so shy he’s never asked a girl for a date.

 

As we stare at the sea, he leans on the rail next to me, silent. The way I did when he was little, I rest my chin on his shoulder and were transported back when the world hadn’t fallen apart yet. The boy’s so much taller now, I rise on my toes for old times’ sake. For a second, he lets himself relax, his shoulder touches my cheek. I could stay like this forever.

 

Wrapping my arms around his waist, hugging him.

 

Without warning the moment passes. I pull away ruffling his hair, messing it more, and turn to the room.

 

“Race you to the bedroom,” I say, dashing back inside, giggling. I always giggle when I run. He chuckles, a real laugh this time, and chases me, bare feet smacking tile. Having forgotten, I stop mid stride in the hallway.

 

To my surprise there’s two bedrooms, equally massive, both with beds you could land a plane on. With arms flung out, I dive onto the nearest one, starfish style, burying my face in the cool, five-star covers. Skyler flops onto the opposite bed, hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

 

“Guessing you missed the second bedroom, son. I don’t know why a thought there was only one bed.” While it’s a bald-faced lie, I can’t admit what I want. Not yet.

 

“Um, yeah,” he sighs, for the first time all day. “But, like you said, we’ll make do.” In those words, I hear what seems to be real sadness. That sadness makes me happy.

 

Propping up on an elbow.

 

“Tell me this isn’t the dopiest room you’ve ever seen.” I sweep my arm around, display case style, showing off the details. the driftwood sculpture, the designer lamp, the tray of chocolate-dipped fruit on the console. “I deserve this. We both do.”

 

Finally, he meets my eyes and nods.

 

“Yeah. It’s really cool, Mom.” His voice softens, the way it does when he forgets to be pissed at me.

 

Stretching my arms over head, I roll onto my back, a slow, contented animal. My dress rides up my thighs, I let it. The sheets smell like jasmine and honeysuckle, sharp, sweet. I close my eyes, let the afterimage of the blue sky burn my retinas. For the first time in weeks, I feel alive, like something good could actually happen.

 

Peeking from under my lashes, his eyes are fixed on my thong. Translucent pink, he can see I’m shaved, my tight lips outlined in thin fabric. I see the twitch in his crotch.

 

All goes according to plan.

 

A minute passes, and another. The quiet isn’t awkward, for once. I peek at Skyler, he’s tracing the air with his finger, drawing shapes, lost in thought. Staring at my hardly covered cunt. So much in his head, always. I wonder if he’s thinking about the flight, or the girl back home, an exchange student, with the French name. Or it might be he’s thinking about nothing, the way men do, shutting off the world for a while.

 

Hopefully, he’s thinking about what he’s gazing at.

 

I stand and cross to the closet, flinging the doors wide. Inside: silk robes, plush slippers, a rainbow of hangers for the next weeks’ worth of outfits. I grab two robes, toss one at him. He catches it, tries it on, grins despite himself.

 

“You look like a movie villain,” I say.

 

Rolling his eyes, but I can tell he likes it.

 

He sits on the bed, clutching the lapels. His feet swing, not quite touching the floor. He young in or out of the robe, but his legs have the wiry muscle of a grown man. I want to tell him how proud I am, how much I love him, how sorry for everything. I don’t say any of it. Instead, I steal the remote, flick on the TV.

 

The screen blares Spanish news, a tornado of headlines, yelling anchors. I fake-translate, inventing whole stories about the people onscreen.

 

“They’re arguing about you, you know. A prodigy arrives from America, steals hearts, breaks internet,” I say. I mime typing, thumbs flying. “Mi hijo es el más guapo.” I arch my eyebrows three times, while wiggling my hips.

 

Groaning, he grins. The outline of his cock swells a bit. Mm, it’s a big ‘un.

 

Fiddling with his phone, Skyler turns away, but I catch him glancing at me in the mirror above the desk. My hair’s wild from the wind, mascara a little smudged, but the dress still fits the same as it did in Milan years ago. With my legs crossed, I sit on the desk edge, I hum a nothing tune, tapping my heel on the wood.

 

With his arms folded tight, he shifts in his seat, but every so often his gaze finds mine in the mirror. I wink at him. He looks away, pinkish blush creeping up his cheeks. I want to tease, but something in his posture makes me stop. Too much, too soon. I give it a rest, let the air settle.

 

Instead I gaze at him. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes, the tug-of-war between wanting to be mad and needing to enjoy this. I know that feeling too well. I lean forward, elbows on knees, lower my voice, all seriousness.

 

“Tell mommy, you’re good, babe? Really?”

 

Running a hand through his hair, he shrugs. “Yeah. It’s cool. Thanks for doing this.” It sounds true, it’s awkward for us.

 

“Nothing I wouldn’t do for my favorite high school graduate,” I say.

 

The clock ticks, heavy in the silence. With my hands on hips, I stand, declare, “We’re going to the pool. You need vitamin D, and I need a margarita.”

 

He groans again, but there’s no fight. Snapping a photo of him in the robe before he can object, scampering to the bathroom, calling over my shoulder, “Fifteen minutes, or I come drag you out myself!”

 

In the bathroom, I shut the door, facing the mirror. My heart beats wild. I fluff my hair, check my lipstick, staring into my own eyes. I look tired but not defeated. Telling myself that counts for something. Also, I’m certain he wants me as much as I do him.

 

I lean against the cold tile, let the memory of Skyler’s laugh replay in my head, smile. The girl in the mirror smirks back, sly, a little dangerous. Perfect. Pulling my dress up, I shove my hand inside my thong, fingering myself.

 

Thinking of his lips, his chest, mouth, tongue, I cum and my body goes limp.

 

Kicking off my heels, peel off the dress, and pull on my best swimsuit. I add lip gloss, sunglasses, a sheer cover-up that leaves nothing to the imagination. I count to ten, steadying my pulse, slip back into the suite.

 

Skyler waits in the hall, already changed, towel over one shoulder. His eyes widen, snap away as I pass. I let my fingers brush his arm, a hint, flash him a grin. “Ready, Mr. Spy for FBI?”

 

Muttering something, indistinguishable, but he’s cheerful again. I push open the door, we step into the sunlight, the whole sparkling coast waiting for us.

 

The pool’s not just a pool. It’s an infinity lagoon, three levels of liquid turquoise cut straight into the cliffside. At the bottom, the real ocean glows a few shades darker, horizon sliced sharp by the summer sun. I can’t help but stand at the railing for a sec, letting it all soak in, arms wide like I own the place.

 

Skyler hangs back, towel balled under one arm. His sunglasses hide most of his expression, but I spot the tic at his jaw when a pair of twenty-something girls pass us, glancing him over and whispering. He does his statue routine, frozen and cool, but the pink rising in his cheeks gives him away. Adorable.

 

I wait for him to catch up, slide my arm through his. His skin’s almost too warm, but I keep my hand there. “You’re a hit already,” I whisper, he scowls, but his grip tightens. I love when I get it right.

 

We stake out two loungers at the far end of the deck, halfway between the swim-up bar and the shallow end, where packs of little kids shriek in five languages. The umbrella’s already set up, a blue-and-white stripe that matches the Mediterranean, the towels are so plush they’re practically rugs. I spread one over my chair, drape the other across Skyler’s, tossing our stuff in a neat pile at the foot. The choreography’s automatic, a holdover from my old modeling travel days.

 

“Claimed,” I announce, and flopping onto my back. The bikini’s new—sky blue, micro-cut, barely enough fabric to call it legal—but it fits. I know it fits. I stretch out, adjust the strings a little, letting my legs fall open, toes flexed toward the sun. Three, two, one: the first pair of eyes lands on me from the next row. Old instincts tingle. I fight a smile.

 

Unsure, Skyler hovers above his chair, scanning the deck for threats. He spots a server with a tray of drinks gives me a pleading expression. Wave him down, ordering two piña coladas, extra pineapple for me. The server nods, gives Skyler a slow up-and-down, walks away. Waiting for the joke, I glance at him.

 

“I don’t have ID.”

 

Rolling my eyes. “You have me. Relax.” When I pat the lounger next to mine, after a moment, he sits, knees locked tight together.

 

Letting the heat do its work, I lean back, close my eyes. The world blurs into background: kids screaming, water slapping tile, the soft thump of music from hidden speakers. I track the warmth as it crawls up my legs, belly, arms. My heart slows, heavy, even, but my thoughts jump all over. I peek through my lashes at Skyler.

 

Pulling at the drawstring of his trunks, he fidgets, flips through his phone, thumbs flying. Taking in Skyler’s perfection, I stare at his chest, the slow up-and-down, the way he keeps shifting his gaze to the girls at the tables, back to me, away. I smirk, stretch again, this time arching my back so the bikini top lifts, a little. One of the older men by the pool whistles, I make believe I didn’t hear.

 

But Skyler catches the ogle, scowls, turns his chair an inch closer to mine. Territorial, already. Wanting to ruffle his hair, I don’t. Sliding my sunglasses on, fold my hands behind my head instead, elbows up, pressing my small breasts out for him to see. This puts me right in his and the old man’s peripheral vision.

 

“Sky, check that old man out. I bet money he’s staring”

 

Yes, the old fuck can’t take his eyes off me.

 

“Yeah, Mommy. I’m gonna go say something.”

 

“No, you aren’t,” I say ecstatic it bothers him.

 

Our drinks arrive, creamy cold, the glasses dripping condensation onto the tray. The server winks at me, but I ignore him. I clink my glass to Skyler’s, “Salud,” and take a long sip. Rum burn, pineapple, the faint flavor of coconut. Perfect. Skyler tries his, makes a face, sips again, braver this time.

 

With that, I lower my voice, all hushed smoke.

 

“You look good, son. Should’ve brought three more pairs of trunks for all the attention.” For a moment, I let my eyes wander down his body, slow. His shoulders really have broadened. No wonder the girls notice.

 

He shrugs, but his foot tapping.

 

“I’m not here for attention,” he says.

 

“Could’ve fooled me. The hair, the sunglasses? You’re a star, a hit with all the birds near and far.” I flick the rim of his shades with my pinky. When he bats my hand away, there’s no heat in it. Need the heat between us.

 

We sit in the sun, drink, drift. A low hum builds under my skin, like I’m nineteen again, floating above my own life. I tilt my face toward the light, feel the world melt. When I look back, Skyler’s watching the water, but every time I move, his gaze drags back to me, hungry, confused. I love it.

 

I grab the bottle of sunscreen from the pile. It’s thick, mineral, the kind that leaves your skin ghost-pale sticky. First, I shake it, hold it out to Skyler.

 

“Can you do my back?” I ask, as innocent as I can manage.

 

But he hesitates.

 

“You could…do it yourself?”

 

So, I pout, the dramatic kind that used to get me extra dessert as a kid.

 

“No, sweetie, I can’t reach. You don’t want your mom burned, do you?” I lean forward, sweeping my hair to one side, and offer him my shoulder blades, bare except for two skinny blue straps.

 

He takes the bottle, uncaps it, squirts a mound into his hand. For a second, he freezes. Feeling his breath on my spine, hot and shallow. After a moment, his palm presses between my shoulder blades. Not from cold fingers, but, I flinch. His touch is softer than I expect, almost reverent. Working the sunscreen in with careful pressure, he rubs slow circles, spreading down to my lower back. The tiniest bit, his hands tremble, I don’t miss the way his breathing stops and starts in weird rhythm.

 

Yippee Ki‐Yay, I’m getting to him.

 

Letting my mouth fall open, I close my eyes. “Mmm. Oh, you’re good at this,” I say, he coughs, but keeps going, slower now, lingering at the small of my back.

 

“Is that…is that enough?” he asks, voice a thread.

 

Laughing, light, bright, I arch into his touch, a bit.

 

“Perfect. I’ll return the favor later.”

 

He pulls away, wipes his hands on his towel, stares at the pool as if it might save him. Twisting around, I face him, and squeeze his knee. He jumps.

 

“Sweetheart, you okay?” I ask.

 

While his ears burn red, he nods.

 

“It’s hot,” he says, gulping his drink.

 

Letting him have the silence, I settle back on the lounger, eyes closed, the sun toast my freshly-greased skin. Every inch of me tingles, I can still feel the ghost of his touch, warm alive, hours after he’s stopped.

 

The sun drops lower. The pool crowd thins out, replaced by couples in white linen and glossy children in crisp polos. The wind picks up, swirling scent of coconut, chlorine, a little bit of sweat. I wrap my towel around my shoulders, scooting my chair closer to his. He doesn’t move away.

 

For a while, we sit, side by side, watching the light shatter across the water. I sip the last of my piña colada, sweet, strong, resting my hand over his. He squeezes, slow, steadily. For the first time in a long time, I feel something close to peace.

 

The last of the sun clings to the edge of the pool deck, yellow gold bleeding into a mess of lavender and gray. Halfway expecting him to bolt for the room, I steal glances at Skyler, but he sits, sipping the dregs of his drink, wrist cocked loose, lazy. The heat might’ve dulled his edges. Or hopefully, he’s waiting for me to make the next move.

 

The power in that is delicious.

 

A shiver works down my arms despite the temperature. I wrap my towel tighter, swing my legs off the lounger, turning to him.

 

“Your turn,” I say, holding up the sunscreen. I waggle it until he looks.

 

He blinks, surprised, and says, “Oh. Sure.”

 

As though he didn’t realize his back could even burn. He scoots closer, knees brushing mine, turning so I can reach his shoulders. His skin’s paler than I remember, childhood tan lines long gone, but the muscle underneath is new. Sharp. Unmistakably adult.

 

So, I squeeze out a cold stripe onto my palm, slapping it onto his shoulder blades, hard enough to make him jump.

 

“Relax,” I tease, husky as I can.

 

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t move away. I work the lotion in slow, deliberate circles. Drawing white streaks up and down his back. The heat from his body seeps into my palms. With my hands gliding over every inch, I chase it, molding to the ridge of bone, the tightness at the base of his neck.

 

Suddenly, he goes totally still. And his breath stalls, catch again, shallow, fast. I dig my thumbs into the knots below the nape, the way I used to when he was a little sad. But this is nothing like then. His skin tastes different these days—clean, salty, a trace of cologne I didn’t notice before. I lean in, close, the tiny blonde hairs along his hairline lift, skin turns to gooseflesh.

 

“Too hard?” I ask, mouth right at his ear.

 

When he shakes his head, the movement is tiny. The tent in his trunks grows. He covers himself with bathtowel.

 

“It’s fine, Mommy,” he mumbles, but his voice betrays him, thin as a paper cut.

 

Following the ridges of his spine, I work lower, down to where the beach towel drapes over his waist. My fingers drift, brushing the edge. I pretend not to notice, but every atom of me is aware. I spread the lotion with wide, flat hands, smoothing away all the tension, but that on his libido.

 

Touching, fondling him, I linger.

 

I can’t help myself. I touch his shoulder, trace the line down his arm, and squeeze, gentle but firm. I look at him sideways, over the curve of his neck, seeing that his eyes are closed. His lips part, soft, vulnerable. For a second I’m scared he’ll say something real. Instead, he breathes.

 

Around us, the pool party churns on. Someone does a cannonball. A chorus of kids shouts in French. A couple at the bar clinks glasses, oblivious to the universe beyond their bubbles. But here, in our slice of shadow, the world’s gone narrow, bright, and hot.

 

Finishing the last sweep of lotion, I pat his back, twice, quick.

 

“All set,” I say, tossing the sunscreen onto the table.

 

For a moment, he sits, back still to me, arms braced on his knees. I watch the play of muscle along his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hands. I know that tremor. I gave up making believe not to love it.

 

Finally, he turns, glances at me, eyes wide, searching. For what, I’m not sure. I smile, the softest one I have, and brush a stray lock of hair off his forehead. He doesn’t flinch.

 

“You’ve grown up,” I say, simple, true.

 

Nodding, he stays still, glancing down, I catch the bulge of his hardened prick. But the words hit him somewhere deep, and I see it in the lines of his mouth. The way he bites the inside of his cheek. I want to say more, but I don’t trust myself.

 

Pulling the towel around me, I shift back to my chair, sink in, drained, and buzzing at the same time. The air’s cooler now, the pool crowd thinning to a handful of die-hards. The servers have switched from tropical drinks to Spanish wine, the terrace lights flicker on, one by one, throwing gold onto our patch of stone.

 

With nothing left to do but watch the light fade from the world, we sit side by side. I cross my ankles, settle my hands in my lap, stealing one last look at Skyler. He sits rigid, but every so often, his eyes dart over to me, quick and hungry.

 

I let him.

 

For a while, neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t make the moment shatter. Instead, I close my eyes, inhale the night, letting the last heat of the day soak into my bones. Somewhere in the dark, the waves crash.

 

Is it possible, they’re singing a love song for us?

 

Chapter 2: Evening Temptations

 

The bathroom mirror floods my body with white light, makes my skin look almost edible. With my hips angled, I pose a lil’, left knee knocked forward so the red dress snaps tight across my stomach. The fabric’s double-knit, something expensive with a single seam down the back, hugging every inch.

 

The way it fits, you’d think it’s painted on. Smoothing imaginary creases, I run my hands over the curves, twists to check my ass. Still there, still the only thing gravity never touched. I smirk, part my lips in the mirror, and let my hair spill across both shoulders. The effect: dangerous. I love it.

 

Skyler’s reflection fills the frame behind me, first as a shadow, as a blur of white shirt and nervous energy. He steps out of the bathroom holding a comb like a weapon, eyes fixed on the tile, not the mirror, but I catch him peeking. The dress stuns him every time, but he’ll die before he admits it.

 

“You ready?” I ask, but I watch his answer in the glass.

 

He shrugs, tugs the collar straight. The shirt’s still a little big, sleeves rolled, but he cleans up fine. I check his hair, mine, both of us together. A high-gloss ad for family trauma, except hotter. The combo works. I want to capture it, pin us down in this perfect hour before the night gets ruined.

 

hovering near the mini-fridge, he keeps his hands moving. I dab perfume on my throat, wrists, the cleavage of my breasts. Smiling to myself when I catch him watching my fingers as I trace the skin there. I grin, slow, drag the wand up the inside of one arm.

 

“This place has a photographer, you know. Probably wants to shoot the guests for their Insta.”

 

Skyler’s mouth quirks. “Do they do post-processing for acne scars?” He’s joking, but the flush at his neck says otherwise.

 

“Baby, the only filter you need is me,” I shoot back, and slide on my heels. My whole body shifts up and out, chest first, legs elongated to infinity. The movement pins him in place. And his breath stutters, but he holds it together.

 

With the air between us thick with secret lusting, we ride the elevator in silence. The mirrored walls trap every angle. The soft curve of my hip against the glass, the tension in his jaw as he stares at the numbers, not me. I rest one hand on his arm, squeezes to remind him I’m in charge. The doors open, and we step onto the marble. The restaurant’s so close we smell the grilled sea bass before we see the sign.

 

Inside, a host in black silk glides us to a table near the window. The sun’s gone, but the ocean holds a last glow, silvery-blue, tossing whitecaps against the glass. The room buzzes with low laughter and crystal, the tables a little diorama of extraordinarily, unhappy people. I love a crowd. I always did.

 

So we sit, I cross my legs, angle them toward Skyler. Gawking around, everywhere but at me. ceiling fixtures, salt shakers, the rim of his water glass. With our elbows close, I lean into the table, and study the menu, but I’m really scrutinizing him. His fingers drum a tattoo on the tablecloth, but his other hand flexes under the napkin, white-knuckle grip.

 

A server slides up with a bottle of red, gives the little speech about the vineyard. Nodding, I let him pour and swirl the glass. The server tries not to stare down my dress as he pours Skyler’s but fails. His eyes flicker between my cleavage and my eyes, trying to decide which is more dangerous. Locking eyes with him, I smile, and win.

 

We order—Sky picks a steak, but I go for the sea bass. I hand the menus to the server, fingers brushing his for a heartbeat. His ears flush. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and face Skyler, full beam.

 

“So,” I say, as if it’s a first date and not a lifetime sentence, “do you know what you want to do next year?”

 

Stiffening, he doesn’t answer right away. “Dad thinks I should apply to UCSD. For engineering.” But Skyler’s quoting, not agreeing. The words sound foreign in his mouth.

 

Letting my hair fall to one side, I tilt my head.

 

“Is that what you want?” I pitch my voice soft, maybe softer than needed. I rest my hand on the table, close enough that he’d only have to reach an inch.

 

He shrugs, but his eyes finally meet mine.

 

“Doesn’t matter what I want.”

 

Performing my concern, I frown. “Of course it matters. You’re eighteen. You could do anything.”

 

He snorts.

 

“That’s not how it works.”

 

Showing my teeth, I grin. “Fuck your father. It’s exactly how it works, honey. Trust me.”

 

A pause opens up. The room’s full, but all the noise slides to the edges. The red wine burns my throat, heats my cheeks. I can feel the whole night pivot, hinge on the next thing I say. I lean in, low, conspiratorial.

 

“You could take a gap year,” I whisper. “Or skip to Europe. You’d get so much attention there.”

 

Surprised, he chuckles.

 

“What, as a model?”

 

Winking, I bob my head three times.

 

“Yeah, you’ve the jawline for it.” Then I let my eyes linger on his mouth, long enough for him to catch the drift. His cheeks flare, a gorgeous raspberry. I want to eat him.

 

The food arrives. Mine’s a rectangle of fish, dusted with edible flowers. His steak bleeds pink onto white porcelain. We eat in bursts, the conversation never steady, always swinging between light and heavy. Every time he looks away, I cross and uncross my legs, let the slit in the dress creep higher. I know what I’m doing.

 

Midway through, I slide my shoe off under the table. I stretch my toes, let my foot drift sideways, find the inside of his calf. He jumps, a twitch, and I pull away, quick. He glances up, tries to read my face. Daring him to call me out, I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t.

 

The wine disappears fast. I order another bottle. I compliment his hair, the shape of his hands, the way he’s growing into his body. At first, the comments land safe, motherly, but I push them, feather the line between nurture and hunger.

 

“You’re getting so strong,” I say, reaching across to squeeze his forearm. His muscle’s lean, but firm, he flexes. “Makes me feel old.”

 

Sheepish, he grins. “You don’t look old.”

 

Locking his gaze, I lower my voice to husky sexy velet. “Be honest. I could pass for your sister, couldn’t I?”

 

He blushes, tries to chuckle, but it catches.

 

“Maybe. With better lighting.”