Page 18 of You Rock My World

DORIAN

I walk at a lazy pace as I lead Josie downstairs, prolonging my quiet elation that she agreed to stay. She’s here. With me. A little less guarded perhaps now that we’re alone. And we’re having lunch. We’ll finally talk—and not about my divorce.

In the kitchen, Josie perches on a stool by the island, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the hem of her dress. The midday sun spills through the windows, catching the lighter strands in her hair and the golden flecks in her eyes.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her a bit more relaxed since stepping back into my life. The guarded expression on her face has eased, and I want to keep her like this forever, untethered from the outside world and its responsibilities.

Crossing to the fridge, I tug open the stainless-steel door, cool air whooshing over my face as I grab what we need for sandwiches: turkey, cheese, veggies, and a jar of mayonnaise.

I spread the ingredients on the island next to a cutting board and pluck a chef’s knife from the magnetic holder in the corner.

“Do you prefer tomato duty or mayo spreading?”

Josie’s lips quirk. “What, no personal chef today?”

“Nah, it’s Alfred’s day off.” I shrug, trying for nonchalance when I’m feeling anything but. I sent the entire staff home, hoping for a chance to look a little more… normal in Josie’s eyes. “Figured we could handle a couple of sandwiches on our own.”

“Oh, I see, that’s why you asked me to stay. You needed the manual labor!” Josie teases.

I grin, handing her the sliced bread. “I had my heart set more on the company.”

The words slip out, uncontrolled. Shit.

I check her reaction.

Josie blinks at me, but she recovers quickly and reaches for the mayo. “I’ll spread, you cut.”

I nod, smiling as I busy myself with slicing the tomatoes. We work in companionable silence, layering meat, cheese, and veggies onto the bread. It’s such a simple, mundane task, but doing it with Josie sets a wonderful warmth burning behind my breastbone.

When the sandwiches are assembled, I grab a pitcher of water, fill it with ice at the fridge, and pick up two glasses from the cabinet while Josie carries our plates. On our way out of the kitchen, I make a quick detour to the hall closet to snag a blanket.

Outside, the sun is shining, bright but not too hot for a meal in the garden. Josie starts in the direction of the patio tables by the pool, but I stop her.

“Do you mind a change of scenery? There’s a spot I want to show you. Best view from the property.” I nod toward the lawn. “If it’s okay to eat on the grass.”

Josie’s gaze darts from me to the plush expanse of green, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wow, we’re really roughing it, huh?”

I grin back at her, exaggerating an eye roll. “Relax, it’s artisanal grass. Hand-trimmed. Very exclusive.”

She laughs at that, and it strikes somewhere low in my chest, spreading more heat that coils tight in my stomach.

Swallowing past the sudden dryness in my mouth, I lead the way across the garden.

Josie trails behind me. Her steps are light, but the sound carries over, reassuring me I’m not dreaming.

The yard slopes downward as we move away from the pool, heading toward a shaded patch framed by a line of old sycamores.

I set the pitcher and glasses on the lawn and flick the blanket open, spreading it over the grass. Straightening, I catch Josie pausing, plates in hand, her gaze lost on the horizon.

It’s the same view I’ve admired countless times, but today, it feels clearer because she’s here.

The rolling hills stretch before us, houses tucked discreetly among the trees, their rooftops catching shards of sunlight.

Beyond them, the city opens up, a shimmering grid of glass and movement.

The downtown skyline rises faint and distant, softened by a golden haze.

“I’ve always appreciated how North Beverly Park feels both connected and apart from the world.” I watch Josie’s profile as she takes the view in. “High enough to keep the chaos at bay, but not so far as to feel detached.”

She turns to me then, her eyes shining with wonder. “It’s beautiful, Dorian.”

Say my name again. Say it a million times. Whisper it, moan it, scream it.

I duck my head before she can read my thoughts on my face and flee. “If we’re going to have a picnic, might as well do it right.” I don’t mention how often I’ve sat here alone, guitar in hand, letting the city hum in the distance while I string together broken lyrics.

Josie sets the plates down and kneels across from me, smoothing her skirt under her as she sits. “Not bad,” she jokes, glancing up at me. “For roughing it.”

I smile and pour her a glass of water. Josie takes it as her hair is caught in the breeze, wisps dancing around her face. I’m struck once again by how beautiful she is.

I grab a sandwich. “Shall we test our culinary efforts?” I need to fill my mouth before I blurt out something I’m not sure she’s willing or ready to hear.

Josie accepts the challenge with a grin. “Let’s see if you’re as skilled in the kitchen as you are on stage.”

We both take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. The flavors meld together perfectly. Crisp lettuce, juicy tomato, and savory turkey complemented by a tangy aioli. But something is missing…

“Hmm, good. But my chef makes them tastier.” I frown. “I swear we used the same ingredients.”

Josie laughs. “It’s better than purse food anyway, and the view compensates.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What of the company?”

She blushes. “Can’t complain.”

I take the win home with a smile and don’t push her. Between chews, I tell her more about why I brought her here. “This is a place where I can hear myself think.” I glance sideways at her before turning back to the cityscape as if the comment were casual. It isn’t. It never is with her.

“What are you thinking about right now?”

A ripple of heat skitters over my skin at her question, because the answer is always the same. “You.” I can’t think of anything else.

Her cheeks gain more color, and she looks away. I’ve made her uncomfortable. Quickly, I add, “How’s the last year been for you?”

Josie swallows a bite, considering. “Same old, same old.”

She’s pretending a catch-up is all I meant after admitting I’m thinking about her.

But then a shadow of sadness crosses her face as if something had clouded the months we weren’t in each other’s lives.

I wonder what could’ve made it worse than when we met.

And I can’t play it cool anymore. I have to ask. “So, still unhappily single?”

Her gaze flickers over the blanket and then back to me, guarded.

I stretch my legs out. A casual gesture on the outside as I wait for her answer. But inside, I’m caught between bracing for impact and hoping for a soft landing, like a diver suspended mid-air, unsure if the water will welcome or shatter me.

She swallows a bite before finally asking, “Why do you want to know?”

I shrug, keeping my tone unbothered. “Why not? Just curious.”

Josie sets her almost-finished sandwich down on her plate, her focus narrowing on me in that discerning way she has. It’s not an innocent question, and we both know it. “We shouldn’t discuss my personal life, Dorian.”

I recognize the line she’s drawing, the careful barrier she’s erecting between us. It frustrates me more than it should. Still, I push back. “The other day, we dissected my divorce down to the bones.”

Josie flinches faintly, something she tries to hide as she reaches for her water glass. “That was work,” she counters, her tone measured.

She’s holding the line, or trying to, but I’m not having it. I lean back on one arm, my gaze steady on her. “You asked me all those questions just for work?”

A long moment passes as she studies me with a troubled expression. “What’s happening here?”

I sidestep the question. “Want to play a game?”

Josie stares at the view, stalling. Then, keeping her focus on the skyline, she asks, “What game?”

My mouth quirks. “Let’s play Truth or Truth.”

Josie huffs, a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh if she’d let herself mean it. “That’s not a real game.”

“We can make it real. We take turns asking questions, and the other has to answer honestly,” I propose.

She angles her face toward me, her small frown carrying a dozen silent questions of its own. I fear she might leave it at that, decide I’m not worth the effort.

Instead, she mutters, “Now I’m curious about what you’ll ask.”

I want to rock her boat, to know she has skin in the game, too. So, I destabilize her. “The first question is yours.”

Josie doesn’t speak right away. She fixates on a spot somewhere past me, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her water glass.

Then, as casually as if she were asking me what I thought of the weather, she says, “What’s your biggest regret?”

The question punches me straight in the solar plexus. A dozen possible answers rush through my mind—choices I’ve made, paths I’ve taken, things I’ve lost. But as I look at Josie, there’s only one true answer.