“There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty.”
Steve Maraboli
Darcy Bartholomew was a woman of dreams, if not of means. Born and raised just this side of the poverty level in rural southeast Texas, she hadn't managed to rise very far in her life despite her best efforts to do otherwise with college and more than one journey through trade school. She'd majored in everything from English literature to over the road truck driver, always looking for...something...but what the something was she had never been able to figure out. So, instead, she had dreamed of success with her two most prominent talents, music and writing, only to be told repeatedly that she'd starve if she pursued either one.
It wasn't that Darcy was lazy. Far from it. She understood and embraced hard work. She'd been well respected and even awarded at her many jobs and never had a problem with bad references when they were needed. Some of her jobs had ended naturally for one reason or another, such as being laid off, while others were left when the boredom or stress had become intolerable. Many would say that she was immature and shiftless, a waste of good success material, but Darcy was simply a seeker. Someone always looking for her niche in life. Unfortunately she was nearing the age of thirty-five without having found it.
To make matters worse, Darcy was average to look at. Average brown hair, average build, average everything. Her one distinguishing feature were her eyes. Large and emerald green they fairly glowed with intelligence and good humor. It was often whispered that it was a shame that they were wasted on someone so plain, whispers that she had long ago become aware of and despaired over. She tried hard not to consider herself a failure, but then the whispers of her deficiencies and averageness would come again and undermine her determination not to give them any heed.
Weeks ago she had sent off her latest novel to a publisher in New York and eagerly awaited a response. It was her third novel in a planned series of five set during the first world war. Many months of research and angst had gone into each book, many late nights of writing that made staying awake at work difficult to say the least. But she was determined that the time had come to go with what God had given her and that was a talent in writing. Her day work as a secretarial temp would support her (such as it was) while she crafted her stories at night and sent them off as she finished them to publishers much like a mother would her children. When the inevitable rejection notices came she would immediately submit the books to another publishing house, all the while working on the next installment. As she had been told in countless seminars, writing and becoming published is a process. The emphasis should be on the writing itself, not on the publishing. It was the only way her skills would improve.
So she wrote. And she wrote. And she wrote some more. And in between working on her novels she crafted short stories, essays, and even some poetry. She drove many readers nuts by writing letters to the editor of the local paper voicing her views on important issues, most of which ran against the local majority. But she'd stopped hiding her light beneath a bucket. She had things to say and knew how to say them!
“Have you ever considered self publishing?”
It wasn't the first time her best friend, Ingrid, had suggested it.
“Yes,” came Darcy's usual reply as she set a plate of brownies and two glasses, followed by a gallon of milk, on the table between them, “And it's too expensive.”
“Hmm, that's too bad.”
It was the same conversation they had nearly every time Darcy would tell her of the latest rejection letter and she had to smile despite the depressive bent to it. Ingrid was always indignant when those letters arrived, saying that they were obviously just too good for that publisher. Perhaps for any traditional publisher. She insisted that private publishing was the way to go, to get Darcy's voice out there. Then they'd see what they had missed when those very same books went to the top of the New York Times Bestselling Book List! While there were many who praised her talents, it was Ingrid who was her true cheerleader.
“You anniversary is coming up,” Darcy commented, changing the subject before her friend could launch into her usual rant, “Any plans?”
“Roger's taking me out to someplace special, he says.” Ingrid grinned resignedly, “Probably the new Taco Bell across town. I don't think it occurs to him that there are nice Mexican restaurants that offer tacos as well.”
“So why don't you 'occur' it to him?”
“And ruin my surprise?”
“Explain to me the logic behind being disappointed in something when you have the power to change it first.”
“It's the principle of the thing. I should not have to tell him that I'd prefer to go someplace else. We've been married nearly fifteen years. He should know better by now how I feel.”
Darcy shook her head and took a bite of brownie. “He's a man, Ingrid, and men can be clueless when it comes to their wives, even after a long time together. Sometimes you have to take them by the hand and lead them places in addition to the bedroom.”
“So says the expert in marital affairs.”
“Ouch.”
Ingrid grimaced as she reached for another brownie, “Sorry, didn't mean that the way it sounded.”
“I know. But being everyone's sounding board means I've been given a ringside seat to all that goes on in my friends' relationships. I can't help but to have learned a lot about them despite a lack of personal experience.”
“It's really too bad you haven't found someone to try out all that knowledge on yourself.”
“Ah, well, it just isn't in the cards it seems. So I write and live vicariously through my characters.”
They ate their brownies and drank their milk in companionable silence for a moment before Ingrid asked in a sly voice, “Ever considered a woman?”
“As a lover?” Darcy pretended to contemplate the possibility. “Nah. No woman can ever wear jeans as well as a rodeo cowboy can.”
The friends chuckled and chatted a little longer before Ingrid declared she had to go.
“Roger will be home shortly and I have hot dogs to get ready.”
“Your husband is a junk food junkie.”
“Makes my life simpler. He's easy to please.”
They were almost to the door before Ingrid snapped her fingers, “Oh! I forgot. My neighbors are having a barbecue on Saturday and they asked me to invite you.”
“Which neighbors?”
“Sally and Sam, across the street.”
Darcy had met them a handful of times and had to laugh. Sally and Sam could very well have been twins. Retirees that had indeed grown to resemble one another over the years, they were the epitome of the rare successful long term relationship. And they had taken a shine to Ingrid's best friend, adopting her as one of their own despite not having known her for very long.
“I'd love to but I have things I have to do here.”
“Oh, come on, Darcy! When's the last time you actually left the house for something other than work or the grocery store? An afternoon with the neighbors would be just the thing to get you out of your rut for a while.”
“I don't know, Ingrid...”
“Yes, you do. Now write it on your calendar and bring a bowl of your potato salad. I've raved on about it for so long that they're dying to try it.”
Darcy tried to argue once more but finally acquiesced in the face of Ingrid's insistence. Maybe it would do her some good to get out for a while. And she really liked The Twins.
“Okay, okay. Four o'clock with potato salad. I'll be there.”
“With your car still down for the count, would you like for me or Roger to pick you up?”
“That's okay. I still have the Uber gift card you gave me last Christmas.”
Ingrid grinned, waggled her fingers, and walked to her car, leaving Darcy to shut her door with a sigh. When her best friend was determined she could change the course of a raging river.
By the time Saturday arrived, Darcy was ready for a break. The latest rejection letter had arrived and she had promptly emailed the manuscript to yet another publisher. She'd grown philosophical about the whole process, no doubt thanks to Ingrid's unwavering support, but it still wore her down to have it happen as often as it did. But she reminded herself of how many times J.K. Rowling had submitted Harry Potter before it was finally accepted, and look what happened there!
As it was a casual barbecue she decided upon a pair of worn jeans and a comfortable faded t-shirt from a long ago rock concert to wear, pushed her shoulder length hair back with a plain black headband, and took the short Uber ride across town to Sam and Sally's house, bearing the requested bowl of potato salad. Sally met her at the front door.
“Darcy!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with delight,” I'm so glad you could make it! Get in here, and give me that!”
She divested Darcy of the bowl, deftly holding it out of the way while she gave the younger woman a brief hug, then pulled her further into the house. The French doors were open to the back yard where a crowd of people were gathered and from which county music was heard and the delectable aroma of grilling steaks filled the air.
“Get out here and mingle,” Sally ordered as she led the way out the door, then left Darcy to take the potato salad to a table already laden with food.
Ingrid must have been watching for her because she came racing over with a smile wreathing her face.
“You made it!”
“Did you have any doubt?”
Ingrid grimaced.
“As a matter of fact, I did. Come on, I want you to meet some people.”
Over the next few minutes Darcy was introduced to so many people she gave up trying to remember names and instead concentrated on remembering faces. She'd never been good at remembering names though she rarely forgot faces, a fact she sometimes admitted to those who seemed friendlier than others. Some she'd been introduced to before and she gave herself points for remembering many of their names, or at least some of the conversations she'd had with them at past events. Through it all she chatted and smiled, answering questions about her latest novel and enduring the censure of some who opposed the views she expressed in a recent letter to the editor. She refused to become involved in debates that she's learned early on would invariably degenerate into arguments bordering on verbal warfare. Some people would grow belligerent, refusing to accept that others didn't agree with them, and she had no time for self-righteous drama.
Eventually the steaks were pronounced ready and everyone gathered around the table, helping themselves to mounds of her potato salad, baked beans, cole slaw, and all the other offerings, then spreading out to take their seats on the many chairs scattered around the yard. Leaving Ingrid to share her meal with her husband, she found a chair a little apart from the crowd and settled into it with a sigh of gratitude. Despite her comfortable sneakers and the lush carpet of grass, after nearly an hour of circulating, her feet were killing her!
The steak was a perfect medium rare, just the way she liked it, and most of what she had on her plate was delicious. The bean salad wasn't to her liking but she'd wisely taken a token amount of it so she didn't feel guilty for not finishing it. She'd refused a beer and accepted a can of ginger ale, which she sipped as she ate. Once her plate was mostly empty, she sat back and sighed, replete. Later would come homemade ice cream, something she looked forward to with great anticipation.
A latecomer appeared at the door, accompanied by Sally's husband, Sam. Tall and lean, with the features of someone with Native American blood somewhere in his lineage, he wore his jeans and western shirt very well. His feet were shod with well worn cowboy boots and a straw cowboy hat sat comfortably on his head. He had cowboy written all over him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sam interrupted the voices carrying on a multitude of conversations, “Some of you remember Travis Dalton. He grew up around here before heading off to Nashville. Welcome back, Travis! Get yourself a plate and make yourself at home.”
She watched as he made his way to the table, stopping frequently to shake hands, kiss a few feminine cheeks, and share a word or two with those who knew him.
“Isn't he gorgeous?”
Ingrid's question startled her, tearing her attention away to look up at her friend, who had appeared unnoticed beside her.
“He certainly is,” Darcy agreed then nodded wryly in the direction of a group of older women who were openly ogling him, “and we're not the only ones who think so.”
Ingrid chuckled.
“Most of this crowd are old enough to be his momma, aunt, or grandmother, and the rest are happily attached.” She gave her friend a sly smile. “That leaves you room to...”
Darcy frowned and shook her head.
“Forget it, Ingrid.”
“Why? He's here alone. You're here alone.”
“And I'm not interested.”
“The hell you aren't!”
“I said forget it.”
Ingrid cocked her head as her expression softened.
“Don't feel that way, Darcy.”
“Feel what way?”
“That you're not capable of attracting a handsome man.”
“That's not...”
“Yes it is. You've always believed that and you've always been wrong.”
“That's not it at all!”
“Then what is it?”
Darcy nearly spilled the remaining food on her paper plate as her hands waved nervously.
“I simply don't have the time for a man in my life right now.”
“Bullshit. You have plenty of time if you'd just tear yourself away from that computer for a few hours.”
“Ingrid, I'm a writer...”
“Who denies real relationships in favor of the safety of fantasy.”
Darcy winced in response. There was more than a little truth in that observation. But an abusive childhood and other soul-destroying experiences had bred that preference for fantasy long ago, and she couldn't bear risking the pain and humiliation of any more brutal rejection. She never again wanted to see the derision in a man's eyes when she showed interest in him.
Ingrid took the plate from Darcy with one hand and pulled her to her feet with the other.
“Come on. I'll introduce you.”
“No, Ingrid,” she whispered in panic, resisting.
“Yes, Darcy. Come on.”
Without further argument, Ingrid pulled her across the yard to the table where Travis Dalton stood with a middle aged couple dressed in matching motorcycle leathers, a long neck bottle in his hand. They excused themselves to talk with another couple when Ingrid's approach caught his attention. His smile was warm and welcoming.
“Ingrid! It's good to see you again.”
“Hi Travis. How are things in Nashville?”
“Busy, as usual.”
Ingrid touched Darcy's arm.
“This is my friend, Darcy Bartholomew. Darcy, this is Travis Dalton. One of the most respected studio musicians in Nashville.”
Travis' smile widened, his eyes sparking with male appreciation, as he extended his hand, which she reluctantly accepted.
“Darcy, pleased to meet you.”
“Darcy's a writer,” Ingrid added with a smile, “A real up and comer.”
“Ingrid...”
Darcy's quiet protest went unnoticed.
“Is that right?” Travis asked. “What kinds of things do you write.”
“She's mostly a romance writer,” Ingrid answered before glancing beyond him, “Oops, there's my hubs. You two get acquainted while I go save him from Bob...”
She hurried away, leaving Darcy to face Travis alone.
“Not very subtle, is she?” he murmured wryly once she was gone.
Darcy shook her head.
“No, I'm afraid she's not. I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. She means well.”
“She's a meddler of the first water.”
He chuckled.
“Yes, she is.” He cocked his head to one side after taking a sip of his beer. “So you're a romance writer.”
She nodded.
“Yes, for the most part. But I write other things as well.”
“Like?”
“I've dabbled in mysteries and sci-fi short fiction, poetry, and the occasional article for the local newspaper.” She looked up at him inquiringly. “And you're a studio musician?”
“For the most part,” he responded in kind, “I'm also a songwriter.”
That caught her attention.
“Really? Country music?”
“Usually. But some of my songs have found their way to other genres as well.”
“Do I know any of them?”
“Maybe. I've had one or two that did well.”
“Like...?”
“Have you heard 'Don't You Believe It'?”
“By that rock band, oh, what's their name?”
“Overlord.”
Darcy nodded.
“Yes, that's them. I'm not a huge fan but I liked the song.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Thanks.”
Their eyes held a few moments until color rose in her cheeks and she looked away, feeling awkward and shy. She wasn't certain how to handle the genuine male appreciation in his gaze. It wasn't something she was accustomed to.
“Travis!” a hearty male voice boomed, breaking the moment, “Come sing us a song!”
Other voices raised in agreement and his smile turned rueful. Both grateful for and disappointed by the interruption, Darcy nodded toward the crowd gathered nearby.
“Your fans await.”
With a good-natured shrug of resignation, he took a last sip of beer and set the bottle aside before focusing once again on Darcy.
“Don't go anywhere,” he murmured, then grinned when her color rose again and strode away to where Sam waited with his guitar in hand.
For most of the next hour, until it was announced that the ice cream was ready, Travis entertained guests with songs and stories from his life in Nashville. But before he could set the guitar aside Ingrid called out a request.
“Just one more song, Travis?”
“What's that, Ingrid?”
“A few years ago you sang 'I Did Not Know' for our anniversary.” She snuggled up closer to her husband, Roger. “It was so beautiful. Think you could sing it for us now?”
Travis nodded.
“Be glad to.”
His fingers gently coaxed a ballad from the guitar strings and a moment later, his rich baritone voice softly began to sing.
“I did not know how hard love could hit...”
As he sang, Roger turned Ingrid in his arms and they began to sway to the dreamy rhythm, their love obvious in the way they held one another, in the sweet curve of Ingrid's smile and the gentle possessiveness of Roger's arms, and Darcy was hit by twin feelings of affection and envy. What she wouldn't give to have someone love her like that!
Then her gaze returned to Travis and a shock ran through her when she realized his attention was only for her as he sang.
“...until I met you.”
Warmth spread through her as her eyes met his and the world seemed to fall away.
“From the moment I first saw you, before I even learned your name, I knew, somehow I knew, you were the one...”
By the time the song was over other couples had joined Ingrid and Roger, but Darcy's eyes never left Travis' until the last note was sung. After a moment of silence Travis' gaze was torn from hers when applause erupted and he turned his attention to thanking his appreciative audience.
Darcy, feeling unnerved by the experience, turned away in confusion. She had no idea how to handle this. She'd never before felt such a powerful attraction, and she certainly hadn't ever known a man who seemed as attracted to her. Her heart was pounding and she was having trouble breathing. The need to run, to escape, was almost overpowering. She closed her eyes on a deep breath and willed herself calm.
“He's just a man,” she whispered to herself, “Just a man who puts his pants on like every other man.”
But, hot damn! She mentally shook her head even as she acknowledged the strength of her attraction to him. Few men could wear jeans as well as he did!
“Are you alright?
Ingrid's question brought her back to the moment and she nodded.
“Um, yeah. Yeah, I'm alright.”
“You don't look alright.” Ingrid's eyes roamed over Darcy's face. “You're awfully flushed and you look like you're about ready to bolt.” Her smile turned knowing. “Couldn't have anything to do with those looks you and Travis were exchanging, could it?
“No, of course not. It's just awfully warm out here tonight.”
“Darcy, it's barely eighty degrees. Not that hot. And there's a nice breeze blowing....”
“Alright, alright! So I'm a little unsettled. So what?”
“So it's about damn time someone shook you up a bit.”
“Well, I don't like it!”
“Of course not. It's real and you can't control it like you do with your imaginary romances.”
“There's no romance going on here.”
“Sure. You keep just keep right on telling yourself that.” Ingrid's eyes shifted over Darcy's shoulder and a conspiratorial grin curved her lips. “Ah, look who's here. Travis! Thank you for that song. It was beautiful.”
“It was my pleasure.”
His beautiful timbre voice sent ripples through Darcy's body and she closed her eyes briefly before turning to face him, an over bright smile on her face.
“Yes, Travis, beautiful. Ingrid, I really need to be going...”
“That's okay. I'm sure Travis can give you a ride home, can't you Travis?”
His smile widened as he met Darcy's eyes.
“I'd be happy to. I need to get going myself.”
Darcy sent her friend an irritated glance before returning her attention to Travis.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded before turning to Sam, who was standing nearby.
“Sam, I'm going to slip out and head on home. It's been a long day.”
The older man grinned and stretched out his hand.
“Well, we're glad you could make it. And thank you for giving me the chance to dance with the Mrs.”
Travis accepted the handshake as well as the hearty clap on his shoulder.
“You're very welcome. It's been great seeing everybody again.”
He turned his attention back to Darcy.
“Ready?”
With a last panicked glance at Ingrid, Darcy nodded, collected her now empty bowl, and began moving toward the back door, with Travis' hand riding lightly on her back. It took a few minutes as they exchanged farewells along the way but eventually she found herself seated beside him as he backed out of the driveway and drove the SUV out of the cul-de-sac.
“So where am I taking you?” he asked quietly.
“I live in Old Town, over on Rosewood.”
“Near the park?”
“Yes.”
There was silence as they drove through the early evening traffic. When they paused at a stop light, he glanced inquiringly at her.
“Are you okay?”
She started and nodded jerkily.
“Yes. Why?”
“You just seem a bit nervous.” The light changed to green and the SUV moved smoothly forward through the intersection. “Do I make you uncomfortable for some reason?”
His astute question made her feel a bit foolish, but she answered honestly.
“Yes, a little.”
“Why?”
“I don't know you, and...”
“That can be easily remedied.”
“Yes, but, I...I'm, well crap! I'm no good at this.”
“At what?”
She blew out a frustrated breath.
“Making small talk.”
There were a few moments of silence as he turned onto the town's main boulevard.
“Is it something you always have trouble with?” He paused before asking quietly, “Or is it just with me in particular?”
“Of course it's you!”
Her sharp response startled her.
“I'm sorry,” she sighed, “Yes, you make me uncomfortable. But it's not because of you exactly.”
“Do you mind my asking why, then?”
She glanced out her window, not seeing the tree lined sidewalks as they neared the park, before looking back at him.
“It's just me. I have a hard time with...with some men.”
“Any particular reason why, if you don't mind my asking?”
She struggled with her thoughts for a moment before deciding to continue honestly.
“It's not often that I find myself, um, attracted to someone who, uh...”
“Likes you back?”
She blushed as she nodded.
“Yes.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper but he heard her plainly enough and glanced at her with a gentle smile.
“The men around here must be idiots.”
She looked at him, bewildered.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I can't understand why one of them hasn't taken you off the market.”
“Perhaps because I was never on the market to begin with.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Well, because I hadn't found any reason to be.” She glanced back out her window. “And I suppose because no one ever offered.”
“As I said, idiots.”
For the first time Darcy smiled shyly at him.
“Thank you.”
“For what? Telling the truth?”
“For being such a nice guy.”
“A nice guy who means what he says.” He nodded toward the windshield. “Is this Rosewood?”
“Yes. Third house on the left.”
A few moments later, he pulled into the driveway of the big Victorian that had been divided into apartments. The gloaming light softened the house's slightly run down appearance, but the lot was well tended and not overgrown. There were a few lawn chairs gathered in groups on the porch and in the yard, while a child's bicycle lay on its side near the sidewalk. As they braked to a stop a nearby street light came on.
“Well, thank you...”
She reached for the door handle then stopped when his had touched her arm.
“Darcy, wait.”
Her eyes warily met his and he smiled gently.
“I want to see you again.”
“Travis, I...”
“Please?”
His smile was charmingly cajoling, his eyes warm with something she was afraid of taking too seriously, but after a moment she sighed and gave into temptation.
“Okay.”
She was surprised by his sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” he murmured, “How about tomorrow? Maybe have lunch and spend the afternoon doing something?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“There's an exhibit by a local artist at the museum I've been wanting to see.”
“Then how about lunch first before we go to the museum?”
She smiled and nodded.
“I'd like that.” Once again she reached for the door handle. “Thank you, Travis, for the ride home.”
“Darcy?”
She turned back to him.
“Yes?”
He leaned over and brushed a light kiss on her cheek.
“Have a good night.”
Startled, she raised her hand to her face then smiled shyly before pulling the handle.
“You, too.”
The smile remained for the rest of the evening.
He arrived a little early the next day but luckily she was ready to go, after spending the morning worrying about what to wear, then spending an entire hour trying on different outfits before worrying with her hair. In the end she had pulled her hair back on each side with butterfly-shaped combs and settled on a pretty rose sundress and comfortable white espadrilles in deference to the heat. As the skirt was of midi length, she had foregone the usual panty hose. She just hoped the paleness of her calves didn't blind passersby.
At his knock on the door, she took a moment to catch a calming breath and, with a hand pressed to her belly, crossed the room, muttering under her breath as she went.
“He's only a man...”
Then she opened the door to his smiling face. But, oh, what a man he was!
Dressed casually in slacks and a polo shirt, she had the errant thought that he could have been a successful model. His expression told her he liked what he saw as well.
“Very pretty,” he murmured before holding out his hand toward the doorway outside, “Ready?”
“Just let me grab my purse.”
He bought lunch from a popular food truck near the park and they chose a picnic table beneath some trees close to the central fountain to eat. By the time they were finished, he had drawn her out of her shyness with his gentle good humor and she found herself relaxing and genuinely enjoying herself.
Afterward he drove them to the museum where they spent a leisurely couple of hours admiring the exhibit she had wanted to see as well as the rest of the institution's permanent collection of paintings and sculpture. Following that, they meandered along the street lined with craft stores and quirky gift shops. He bought her a double cone of her favorite strawberry ice cream, as well as fudge ripple for himself, which they enjoyed as they listened to a trio of cowboy-clad street musicians playing songs that could have been heard around a campfire after a long day on the trail. Eventually they found their way to a restored Edwardian-era theater where they took in the classic film noir, “Gilda,” starring Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford. At some point, she found her hand warmly clasped in his and she marveled at the naturalness of it.
It was late afternoon when he drove her back to the Victorian apartment house. They spoke little along the way, but it was an easy silence. At least at the beginning. As they drew closer to home her nervousness returned as anticipation set butterflies to fluttering in her stomach.
He walked her inside and down the short hallway to her door. The aroma of someone's dinner filled the air. A football game playing on a television could be heard from the apartment opposite and the sound of children laughing from the apartment above, but for the moment they were alone.
“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” she murmured after he returned her key he'd used to unlock the door with old-fashioned courtesy.
“My pleasure,” he murmured in return, then gently brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face before trailing the backs of his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, “I enjoyed your company.”
Her cheeks warmed as she leaned her face into his caress. His smile was gentle, his eyes warmly intent.
“I want to see you again.”
“I'd like that.”
“Tomorrow? We can take a ride somewhere. Maybe to the lake?”
She cocked her head to one side.
“Do you fish, Travis?”
His smile turned to a grin.
“Of course. I take it you do?”
“Of course,” she responded then surprised herself by suggesting, “I tell you what. I'll fix what we catch.”
He took a small step closer.
“You're on.” Again he stroked her face with one hand, cupping it while the other settled on her waist. “I'll pick you up about ten.”
“Sounds good.”
“Darcy?” he whispered, his lips hovering just above hers.
“Yes?”
He feathered a gentle kiss across her lips before settling in for one that promised so much more. Raising his head he smiled down into her wondering emerald eyes.
“You are beautiful.”
And for the first time in her life, she didn't feel so average after all.
I agree with Steve Maraboli. And Darcy, modeled after you, seems to have that quality of being a complete woman in and of herself. Something that Travis noticed above her average looks.
You have a way of turning a couple of days into a novella, but the conversation keeps it moving along to the finish.
