Page 41 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

How she pouts at him, all big eyes and pursed lips, renders Cyrus a little miffed. He wants to grab her by the chin, to kiss her until her expression settles. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because that would be inappropriate of him. And Cyrus was nothing if not professional. So, like a professional, he offers the small box wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon.

“I’m, uh, afraid I can’t stay, actually. But I wanted to be sure I dropped this off,” he says.

Alana’s expression falls. It gut-punches him and nearly sends him to his knees. “You’re leaving?”

A dumped puppy on the side of the road wouldn’t have looked so gutted. He’d only planned to stay long enough to talk to her, get these feelings off his chest, nothing more. But in the thirty seconds he’s been in her presence, he can already tell he isn’t strong enough.

“Well, I…” Cyrus swallows the lump that’s settled in the back of his throat. He tries to formulate a reasonable excuse: the chickens need feeding. The house needs to be mowed, or the lawn needs to be painted before sundown. Something, anything. Because if she asks him to stay, he isn’t sure he has the strength to—

“Please stay for a bit? At least let me get you a plate.” She grabs his hand and squeezes it while those big doe eyes look up at him expectantly.

Dammit.

With a sigh, Cyrus relents, white flag drawn in defeat. “Well, now, I suppose I can never say no to the likes of a good meal.” The light returns to Alana’s eyes, and it makes his smile twitch alive.

A memory of his father surfaces—of old flannel and deep crow’s feet that settled in the corners of his eyes. Small features he never knew he’d miss as much as he does. His old man had sat him down after a nasty fight with a girl he dated back in high school, who’d left in tears minutes prior. He’d gotten annoyed over something he can’t even remember now, raised his voice. Acted like an asshole. He ended up sulking on their old porch swing for hours until his father approached, hand on his shoulder, and voice uncompromising. He’d told Cyrus that the most valuable thing in a woman’s possession was her light. This bright, fragile thing that made up who she was as a person. He’d said that some men enter into relationships with the intention of snuffing out that light, stealing it to fuel their own selfish needs with no regard for the hollowness it leaves behind. But the mark of a good man—the kind of man he was raising Cyrus to become—would be his desire to preserve it. To make sure nothing ever made it dim, not even once.

Cyrus hadn’t been mature enough to know what his old man meant back then. But when he looks at Alana, he starts to understand it.

“At least give your present a peek real quick,” Cyrus says. “I can, uh, return it for something else if it isn’t your cup of tea.”

Alana perks up and unravels the little pink bow. She discards the top of the box to reveal a necklace nestled against a pillow of black velvet. She handles the delicate gold chain with care as she holds it up to examine, eyes wide—like she’s been gifted something priceless. “Oh, Cyrus, this is beautiful,” she gasps. Her attention locks on the bezel setting in the middle that encases a small gemstone in the shape of a star.

“It’s Moonstone. At least that’s what the lady at the store had said. Not sure how true this is, but it’s meant to bring good luck. I can always get you—”

Alana’s arms wrap around his middle and cease Cyrus’ babbling. He stands there, stunned, arms held up as if he isn’t sure where to put his hands. She nuzzles into his chest and gives a tight, warm squeeze that disrupts his heartbeat. He’s sure she can hear it thumping erratically against his chest, the traitorous thing. She keeps him in place, smiling into him until his body softens and he wraps his arms around her in return.

When he does, she melts into him further. “Thank you, Cyrus,” she murmurs. Her voice is velvet, affection evident in every word. “I love it.”

Cyrus’ arms tighten around her, reluctant to let go. He hides his smile in the bed of her blonde curls, where the scent of coconut and mango butter tickles his senses. He could live in it, the smell of her. The warmth of her.

“You’re welcome, Darlin.”

It’s Alana who ends up pulling away first. The skin around her ears is tinted red when she does. She looks at him in this way Cyrus can’t interpret, but it renders his mouth dry and his body warm. Cyrus clears his throat, then motions for Alana to turn around so he can clasp the necklace around her neck. He smiles at her, at the pendant sitting so beautifully against her chest.

“It’s perfect.” She admires it for a few seconds more before grabbing Cyrus’ hand. “Now c’mon. The food should be ready here soon.”

Alana drags him over to the party, where stepping into the backyard is like stepping into the very definition of summer. Burning charcoal crackles beneath slow-cooked ribs and bratwurst doused in barbecue sauce, while R&B plays from an old CD player in the corner. Laughing can be heard in every direction, and people are doing cannonballs off the docks. Over by the porch, there’s a group of older men playing cards, with their wives peering over their shoulders as they reminisce over stories. Based on the majority of humans he sees in the crowd, they’re Alana’s family. Although there are a few monsters as well. The vampire couple he’d met at the mall is tucked under a shaded cabana, and Citlalli is over by the docks, kicking her feet in the water. Two men are leaning into either side of her, sneaking kisses on her shoulder or rubbing up and down her tanned legs.

Alana tugs Cyrus over to where a generous spread has been laid out. There are other classic barbecue ensembles he’s come to recognize, like potato salad and baked beans, but what really catches his attention are the rows of chafing dishes stuffed with foods that look and smell tantalizing, but that he doesn’t recognize. Alana takes the liberty of introducing everything to him. Fried catfish, spaghetti, stewed collard greens, candied sweet potatoes, smothered turkey, black-eyed peas, baked macaroni and cheese…

Cyrus’ stomach gives off a loud growl that he’s fairly certain could be heard across the country.

“We still have a few more dishes waiting to finish up before we serve, but do you want to try some? You’re staring at those greens like you’re ready to pounce,” a soft, teasing voice sounds from across the serving table. A woman stands with a wooden spoon in hand, and Cyrus debates whether he’s hallucinating. She’s a carbon copy of Alana, down to the same big eyes and kind smile. Her skin is darker, though, with a crown of thick, blown-out hair hitting her shoulders. Cyrus looks at her in awe, imagining Alana in a similar style.

“Cyrus?”

The gentle rub of Alana’s hand snaps Cyrus back into focus. He prays to the Gods that the heat in his face can be misinterpreted as a sunburn. “Yes! Yeah, my apologies, ma’am,” he bumbles, flashing a crooked smile. “I’d love a taste, but fair warning…if you cook anything like Alana bakes, you may have a permanent house guest.”

The woman grins. “So you’re a fan of the bakery, I presume?”

Cyrus removes his hat, his brows pinched together with comedic seriousness. “Ma’am, if I’m not there at least three times a week, it’s safe to assume I’m dead or severely injured.” That earns a snort of laughter from her, and Alana blushes. “He’s just being modest,” she tells her.

“Oh, I doubt that, honey.” She looks Cyrus up and down, hand on her hip. Then, as if a light-bulb has gone off, she gasps. “Wait a minute now. Is this that cute cowboy you were raving about? The one with the nice a—”

“Mother,” Alana interrupts with a whine. “Can you not? Please?”

Her mother rolls her eyes. “What? I don’t know too many people around here that fit the tall, bronze, and handsome cowboy description, sweetheart.” She grins at Cyrus. “She’s mentioned the likes of a cute regular who likes to chat with her every morning. I knew you had to be fine, but I wasn’t anticipating such a brick house.”