“No! Not at all! It’s just… Ugh. I don’t even know. Overwhelming?”
She sounds nervous, so I gently grip her elbow, bringing her to a stop in front of the Bottle Chapel. It really is stunning. A small structure sculpted entirely out of recycled glass bottles of every color cemented together. With the sunlight hitting it, the glass twinkles like a treasure trove of rare gems and jewels. Turning her toward me, I pull her hands from her face, keeping them both in my grasp.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to embarrass you. Okay, that’s a lie,” I amend. “I love to see you blush.”
Layla glares at me. “Taking pleasure in my suffering? That’s rude.”
I chuckle and release just one of her hands but keep a hold on the other, intertwining my fingers with hers.
“C’mon,” I say, pulling her with me toward the chapel. “Show me this Bottle Chapel of yours. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”
We amble along the spiral pathway until we’re standing at the entrance. The open-air chapel sits in the middle of a raised platform with flowers planted along one side. That side is shaped like a large butterfly, with blue glass bottles outlining the shape of the upper wings, while green and clear bottles fill the interior. Each wing has a ring of amber bottles mimicking eyes. The lower wings are predominantly blue, with the occasional red glass scattered throughout. The opposite side is only a partial wall, but no lessintricate in its design. The back wall is a set of bronze, branch-like fairy wings, stretched wide. The entrance is a solid wall with an arched doorway framed by two glass bottle trees and a blue glass bottle sky. It isn’t large, by any means, but still remarkable.
“Wow,” I say, releasing a slow whistle. “This really is spectacular.”
Layla nods in agreement as she leads us through the doorway. In the center of the chapel sits a bronze sculpted tree with bronze birds littered among the branches. Along the back wall, below the wings, is a mosaic-topped bench.
“It was built in honor of Minnie Evans, an artist that used to man the ticket booth,” Layla explains, looking up into the bronze branches. “Her artwork was inspired by dreams and visions. One of those visions came to her when she was forty-three years old and told her to ‘paint or die’. So she painted.”
I watch her carefully. She looks almost wistful as if she envies the life of the artist.
“Are you an artist, Layla?”
She scoffs. “No. Not at all. Why?”
With a shrug, I say, “Just curious. You seem invested, is all.”
“I just love that she pursued what she loved. She had a vision and went after it. It didn’t matter what anyone else had to say about it. She chased what brought her life.”
This gives me pause. Someone, somewhere, told this gorgeous creature she had to do something other than what she loved.What I wouldn’t give to make her dreams come true.
Hands still clasped, I take a step closer to her, bringing us face to face. “Tell me, Lovely. If you could do anything with your future, what would you do? If you had endless resources and people cheering you on, what would your vision be?”
Layla looks away from me. “It’s a pipe dream, Teagan.”
Raising my free hand, I gently grasp her chin between my finger and thumb, returning her eyes to mine.
“Hey, listen to me,” I say seriously. “Your dreams matter. No matter howunattainable they may seem at the moment. If you truly want something, don’t let anyone hold you back. Now,” I pause, ensuring I have her undivided attention. “What’s your dream, Layla?”
Her eyes pool with unshed tears and I could die right here. The last thing I want to do is make her cry. Layla inhales deeply, then releases her breath. It washes over my face and I do something foolish. Moving my fingers from her chin, I cup her cheek, leaning in to kiss her. It’s a gentle press of my lips to hers. I don’t demand more. This is not the time or place to ask for more than what I’ve taken. Just as I’m beginning to pull away, Layla abruptly clutches the front of my shirt and hauls my mouth back to hers. I grunt in surprise, but I don’t waste a single second winding my fingers in her silky hair and grabbing her hip to pull her flush against me. Angling her head, I run my tongue along the seam of her lips and she parts them immediately. I coax her mouth open further, letting our tongues brush tentatively before I begin exploring her mouth fully. I’ve been aching for her mouth, and I’m not disappointed. Those lips are soft and pillowy, delicious and sweet.
She moans and arches into me, causing my cock to twitch behind my zipper and reminding me that we’re in a public place. I slow the kiss gradually, eventually pulling away, and meeting her wide eyes. Her flawless skin has taken on a ruddy hue and those fecking lips are swollen in the sexiest way. We stare at each other until the sound of someone clearing their throat sounds from nearby. Whipping our heads toward the doorway, we find a middle-aged woman with a bleach-blonde inverted bob glaring at us.
“This is a family-friendly establishment. Not a brothel,” she snaps at us.
Layla lets out a sharp bark of laughter, but I stare daggers at this imposing woman.What the fuck? A brothel?
“Excuse me?” I demand. “Did you just equate our kiss to an establishment where one might acquire a prostitute?”
The lady crosses her arms over her chest and sniffs in our direction. “People bring theirchildrenhere.”
Looking around dramatically, I take in the utter lack of children present before narrowing my eyes. “Aye, that they do, but they aren’t here now.And you stood there watching us,for how long? Seems like if you were that disgusted, you could have easily turned around and walked away.”
Layla buries her face in my chest to hide her giggling. Instinctively, I wind my arms around her waist and hold her close.
“That isnotthe point. You should be ashamed of yourselves for behaving so indecently in a public place.”
“Indecent? You thinkthatwas indecent? Clearly you’ve never been properly kissed,” I fire off, then pause. “Oh. That explains it then.”
