by C. M. Albert
I petted her back one more time and tugged gently at her floppy ear. “Good luck,” I whispered. She licked my cheek, and for some reason, it made me want to cry more than laugh. She followed Suzette back to the kennel with a hop in her step as if she knew everything was going to be okay.
“It’s okay,” I said after her. “I’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Presley
“HAVE YOU HEARD anything from Sylvia?” Willa asked as we munched on salads in the park. We sat in our favorite spot outside the dog park. It was a prime place for cute dogs and even cuter men.
“Not yet. We have a meeting when I get back.”
“And have you called Carter?”
I shot her the world-famous Kincaid stink eye.
“Girl, what are you waiting for? If that fine piece of ass left me his number after a kiss like that—I’d be all up in his business by now.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s only been three days, Willa. Isn’t there some girl code about how fast you’re supposed to call a guy back?”
“I forget how inexperienced you are sometimes.”
It was true. I’d prioritized my school and social activism efforts far more than my dating life. I figured there was time for that once I was more settled, and I already knew what I wanted in a partner. Sure, there had been boyfriends. But nothing serious. Nothing long term. And nothing worth losing my virginity over. Like I said—I hadn’t even believed in the butterflies until Friday night. Hell if I was giving my V-card to just anyone.
“Don’t remind me,” I groaned. “That’s exactly why I’m afraid of Carter.”
“You think he’s gonna care about something like that? Shoot, girl. Most guys dream about that.”
“Wait, what? They do?”
“Where have you been Presley? Do you not read any of the romance novels I’ve loaned you?”
I blushed. I had. But most of the women in those books had already been experienced. The only thing I had in common with them is they all seemed to be described as having a tight hoo-ha. I had no doubt mine was nice and tight since there were iron doors at the entrance. Don’t get me wrong, I took care of my own business. But always with my fingers, and never the sleek vibrators Willa tried to get me to buy. I mean—just no. The math didn’t add up.
“Yes, I’ve read them,” I said, “but I have no clue what men really expect or want. The types of guys I dated in college didn’t prioritize sex, Willa. I know this is foreign to you. But they weren’t guys like Carter, that’s for sure. Those types of men weren’t looking at a woman like me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Presley? Have you not looked in the mirror lately? You could model with me, girlfriend. And I’m not just saying that. I know models who would kill for those cheekbones and that perfect, tiny booty.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure a man like Carter who has openly admitted to being attracted to Lauren would never find me even remotely attractive for long. I have none of the qualities that she does.”
“You’re talking physical appearances only, Presley. Give the guy a chance. He didn’t seem shallow, even though you insisted he was arrogant.”
I sighed. She was right. He hadn’t made me feel unattractive, despite Lauren looking her most beautiful both nights I’d spent with him. In fact, his heated gazes and long inspections had made my skin burn and my insides ache. The guys I was with in college had never done that. They’d either respected me too much or didn’t have the game to openly lust after me.
I had to admit, it was kind of nice to feel beautiful for once. I knew I wasn’t unattractive. I just didn’t see myself in quite the same light as my delusional best friend did.
“I guess you’re right,” I admitted. “I just don’t know if I should call him for personal reasons when I suspect I may need to call him for professional ones very soon. That seems—icky. Calculated.”
“It’s not if you don’t make it that way. Besides, you haven’t gotten the assignment yet. Maybe Bianca was wrong. Maybe they’re assigning it to someone—” she stopped, her eyes fixated on something in front of her. “Presley, don’t look now, but Mr. Wright is headed our way.”
“Huh?” I asked, not knowing if she meant Mr. Wright or Mr. Right. I swung around on the bench to look where her gaze landed. Sure enough, there was Carter, busy on a phone call, the most adorable little puppy trotting alongside him. He was fast walking and distracted.
“When’s the biopsy?” he asked as he flew past us.
I waited a beat. “Did you hear that, too?”
Willa nodded. “Call him, Presley. See how he is. See if he’s okay. Even if it’s as a friend. You owe him that.”
I did. I’d known his dad, Mr. Bob (as all the kids called him), most of my life. Even after Carter left for college, we’d gone back to The Grove. That is, until my father died. Then Lauren couldn’t bear to be there with the memories floating like ghosts all around us. We tried that first summer after he passed, and we both agreed in three days that we couldn’t be there without him.
Willa and I parted ways with a hug, and I promised to call her after I’d spoken to Sylvia. The problem was she got pulled into an emergency and was holed up in the Brain Quad, as we called our “think tank” room, for most of the day. It wasn’t until I got a “ping” close to six o’clock that I realized she’d quietly changed our meeting time on my calendar app. I sighed, packing up my things for the evening.
I enjoyed a class of hot yoga, then grabbed Greek takeout on my way home. I plopped down my laptop bag on the sofa when I entered and set my food on the coffee table. Jar Jar wrapped himself around my calf, so I scratched his tan head, stroking the one ear he had left. Jar Jar was the cat no one wanted at the animal control shelter. He’d been injured and had the most annoying meow. But it was love at first sight for me. And we soon realized the reason for that annoying meow—he had a misplaced bone in his femur from a break no one was aware of. A nasty infection had already taken hold by the time I adopted him, and the poor guy was in all kinds of pain. One operation later, and his leg was fine. But he still only had partial hearing in his one remaining ear.
I changed into my evening uniform of pj’s after taking off my bra. Ah! Sweet relief! It was getting chillier at night, but I was too stubborn and cheap to turn on the heat. It didn’t matter if I could afford to pay the entire city block’s heating bill. If I could make do with a sweatshirt and blanket, I did. It was something my father instilled in me from the time I was a kid: don’t squander money just because you can. That’s how the rich lose everything. By believing it will never go away and wealth is inherently their birthright. It wasn’t. Which is why he’d also taught me about social activism and helping those less privileged than myself—and not just with money (though I did that too), but through acts of service, love, time, and knowledge. He always said the way to raise someone else up is to pass on the knowledge you acquired, so they could do it themselves alone someday.
Damn, I missed him. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through some pictures of my father that I’d posted to my social media feed in the past. “Hi, Daddy,” I said quietly.
That’s when I noticed a new friend request. From Carter, no less. I swallowed, daring to open his account. Fuck me. The man was wearing thick, dark glasses in his profile picture, and the nerd in me about had a nerdgasm on the spot. I clicked the picture to see it in full. My nipples tightened at the sight of him with his bright blue shirt opened a few buttons, his hands casually shoved into his pockets like he did all the damn time, and those freaking glasses.
I knew it was masochistic, but I curled up on the couch and flipped through the pictures of him in his news feed. Carter at a charity fundraiser in a tux. Carter volunteering at a local, inner-city school. Carter sitting in a hammock, reading a book. Could my loins get any wetter? Then I landed on Carter at a beach with water so blue and clear I could see
the sandy bottom. He was in nothing more than a pair of swim trunks, holding the largest conch shell I’d ever seen over his head.
Yep, I could get wetter.
His stomach was perfection in ways I never even knew existed. His chest was solidly chiseled, his small brown nipples catching my eyes despite the tan he was sporting. And his shoulders . . . who knew men had muscles that did that? His dog tags hung around his neck proudly, his dimples framing that genuine smile that lit up his whole face. A half-sleeve tattoo covered his lower arm that I didn’t know he had because he’d been clothed both times I’d seen him as an adult. I had to admit . . . it was sexy as hell.
I’d forgotten all about my salmon kabobs and Greek salad as I drooled over Carter’s godlike physique instead. I knew it would only bring me agony, but god help me, I saved the pictures of Carter in glasses and Carter on the beach to my phone. I would be imagining what that happy trail of dark brown hair on his tummy and the deepest V I’d ever seen led to. Surely there was a treasure at the end of that hunt.
I swallowed. Did I have the nerve to do this?
Before I could stop myself, I dialed Carter’s number. I’d already added it to my phone the morning after the wedding. Just in case.
“Hello?”
My mouth ran dry as I thought about Carter’s abs, remembered the way his hips felt under my fingers when we kissed. How I’d wanted to wrap my hands around him and cup those tight buns of his.
“Hello?” he said again.
It was now or never.
“Hi, Carter. It’s me, Presley.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carter
I WAS SITTING at my desk in my home office when she finally called—three days after I’d left my number for her. Not that I was counting. Her voice was soft and hesitant. Not at all the sassy, loud, confident Presley I knew.
“Hey, princess,” I said, deeply. “Thought maybe I’d scared you off.”
“Well, no, I was just busy.”
“But now you’re free?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. I was calling to take you up on your offer, actually.”
“And what offer was that?”
I was going to make her work for it. I needed to know she wanted me.
“Carter, you know damn well what I’m calling about. I don’t need to say it.”
“Why? Does it make it too real? Is Presley Kincaid afraid of where that kiss was gonna go if I’d had you alone?”
It had been all I could think of these past few days. The bare shoulder that was exposed in her bridesmaid’s dress. The way the front swished as she walked, and then parted to reveal long, smooth legs that were so sexy they could make a grown man cry.
“No,” she replied, though I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. That was interesting. The Presley I knew at thirteen had all but demanded a kiss from me. This one? After I’d already kissed her? She seemed hesitant. Unsure of herself.
“I just don’t usually kiss on the first date—and that wasn’t even a date. Not only that, you kinda stole our first kiss from me with your whole asshole move on our entrance.”
I chuckled. There was the Presley I knew.
“And yet, when I got you alone, you kissed me back. Not only that, but you clung to me, Presley. You pressed your sweet little body against mine and moaned into my mouth.”
She gasped, which made a deep chuckle rumble low in my belly. “Have you been having the same naughty dreams about me that I’ve had about you?” I pressed.
“First of all, I did not moan into your mouth. I would never do that. Second of all—”
“Oh, but princess, you did. It was the hottest little whimper I’ve ever heard.” My cock swelled in agreement.
“Carter! That’s not why I’m calling. You asked me on a date. If I don’t kiss on a first date, I most certainly don’t have sex on one either. If you want a date, you can have a date. Nothing more.”
I contemplated her words. Did I just want to see Presley again because she was a complicated puzzle I wanted to figure out? A series of contradictions I wanted to unwrap? Or was it because she’d grown into one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen?
I thought of her light freckles across the bridge of her nose that were covered when the wedding started, but that I noticed when I tucked her into bed after a long night of dancing and wearing her makeup off. The way her long, strawberry blond curls framed her head on the pillow. The way her hips curved in her soft, silky dress, and how she’d fit perfectly in my arms as the little spoon.
I most definitely wanted more. But I would go at her pace. For now.
“I can agree to that,” I said, “on one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I see you soon. I’m headed to The Grove next week, and I’d really like to see you before I do. Does Friday night work?”
She was quiet, and I could just imagine her biting that damn lower lip of hers, worrying it. “Friday works fine, Carter.”
“Well, don’t get too excited about it or anything,” I teased.
“No, I am excited. I just—Carter, my friend and I were in the park today. And we saw you rush by.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew exactly when that was.
“Is your father okay? I overheard what you asked him.”
The level of concern in her voice almost leveled me. Damn it.
“He’s fine,” I said shortly. I don’t know why I did that. I just wasn’t ready to talk about his surgery yet. Not to Presley. Not to anyone. “He’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Well, if he’s not, will you let me know if I can help?”
I swallowed, closing my eyes.
Sweet baby Jesus. She was sexy as sin and worried about my dad. If I wasn’t careful, Presley Kincaid would break my fucking heart.
THE GALLERY OPENING went flawlessly, and Chelè’s art sold like wildfire. Her work was important too. Her paintings were a combined message about racial inequality and environmental destruction—if you looked closely enough. She’d been easy to talk to, and we exchanged information so we could keep in touch. I’d most certainly be buying a painting of hers in the future.
Friday was here before I knew it. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Maybe because Presley could buy my entire building, and here I’d been so confident and proud of myself when I’d finally scraped together enough to buy this one condo. I looked around, trying to imagine what it would look like through Presley’s eyes. Would she judge me? I’d seen pictures of Lauren’s home in Architecture Today. If Presley was used to growing up in that . . . well, my place would be low rent in comparison.
I shook off the doubt. She’d agreed to a date. Which meant maybe she didn’t care so much about money as I thought she did. I cringed, thinking how I was so quick to pass judgment and called her little Miss Moneybags the first time she got under my skin. It was an easy shot, and one I regretted.
The buzzer chimed, letting me know she was in the lobby. I called down to the bellman and asked him to escort her up. Then I glanced in the entryway mirror, running a hand over my scruff. I shrugged. Good enough.
I wasn’t prepared for the sight of Presley when I opened the door. It wasn’t the fact that she was wearing skintight jeans, low-heeled grunge boots, and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg “Not Fragile Like a Flower, Fragile Like a Bomb” T-shirt under her black leather moto jacket. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting T-shirt for Presley. She was about as fragile as a bomb, and I had the feeling she was about to blow my heart to smithereens.
But it was the smile on her face that stopped me cold. She was grinning from ear to ear at something the bellman said, laughing as she exited the elevator. I’d never seen a smile that big on her face before. Ever. And damn if jealously didn’t kick me in the gut and make me wish I’d been the one to light up her face like that. I glanced at the man who’d be
en our building’s bellman since the beginning of time. He was probably my father’s age, but still. He winked at me and waggled his bushy gray eyebrows. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I escorted Presley into my condo.
“So,” I said as she looked around, her eyes wide and her smile returning, “can I take your coat?”
“Sure,” she said, shrugging it off. She handed it to me and flushed when she caught me watching her. “Your home is beautiful, Carter. Not at all what I imagined it would look like.”
“Um, thanks?” I said, hanging her coat in the entryway closest.
“No, it’s just . . . more grown up than I expected. I thought it would be more bachelor pad than an architectural wet dream. It’s a little Brad Pitt meets Mies van der Rohe.”
“Wow. So you really know your stuff,” I said. “I don’t even know who this Mies character is.”
“Oh, sorry. The geek in me takes over sometimes. He was a German-American architect. Minimalist. Less is more kind of stuff. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. He basically invented the open-floor concept. Used plate glass windows and structural steel walls as room dividers, like you have over there,” she said, pointing to my office space.
“Where does Brad Pitt fit into all this?”
“Oh, he designs as well as builds. You have an eye for his aesthetic,” she commented, glancing around. “Not everyone knows that he builds homes for those in need. I was lucky enough to volunteer on a project of his once.”
I looked at Presley with new eyes. She was a ball full of surprises.
“You worked side by side with Brad Pitt?” I asked, jealousy fanning its wicked flames again. How could I compete with fucking Brad Pitt? Wasn’t he single again?
She laughed. “I wouldn’t say I worked side by side with him. But I did get to meet him. He was really nice.”
Yeah, I bet he was, I thought.
I led the way into the kitchen so I could grab us some wine. I was gonna need it tonight. Presley was determined to keep me on my toes with much more serious conversation than I was used to having with women. Not that I couldn’t. I just didn’t.
