by Mika Jolie
“What’s in it for me?” she finally asks.
Me. My lips on your bare shoulder, kissing your skin until you melt. “It’ll make me happy.”
This has her arching a brow. “Is this an ego thing?”
As always, our conversation has a natural rhythm. No long, drawn-out, awkward pauses, or one person dominating the other. “What do Jay Gatsby and I have in common?” I ask, referring to one of my favorite literary characters ever written.
“You’re both obsessed with a woman you can’t have,” she mocks, her voice filled with amusement. “You must tell me who it is.”
All of my wickedly dirty thoughts have been about this woman. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet. Not until I decide if whatever is going on inside me is worth pursuing.
I laugh, shoving any possibility of Cori and Dean aside for now. “Not even close. Gatsby walked into rooms wearing a shirt with no collar. Even a little thing like that made people talk. I bet you they still do, in today’s society.”
“Your point?” she asks after a forkful of her Caesar salad.
“Personal wattage. Some people are lucky enough to win it in the biological lottery. I like to think of it as a matter of attitude. And the right clothes don’t hurt.”
“Got it, Morello, I should never question your ego.” She laughs again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“Do you like Brandon?”
Between you and me, the answer is no, that’s already established. You think I’m going to lie here, don’t you? Well, sit back and learn. “Does it matter?” It’s called answering a question with a question.
“You know it does.”
The truth is, under different circumstances I might actually like the guy. “It’s about how you feel Cori. Do you like him?” This is a crucial piece of the puzzle. My next move hinges on her answer. If she’s into the guy, I’ll quietly bow out. Not that I’m officially in a race for Cori’s attention.
She shrugs. “He’s nice.”
“Just nice?” Any woman who describes a man as ‘nice’ never turns out to be into the guy.
“I don’t know. Feels like something is missing.”
Hope kicks hard in my heart, wanting to come out. Hope. “Like what?”
“Chemistry.”
“You can’t force chemistry to exist where it doesn’t.” I can’t help but wonder if she can feel the sexual tension crackling in the air. “The same way you can’t deny it when it does.”
“Like us.”
She’s right. The chemistry between us can set this place on fire. Not trusting myself to speak, I lean back and let her words soak into my system.
“We clicked the moment we met.” She takes a sip of her wine then asks, “How old was I?”
“Seven,” I answer, voice low.
A smile touches her face. “That was twenty-years ago.”
I nod and take another swig of my beer. A barrage of memories hit me. The day we climbed the large oak tree at our local elementary school and spent hours discussing Toy Story. The framed photo in my office, of Kate, Cori, and me in midair in our black graduation gowns, celebrating our last day of high school. The time she jumped on my back during a flag football game, and my mother snapped a picture of us with our tongues sticking out.
Over the years, we’ve shared laughter, secrets, even tears.
My heart squeezes hard. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”
“There aren’t that many men I click with.” Cori leans forward and holds my gaze. “But you and I . . . God, our energies just flow, you know. Nothing between us is forced or coerced. We’re just . . .”
“Present,” I add.
“Yes, we’re present.” She answers with an expression on her face I can’t quite read. A weird silence stretches before she says, “Thanks so much for standing in your underwear for over one hour while a bunch of women drooled over you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
“How can I repay you?” she asks, face bright, seeming back to her regular self.
“You owe me a dance.”
She blinks. “A dance?”
“We didn’t dance on my birthday. That’s the reason why I’m asking you to wear the dress tomorrow. I want my birthday dance.” I put down my beer, look her in the eye and say very seriously, “Wear the dress for me tomorrow, Cori.”
For a minute, she says nothing and gives me a long calculating look, as if she’s waiting for me to retract my request. When that doesn’t happen, she takes a sip of her wine, then says, “You’re right, I do owe you a dance.”
Ladies and gentlemen, this is why Cori is my Nemo. If she gets lost in the great big ocean called life, I’ll find her.
“Men and women can be friends.”
TWENTY-ONE PILOTS IS BLARING in my car. I’m spitting out the lyrics to “Stressed” along with the alternative duo as I pull my car in front of my parents’ estate. Quickly, I tap the security panel and watch the impressive wrought-iron gate swing open.
I steer the car down the long, well-lit driveway. My parents’ manor, partly covered with creeping ivy, epitomizes sophistication. The architecture is classic, timeless—red brick exterior, slate roof, pool, spa, and an illuminated tennis court. From the outside, your first thought is, this place is stunning, and you’d think inside must be pristine—which it is—and rigid—which it has never been. At our craziest, Katharine and I have wrecked every wall with crayons. We called it art, and our parents let us.
I maneuver my car along the long driveway, passing a large, grassy lawn, manicured hedges and shrubs, and park beside a dark-blue Ferrari. “Caught the game last night?” I ask Paul casually while handing my car key over. He’s one of my parents’ permanent staff members and is working the valet parking for the evening.
“Think Cavs will repeat?”
“Need defense.” I answer. We exchange a firm handshake. “See you later.” Before I can reach for the hand-carved, wooden, double-doors, they swing open.
Oliver—also known as Chief—stands before me in his sixty-seven-year-old British grandeur, upright and rigid like a sergeant major, except he’s our family butler. Yes, Kate and I grew up with a butler. I mentioned before, we were born with a silver spoon in our mouths, and I’ve never felt guilty for it. If anything, it’s a drive for me to work as hard as my dad, so I can pass on the same mindset to future little Deans. That’s if I ever have children. Right now, it’s not on my radar as I step onto the limestone floor inside the impressive double-story entry foyer.
“Hi, old chap,” I greet Oliver.
He’s been running our household since Katharine and I were tiny little knuckleheads.
“Your coat, sir?” Oliver’s familiar English lilt asks over Dean Martin’s warbling voice crooning “Volare” from hidden speakers strategically placed throughout the house.
I slip off my navy peacoat and hand it to Oliver. Don’t roll your eyes. I can hang my own coat, but doing so would be an atrocity in Oliver’s guide on ‘how to run the home and other royal etiquette.’
“I see we have a full house.” I glace over at the few guests parading by the crackling fireplace in the lounge area.
“Fifty of your closest friends.”
My lips twitch in amusement. When it comes to friends, my motto has always been less people, less bullshit. Sure, I know half of the town, but other than my family, there’s only three other individuals I’d consider getting shot for. My parents are deeply ingrained in this town, and by the magic of genes, so are their children.
“How long have you been with us, Chief?”
“Twenty years, sir,” Oliver answers after hanging my coat in the large closet.
He’s witnessed our stages of terror, our struggles with puberty, when my sister became a drama queen, and I turned into a zombie. The geezer even caught me sneaking girls to my room on several occasions. Instead of scolding or ratting me out to my parents, he walked into my room one morning with a box of
condoms, gave me a pep talk about safe sex, diseases, and unwanted baby mama drama. That morning, after he left my room, I added the box to my collection.
Fun times.
I clap his shoulder. “It’s time to drop that pretentious British accent.”
“Women love accents,” Oliver points out.
I chuckle. “Good to see you haven’t lost your wit, old man.” I enjoy a good banter. Oliver and I always bounce remarks between each other like a kid’s rubber ball. “See you in a bit, Chief.”
“Behave, Sir.”
“When you stop calling me sir, I’ll behave.”
“Never, Sir,” I hear Oliver say as I head down the hall.
Welcome to my parents’ humble palace, a little piece of paradise, nestled on two acres of land, secluded among old oak trees. The house where Katharine and I grew up is a prestigious, six-bedroom, grand, stone manor. The walls are smiles and cheekiness, decorated with the pictures of the people who have shaped my life.
A grin tugs the corner of my lips. It’s always good to be back here. I love my three-story house. I love my freedom. I love sleeping in my own bed. But this house is always going to hold a place in my heart. This is home. It is much more than the sum of its parts, and for that, I have to thank my parents, the glue of my existence.
I pass the cozy library, the over-sized state-of-the-art gourmet kitchen complete with a pizza oven—my dad’s passion is making homemade pizza. This culinary area is a chef’s delight and is the center of the house. In this kitchen, we’ve spent many Friday nights rolling fresh dough, laughing while Katharine and I play helpers.
Entering the formal living room, I skim over the crowd. People are moving, smiles are emerging, glasses are clinking in celebratory toast, but it’s Cori my gaze is instantly drawn to, looking too gorgeous to be real. My heart—my biggest muscle lately—slams a vicious cycle of beats inside my chest. Her back is to me; she’s circled by three men about my age. Each one staring at her with a look of bestial lust. All of those fuckers would gladly cut off one of their nuts to get in her pants.
You’re wondering whether or not our little Moonchild is enjoying the attention. For as long as I’ve known her, she seems oblivious to the open-mouthed stares. However, the jaded male in me is saying bullshit. Come on ladies, you don’t notice when a guy is wondering if you’re into shrimping or tea-bagging?
Seriously, you can’t tell?
Let me give you a clue. Take the hipster with the man bun, for instance. Yes, the one in the dark-blue velvet jacket and tan slacks. His eyes are resting a little too long on her face. I bet you he’s looking at her lips and imagining the dunking motion of a tea bag when making tea. Now, instead of a cup, he’s picturing Cori’s mouth, and instead of a tea bag, he’s picturing his balls. Trust me, they’re all manwhores. It takes one to know one.
Anyway, she’s enjoying herself. When you know someone like I know Cori, you don’t have to see the other person’s facial expression to know their mood. Look at her posture. Her shoulders are relaxed. Do you see the easy way she touches each one of those pricks?
I bet you her face is sparkling like the glass of Moet in her hand right now. No, make that more so. My guess is, right now, she’s talking about the French countryside mural she painted for my parents.
Cori has two professional passions, teaching and art. Yes, those assholes know she’s the artist behind it. They’ve been to the house many times.
Fucking idiots.
Instead of marching up to her and pulling her away from those lecherous jerks, I let my eyes linger over her appearance. She’s wearing the little black dress as I asked, her hair is pulled in a bun, and the only jewelry she’s sporting are the turquoise dropped earrings I gave to her last year for her birthday.
My dick begins to harden in my charcoal gray slacks with approval.
Down boy.
My words fall on deaf ears. My heart flips-flops, skips a beat. Desire pulses through my veins. I want to taste her like my first cup of coffee in the morning; slowly, yet eagerly.
As I look at her, transfixed by her presence, she turns and pierces me with her gleaming, sugar-brown stare. Then she smiles, throwing me a half-wave as she keeps chatting. I take the wave to mean she’ll be over in a minute, after the three horn balls stop drooling over her.
Soon enough, she says something to her admirers, then heads over to where I’m standing.
“Friends yearn to stay connected.”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AGAIN.” Cori leans forward, parks one hand on my bicep as she places a kiss on my cheek, heating my skin with her touch. “I bought you a gift.”
My gaze automatically drops to her lips. All I want to do is take her in my arms and slam my mouth on hers.
Dazed with lust, I reach for her hand and hold on before the urge to kiss her takes over. “You already gave me a gift. It’s sitting on my coffee table. And . . .” I let my voice trail off, making sure she’s looking me in the eyes, as I finish, “You look beautiful.”
For a split second, her eyes darken, then she lowers her head to her drink, breaking our connection. When she looks back at me, all trace of being affected by my words have receded from her face. “It’s nothing big.”
I frown in confusion, lost for a second.
“The gift,” she reminds me, her eyes twinkling with humor.
Oh. Right. “Where is it?” Other than the champagne glass she’s holding, her hands are empty.
“In the library.”
A vision of Cori’s back against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist, our lips devouring each other, rattles in my head. One more kiss. That should cure this madness. “No time like the present.” I clasp her hand in mine and start toward the doorway.
My sister appears from nowhere and stands in front of us. “There you are.” She hooks one arm in Cori’s. “Can I talk to you for a quick minute?”
“Oh.” Cori glances at me, a slight frown on her forehead. “Dean and I—”
“The night is young.” My sister waves a dismissive hand. “There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.” Kate holds my gaze, silently telling me whatever I have planned when it comes to Cori is not going to happen on her watch. “He’s the relationship type,” she adds, sealing the deal.
Have I mentioned that my sister is the biggest cockblocker ever? In high school, all of her friends wanted me. Instead of hooking me up, she went above and beyond to obliterate any chance of getting close to her friends. I give her an A for effort. No need to tell her I made out with most of them.
“What about Brandon?” I ask directly at Cori. Just yesterday she asks me to give Abercrombie kid a chance. She also expressed doubt about anything developing between them.
“Status quo. Nothing serious.” She holds my gaze captive, giving me a glimpse of her private thoughts. Moonchild isn’t a casual dater, has never been. Nothing serious is her way of telling me they haven’t made it past first base.
Call me selfish, but that makes me happy. “So, you’re still open to meeting other men?”
“Oh, look.” Kate tilts her head toward the bar, where Lucas and Cameron are talking to Cori’s grandmother and her life partner—aka friend. “Your buddies are calling you.” Before I can argue, she’s dragging Cori away into the crowd.
Every bit of me wants to go after them and get an answer, but I remind myself, while patience is bitter, its fruit is sweet. For now, I stay in my corner and watch Cori until she disappears into the crowd.
Needing a distraction, I continue scanning the filled room. Nora is leaning on the bar, her purple dyed hair laying over one shoulder of her bright, Boho dress. Her friend, Tim—who is about twelve years her junior—as always, is by her side. Both of them are engrossed in a conversation with Lucas. I walk over and join them. “What are we drinking?”
In the office, it’s all formality with Nora. Outside . . . Well, we’re friends, family. She throws her arms around my neck into the kind of hug one saves for their favorite son. “Ha
ppy Birthday!” She fixes the collar of my gray button-down shirt as if I’m a snot-nosed ten-year-old. “When are you going to make an honest woman out of my granddaughter?”
By the way, she says this to me every time we see each other. Whether Cori is around or not.
“Cori is like a sister to me. You know that.” In case you’re making the ewww face, I don’t want to fuck my sister.
Seriously.
Shit.
This is me holding to the last bit of control when it comes to this attraction developing towards Cori.
Lucas coughs something that sounds very close to bullshit in his hand. I ignore the asshole.
“How about a shot?” Nora signals the bartender. In less than a minute, four shot glasses, filled with what I guess to be Belvedere Vodka, are placed in front of us. “To getting the girl.” She raises her glass in a celebratory toast.
I can note that I’m not chasing the girl, but what’s the point? It’s been said a few times, and my words have fallen on deaf ears. I clink my glass with theirs in a celebratory toast, and then throw the liquor down the back of my throat. Ripe peaches with hints of almond and apricot burst in my mouth. Good stuff.
Nora places a kiss on my cheek, then lightly smacks the other. “I love you like the son I never had. Cori is in a quest to find a husband. You’re the one. Now wake up and make it happen.”
“Gonna say hello to my mother.” I place a kiss on Nora’s cheek, grab a beverage from one of the waiters moving through the crowd with trays of appetizers and drinks, then stroll over to where my Scandinavian side of the family is huddled—light hair and skin, blue eyes, a narrow nose, and slender body type. A complete opposite of my dad and I.
“Here you are.” My grandmother, Monika—my mother’s mother—pinches off the flow of blood from my cheek. I smile into the blue eyes that belie her seventy-four years. She has laughter lines from her gift for smiling easily, her personality is all there to read in those creases.
“Your girl is here.” My grandfather, Palmer, slaps my back with all of his Scandinavian strength.
