Unspoken (The Prose Series Book 1)

by Sofia Tate

  “What are you doing in here?” she asks haughtily.

  “Why? You miss me?” I counter, still pretending I’m interested in the display.

  “Just making sure you weren’t casing the place.”

  I exhale deeply. This woman. I swear…if I could, I’d have her over my knee just like that, and she wouldn’t have time to blink before I gave her what we both want so desperately.

  I spin around and give her a wicked grin. “If I wanted to rob the place, Buzzy, I would’ve done it by now. Trust me. I’m smarter than I look.”

  “You must be if Princeton accepted you.”

  I turn back to the display case so I don’t have to look into the shimmering green pools of her eyes. “Gee, thanks,” I throw over my shoulder.

  “I mean it.”

  My brows narrow in confusion at her reply.

  I pivot back to her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me.”

  Without warning, her eyes turn soft and warm. “There’s a first time for everything,” she whispers. The heat in her eyes is unmistakable.

  What the fuck? My cock twitches in my pants. I have to leave now before I accept the invitation in her expression, and risk her brother walking in on us.

  “See you back in the living room,” I reply roughly.

  I race for the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face to cool off. I stare into the mirror, wondering what the hell just happened, and even more than that, why she’s a member of an internet dating site.

  I throw my shoulders back and adjust my tie.

  10280girl, brace for impact.

  2

  Bea

  His hands.

  God, his beautiful hands.

  Those strong, masculine hands running gently over my neck, then slowly unzipping my dress. The silk swooshes quietly to the ground.

  Then he unhooks my bra, helping me with the straps, pushing them softly off my shoulders.

  And then…the rough, callused tips of his fingers begin to carefully trace the outline of my breasts, discovering their weight, their fullness. His thumbs circle both areolas simultaneously as he licks his lips hungrily, preparing to devour me.

  But those fingertips…I don’t mind their texture, the rough feel of them. He works with his hands—running a cement mixer, operating a heavy drill, driving a bulldozer.

  He is a man in every sense of the word. He doesn’t sit behind a desk with a Bluetooth attached to his ear 24/7. His gorgeous physique isn’t formed with the help of a personal trainer at the gym, but by hours of hard manual labor that in the end will create a beautiful addition to the New York City skyline.

  And then, he leans in closer to me, his mouth open and ready to take me—

  “Beatrice!”

  I jolt when someone’s hand touches my arm.

  “Beatrice dear, I believe we lost you there for a moment.”

  I look over at Mrs. Penelope Covington, the chairwoman of the benefit where I’m serving as head of the planning committee. Dressed impeccably in a dove-gray Chanel suit, the older woman is one of New York City’s last society matriarchs. Her white hair is styled in an attractive pixie cut, and her rimless glasses sit on the bridge of her nose.

  I clear my throat, turning red at the sea of faces staring back at me, waiting for me to say something. “Forgive me, Mrs. Covington, I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “Happens to the best of us. Now, how are we coming along with the silent auction items?”

  I look over my list. “They’re all set. I confirmed with Mom and Dad that I could donate our house in the Bahamas for a seven-day vacation. Seb is giving us a consultation with his Savile Row custom tailor the next time he’s over from London.”

  “Excellent,” the older woman remarks.

  “I’d love my own personal consultation with Sebastian,” Isabella Richmond comments across the table from me.

  Do not roll your eyes at her.

  I sigh quietly to myself. Isabella lives in my building. Her family can trace their ancestors back to the Mayflower, or so she claims. She’s been after Seb practically ever since his voice changed, and he sprouted about three feet. But the truth is that she’s not the only one who wants to become Mrs. Sebastian Parker. Any girl between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five from a good society family throws themselves at my brother at every benefit, ball, or dinner party. But my brother will never settle down and have children unless my father gives him his “The Parker name must live on” speech, and to my knowledge, he hasn’t yet. But until then, he’ll be the number one Manhattan bachelor, perpetually gossiped about on Page Six.

  I hear a mumbled laugh under someone’s breath. I look across to my best friend, Marisol, full name Marisol Evangeline de la Cruz Boudreaux. We met on our first day as high school freshmen at Spence. She laughed out loud when our chemistry teacher shared my response to one of her orientation questions with the class: “When do you perform unauthorized experiments in the classroom?” Using what logic I possessed at the time as a fourteen-year-old girl, I of course replied, “When the teacher is out of the room.” The correct answer was “Never.” Nobody thought that was funny, except for Marisol, and we’ve been close ever since.

  I look across the table at her. She rolls her eyes at me, indicating that I had indeed done the same subconsciously just a minute earlier, so I need to watch myself around the others, lest I’m caught and my transgression is reported on social media and my reputation as “The Park Avenue Princess” is tarnished. Something I wouldn’t mind, if I were to be honest with myself.

  “Are we still under budget, Maisey?” Mrs. Covington asks another committee member. “Beatrice, would you kindly double-check the numbers as well?”

  “Certainly,” I offer, opening my laptop, but I already know that the budget is fine. Instead of pulling up the spreadsheet I made, I open a blank document and begin writing out my next vignette, as I like to call them. I love Prose because there’s no expectation of dating or hooking up unless you connect with another person. And my vignettes are all dedicated to one person, the one man who my parents fawn over to his face but would never want for a son-in-law because of his lack of social status. The one who likes to tease me with the moniker he bestowed upon me when I was a snotty eleven-year-old and he was eighteen on his first visit to our family home during Seb’s freshman year at Princeton…

  I knock once on Seb’s door. I can’t wait to see my big brother.

  I knock again, but louder this time. I open the door, ready to tackle-hug him when I realize there’s someone with him. Some tall guy with dark hair and large build. They’re playing that stupid Guitar Hero game, acting like total idiots. He’s never brought a friend home before. And his friend is taking my brother’s attention from me.

  “Hey, Seb! You’re home!”

  “Oh, hey, Bea!” He gestures toward the other guy with his head. “Bea, Aiden. Aiden, my little sister, Bea.”

  The guy doesn’t even have manners to look at me, simply yelling over his shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Come on, Seb. Take me to Serendipity for frozen hot chocolate.”

  “Not now, Bea.”

  “But it’s tradition,” I counter.

  “Kid, don’t you have something better to do than hang out with your older brother?” his friend asks rudely.

  I instantly hate him.

  “Well, he’s my brother, and I haven’t seen him since Thanksgiving.”

  “Bea, I’ll take you as soon as Aiden leaves, okay? Right now I have to kick his ass.”

  I look his friend over from the back. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, compared to Seb who’s dressed in his usual polo shirt and khakis.

  “How did you two meet?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “In the laundry room in our dorm,” the intruder chimes in. “Your brother Richie Rich here was about to wash his whites with his colors in hot water, so I taught him how to do laundry.”

  My mouth dro
ps at this revelation. “Seb, that can’t be true. You always send your laundry out.”

  “Times change, sis.”

  I don’t like this one bit.

  I stomp to the monitor and stand in front of it. “Serendipity, Seb. Please?”

  They both shout at me to move, but I don’t care. Noises screech from the speakers. “Ha! Beat you, man!” Seb shouts in victory, raising his guitar high over his head.

  “You suck,” his friend replies in defeat. But then he turns to me and gives me a once-over. “You know what, kid? I’m calling you ‘Buzzy’ from now on because you’re like an annoying insect that won’t go away, no matter how many times you swat at it.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Whatever. Seb, let’s go.”

  I walk triumphantly out of the room when I hear Aiden, the intruder, comment to Seb, “Man, she’s annoying.”

  My brother sighs. “You have no idea, dude.”

  Twelve years later, I still retain the nickname. And as much as I always protest to him that I hate it, I secretly love it because it’s something between us, the only term of affection that marks the futility of desiring something more.

  And then we had that moment in the library when he took off like a shot after I told him that I already knew he was smarter than he looks. For the first time since I’ve known him, I was being sincere, and I scared him away.

  I’ve become an expert at pretending when it comes to Aiden, and now, I’m pretending to care about the difference between ivory and alabaster tablecloths as I begin to type away.

  Someone ungraciously nudges my chair. “Hey, you.”

  I look up to see Marisol standing next to me. “Earth to Beatriz. The meeting’s been over for five minutes.”

  I shake my head, smiling at her nickname for me, the Spanish version of “Beatrice.” “Sorry,” I mumble. “Just finishing up these last notes. What’s up?”

  Her dark brown eyes study me carefully. “You tell me. My house. Vamanos!”

  Marisol conveniently lives around the corner from me on East 69th Street in a gorgeous limestone townhouse. I used to dash over to her place whenever I got into an argument with my parents as a teenager. But they didn’t mind so much because it eased their minds knowing where I was and that I was safe.

  Once we walk into her house, we stop in the foyer. She calls out, “Hola! Bonjour!” echoing two of the three languages she grew up speaking. Before I even take another step, she pulls me back and lifts her nose into the air as if waiting for something to happen…

  “As-tu perdu ton esprit? Il n’y a aucun moyen en enfer je voterai pour cela!”

  “No soy ese tipo de artista. Mi trabajo es mi pasión. Dile a ese colector idiota si no le gusta, puede devolverlo a mi y lo donaré al MoMa!”

  Marisol smiles to herself, shaking her head. We glance at each other, bursting out laughing. With my basic knowledge of French and Spanish, I can tell her father, Etienne Boudreaux, is arguing with one of his brothers and her mother, Paloma de la Cruz Boudreaux, has an issue with her gallery rep.

  As a teenager, I always loved coming over to Marisol’s house, not just to see her, but also to be around her parents because they are so different from mine. Etienne Boudreaux is the youngest of three brothers whose family owns Boudreaux Oil based in New Orleans. The family legend goes that he met his future wife on a visit to her native Colombia. Etienne’s father, Jean-Luc, took his three sons with him for a meeting with Paloma’s father, Rafael de la Cruz, a leading Colombian industrialist.

  At the meeting in the sumptuous de la Cruz mansion in Bogotá, Etienne grew bored and decided to explore the house. He heard someone singing behind a closed door, and when he opened it, he found a petite woman wearing a white T-shirt and ripped jeans with silky hair as dark as black ink streaming down her back, sitting at a pottery wheel, simultaneously working and singing something in Spanish.

  The floor below him creaked when he took a step toward her. She swung around, fire in her brown eyes at the sight of the stranger, jumped to her feet, and began yelling at him in Spanish.

  Etienne didn’t understand a word, but it didn’t matter. He was in love.

  Unbeknownst to her, Paloma, the youngest of Rafael’s three daughters, had met her match in Etienne. Both were considered the black sheep of their families because neither were interested in joining their family companies, choosing to follow their own path. Paloma wanted to be an artist, while Etienne’s mantra was that of his native New Orleans: “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

  And they had not just good times, but the best times together. They had two weddings in Colombia and New Orleans, their family companies went into partnership together, Paloma became a famous artist, Etienne joined his family’s board of directors, content to live off the dividends from his family’s stock options. They settled in New York City so Paloma could be closer to the art world, both of them away from the shadow of their families.

  Whereas my parents met at a 4th of July party at the Bathing Corporation in Southampton, which members call “The Beach Club” or how I refer to it: WASP Central.

  I wish my eyes lit up or I was inclined to gesture animatedly whenever I talk about my parents the way Marisol does about hers. My childhood was dull and colorless, filled with ballet classes and French tutors, my parents ensuring I would become the perfect society daughter. But then I met Marisol, who made my teenage years bearable.

  “Hola, mija,” Marisol’s mother calls out to Marisol, sweeping into the foyer dressed in a black silk caftan, her dark hair wrapped tightly in a midnight-blue Hermes scarf, feet bare of shoes.

  “Hola, Mami,” she replies as she envelops her in a tight embrace, kissing both of her cheeks.

  Then she turns to me, greeting me the same. “Always so beautiful, Beatriz. Como estas?”

  “Estoy bien, gracias.”

  “What happened on the phone?” Marisol asks her mother.

  Senora Boudreaux waves her hand in the air. “Ay, dios mio!” She then launches into a fiery tirade in Spanish with Marisol nodding her head in comprehension while I can only catch certain words.

  “Oh my, what has my beloved in such a tizzy?” a Cajun accent rings out from the top of the staircase.

  Tall, blond with hints of salt and pepper at his temples, and dressed in a white button-down shirt and pressed jeans, Marisol’s father, Etienne, descends the stairs toward us. He wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I don’t like hearing ma femme so unsettled. What’s happened, chère?”

  She then turns to her husband, repeating what she just said to Marisol, but not in French or English. Another reason I love Marisol’s parents is that they’ll speak in their native languages to each other and completely understand what the other one is saying.

  He nods his head in understanding, turning to address his daughter and me, giving us each a hug. “Ladies, I think it’s time for our siesta.”

  Reverting his attention back to his wife, he gently takes her by the shoulders, leading her up the stairs, with her still explaining the situation in Spanish and him nodding away.

  I stare after them wistfully. “I want that someday.”

  “Since when?” Marisol exclaims in my ear.

  My mouth drops at her blunt question. “I don’t know,” I reply truthfully.

  She grabs me by the elbow, pushing me to the back of the house. “Right. I’m going to whip up some peach sangria for us, and we’re going to talk in the solarium.”

  “But it’s only noon,” I counter.

  Marisol sighs. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Bea. I know they don’t teach you this at WASP University, but you’re actually allowed to drink at other times during the day besides right before dinner.”

  I keep silent as Marisol sits me down in one of the bay windows of her family’s solarium that opens onto their back garden. I gaze out the window as I hear metal clinking against glass in the kitchen, with my best friend returning soon after, carrying a tray with a tall pitcher of sangria and two empty glasses.
I watch as she pours us each a liberal amount of alcohol, settling into the chaise across from me.

  “Salud,” she toasts us as we clink glasses. I fold my legs under me, leaning my back against the glass window.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Marisol begins.

  I take a long swallow from my glass. “Have you ever woken up one day and seen things differently, like something that’s been in front of your face the whole time and suddenly it all becomes clear to you?”

  “Maybe. But I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  Neither do I. How do I explain to her that the guy I’ve loathed for years, the one who I always complain about to her, is now constantly on my mind? I can’t even explain it to myself. Is it because he’s so different from the men in my circle? That he makes me feel things that no other man I’ve ever known has brought out in me, and that these feelings both scare me to death and arouse me to the point where I have to remind myself to breathe?

  Fuck it. That’s another discussion. Save it for later. Try another tack.

  “Do you ever feel like you need more?”

  “More from what? Life?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Are you kidding? My life is crazy enough as it is. Just look who my parents are. If I ever added something more to my life, I think I’d spontaneously combust. My life is definitely not empty.”

  “I know, and I’m envious of that. My life is all about benefit committees and making small talk with men who can’t discuss something other than their investment portfolio or their annual conundrum if they should summer in Southampton or Martha’s Vineyard. Nothing excites me. Nothing inspires me, except…”

  I catch myself, worried that Marisol will judge me about Prose.

  “Except what?” she squeaks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  She jumps up from the chaise, rushing over to me. “No, no, no, Beatriz! Spill. I’m your best friend.” She takes my hands in hers. “You know you can tell me anything.”