by Roya Carmen
To read the first chapter, scroll below.
Excerpt: Loving Amber
As I hike up my dress without a second thought, I don’t realize what a bad idea it is. But as soon as I see the expression in his eyes, I know. He stares at my legs with a bewildered expression, but there’s something else on his face too.
As he inches closer to me, I want him to touch me. I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up the scratch, but I want him to do it. I want his hands on the underside of my knee, where I’m sensitive. I want those beautiful eyes on me as he wipes my skin. Most of all, I want to know that he craves me as much as I crave him. I don’t want to kiss him. I just want to hold on to that feeling.
Desire.
That feeling you get when a man wants you, when you look into his eyes and can tell he’s dying to have you. I miss that feeling. It’s only more delicious when he doesn’t make a move because he knows he can’t. It feels like we’re playing with fire as he wipes my skin with alcohol-soaked gauze, the scent overwhelming. The sting barely registers. All I can feel is the blood pounding through my core, in my sex. I don’t know why I’m so aroused—he’s barely touching me—but it’s been so long since I’ve been touched.
He smiles at me as he presses an oversized Band-Aid on my knee. “Good as new.”
My heart sinks. I don’t want to be “good as new.” I want to be still banged up. I’m still broken. Doesn’t he see it? I want him to take care of me. For once, I don’t want to be the one taking care of others; I want to be taken care of. His hand lingers on my knee, and I don’t say a word. I study his dark gaze, trying to decipher his next move. I don’t think even he knows what his next move is. He pulls his hand from my knee reluctantly.
“Don’t…” I whisper. “Don’t pull away.”
His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and his expression darkens as he presses his hand on me again. When he stares at his hand on my knee, I know he’s caught. He doesn’t know what to do next. He’s fighting an internal struggle: do what he wants to do or do what is right. I study the symmetry of his beautiful features, the curl of his hair brushing his shoulders, his long lashes over downcast eyes. I wait eagerly for his decision, for what is next.
He doesn’t look up as he draws a slow circle around the bandage with the tip of his finger. And my entire body oozes with heat. He trails circle after circle, then he finally ventures a look up at me. I know he’s asking if he can go further. I have no words.
I’m so turned on I can barely breathe or keep my eyes open. I can’t let him go further. The two of us… it would never work. I couldn’t live with myself after. I’m sure he would feel the same way. He has Maggie. I have David.
He worries his lip as he pulls slowly away. My body seems to collapse as I sink into the sofa. I think about Paul, about everything the three of us have shared, and I know Aiden made the right decision. I’m certainly not about to dismiss his actions and make a move now. He’s made a decision for the both of us, and it’s the right one. He turns away, busying himself with putting the supplies back in the first aid kit. He doesn’t look at me again. Everything is in its place, as it should be.
Excerpt: The Ground Rules Book 1 (Chapter 1)
The pink dress…
GOODNESS…MY TOES are a disgrace. I haven’t looked at my feet in a while, and as I stare down at the faded, chipped blue polish on way-too-long toenails, I realize I might be letting myself go.
I really need a pedicure.
I can’t remember the last time I gave myself a pedi. Chloe’s toes are perfect little shiny red buds—I just did her nails yesterday.
When did my daughter’s toenails become more important than mine? Probably about eight years ago or so. I first painted her toenails when she was just a baby—just wanted to see what it would look like.
I suppose that’s what happens when you become a mom. One day you have a life. You look hot. Other men (men who are not your husband) want to do wicked things to you.
And then…you’re painting your baby’s tiny toenails.
I sigh as Chloe wraps one of my colorful scarves around her neck, her dark brown curls caught under the silk. We’re playing dress-up.
She twirls in front of the wall mirror. “Do I look grown-up, Mommy?” Her gorgeous eyes gaze at me intently. “Well, do I?”
“Yes, sweetie. You look very sophisticated.” Classier than me, I muse—ghastly toes, shabby sweats, and all. Every time I look at her, I see her father. She looks so much like him—the crazy dark curls, the gorgeous, sleepy, hazel eyes and the slightly off-kilter, devilish smile.
She’s precious, standing in my over-sized black pumps and red cocktail dress, a hodge-podge of necklaces draped around her neck.
Her little sister stands on a vanity chair, arms stretched as she reaches for one of my dresses. “How ’bout this one?”
I give Claire the pick of the crop. I never wear them anymore. And I do have a lot of dresses—when a pretty one catches my eye, impulse overtakes me. I never ask myself, “When am I ever going to wear this?” If I did, I probably wouldn’t have this overstuffed closet.
I’ve taken over the closet, in fact—Gabe’s clothing is stuffed in an armoire, but I don’t think he minds. He’s a simple guy—he wears mostly jeans, T-shirts, and plaid button shirts. He doesn’t need a closet.
Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway…
I study the dress Claire has picked out—it’s one of my favorites, probably the favorite. It’s a fifties-era dress I spent a small fortune on at one of those posh vintage stores—pink chiffon over taffeta, a corset-like bodice with lacy straps, and a flowing skirt that falls just above the knee.
The pink dress brushes the carpet, hanging off Claire’s tiny six-year-old frame. She looks so sweet in it. I can’t help but stare. I’ve only worn it twice—once at the theatre, the other time at a wedding. Gabe’s oldest brother tied the knot on a beautiful July day, which somehow managed to turn into a torrential downpour. We all got drenched. Gabe and I sprinted to our hotel room, undressed in a fury, and made love. Gabe’s wet shirt had been plastered on his body, the tribal tattoo covering half his body peeking through the soaked fabric. It’s one of my favorite (very hot) memories.
I looked really nice in that dress.
“You look like a princess,” Chloe tells her little sister. Claire, seemingly pleased with this observation, flashes her adorable toothless smile.
The dress seems so small. Would I still fit into it? No way. I’m almost thirty-five years old, and I’ve had two kids. But… I just need to know.
“Claire,” I venture softly. “Can you take the dress off?”
She shrugs, tiny brows furrowed. “But you said I could wear any of your dresses.” She’s not taking it off. “It’s my favorite,” she says with pursed lips. Even when she’s being difficult, she still manages to be adorable.
“Well, it’s my favorite too actually,” I tell her, stroking the chiffon between my fingers. “But it does look very nice on you.”
She ponders me for a second, and I can almost see her little mind working. She stares at me with those big brown eyes of hers—she’s so sweet. “Do you want to wear it?” she asks softly.
“You think I should. You think I could fit into it?”
“For sure,” she says with conviction. Well…she’s definitely more optimistic than I am because I’m pretty sure I won’t fit into that dress.
She wiggles out of it, and I quickly get out of my shabby sweats. I’m down to my undies and undo the side zipper.
“The moment of truth, girls…”
As I carefully slip the dress over my shoulders, I’m surprised. It falls to my knees and seems to still fit. But whether I can zip it up or not is the question. I make it three-quarters of the way there, and the dress fits more snugly than I remember…but it fits!
I kneel down as Chloe assists me in zipping it to the top. “It looks really nice on you,” she tells me as we study my reflection in the mirror.
I’m happy I still fit into my favorite dress. But on the other hand, I’m a little depressed. I’ll probably never get to wear it again. Let’s face it—my life is not exactly full of charity balls and glamorous events. Gabe and I don’t get out much—our idea of a date night is a hearty meal at the local family restaurant and a movie, or perhaps the occasional dinner with friends.
“Why do you look so sad,” Claire asks, a dash of concern in her sweet voice.
Because Mommy has no life.
I smile to reassure her. “I’m not sad, Claire. It’s just…I’m probably never going to wear this dress ever again.”
She looks at me like I have three heads. “You’re wearing it right now, silly.”
I laugh at her. She has a way of making me giggle, and right now, my life is wonderfully perfect—I have her and Chloe, and Gabe.
“You’re right, Claire,” I pipe up. “I am wearing it. We should do something special. We’re all dressed up.”
“How ’bout a tea party in my room?”
I smile. “Sounds wonderful.”
“So tell me, Mirella,” Claire starts. “How have you been?” she asks, her sweet voice laced with pomp and circumstance.
Her expression makes me laugh. “Why, I am just divine, Claire. Thank you for asking.”
I sit at the tiny yellow table in my vintage pink chiffon dress, nibbling on animal crackers and drinking iced tea. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to wear the dress somewhere—perhaps Gabe and I could go see a show—it could be a lot of fun. I should speak to him about it.
And there it is…that “defining moment” wrapped up cleverly into an “ordinary moment.”
What if we hadn’t been in that closet playing dress-up? What if Claire hadn’t picked out that dress? What if it hadn’t fit? What if…
Claire is having quite the battle with her taco. Every time she bites into it, cheese covered ground beef spills onto her plate. At this rate, she’ll never get any of it into her little stomach. The sight makes me laugh.
Gabe rolls his eyes and grabs her taco. “You’re not holding it right, Claire,” he snaps. “The whole thing’s falling apart.” He rewraps the taco and folds her fingers around it. He proceeds to instruct her exactly how to hold it and eat it. She seems flustered, and she holds that taco like her life depends on it. I feel a little sorry for her. Leave it to Gabe to turn taco night into a stress-inducing exercise.
He spots her shaking bottom lip—a tell-tale sign she’s just about to cry.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I know tacos are not easy to eat,” Gabe tells her.
She wipes a tear off her face with a pudgy finger.
“It’s like a lot of things,” he says, with a playful pinch of her cheek. “It takes a lot of work to get right. You’re doing great.”
She smiles up at him—she’s already forgiven him.
Gabe is not as easy-going as I am. I don’t think anyone is. Gabe says I’m the most patient person he’s ever known. And I guess that’s a good thing since I’m a kindergarten teacher. Handling two girls is nothing compared to handling twenty-two five-year olds at school all day.
When the whole taco drama is over, I take advantage of a few precious seconds of silence to talk to Gabe about my idea for “date night.” We’ve had date nights before, but this would be something a little more special.
“I was thinking we should go out, just the two of us,” I tell him between bites of my taco. “You never did take me out for Mother’s Day.”
“Is there a movie you want to see?”
“Well, I was actually thinking of doing something a little different,” I tell him, and I’m a little nervous for some reason—I’m not sure why—it’s not like I’m asking for a trip to Paris.
“I thought we could dress up and go to the city to see a show.”
I spot a scowl for a fraction of a second. The theatre is not his thing, but he’ll go to great lengths to make me happy. “I guess we could,” he finally says. “We could go someplace nice for dinner too.”
We sit in silence for a beat. The girls munch on their tacos as they listen to us. They seem curious.
“It’d be sweet to go to some grown-up place for a change,” he adds with a smile. “Somewhere posh and fancy, where they serve you a spoonful of food on a big-ass plate and charge you an arm and a leg.” He’s up for it because he knows that’s what I like.
“Yes, somewhere where there are no kiddie menus, after-meal toys, and brown paper covered tables you can doodle on.”
“What?” Gabe teases. “But you love doodling on the table.”
I laugh—he’s right. “I’m going to wear my little pink vintage dress,” I tell him, stunned by the excitement in my voice. “You know the one?”
“Oh yeah…I know the one,” he says with a sly smile. “The one I’ll be taking off at the end of the night.”
I laugh and give him one of those “children are in the room” looks. And I’m reminded why I love him so much.
He will be taking it off and I get a little giddy at the idea. Almost twenty years together, and he still wants me.
I’ve bought tickets on-line for the show, and Gabe says he’s got dinner under control.
My dark hair is curled and pinned into a retro style. I’m not much for makeup, but I’ve put on a little liquid liner, mascara, and red lipstick. Standing in front of the mirror in my pink chiffon vintage dress, I’m happy with the results—it’s very “fifties pin-up girl.” I find myself smiling, but just as soon as my gap-toothed smile appears, it fades. Gabe says the gap gives me character, but what does he know—he loves me unconditionally.
As I peek at myself one last time, it’s clear the outfit needs a little something. I pull out my extensive collection of vintage brooches.
Claire sits on the vanity chair—she’s been watching me for the longest time, quiet as a mouse. “You look pretty, mommy,” she finally says. Her sweet voice unexpectedly brings out emotion in me, and my eyes tear up. I can’t cry and ruin my eye makeup. And then I wonder why I’m so emotional—it’s just a night out, for crying out loud.
I show Claire my brooch collection, displayed on wine-red velvet fabric in an old Victorian frame—a little craft project I worked on not long ago. “Which one?”
She points at the amber and pink jeweled owl. “I like that one. I think it would go nice with your dress.”
I agree. “I think so too. The colors match, don’t they?”
As I pin the brooch just over my heart, I’m pretty happy with the final outcome.
When I finally make it downstairs, Gabe takes one look at me and says, “Wow!”
I smile shyly at him. “You look nice too,” I tell him, eyeing him from top to bottom. The man is a looker—always has been. His six-foot-three frame looks fantastic in dark pants and a black-striped dress shirt. I almost never get to see him dressed up, and I love it when I do. There’s a kind of sexy contrast between the clean-cut outfit and the shaggy dark curls and week-old scruff.
God, I want him right now.
He kisses me softly on the cheek.
“You look like a million bucks,” he says. “I’ve told Caroline all she needs to know, and I’ve set up dinner for her to feed the kids.” Caroline is our babysitter—absolutely the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet. We like her because she’s nerdy, bookish, and responsible, and will most likely not throw a wild party or scrounge through our underwear drawers…but then, you never know.
As we drive on the interstate in Gabe’s beast of a truck to Chicago’s downtown, he looks at me again and smiles. I smile back and can only imagine what he’s thinking. He slides his hand up my thigh and says softly, “I will definitely be taking that dress off tonight.”
He’s turning me on. He can still turn on the switch, sometimes with just a word or two. “You better keep your eyes on the road before you kill us both,” I warn him with a smile.
He smiles and turns away, his eyes focused on the road
. I look at him and can’t help but sigh a little—my high school sweetheart still does it for me after all these years. We first fell in love our senior year—two seventeen year olds—the popular charming jock and the new girl, a shy bookish sort. It was quite the talk of the school when we got together. Most of the girls were shocked, if not a little jealous too—that a looker like Gabe would fall for plain old me. But then, he’s always said it was “love at first sight.”
“We need to go pick up the tickets at the box office after dinner,” I tell him as we make our way to the restaurant. I’m a little wobbly in my heeled, pink Mary Janes, but I also feel very sexy and sophisticated, so the shoes are worth the effort.
Gabe has arranged for dinner at a restaurant in the theatre district. I’m not too familiar with downtown, but he tells me it’s the place to go—a five star gourmet restaurant specializing in Southern Louisiana cuisine—crawfish, jambalaya, lobster Creole, and the like. I’m not sure if I’ll like it, but I’m just happy to be getting away from the usual.
I want to try something new.
The décor is very sleek and contemporary, with none of the old Louisiana charm I expected. Stainless-steel fountains separate the space, and futuristic wave-like lighting fixtures dot the ceiling. Square tables covered in crisp white linens are arranged in perfect symmetry. There are no kids anywhere, and I’m excited at the prospect of spending an evening surrounded by adults, for a change.
Gabe walks up to the hostess who smiles warmly at us. Her large Bohemian earrings dangle as she tilts her head and asks, “Reservations?”
“Yes, under Keates,” Gabe tells her.
She is extremely tall—as tall as Gabe, and she must be wearing very high heels behind that hostess podium. Her sleek black dress hugs her perfectly, and her long, shiny dark hair falls like a cascade of silky ribbons. And I suddenly feel odd in my quirky vintage dress.
