Sweet Talker

by Robin Bielman

  I bend over to talk in her ear. “Just this once, how about I buy you one, too, so you only have to narrow it down to two choices?” I offer.

  She jumps up and down. “Thank you!”

  “But that means you have to share.”

  “Okay.” She points to the Chipwich. “Pascallie is going to buy me this.” She moves her finger to the Bomb Pop. “And Ethan is going to buy me this.” She steps back, presumably so Ethan and I can fork over some cash, and grins from ear to ear.

  I appreciate when Ethan lets me pay for the one ice cream without any interference. Rylee accepts her selections with another thank you, and the three of us find a picnic table to sit at adjacent to a large grassy area. Palm trees offer a bit of shade.

  Rylee digs into the Chipwich first, graciously offering Ethan a bite. “That’s good,” Ethan says.

  “Did you know you can put chocolate chips in pancakes?” Rylee asks him.

  “I did know that. In fact, I even know how to make them.”

  “My daddy does, too.” The corners of her mouth wilt. “I mean he did. He’s in heaven now.”

  “I’m very sorry about that.” Ethan’s compassionate tone is heart melting.

  She peeks up at him from under her ice cream, but doesn’t say anything. A few melancholy moments pass and then she addresses me. “Can I have MoMo please?”

  “Sure.” I pull MoMo from the tote bag we brought with us.

  Ethan’s expression brightens when he lays eyes on the stuffed monkey. He dips his head for a closer look as Rylee pretends to give MoMo a bite of her treat. “Hi, MoMo,” he says. “When I was a boy I had a friend just like you.”

  “You did?” Rylee asks.

  “His name was George and there were a bunch of books written about him.”

  “We know him!”

  “You do?” Ethan says with sweet surprise. He gives me a quick wink.

  “His other name is Curious George, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I have lots of those books. Maybe—” She darts a quick glance at me. “Maybe you can come over and I’ll show them to you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  If I wasn’t sitting, I might have fallen down in a swoon. Rylee finishes eating, handing me half of her Bomb Pop because she’s full. “Want to play on the playground?” she asks Ethan.

  He looks at himself and winces. His fancy black shoes and expensive clothing aren’t meant for play at the park. We’ve gone from rocking this outing to striking out in under three seconds.

  “Ethan has to get to work,” I say to save him from having to let her down.

  “Next time,” he says, crouching down to her level. “Can we make it a date?”

  She shrugs like she can take or leave him. He stands, his shoulders a bit slouched in disappointment.

  “You can’t win them all,” I say softly.

  And silently pray we win more than we lose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Can’t Stop This Feeling

  Pascale

  I kiss Rylee’s forehead and tiptoe out of her bedroom, turning off the light and leaving her door ajar. She doesn’t like to fall asleep with the lights out so they stay on until I check on her.

  “Thanks again, Paige,” I say as I plop on the couch beside my sister. I’m exhausted. We had a special event at Royal this evening that took the entire week to plan on top of our normal busyness.

  “You don’t have to keep thanking me. I love hanging out with her. She cracks me up.”

  “What did she say this time?” I slip my heels off and kick them under the coffee table.

  “We were playing Monopoly Junior and she told me if I landed on the Burger Joint that I could smoke it if I wanted to instead of eating it.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “Oh my God. She did not.”

  “She did.”

  “How in the world does she know to say something like that? What did you tell her?”

  “I told her ‘will do.’”

  “Paige!”

  “What?” my free-spirited sister asks, like it’s okay she implied she likes to smoke pot. “I figured it was better to keep the game moving right along than to get into a conversation about it. I rolled the dice really fast after that and got us to the Candy Store where we discussed which was better, M&M’s or Skittles. She likes Skittles better, FYI.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There is something you might want to discuss with her, though.”

  Great. Paige’s amused voice tells me I’m not ready for this.

  “We drew pictures tonight, too.” Paige stands and walks into the kitchen. She brings a piece of white paper back with her. Before she gives it to me she covers her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. “Rylee is really good.”

  The picture is very bright and colorful, as is Rylee’s preference. There are two butterflies in the sky. She’s labeled the pink and red one “Rylee” and the yellow and green one “Pscalee.” Underneath the butterflies is grass. But atop the grass is where it gets interesting. She’s drawn a row of “mashrooms” with brown stems and purple heads, and…they look like penises.

  Paige and I exchange a look and then crack up.

  “Those are some well-endowed mushrooms,” Paige says.

  “This is awesome.” I grab a colored pencil off the coffee table—there are coloring books and crayons and colored pencils all over the house—and write the date on the back of her drawing. “And a keeper.”

  “Did we ever drew anything like that?” Paige slides her feet into her flip-flops and grabs her sweatshirt, wallet and keys. Mom and Dad bought her a used car to make it easier for her to help with Rylee, and just easier for her to get around in general.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  There’s a quiet knock at the front door.

  “Who’s that?” Paige asks.

  “No idea.” It’s after eleven so I’m guessing it’s a neighbor, but keep my guard up. Last week, Mrs. Simon’s dachshund escaped and made herself comfortable in a basket I’d left at the side of the house. I look through the peephole to see who it is and my heart immediately pounds. Not a neighbor. I open the door. “Ethan? What are you doing?”

  “Hi, Callie. Hey, Paige.” His voice is strained, his expression taut.

  “Hi, Ethan,” Paige says. “I know exactly why you’re here so I’ll be on my way. Bye, Sis, talk later.” She quickly scoots around my surprise visitor. Ethan and I watch her get into her car before I invite him inside and close and lock the door.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, padding back to the couch. Tension rolls off him, but I saw him only an hour ago so I write it off as exhaustion. He’s always “on” for his customers and associates, never taking a break. We’ve also been under a bit of stress at Royal, deciding to keep our personal relationship private for now. We’ve leaned in to kiss each other without thought no less than ten times and had to jerk back before making contact. This is more for my comfort level than Ethan’s. It’s my way of keeping a small measure of protection around my heart.

  “Everything’s great, but I’ve had something on my mind all night and needed to see you.” There’s a feral glint in his eyes, like he’s been locked in a cage and just escaped. He looks down the hallway. “In private, if that’s okay.”

  “Ohhh.” Bye-bye fatigue, hello excitement rippling under my skin. And since Rylee sleeps soundly, I’m all-in for the details of what’s been on his mind. He’s been on my mind, too.

  We don’t speak. We walk quietly to my bedroom, anticipation building in my bones.

  “Strip,” he orders once we’re inside. He stands at the foot of my bed. I stand across the room.

  I lift my dress over my head. He unbuttons and removes his shirt. I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, slowly let it fall to the floor. He unbuckles his belt, whips it free of the belt loops with one swift tug, and loses his pants, shoes and socks. Now there’s nothing separating our naked bodies but our underwear.
/>   Mine are a small black lacy number.

  His are black boxer briefs that mold to the tops of his muscular thighs and sizeable mushroom. I bite my lower lip to keep from giggling and raise my eyes to his.

  He arches a brow.

  I slide my panties down my legs, step out of them, toss the lightweight material aside.

  His stomach, ridged with muscles, flexes. He fists his hands. His strong chest rises and falls. He’s tightly coiled, eagerness and hunger rolling off him in waves, and heat blazes through me, making me shiver.

  “Is this what you’ve had on your mind all day?”

  “Not exactly.” He sits on the bed then uses his sinewy arms to scoot himself back to the middle. “Come here.”

  “I think you forgot to take something off,” I say, sauntering toward him.

  “Later. Right now, I need you to sit on my face so I can taste you until my tongue has had its fill.” He falls back so he’s lying flat atop the comforter.

  “How long is that usually?” I crawl onto the bed.

  “Let’s find out.”

  I straddle his lap, slowly walk on my knees toward his face. “This is what you haven’t stopped thinking about?”

  He palms my bottom and hurries my pace, bringing my wet and ready center where he wants it. I hold on to the headboard for balance. “Yes. Now stop talking and hang on.”

  I do. I hang on. I shamelessly ride his face through not one. Not two. But three orgasms. While his mouth and tongue do incredible things, his hands and fingers do, too. Inside me. Outside of me. To my breasts and nipples. I ask him to stop before his tongue gives out. I can’t handle any more pleasure.

  Until he lays me gently on my stomach, rolls on a condom, and takes me from behind. He sets a slow and steady rhythm, moving his hips like he owns my body. Like he knows exactly how much I can take.

  He brushes my hair to the side and kisses the curve of my neck. My shoulder. Whispers, “I’m going to have your taste on my tongue for days.” Presses his lips to the back of my head. Whispers, “You feel like heaven. So warm and tight, my cock wants to stay right where it is forever.”

  “Mmm,” is all I can manage, too breathless from coming three times and now feeling so full with him buried deep inside me. I’m blissed out.

  “Stay with me, Callie Nic.” He presses up on his hands and increases his speed. Just a little. Just enough that every rock of his hips fans a flame I thought exhausted. He keeps me there, on this feel-good horizontal plane, until his breathing increases and his control slips. With one last powerful surge, he lets out a hoarse groan then tumbles over the edge. He doesn’t withdraw right away, preserving our connection and murmuring sweet things against my skin.

  I’m vaguely aware of him disposing of the condom and coming back to bed. He rubs my back, kisses my cheek. My eyelids are too heavy to keep open, but I feel a blanket cover me. Cover us. Ethan is beside me, his warm body lined up with mine. My last thought as I drift off to sleep is he should go, but I want him to stay.

  Ethan

  Something pokes me in the shoulder. I’m in that dream-like place between sleep and wakefulness and prefer the soft body I’m rubbing up against to whatever is jabbing me.

  I ignore the pokes until I realize they aren’t going to stop. Rolling over, I pry open one eye. The room is softly lit, telling me daybreak is here. A sweet, round face with chaotic curls is also here. Shit. I didn’t mean to get caught in bed with Callie this morning. Thank God the blanket is still covering us. Unsure what to do, I close my eye and hope Rylee will think I fell back asleep. She pokes me again instead.

  Don’t be a wimp, man. She’s four. Talk to her.

  “Good morning,” I whisper so as not to wake up the sleeping beauty behind me.

  “We’re hungry,” she whispers back.

  ‘We’ meaning her and MoMo, I guess, since she’s holding the stuffed monkey in her arms. “Okay. Give me a minute?”

  She nods and leaves the room, obviously way more mature than I am at the moment. I pull on my underwear, slacks, and shirt, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. Pascale hasn’t budged. Her lips are slightly parted, her hands tucked under her pillow. Last night, I’d needed her in a way I’ve never needed anyone else before. She’s under my skin, inside my heart, and on my mind. It terrifies me.

  I walk down the hall to the kitchen in my bare feet. I don’t know why Rylee woke me instead of Pascale, but it’s an honor I won’t take lightly.

  She’s sitting on her knees at the table, a red crayon in her left hand, and her head canted down as she colors in a coloring book. I take the chair next to her. Rather than say anything, she pushes the crayon box closer to me and angles the book so I can color on the page opposite hers. I feel like it’s a test, or an audition maybe, so I don’t hesitate to join in.

  “My daddy made me breakfast every morning,” she says.

  Ah. Now I get it. “I bet he was really good at it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m probably not as good as him, but I seem to remember you like chocolate chip pancakes. Should we see if we’ve got the right ingredients?”

  She nods her head.

  I notice a stack of plain white paper is also on the table and I get an idea. “There’s one thing we need to do first.” I stand and look through a few kitchen drawers until I find scissors, Scotch tape and, as luck would have it, a glue stick. “As my assistant chef, we both need chef hats, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes widen. “I’ve never made one before.”

  “Well, lucky for us my mom made one for me when I was little and she taught me how to do it.” I put a piece of paper in front of each of us. “The first thing we need to do is put some glue along the edge of the long side.” I take a crayon and draw a line a good inch from the edge then brush plenty of glue across the width.

  Rylee copies my instructions.

  “Then we fold the paper over so the ends meet and press down with our fingers.” I’m not sure this hat will fit on my head, but it will definitely fit on hers and that’s all that matters.

  She finishes pressing the ends together and looks to me for the next step.

  “Great job,” I say. “Now we cut.” I turn the paper so I can cut strips down to the glued edge. “Each strip should be about an inch.”

  “I have scissors, too.” She scrambles off her chair to run somewhere to grab them. I hope she doesn’t run back with them. Isn’t there a rule about running with scissors? Thankfully, she walks back in holding a pair of pink-handled child-sized scissors.

  We cut together, her eyeing me carefully. Once we’ve made it across the paper, we put our scissors down. “Are you sure you haven’t made one of these before?” I ask.

  She giggles. “No. I’m just a really good artist.”

  “You are,” I agree. “Okay, we’re almost done. Two more steps. The first one is writing a name on the hat.”

  “Not my name?” she asks. This kid is too smart.

  “It can be your name. Or it can be ‘Master Chef’ or ‘Chef Rylee’ or whatever you want.”

  “What are you putting?”

  I grab a blue crayon. “What do you think I should put?”

  “Just Ethan.”

  I write Just Ethan. She studies it for a minute and laughs. She keeps laughing, holding her stomach like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever read. I wasn’t sure she could read yet, but whatever she thinks she’s read is hilarious. Her laugh is the sweetest, happiest sound I’ve ever heard and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask around a big smile.

  “You were supposed to only write your name.”

  “Ohhh. Should I write ‘Just Rylee’ on yours?”

  She nods and watches me closely, as if to make sure I don’t spell her name wrong. It’s a good thing too, because I’m about to write an ‘I’ after the ‘R’ when she says, “My name is spelled R-Y-L-E-E.”

  “That’s a nice way of spelling it.”

  “I
can spell lots of words. My teacher where I used to live told me I was advanced for my age. Books and coloring are my two favorite things. My third favorite is animals.”

  “Those are good favorites. How’s this?” I slide her hat over for inspection.

  “Good. I’m starting kindergarten in the fall. Did you know that?”

  “I do now,” I say. “You ready for the last step?”

  “Yes!”

  “Turn it over and we’ll glue the ends together to make a hat. Like this.” I show her how it’s done then stand my hat up on the table. The gluing is a little more difficult for her to do with her small hands, so I help. When finished I put the hat atop her head.

  “Hello, Chef Rylee.”

  She beams. “Put yours on.”

  As I suspected, my head is too big so the hat falls right off. I make a game of trying to get the hat to stay, then move my head slightly so it topples to the side where I catch it. My silliness has the desired effect. Rylee’s nonstop laughter fills the room again.

  “I guess this makes you master chef. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.” I putter around the kitchen looking for ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes, but come up short. “How about French toast this time?”

  “With cinnamon?”

  I recheck the spices. “With cinnamon.” I pull a chair up to the counter beside the stove for her to stand on. She looks adorable in her chef’s hat and follows my instructions without question or complaint when her little fingers are covered in whisked egg, milk and cinnamon after dunking a slice of bread into the bowl.

  “You can drop it right here,” I say, indicating the pan with the sizzling butter on the stove. “But be very careful not to touch it. It’s hot.”

  We work together to cook up six slices. Two for her and four for me. I’ll make Pascale’s when she wakes up. I hand Rylee the spatula and hold her arm to help her flip a couple of pieces. It’s Monday, but the kitchen smells like Sunday mornings when I was a boy: sweet and buttery. My stomach growls.