Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want her back. Never have, never will.”

  “She was only sixteen.”

  “Yeah,” Grayson snorts, “in dog years.”

  Now that he’s admitted the truth, I must say, it doesn’t feel as gut-wrenching as I’d imagined. And I liked the conviction in his voice when he spoke of my sister.

  “Thanks for telling me the truth,” I say.

  “You want to hear about what I just saw outside or not?”

  “Sure,” I say. I lie back down and prop my head on my hand. I want to kiss that muscular shoulder of his, and so I do. Small, tender kisses.

  “There was nothing out there.”

  I let my kisses drift to his chest. I’ve got far more attention on the feel of his skin beneath my lips than the words coming out of his mouth. “What do you mean there’s nothing out there?”

  “There’s nothing out there. It’s all gone. The glasses, the dishes, everything. Gone.”

  “Maybe a squirrel got to it.”

  “A squirrel with opposable thumbs and a taste for alcohol?”

  I drag my lips away from his skin. “What? No. Well, maybe Gail went out there and cleaned up after us.”

  “At two in the morning?”

  “You said she’s an early riser.”

  “That might be it,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll ask her in the morning.”

  I lean in closer to him. “Grayson?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Remember when I said I wasn’t going to sleep with you tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I lied.”

  Chapter 25

  Grayson slides a hand through my hair and pulls my lips to his. Our tongues flick each other’s and with one quick yank, Grayson has the loose knot in my robe untied.

  “Let me look at you,” he whispers, then pulls the robe over my shoulder, exposing my nakedness. I feel timid sitting up, naked, while he’s on his back surveying every inch of me with his eyes. But the timidity falls quicker than the robe from my body when his mouth envelops my breasts.

  A deep, guttural moan escapes me as he does his damnedest to fit the whole of my breast in his mouth. I run my fingers through his hair and grind my hips against the cloth of his jeans. The coarse fabric feels good against my most sensitive skin so I grind hard and arch my back, forcing more of my breast into his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” he whispers. “You taste so good.”

  Grayson pushes my breasts together and runs his tongue over both nipples at the same time, pinching them first with his teeth and then with his fingers. I’ve wanted this moment for so long. And now that it’s here, and I see the shadows of our bodies towering over us on the wall—I am overcome with joy.

  I push away from him long enough to reach his zipper.

  “Why do you still have these on?” I ask. “Seems like I’m the only one in a birthday suit.”

  Both of our fingers race to get them off of him. Finally, he kicks them from his legs. Then he practically falls on top of me.

  “You taste better than any cupcake you could ever create,” he says. His mouth dives into the flesh of my neck and I shiver from the tinkling sensation.

  “Um, Gray?”

  “Yeah, baby?

  “I think I smelling something burning.”

  “It’s our bodies. We’re hot as hell.”

  This is true and I hate to argue when I have a hard man between my soft thighs. But I do smell something burning. I crane my neck, then tap him on his shoulder.

  “Um, Gray? I think your pants landed in the fire.”

  He leans his head up, then hurries to his feet. “Damn! These are my favorite jeans.”

  Grayson grabs the leg of his jeans and rescues them from the fire. He throws them down on the edge of the fireplace and uses a piece of wood to put out the fire.

  “That sucks,” he says as he looks at the blackened waistline.

  “Good thing you’re rich,” I say. “You can buy lots more.”

  “Not the same. They’re worn. I love a good pair of worn jeans.”

  “You know what I love?” I say. I lie on my side in the most seductive pose I can muster.

  “What?” Grayson asks.

  I open my top leg suggestively. “I love a man who appreciates the taste of sweet cream.”

  It takes less than a nanosecond for him to comprehend my meaning before he pounces.

  And we’re off.

  Chapter 26

  When I awaken the next morning, my cheek plastered onto Grayson’s chest by sweat, I am awestruck by the firm hold he has on me. I wriggle away from him, hoping to let him sleep a little longer, but he adjusts and pulls me tighter to him.

  What a wonderful problem to have. Grayson Lane won’t let me go. I lay my head back down on his chest and recall what an amazing night we spent together. There’s no place to go from here but up. Well, there’s always down, but the last thing I want to do is let my pessimistic side spoil this perfect moment. This man adores me. The way he’s clinging to me proves as much.

  Grayson startles himself awake and I jump at the unexpected move.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He looks around for a second like a man who’s just awakened in a dark cave. Then he reaches for his glass of water and takes a sip.

  “Sorry,” he says when he’s composed himself. “What time is it?”

  “Time for us to get dressed and head over to the Mead’s place.”

  “Right.” He wipes sleep from his eyes.

  “You,” I say and kiss his smooth chest, “are a very talented man, Mr. Lane.”

  He smiles and knocks the covers from his body.

  “And you are a very naughty girl, Ms. Cole.”

  I don’t mean to show him my goofiest grin ever, but how could I not with a response like that?

  “Who’s hitting the shower first?” I ask.

  “How about we hit it together?” He pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on my head.

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea. I think you’re going to try to hit something else entirely.” I ease out of his hold and Grayson swats my bare behind. “Ow. What did you do that for?”

  “To prove you right.”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” I say, walking booty-first into the bathroom.

  “I know what you meant,” Grayson says. He moves toward me like a stalker. “And boy, were you ever right.”

  I squeal as he chases me into the bathroom, anxious for yet another round of lovemaking.

  * * *

  “We’ll be back before noon so we can meet Carmen at the train station,” I say to Mom, who’s helping me put the tray of cupcakes in the backseat of Grayson’s car.

  “That leaves me plenty of time to visit the senior living home. They’ve got a great center not too far from here—Gail took me the other day. And I’m so excited about seeing a Broadway show this evening.”

  Usually Mom looks like she could star in a Broadway production. But today, other than her hair, she has taken a departure from her typical showgirl costumes. She wears her hair in a sleek bob that forms a curl on both sides of her face, like a Motown singer circa 1960. Mom’s jeans are high-waisted with an elastic band, and her flowery blouse is barely visible beneath a khaki jacket that matches her walking shoes.

  Grayson steps out of the front door in a lightweight V-neck sweater and a blazer thrown over his shoulder.

  “I’m ready if you are,” he says. “Mother Cole, good morning.”

  “Good morning, son.” Mom turns back to me. “I’d better let you kids be. I should be back before you.”

  I give Mom a hug, but I feel deceptive. I’d much rather spend my day with Grayson, but I’ve made a promise to Carmen and Mom. I want so badly to tell someone—a girlfriend—about what’s happening with Grayson. But who can I tell? Dell is doing her own thing down in Florida and could get orders to go overseas any day now. Men are no replacement
for a woman who gives sage advice. And I can’t talk to Mom. What could she possibly know about the complexities of the heart? She was happily married to the same man for thirty years.

  I hop in the passenger seat and watch as Grayson dons a pair of aviator sunglasses and programs his GPS to Mead’s Bed and Breakfast.

  “I haven’t seen much of you this morning,” I say to him as he motors down the circular drive. “You disappeared after we dressed.”

  “Yeah, I was checking the security cameras from last night.”

  “Ah, the case of the missing cupcakes. What did Gail say?”

  “Gail is gone. I forgot—she’s spending the weekend with her family. I don’t want to bug her over something like this.”

  “And the cameras? Did they catch the baked goods burglar?”

  “They don’t record that far out on the property.” He turns to me and smiles. “You’re having a good time with this, aren’t you?”

  “It’s weird, I admit. But it’s not like someone broke into your house. Maybe the neighbor’s kids were watching us from their house. Jumped over the fence as a prank and absconded with the muffins and champagne.”

  “You know, for someone who had their home broken into, I’d think you’d be more concerned for your safety.”

  “Is my safety at risk?” I think back to the note I’d found in my library book. What did it say? Grayson is my heart, you’ve been warned. I should tell him about it, but it would only add fuel to his already blazing fire of cautiousness. For all I know, some teen with the hots for her hunky neighbor recognized me and placed the note in the book. There was nothing threatening about it. Nor in making off with a bottle of champagne.

  “Not as far as I know,” he admits.

  “Then chill out,” I say. “Besides the bakery burglar, I think we had a pretty good time.”

  A broad grin crosses his lips. “It had its moments.”

  I swat his arm.

  “Do you remember this?” he asks.

  I focus on the low volume of a guitar on the radio. Of all the songs. What surprises me more than him asking me if I remember the song is the fact that he remembers it. Grayson turns up the volume.

  “I can’t remember the band,” I say.

  “Extremities?” Grayson ventures a guess.

  I snap my finger as it comes to me. “Extreme! The band is Extreme.”

  “Ah, right. ‘More Than Words’ by Extreme.”

  It’s amazing to me that hearing the first two notes of a song can propel a person fast and hard back to a certain space and time. I can recall the emotions of that long-ago moment as if I were still there.

  “We had a fire drill that day,” Grayson recalls.

  “Keisha was in the parking lot, in her old, busted VW convertible that hadn’t moved from that spot in a week,” I say.

  “It had broken down. But she’d go out there and crank up the radio. I can’t believe security never hassled her about that.”

  Grayson pushes a button and the sunroof slides back. At this early hour, the sun isn’t beating down on us yet, which is cool because I’ve got an afterglow still clinging to my entire being—I don’t need help from Mother Nature.

  “There was a fire drill,” I continue the memory. “And we all lined up outside and then this song came on. Keisha turned up her radio.”

  “I spotted you across the quad,” Grayson says. “You were in shorts that barely covered your behind. You were hard to miss.”

  “I had been in gym class.”

  “I don’t care where’d you been. You looked good,” he says.

  “And then a few girls went to Keisha’s car and started singing this song at the top of their lungs.”

  Grayson says, “It was like a bad cold.”

  “Contagious, croaky, awful.”

  “But then we all started singing it.” He smiles and picks up the lyrics, sings along. I’m powerless against the melody and so we sing together as we drive on the highway. It isn’t long before I’m snapping my fingers; Grayson is bobbing his head and patting his knee with his free hand. We hit the high notes, unabashedly out of tune, but neither of us seems to care. I feel eyes on us from passing cars. We are cruising now at a slower speed, enjoying the music, wanting the moment to last—at least I do—and both of us are lost in a time that was uncomplicated and innocent.

  That one day, as the students—and a couple of teachers, too—stood outside singing that song, I recall one set of eyes on me the entire time. Our eyes were like magnets, pulling at each other from a force field greater than ourselves. Two misfits, fitting together perfectly.

  When the song ends, we lose ourselves in our memories until Grayson breaks the comfortable silence.

  “I think this is it up on the right.”

  Sure enough, there’s a sign out front that says Mead’s B&B. It’s in a residential neighborhood that’s also been zoned for businesses. Across the street from the B&B is a chiropractor’s office; up the street a little ways is a dentist’s office.

  “It’s cute,” I say. The house appears to have three floors. It’s painted white with baby blue shutters. There’s a couple’s swing on one side of the verandah and a row of white rocking chairs on the other.

  “Maybe we should stay here some time,” Grayson says.

  I look at him. “Yeah, because your house doesn’t have enough rooms.”

  “A little getaway, to break the norm, you know.”

  “We don’t have a norm, yet, Grayson.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “But we’re getting there.”

  We get out of the car, each carrying a covered tray of goodies. A sign on the door invites us to walk in, and when we do we are hit by the smell of burning eggs. Grayson and I look at each other.

  “Kahlua!” Jeff Mead walks down the stairs casually dressed in a polo shirt and shorts. “You made it over.”

  “Hi. We’ve come bearing gifts.” I make introductions and watch as the two men shake.

  “Smells like my wife is at it again,” Jeff says. “Good thing you’ve brought your own breakfast.”

  “For you,” I say and hand him my tray. Jeff takes it, puts a light hand on my lower back and leads the way down the hall. I glance over my shoulder and notice Grayson’s very cold eyes on the arm around me. I smirk and turn back around.

  The motif in the bed and breakfast is country chic: lots of delicate, flowery throw pillows on the striped sofa, rustic and sturdy tables in the front room. The house is fragrant with colorful flowers in vases throughout the place. A young couple sits together at the table in the dining room. So engrossed are they in their coffee and each other, they don’t even acknowledge us as we walk by.

  “Viv, they made it. Oh Lord, how many eggs is that?” Jeff shakes his head as his wife dumps burnt eggs into the trash.

  “A dozen,” she says brightly, as though disposing of burned breakfasts is part of her daily routine. “But we have more in the fridge.”

  I watch as the poor woman scratches the bottom of her skillet with an oversized grill spatula. Watching metal scratching metal makes my head hurt. I literally bite my tongue.

  “It’s a good thing our guests brought treats,” Jeff says and takes our trays from us, placing them on the counter.

  Viv’s gray eyes light up when she sees the trays. “I’m Vivian Mead, but please, call me Viv,” she says and gives me a handshake so strong that it makes me want to cry Uncle. It takes me a second to process that Jeff’s wife isn’t a fifty-something, African-American woman like I’d been expecting. Quite the opposite. Vivian is a white woman, about my age, with blonde hair styled in a Grecian braid that comes around the front of her hairline and dangles in one long braid down her back. She wears flip flops and an oversized summer dress that hides a thin frame. “Thanks for dropping by.” Then she leans in and says, “And thanks for bringing breakfast.”

  “Callia Cole. This is a lovely place you have here. This is my friend, Grayson Lane.”

  “Mr. Lane,” Viv
says. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

  “I don’t think so,” Grayson says. I want to knock that silly look off his face. Why must all men lose brain cells in front of a cute woman?

  “My wife never forgets a face, Mr. Lane, so if you’re one of those wanted criminals from TV, you might as well speak up now.”

  The couple in the dining room giggles; their heads are so close together that I’m pretty sure it’s not from what Jeff just said.

  “I’ve got it!” Viv says. “The Reading Lane, right? You’re the owner.”

  Grayson nods. “Guilty.”

  “I’ve seen you in the papers; you do a lot for the community.”

  “Viv,” Jeff says, “how about we figure breakfast out?”

  “Oh, right,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook, but I do like to set out a few things for our guests.” She leans in again and whispers, “I usually get a takeout order from a local restaurant and pass the food off as mine, but I didn’t have time this morning.”

  “Ah, well. I baked you some cupcakes and muffins last night.”

  Jeff removes the lids and Viv gasps and covers her mouth with one hand. “Honey, look. These spell Mead’s B&B.”

  “I see. They look very good.” Jeff leans in and reads aloud. “Refresh. Pray. Dance.”

  “And these over here,” I say, “are just your run-of-the-mill muffins.”

  Viv says, “They don’t look run-of-the-mill. I can’t wait to taste them.”

  Yeah, right. She’s as thin as Carmen so I doubt she’s going to eat more than a crumb. However, the similarities between the two end there. While Carmen uses heavy cosmetics to transform from pretty to stunning, Vivian chooses to go natural, possibly an attempt at downplaying her good looks. Nice try, but it doesn’t work.

  “Are you following the latest news about the city council?” Jeff asks Grayson.

  Grayson walks over to Jeff. “You mean Richards’ attempt to take over Kaplan’s seat?”

  The two men walk out onto the back porch with a glass of orange juice for each of them. From what I can see, there’s a gazebo, a hammock, and lots of flowers in the back. Loving hands have obviously tended to her small, lovely garden instead of being conceived of and crafted by paid experts.