by Goode, Ella
“Hey, sweetheart. Will you be here for dinner tonight?” I can hear the smile in her voice. Why can’t my mom be like her sometimes?
“Oh, I’m not sure. I was calling because Booker forgot his phone and he mentioned he was helping you so—”
“Helping me?” she repeats. “No. I’m not sure where he’s off to, but if I see him before you, I’ll let him know about his phone.”
“Thanks,” I say before I hang up.
I hate the guilt that gnaws at me for lying to her. She’s so nice. I blame Booker. This is clearly all his fault. I check the time again, wondering how long he’s going to be in there. My mind races with thoughts of what exactly it is he’s doing inside that place. Why would he lie to me about helping his mom?
This is bullshit. I toss my crap into the passenger seat before getting out of the car. I’m over this. Booker went and made me fall in love with him, and now he’s playing these weird games with me. I hate that whatever is going on is making me second-guess myself.
When we left the hotel last weekend, Booker had bitched and moaned about that fact that we weren’t going to be together every night. So much so that he had talked me into staying at his place that first night. I’d gotten a pass to come and go from Grams, so there had been no reason to stop. Except clearly there had been.
It doesn't take me too long to locate which condo Booker is most likely inside of. I recognize the voices of the rest of the baseball team instantly. Why the hell would he lie about hanging out with his friends? That’s beyond stupid. All he had to do was tell me he wanted to hang with the boys. I would have been fine with it. I bang on the door because I didn’t come this far to turn back now. I’m going to find out what the heck is going on.
“Strippers!” Dean shouts from somewhere inside.
My stomach drops. Not that there might actually be strippers here but at the lies that surround all of this. After all of the things Booker told me about his past, he goes and does this behind my back. I can’t stop the tears that start to fall. I should run, but it’s too late. The door is already being pulled open.
“Oh fuck.” Mick steps out, pushing me back a few steps before slamming the door behind him. “Hey, Care-bear. What are you doing in this part of town?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Shit. You’re crying. This isn’t what it looks like,” he rushes to say. The door starts to open again. This time Dean’s head pops out. As soon as he sees me, his eyes widen before he slams the door shut once again. This time the lock clicks into place.
“Did they just lock me out?” Mick asks, generally looking insulted. The door starts to open once again.
“Fuck all of you.” I turn to leave. I wipe the tears from my eyes as I walk back the way I came. I hear all hell break loose behind me, but I keep going. That is, until a hand wraps around my waist, pulling me back. My feet leave the ground. I don’t have to look to know who grabbed me.
“I told you. Just come clean,” Logan says, shaking his head at everyone.
“Shut up all of you and get the fuck out,” Booker barks at everyone.
“You shut up and put me down, you liar.” I wiggle in his hold, but it’s pointless. Everyone steps out of Booker’s way to let him carry me back into the condo. I don’t know why he’s wasting his time, because as soon as he puts me down I plan on leaving.
“Care-bear. Just hear him out.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t fucking call her that,” Booker and I both shout. Mick puts his hands up. “Get out!” Booker barks at them again.
“That’s real nice after we came over to help.” Tommy shakes his head, but they all do actually leave, closing the door behind them.
“Will you let me go?” He’s still got his arm wrapped around me from behind. I wiggle but stop when my ass brushes against his cock.
“Never going to let you go.” He buries his face in my hair.
“But you’ll lie to me?”
“I fucked up,” he admits.
“Are you cheating on me?”
“What?” He lets me go for a second so he can spin me around to face him. “Cheating on you? I’ve waited years to be with you. Hell, I was waiting for you before I even knew what I was doing.”
“You keep turning down sex.” My teeth sink into my bottom lip.
“I’ll fuck you against this wall right here if you want.” He starts to go for my jeans, making me laugh.
“Stop it. I’m mad at you.” Hard to say when I’m giggling.
“Trust me, I know. This has been a week from hell. Taking you home every night has been torture.” He closes his eyes like he’s in pain thinking about it.
“Then what is going on?” That pained look doesn't leave his face when he opens his eyes.
“I love you. Always remember that even when I do stupid shit. Even if it pisses you off, I did it because I want to make you happy. I want you to see yourself like I see you. You have this extraordinary talent. And I wish you’d let yourself see it.”
“Booker…” He takes a step back from me before he moves to the side, revealing the empty condo. It’s not completely empty. The walls are covered with my artwork. It’s not only the five pieces from the art show last week either. There are so many more that have tears filling my eyes for a different reason.
There are doodles on papers that I made over the years that he had framed. On every wall there is something different, but it’s all mine.
“I thought someone stole this.” I walk over to the watercolor I made in eighth grade. We were supposed to paint ourselves. The teacher had hung a few up in the hallways. Mine had gone missing.
“Guess I’m a thief and a liar,” Booker says under his breath.
“You’re also the man I love.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Booker
Grandpas shouldn’t be scary. Mine aren’t. Dad’s dad thinks the sun rises and sets with me. I can’t do a thing wrong in his eyes, and his mission is to make sure I have every whim fulfilled. Mom’s dad isn’t much different. Sometimes the two get into a pissing match like when one of them bought me a custom snowboard signed by Chloe Kim and the other bought me a condo in Aspen. That sort of thing. If I brought Carrie to meet them, they’d be dishing out praise like mashed potatoes at a church potluck.
Not Carrie’s grandpa.
Oh no. As we stand here in the kitchen of The Sugar Factory, Mr. Montlain can’t stop scowling at me. I don’t know if he’s more unhappy that Carrie and I are dating or that she’s going to art school. Both might be bad in his books.
“Art school,” he says after a long, contemplative silence. “Community college has always been her plan. You want her to change for you.”
“No sir. I encouraged her to apply for art school because she loves art. No other reason than that.”
“It’s in the same city as your college,” he points out.
“It’s the best art school around here,” I counter, outwardly confident but inwardly sweating. Am I being too argumentative and not deferential enough? Where’s the line between standing up for myself and Carrie, and being an arrogant prick? I want to call a time out and take a breather in the dugout, maybe chat with my batting coach. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those for my relationship with Carrie. Or, actually, I guess I have a team full of coaches who can’t agree on anything, and talking to them would likely end up with half of them saying I should have crawled in here on my knees and the other half saying fuck Grandpa.
I’m trying to hit a home run, but I feel like I’m only making contact with half the ball and I’m going to ground out right to the pitcher.
“The Sugar Factory is going to provide her a good income until she retires. She’s not going to have to worry about how to pay her mortgage or pay for a new car. This is her security.” He pats the stainless steel counter.
“I guess this is old fashioned of me, but I want to be her security. I’ve got money from my grandparents plus I’m g
oing to get my law degree and represent athletes like Colt Broussard. If she never sells a painting to anyone but me, she’ll be able to buy a house or car or take a vacation or order that bag she’s been eyeing. I promise you that my goal in life will be to make sure she lands soft no matter what journey she wants to take.”
Mr. Montlain continues to stare at me. The silence grows long and uncomfortable until the door to the kitchen bursts open, and Mrs. Montlain comes bustling through.
“Stop that right now, George. These kids are in love, and we should support them and not put up obstacles. You’ve been wanting to sell The Sugar Factory for years but held off because you thought Carrie would need it. Now we know it’s just a leash to keep her tied here.” Mrs. Montlain turns to me and pats my cheek. “I’m so glad you talked her into art school. I’ve been badgering the old man here to sell this place so we can go on a six-month cruise and finally enjoy our golden years. This restaurant work is hard, you know. Have to be open six days a week. Can’t leave it in the hands of strangers because it’ll be a mess when you get back. You’re a savior.” She pats me again.
“That’s a little far,” says Mr. Montlain, but one look from Mrs. Montlain and he quiets down.
“Go out there and put poor Carrie out of her misery. She’s about wrung the skin off her hands worrying about the two of you.”
Mrs. Montlain starts pushing me toward the door.
“I’m going to take care of her,” I call over my shoulder. “Promise on my life.”
Mr. Montlain grumbles something under his breath, but Mrs. Montlain tells me, “Don’t pay no more attention to that cranky old man. He’s just mad he didn’t get to tell Carrie first that she should go to art school. Baby girl, I’m bringing your man out.”
Carrie runs over from the cash register. “Is everything okay?” She searches my face. “He’s not mad, is he?”
“No. It’s all good.” I press a kiss to her forehead, not daring to stray lower for fear I’ll get too carried away and end up dry humping her against the cooler cases in front of her grandma. I don’t have much control around her.
“It’s all good,” echoes a rough voice behind us.
I shift, tucking Carrie under my arm. Mr. Montlain strides over. “I’m glad you’re going to art school. You have a real talent, and it’d be a shame if you didn’t nurture it.” He hands Carrie an envelope. “We've been putting a little money aside every month since you were born since we knew your mama wouldn’t be able to. There’s quite a bit in this savings account—enough to pay for your tuition. We’ll have a little more for you when we sell The Sugar Factory.”
Behind him, Mrs. Montlain lets out a whoop of joy.
“Are you sure you want to sell, Grandpa? I can come home every weekend and Booker said he will help out too.”
I actually told Carrie I’d stay here and work at The Sugar Factory while she went to art school, but she told me that was a non-starter. We both go to college together or we both stay here and run the ice cream shop.
“No!” Mrs. Montlain cuts in sharply. “I’ve been begging him to sell The Sugar Factory for years once you graduated, but he’s only just agreed. Don’t you talk him out of it, Carrie.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Montlain says gruffly. “I thought you wanted this place, and so I’ve been holding on to it, but now that you are going to art school, there doesn’t seem to be a need for that. I can take your grandma on that world tour that she’s been hankering for but if you”—he points a finger at me—“don’t take good care of her, I’m going to bring you back behind the shop and beat you with an ice cream drum.”
“Grandpa!” shouts Carrie.
“George!” cries Mrs. Montlain.
I stick out my hand. “Understood and deserved.”
We shake on it, and before he lets go of my hand, I get a tiny smile. It might be a reluctant approval, but it’s an approval nonetheless. I turn to Carrie and pick her up to swing her around. “You’re going to art school,” I yell.
She rests her hands on my shoulders, a smile as wide as the ocean split across her face. “I am, aren’t I?” she says in wonder.
I drop her to the ground and then, in spite of the audience, I lay my lips across hers and seal the deal. We’re bound together now, our destinies meshed with each other’s, and that’s the only way I want it to be from now until forever.
Epilogue
Many Years Later
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited for an art showing,” I admit as Booker comes up behind me. I’m still getting ready for the showcase.
He pushes my hair off my neck and takes over clasping my necklace together for me. When he’s finished, he leans down to place a kiss on my bare shoulder.
“At this rate we’re going to be late.” His hand slips around to my bare but very pregnant stomach. My eyes meet his in the bathroom mirror. “Did you think I would be able to go without a taste with you looking like this?”
I’m standing in only a pair of white lace panties and a bra. The only thing left to do is to slip my dress on and be out the door. It’s white, so it’s the last thing I always put on. I usually try to wear dresses that are white and simple for art showings, not wanting anything to take away from the pieces.
“What kind of taste are we talking about?” I push my ass back into him.
He’s still in his suit from work. He grinds his erection. Booker hadn’t been lying when he said he was going to be an agent one day for the biggest athletes in the world. Some had called him cocky for the declaration, but he showed them all. He’s currently one of the most sought-after agents in the world. I couldn’t be prouder of him if I tried.
There’s nothing wrong with being cocky if you can back it up. Booker always holds true to his word. A lie or half-truth has never crossed his lips to me since that day I’d found all my artwork stashed away in that condo. Now he openly admits when he buys them.
“You know what I want.” His hand slips inside my panties.
“We can’t be late.” I moan, my head dropping back onto his chest as his fingers find my clit.
“There is always time for a man to please his wife. Especially his pregnant wife.”
“Yes,” I agree, my hand locking around his arm. My nails dig into him. It doesn’t take Booker much to get me off. I think the man knows my body better than I do sometimes. He can make me come in seconds if he wants, or he can draw it out until I’m begging for release. I have to say I enjoy both ways equally.
“All day at work I was thinking about coming home and getting you off. I have no fucking clue how I get anything done always thinking about your pussy.”
“Booker!” I cry out, the orgasm hitting me hard. My legs give out, but my husband doesn't let me fall.
“Be ready to get fucked when we get home.” He nibbles my neck as he pulls his hand out from my panties. I watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. I squeeze my thighs together, wishing we had more time right now.
“Mommy! It’s almost time,” our son calls. I hear the pitter-patter of his little feet on our bedroom floor. I grab my dress that’s hanging on the hook and quickly pull it on in the nick of time. Noah comes racing into the bathroom to find me. “Daddy!” he squeals when he sees him. He jumps, and Booker catches him. “People are already arriving.”
“Of course they are. This is your first art showing,” Booker says. It’s not only his first art showing but his graduation from preschool. I can’t believe my little man is going into kindergarten already. I swear it was only yesterday that he was coming into this world.
It still blows my mind how much Booker continues to give me. I can’t imagine a life without him. Hell, I don’t want to. I got one of the good ones.
“Do you think I’ll be as good as Mommy one day?” Noah asks his father.
“Of course.” Noah beams under his father’s praise.
I fight back tears. I know what it feels like to have someone believe in you more than you do yo
urself. And what it can do for your soul. That’s what Booker did for me and is now doing for our son. If not for him I wouldn’t have gone after my dreams. He has always believed in me. I know it will be the same for our children.
“We should get downstairs to greet everyone,” I tell them both.
“I’m going to change.” Booker places Noah on his feet, fixing his little tie. “I’ll meet you both downstairs.” He drops a kiss on my lips before he disappears into the closet. I take Noah’s hand and guide him downstairs to the party. Grams and Grandpa are already here. So is my mom.
She’s actually settled down some. She’s been with this current guy for a few years now. I’m sure it helps that he’s got money. She met him through Booker’s father. He was one of his colleagues. She does actually seem happy. I hope it can stay that way, and he doesn't break her heart.
“Oh, look at my handsome man.” Booker’s mom calls out to Noah. He takes off on a dead run toward her. I might not have gotten a great mom and dad, but I have the best in-laws and grandparents in the world.
Even Booker’s dad and I get along now. Once he realized Booker and I were the real thing and not some fling that could derail his son’s dreams, he came around. He clearly didn’t know his son well enough. Nothing derails Booker. He and I being together is a perfect example of that. He’d made it his mission as a little boy that I would be his wife one day, and here we are.
“Carrie Peters.” A man calls my name that I don’t recognize, but he could be someone’s date.
“That’s me.” I give him a welcoming smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet the beautiful famous artist.” He offers me his hand. I take it out of politeness. He starts to raise my hand to his mouth, but it never makes it. Booker is there, pulling my hand back.
“I’m the husband,” he says. His way of introducing himself. However, he doesn't offer his hand. He can’t because he wraps one around my shoulder, and the other goes to my stomach.
