“I wanted to. All the damn time. My mind was so filthy around you.” He runs his hands up to my shoulders, then slowly down, cupping my breasts. His pointer fingers run over my nipples.
“Carter,” I whimper. “What do you think you’re—”
But before I can finish the question, his phone begins to chirp a joyful, electronic melody. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath. “I set an alarm for brunch.”
“Right. Brunch.” It’s like I’m in a trance or something—one fueled entirely by lust—because it takes another few seconds for the words to hit me. “Brunch!” I push myself up on wobbly legs, Carter’s arms there to catch me if I fall. “Amá hates it when I’m late.”
“We’ll be there right on time. Don’t worry. I got you.”
I want to hate the way his words, his hands, his everything makes me feel so safe. But I can’t. So I’m not even going to try.
27
For brunch, I decided towear my nicest jeans, deep indigo-stained boyfriend-cut, with ballet slipper shoes. Up top I’ve got on a silk crewneck the color of peaches and cream, and over that, an earthy brown tweed blazer. Amá is going to kill me for wearing jeans, and she’s not going to dig the ballet slippers, either. But I don’t want people gawking at my ankle, and there’s no way I’m able to wear her preferred shoe choice of towering designer stilettos. I’m carrying the black leather Cartier bag she gave me, plus I put on a solitaire diamond necklace, so hopefully my classy accessories will soften her judgments up a smidgen.
I glance at Carter as he sits in the driver’s seat. He’s got on a grayish purple dress shirt that is fitted to him in an almost indecent way. I can see the lines of the muscles in his arms, the defined edges of his abdomen. His slacks don’t hide his thick thighs and I don’t let myself look between his legs, lest I look like there is always only one thing on my mind, even though when it comes to Carter,thatis on my mind way too much.
I clear my throat.
He looks at me quick. “You okay? You need anything?”
How can two simple, normal questions make me feel so damn emotional? “Yeah, I’m fine. Just not looking forward to this.” Brunch with Amá Sonya isn’t usually terrible, but I definitely would rather be at home now, continuing what we’d started while playingMutant League Football.
“It’ll be fine. We got this.” He grins at me and I smile back, my heart feeling like it’s somehow grown to fill every part of my body.
If I don’t watch myself, I might do something unthinkable. Like fall in love with my husband.
On the way to the bougie, orange-essenced champagne-serving restaurant Amá insists on for brunch every month, I wonder what, exactly, Carter and I are doing. He’s taken the week off so we can do best-friendship shenanigans—whatever that means—which is what I wanted from the start. But also? Two nights ago, he went down on me so well, I’ve had to try to re-create the sensation with my fingers and vibrator twice since, but nothing comes close. Plus, you know. I sucked him off just last night.
And who knows what would’ve happened just now if his brunch alarm hadn’t gone off.
Best friends don’t do all that, do they? Not the best friends I’ve had in my life.
My vibrating phone breaks my thoughts away from the sad trail they keep wanting to go down. I hold back a gasp when I see it’s Gerald Samuels.
“Hello?” I ask as soon as I accept the call. “Mr. Samuels? Did you find her?”
“Not yet, Teal,” he makes sure to say quickly in his cigar-scratchy voice. “I just wanted to give you an update.”
My heart falls as he tells me about another gallery showingthat featured an artist named Vivienne several years ago, and thatthisgallery is still open, which means someone working there may have known whoever the hell this Vivienne was, and blah, blah, blah. The rest of the update goes on like that…a credit card opened in Maine. A car sold in Ohio. Nothing concrete, nothing recent.
I knew it was a long shot, but by the time I get off the phone, I feel like I’m never going to find Mama.
“You good?” Carter asks.
I nod, counting my breath the whole while. “I’m fine. The PI is still looking, is all.”
He seems to understand I don’t want to talk about it and we drive in silence until the restaurant parking lot appears, way too soon for my liking.
Amá Sonya is walking up to the gold-leaf door at the same time we are, so we meet in the middle and Carter opens the door for us after greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. Just like I’d anticipated, she tsks in disapproval when she sees my outfit. “Jeans?” she hisses in my ear, her skinny hand tight on my forearm. “Teal, this isn’t the Cheesecake Factory.”
“Amá, I messed up my ankle, remember?”
“Sí, which is why you should be in a dress.”
“My entire ankle and foot are the colors blue, green, and yellow.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like she’s weighing the indignity of jeans versus unsightly bruises. Only this woman would consider jeans to be on par with a nasty-looking injury, aesthetically speaking.
