I force myself to exhale a breezy sigh, to act casual, to pretend I’m not about to slam him against the wall and devour him whole. “I don’t know. I mean, tonight could work. Think about it, and let me know. I’ll be on the dance floor.”
I’m halfway to the door—halfway to fresh air and dozens of curious eyeballs that will hopefully help me pull my shit together—when he calls, “Charlotte.”
I glance back, one eyebrow arched, feigning chill. “Yes?”
“How far do you want this to go?” He searches my face, his gaze lingering a beat too long on my lips. “Are we holding hands in public and calling it good? Or are we really selling it?”
It’s a fair question. A necessary question, even.
But I don’t have a good answer. I’m not entirely sure I trust myself to set those kinds of boundaries right now. Not when he’s looking at me likethat.
Not when I’m still longing to see if he tastes as good as I remember.
But I’m not about to admit that.
Instead, I shrug and shoot him a sassy smile. “Guess we’ll find out.”
I slip out of the laundry room and close the door behind me, enough heat coming off my skin that I instantly cross to the vintage metal containers full of beer. I pluck a piece of melting ice from the top and press it to my throat, willing my hormones to sit the fuck down and chill the fuck out.
Yes, as a middle-aged woman, I’m apparently in my sexual peak.
And yes, I’ve been celibate since that night in June, when Nix did reality-altering things to my body in Parker’s garden, and am in serious need of a quality shagging.
But those aren’t acceptable excuses for taking my eye off the ball. And the ball is proving to my piece of shit ex and his traitorous bride-to-be that I have moved on. That I couldn’t care less that they took advantage of me, betrayed my trusting heart, and topped it off by spitting in my face in print in front of the entire city.
My family has been here since the 1800s, when my French trader ancestors travelled across the ocean to make Louisiana their home. Generations of Delaneys have lived here, loved here, and done our best to make NOLA a beautiful, cosmopolitan, cultured place to live.
Hell, Teddy and Maddie wouldn’t have had a botanical garden to take cheesy pictures in without my parents’ work to restore the plants after Hurricane Katrina.
This ismycity.
And no one spits in my face inmycity.
Thoughts once more firmly centered on revenge, I head to the dance floor to shake it off with Makena.
This is all I need: a little physical activity to banish the hungry she-beast within back to the cave from whence she came.
Right?
Four
NIX
Ishould leave.
That’s what a truly intelligent man would do.
A man with functioning self-preservation instincts would thank the host, congratulate Parker and Makena one more time, and get the hell out before he does something pathologically stupid.
But it seems my self-preservation is still where I left it last summer, abandoned in Parker’s garden, somewhere between the crushed tomato plants and that perfectly sized zucchini.
Fuck it. Who cares?
Being inside Charlotte is far superior to playing it safe. And what do I really have to lose? If three months on her “must avoid list” hasn’t killed the hunger that rampages through my blood every time she glances my way, saying no to her clever plan isn’t likely to get the job done.
Itisa clever plan.
I get what I need, she gets whatsheneeds, and we both head into the holidays better off than we were before. And if we manage to fuck away this burning need that’s haunted me since June while we’re at it, all the better.
