“I was gonna say… that’s a long one,” she teases, and I’m obsessed with the way she always does. Obsessed with the little moments where she’s trying her best to make me crack a smile at my own expense.
“ReadGatsby, though. What’s that face for?” I mirror the crinkle of her nose with one of my own.
“I don’t think I’ve thought of it once since the twelfth grade,” she admits. “I guess I saw the movie. All I remember is that it was sad and Daisy was a bitch.”
“That might be a direct quote from the summary.” A smile tugs at my lips before I glance at the clock on the desk. “We should get dressed.”
“Or we could getundressed…” she looks up at me through her lashes, her teeth about to draw blood with how hard she’s biting. And I know what she wants, because I want it, too.
I allow myself a small part of her, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss that has her pushing up against me, beforepulling back, tempering the desire that threatens to fundamentally change things between us. Because I know that once I have her,reallyhave her, I won’t be able to let go. And that scares me just as much as it exhilarates me.
“I’d love nothin’ more than to undress you right here, but then we’d never make it to lunch. Don’t know if we’d make it to dinner, either.”
Her blush is instant as she wets her lips, nodding. I know she thinks I’m stalling, but she lets it go. “Fine. Country club, right?”
“Yes,” I sigh, running my hands over her arms and shoulders in a soothing motion in an attempt to soothe myself, too. “It’s a business meets pleasure kind of thing. Mom mingles with the wives, and Dad talks business.”
“Got it.” Her smile does little to hide the dread on her face.
“Up sides? The food is incredible. The drinks are free. We don’t have to stay the whole time. And then…we can spend the rest of the night together.”
She stands on her tiptoes, itching up to press a soft kiss to my lips, and I want to shut the door and spend the afternoon memorizing every inch of her skin. “Good. I’m holding you to it, Fielder.”
22
Gen
There’s a bee that won’t stop buzzing, keeps landing on the bundle of hydrangeas Evie arranged for dinner tonight. I was shocked to see her milling about the kitchen, chopping chives for the potato salad, marinating the ribs Beau just finished grilling. I don’t know what Anders does, besides driving them round, because Evie’s kind of done…everything.
Grant had to do important, official things with his dad at the corporate office after lunch at the club, which left me alone with his mom and Anders. I helped as much as I could with dinner prep, but she shooed me off so lovingly, I felt silly for even trying. So I read on the wrap around porch—something I haven’t had time to do in months—where I swear I saw this same damn bee.
“Dupont’s French, right, Gen?” Evie asks as she passes me the tray of balsamic tomatoes.
“Yes. My dad was Haitian—he passed away a while ago,” I add, hoping to avoid the whole pity deal, “but my mom’s also French.” I slide a few tomatoes onto my platebefore passing the tray to Grant, grateful he’s back by my side.
“That’s a shame,” she says, and I can tell she’s tryingnotto do the pity thing. “Well, I’m sure he’d be in awe of you now. Grant said you’re dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Nutcracker. Did he tell you we go every year?”
My gaze slides back to his, finding it carefully guarded. “He didn’t,” I say, a question in my eyes.
“I told you I’ve been to the ballet,” he tells me, the slightest smirk on his lips.
I remember what he said to me in the woods, the realization that he wasn’t just flattering me and the memory heating my skin.
“We love it! Don’t we, Beau?” He comes to the dark paneled outdoor table, a tray of perfectly charred, steaming ribs in his hands.
“Started going after Grant and Sloane joined the family. You know, tryin’ to make traditions,” he drawls, his eyes sparkling as he charms me with his smile. The greyed edges of his hair somehow make him look more sophisticated than the perfectly popped collar beneath his light sweater, and I wonder if he really grilled the ribs, or if some phantom house chef did it for him. “Remember when we let Sloane give that a go?”
Evie’s laugh is like a wind chime, so at odds with the way her hair seems to stay in perfect place. “I do. I do,” she shakes her head, and I catch Grant’s tight smile out of the corner of my eye. “One of her manydreams.”
“She’s on the right track now, though. Curating is a viable career. Lots of connections to be made on the business end of things.” Beau gets comfortable in his seat, resting an arm on the back of Evie’s chair.
“She wouldn’t ratherbethe artist?” I ask, remembering that to them I couldn’t have met Sloane.
“Well,” Beau huffs, “I’m sure. But it’s not realistic or a life, really. Being the star sounds exciting, but what about when it’s over? When the fervor dies down?” He shakes his head on a tsk. “You have to be exceptional, and even then.”
I stab a chunk of potato with my fork, imagining teenaged Grant and Sloane having to listen to this. Think about how amazing it is that they still believe in their talents after years of monologues like this.
Evie must pick up on my unease, because she says, “We don’t mean that about you though! You’re a talent, I’m sure.”
