Beg For Me: Chapter 12

I have troubled dreams that night. I toss and turn and wake up sweating. In the morning, I’m groggy, so I caffeinate myself into semiconsciousness and make it through a budget meeting and my annual performance review with HR, in which they inform me I’m getting a raise.

I tell them I’m thankful for the recognition, but it’s not enough, and I’d like them to consult with Mr. Hartman to see how they can do better.

The HR reps are obviously startled by my request, but I didn’t rise to this level in my field by playing it safe. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I leave the meeting feeling energized.

On my lunch break, I review Will’s email about our options for Mom. None of them are ideal for one reason or another, but all of them have one thing in common.

They’re ungodly expensive.

I email my stock broker and ask him to recommend a few strong assisted care stocks for my portfolio, because if the pricing structure is any indication, the industry is making profits hand over fist. Then I email Will to tell him I looked at the data he sent but would like to explore more choices before moving forward.

He responds within minutes to tell me that I’m selfish, difficult, and a few other unpleasant things I scan over before moving the email into the trash folder.

Then I sit at my desk and stare out the window, my thoughts drifting to Carter.

The enormous bouquet of roses he sent isn’t showing any signs of wilting. Every strong, erect stem seems like an endorsement for the virility of its sender.

I resist the urge to conduct a forensic search of his past on the internet and make a Pros and Cons list of dating him on a yellow legal pad instead.

The Pros list is short, but it has Excellent Oral Sex in the top spot, which I think is quite compelling. I abandon the Cons list when it stretches to twenty and run the sheet of paper through the shredder.

I spend the rest of the day engaged in busy work that would pass as productive from an onlooker’s standpoint but is actually a ruse for the real work I’m doing: planning the menu for tonight’s dinner and fighting off the blossoming fear that I might be having a midlife crisis.

I’ve already got the hot young thing on my arm and the inner turmoil. What’s next? A new sports car? Liposuction?

I stop at the grocery store on the way home, then quickly shower and dress. Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I shake my head at my nervous reflection and tell her she’ll be fine.

Knowing that I shaved my legs in the shower, my reflection silently judges me.

By the time the doorbell rings at six, I’m on my second glass of wine. Carter stands on my front step, holding a colorful bouquet of wildflowers and grinning. He takes one look at me and stops smiling.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You’re making that face again.”

“The one where I look freaked out?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“It’s just nerves.”

“What are you nervous about?”

“I shaved my legs.”

His gaze sweeps over me, down my body to my bare legs beneath my skirt and back up again. His blue eyes are soft and warm. His voice is husky.

“I’m honored.”

“You should be. Are those flowers for me?”

“Yes.”

He holds out the bouquet. I take it and stand there with my nose in it, sniffing and stalling, feeling my pulse roaring through every vein in my body.

Carter gently grips my shoulders, moves me backward several paces into the foyer, then turns and closes the door behind us. He removes the bouquet I’m using as a shield and sets it on the console table.

Then he takes me in his arms and hugs me.

We stand in silence for a moment, just breathing each other in, until he murmurs, “I’m not taking anything for granted. Go put on pants if it makes you feel better. Put on your ugliest sweats. Put on an iron chastity belt.”

“I don’t own an iron chastity belt. Even if I did, you’d probably have a skeleton key for it, anyway.”

He takes my face in his hands and gazes down into my eyes. “I do,” he whispers teasingly. “Just call me The Locksmith.”

“Because unlocking deadbolted underwear is your superpower. That was on my Cons list.”

He furrows his brow. “You made a Cons list about me?”

“I did.”

“Was it long?”

“Very.”

“Longer than the Pros list?”

“By a mile.”

“Well, shit. I guess I’ll have to try harder.”

“You can start by giving me a kiss. That was one of the things on the Pros list…your kissing prowess.”

“Was it now?” He grins, cocky as a pirate and pleased as all get-out.

He’s adorable. Charming, handsome, irresistible, and adorable.

What a disaster.

I wrap my arms around his waist, rise up on my toes, and kiss him. Hard.

He responds hungrily, kissing me back with passion, sliding his tongue against mine. I cling to him, feeling his heartbeat, thrilled by every bit of him but also wishing we’d never met.

I was okay before him. I was doing just fine. Life was good. Not exciting but solid. I had my daughter, I had my girls, I had my work, and I was climbing the rungs of that corporate ladder with a clear-eyed persistence and dogged determination that served me well.

And now this.

Now Carter.

I’m doomed.

Carter breaks away, breathing hard and staring down at me in confusion. “What?”

“Oh. I said that out loud, didn’t I?” My laugh is uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, sweet boy. I’m the opposite of angry with you. I’m completely enamored.”

He stares at me for a beat, his expression intense and his lips parted, his eyes shining with hope. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“Like…a lot?”

I smile and brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “Terminally, I’m afraid.”

He’s so thrilled by that, his intake of breath is audible. Exultant, he whispers, “This is the best day of my life.”

I throw my head back and laugh. He kisses my throat, growling like a bear and nipping my skin with his teeth, then gathers me in his arms and sighs.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do. Because you’re going to show me your bedroom now.”

I pull away slightly and lift a brow. “And why am I going to do that?”

“So you can change into your ugliest sweats, and I can snoop around while you’re doing it.”

“You really want to see my bedroom? It’s not all that exciting.”

“That’s like telling a priest the Sistine Chapel isn’t all that exciting.”

“All right. As long as you don’t break into prayer…”

I take his hand and lead him upstairs. He stares at everything as we go—the furniture, the artwork, the carpeting—as if he’s committing it all to memory. By the time we reach my bedroom, I’m convinced he could easily find his way around in the dark.

I release his hand and lean against the door frame, gesturing for him to go in.

He steps inside, sniffing the air. In the middle of the room, he turns a slow circle, taking the same careful visual inventory of items that he did as we came up. His expression is one of awe and wonderment, and I have to suppress a smile.

“It’s not a shrine.”

“That’s what you think.” He crosses to the windows and peers out into the yard.

“If you’re trying to make me think you’re planning a burglary, it’s working.”

Looking over his shoulder, he grins at me. “I’m scaring you.”

“A little. Why are you smiling?”

“Because usually you’re the one scaring me.”

“You’re exaggerating again.”

“I never exaggerate.”

“You told me I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. That’s a massive exaggeration, not to mention factually inaccurate and easily disprovable.”

He gazes at me from across the room for a long moment, then says quietly, “If anything, it was an understatement.”

Surely, he must be able to hear my thudding heart. If not, I know he can see the flush spreading up my neck because I can feel it staining my skin and settling hotly into my ears.

Turning from the window, he meanders over to the dresser and trails his fingers along the edge, stopping to pick up a silver-framed photo of me and Harlow, taken when she was six.

We’re lying on the grass in the backyard, barefoot in summer dresses, her head on my stomach, laughing up at the camera. Our happiness is palpable. It’s my favorite photograph. A snapshot from a simpler time.

“That’s Harlow, my daughter. She’s fourteen now. She never smiles like that anymore.”

Carter gazes at me, his expression serious. “Puberty’s tough.”

“Was it for you?”

He turns his gaze back to the picture in his hand, then nods. His voice lowers. “Excruciating.”

He adds nothing more, but the pain behind that single word moves me.

“Does she live with her dad?”

“No, she lives with me. He gets her every other weekend. They’re away together right now, though, down in Cabo.”

Deep in thought, Carter stares at the photograph a moment longer, then gently sets it back into place.

Then he disappears into my closet.

I call, “If you come out of there wearing a pair of my underwear on your head, this date is so over.”

“So it’s another date! I knew it!”

I shake my head, laughing, but stop laughing when he reappears with a ratty pair of gray sweatpants with UCLA printed in huge faded gold letters down one leg and a smattering of suspicious stains on the other.

Holding them up by a forefinger, he says, “These. Are. Hideous.”

“Congratulations. You have eyes.”

“Where’s the top?”

“You really want me to change into sweats?”

“No, what I want is for you to be comfortable. So cover up those legs you’re regretting shaving, and let’s go back downstairs and have a drink.”

On his way past me out the door, he drapes the sweats over my head, then swats me on the ass.

“And be quick about it, woman! I’m thirsty!”

I stand there for a moment, laughing softly and shaking my head.

The king of Earth is back.

I rummage through the closet to find the matching sweatshirt, then change out of my nice outfit and into the ratty sweats. I feel better instantly. Deciding to keep going with the theme, I go into the bathroom and wash all the makeup off my face, then put my hair into a ponytail.

My reflection is much happier with me than she was earlier.

When I go back downstairs, I find Carter standing at the kitchen sink, arranging the bouquet of flowers he brought into a crystal vase. Without looking up, he says, “I hope you don’t mind that I snooped around in every single cupboard while trying to find a vase for these. Did you ever see that movie with Julia Roberts, Sleeping With the Enemy?”

“Yes. Forever ago. Her ex-husband was stalking her, right?”

“Yeah. Your pantry reminded me of that guy, how anal he was. Everything is arranged so perfectly, it could be an ad in a magazine. I wonder if you’re secretly a stalker?”

He glances up, smiling, but the smile falls off his face the moment he sees me.

I drop a mock curtsy. “You said you wanted me comfortable. Careful what you wish for.”

When he doesn’t say anything and only stands there looking haunted, I grow self-conscious.

“Why are you gaping at me like that?”

“Because you’re even more beautiful without makeup. I’ve been blinded. It’s like staring straight into the sun.”

Smiling, I cross over to him and kiss him on the cheek. “That was a good one. Bonus points for creativity. What would you like to drink?”

He drops the stem and pair of scissors he’s holding and pulls me into a hug. “You,” he says, then kisses me.

Winding my arms around his broad shoulders, I sink against him and into the kiss. His mouth is wonderful. Plush. He has lips like a girl’s, full and soft, not thin and hard like Nick’s were.

“You taste better than wine,” he whispers against my mouth. “Sweeter than honey. You’re more delicious than strawberry shortcake.”

I groan, trying not to laugh. “And you’re shameless. Stop while you’re ahead. There’s only so much outrageous schlock a girl can take.”

He grins at me, blue eyes twinkling. “So I’m ahead. Awesome.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I push away from him and walk over to the liquor cabinet. Swinging the door open, I turn back to him and do a Vanna-White-style showcase of the contents, complete with beaming smile and spokesmodel flourish of my hands.

“What’s your pleasure, Mr. McCord? Whiskey? Bourbon? Tequila? Gin? I’ve got it all.”

“How about Clase Azul Ultra Extra Añejo?”

“What’s that?”

“Tequila. Super spendy.”

“Spendy? Like how much?”

“About two grand a bottle.”

That makes me laugh. “Do I look like a person who would spend two thousand dollars on a bottle of tequila?”

“So you stole it, then? Because it’s right there.”

I turn to look at the shelves of bottles. “Really? Which one?”

“That tall black bottle with the 24-karat gold detailing. Behind the Tito’s.”

I move a few things aside and reach for the tall, elegant glass bottle. Removing it carefully from the shelf, I say, “I always thought this was a kind of liqueur. Nick brought it home from some business thing, and I stuck it in here. It’s probably been there three or four years.”

“You’re in for a treat. It’s fucking amazing.”

“You’ve had it before?” When he looks askance at me, I laugh. “Of course you have. I keep forgetting about all that money of yours.”

“Good. Keep forgetting. Focus on my good looks and charm instead.”

We grin at each other. I set the outrageously expensive tequila on the counter and find two small liqueur glasses in another cabinet. Then Carter opens the bottle and pours a small amount of amber liquid in each.

He picks up a glass and hands it to me, then picks up the other. “If you ever use this in a margarita, the angels will weep.”

“So you’re saying don’t shoot it like it’s Cuervo.”

“You’re trying to scare me again.”

We clink glasses and sip, our gazes meeting over the rims. A heady mix of caramel, vanilla, and toasted oak fills my nose as the tequila slides past my lips. I swallow, amazed at the complexity of the flavors.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Worth every penny, right?”

I laugh. “Not if I were paying for it, but since I didn’t, yes. Okay, handsome. Are you ready to be dazzled by my culinary skills?”

“Yep. What are you making?”

“Hot and sour soup, beef satay, and green chicken curry.”

His eyes widen. He looks dazed, which makes me confused.

“You said Thai food was one of your favorites.”

He sets his glass down slowly, takes mine and sets it down too, then takes my face in his hands. “Thank you,” he whispers, gazing deep into my eyes.

“For what?”

“Remembering.”

When he kisses me, I’m glad I put the hideous sweats on. If I were still wearing a skirt, it would already be puddled on the floor.