Beg For Me: Chapter 8

I’m so distracted during lunch, my boss has to repeat himself three different times. When he asks me if I’m feeling well, I tell the truth and say no.

I’m not feeling well. I’m feeling as if someone stuck a lit firecracker up my ass.

I haven’t been this excited, nervous, and certain I’m making a terrible mistake since…

Ever.

By the time Carter pulls into my driveway at precisely six o’clock, I’ve cycled through waves of panic powerful enough to leave a weaker woman sobbing face down on the carpet. I make a game of it, watching the hysteria come and go from afar like a scientist observing a strange and hostile planet through a telescope in the safety of a lab.

Disassociating, I believe it’s called. Handy little trick if you can manage it.

He knocks on the door. I open it and stand wordlessly staring at him. He looks me up and down and grimaces. “Ouch.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re painfully beautiful. It literally hurts my eyeballs to look at you.”

“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

“I know. I was hoping it would distract you from the meltdown it seems like you’re having.”

We stare at each other, separated by nothing but the threshold and a lot of crackling hot space.

“Carter?”

“Yes?”

“What are we doing?”

He considers that seriously, his wolf blue eyes fixed on mine. All in black, his shirt collar unbuttoned and the cuffs rolled up, his golden hair artfully tousled, he looks as if he just strolled off an Armani runway.

After a moment, he says softly, “Nothing you don’t want to do. Ask me to leave, and I will. But for the record, I’ll be devastated.” He pauses, then muses, “Plus, I’ll have to find a good tattoo removal place. I wonder how long it’ll take to erase the portrait of you I got inked onto my back? At least four or five sessions I’d guess.”

“That’s not even a little bit funny.”

He grins. “You’re not sure if I’m joking or not though, are you?”

“Please tell me you are. I’m freaked out enough as it is.”

“Of course I’m joking.” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. I got the idea from my brother.”

“Your brother tattooed someone’s face onto his back?”

“Yeah. His wife’s.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose a lot of people have tattoos of their spouses.”

“Sure. Except Callum had only known Emery a couple weeks at the time.”

That makes me lift my brows in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

He quirks his lips and tilts his head back, gazing at me as if he knows all my secrets and then some. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

I say drily, “Sure. Except for the fact that you mentioned kidnapping and Stockholm syndrome when you talked about him last night, which isn’t romantic at all.”

He thoughtfully purses his lips. “I mean…some people might think it is.”

“Yes, and those people read too many romance novels. Are we going to dinner, or are we going to stand here talking about your crazy brother?”

He brightens. “Did you just ask me out on a date?”

I stare at him for a beat in disbelief, then dissolve into helpless laughter. “It must be amazing to be so delusional. Let’s go before I come to my senses.”

He grabs me, plants a passionate kiss on my lips, then bedazzles me with a smile.

“You’re the boss, beautiful. Let’s go.”

He drove a different car tonight, a gorgeous classic Corvette painted silvery blue. We take Wilshire to Sunset, the head north up the coast, the setting sun in our eyes and the radio playing “Hotel California.”

My happiness is a little effervescent ball inside my chest, expanding like a balloon being filled with helium. Even repeated warnings to myself that this is insane doesn’t deflate it.

“Where are we going?” I shout over the music.

“Malibu.” He lowers the volume and glances over at me, heart-stoppingly handsome in the golden glow of the sunset. “To my favorite restaurant. Guess which one.”

Recalling what he said about his favorite foods being sushi and Thai, I think for a moment. “Nobu?”

By his dazzling grin, I can tell I’m right. I can also tell he’s happy I remembered because he reaches over and takes my hand. Giving it a squeeze, he says, “You’re perfect.”

“I’m so far from perfect, we’re not even in the same universe.”

“That’s what’s makes you perfect. You have no idea how perfect you are.”

“I hate to break it to you, Romeo, but as soon as the honeymoon phase is over and you come to your senses, you’ll realize I’m just a regular woman like all the rest.”

Glancing away from the highway, he lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. His eyes shine with delight.

I say sternly, “Don’t go reading anything into that mention of a honeymoon phase.”

“You’re already planning our wedding, aren’t you?”

Groaning, I drop my head against the seatback and close my eyes.

“You totally are. You’ve got the dress picked out and everything.”

“No, I don’t. Stop gloating.”

“I can see it now. A sweetheart neckline with a cinched waist and a lot of hand-embroidered seed pearls covering the bodice—”

“It’s disturbing that you know so much about wedding gowns.”

“—a long lace veil edged in crystals and a perfect little bouquet of Lily of the Valley—”

“Seriously? Did you used to work for a dress designer?”

“—and a gorgeous long train that flares out behind you like a mermaid’s tail when you walk. You’ll be a vision in white. A princess bride. Perfection.”

I laugh. “Yes, except I wouldn’t be wearing white. Nice delusion, though. Very thorough.”

Brows furrowed, he glances over at me. “Why wouldn’t you be wearing white?”

“Because I’ve already been married.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“A white wedding dress is a symbol of innocence and purity. Divorcées normally wear another color like cream or navy blue if they remarry. It’s considered in bad taste to wear pure white for a second wedding.”

The face of disgust he makes is hilarious. “That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard!”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I don’t make the rules.”

“You are absolutely wearing white when we get married. Not cream and definitely not fucking navy blue like a stewardess. Pure blinding white.”

I chuckle. “You certainly seem to have some strong feelings on the subject. But we’re not getting married.”

He ignores me, continuing his rant.

“I don’t care what anybody thinks about good taste. It’s my fucking wedding, and my bride is wearing white because white symbolizes hope and new beginnings. What does cream symbolize? I’ll tell you what: a stain.”

“Maybe your bride won’t want to wear white, you ever think of that? Pure white is very unflattering on most complexions.”

He stops to think about it. “You wore a white suit in that interview you did with Power magazine. You looked like a goddess.”

“Thank you. But I have an olive skin tone. Women who are pale might look like they’re recovering from a long illness if they wear stark white. Do you want your bride to look like she’s recovering from a long illness?”

“Of course not. But this is you we’re talking about, so we don’t have to worry about it.”

He laughs long and hard at my murderous expression.

“Laugh it up, funny boy, because this might be your last night on earth.”

“Nah, you like me too much to kill me.”

“Hmm. Let’s see how dinner goes, and I’ll get back to you on that.”

He kisses the back of my hand again and doesn’t let go until we pull into the parking lot at the restaurant.

There’s a good reason Nobu Malibu is regularly voted the most beautiful restaurant in the world.

Perched over the sand right on the edge of the shimmering Pacific Ocean, the views of the water and coastline are spectacular. We’re led to a private table on the waterside balcony by a scantily-dressed young woman who behaves as though Carter owns the restaurant and not the venerated Japanese chef Nobu Matsuhisa.

“So wonderful to see you again, Mr. McCord,” she purrs, offering him a menu and leaning over far enough so that her tanned cleavage is exposed from the low-cut neckline of her sleeveless silk dress.

She looks all of nineteen years old.

I vaguely remember when my skin shone like that, burnished from the sun and plump with loads of collagen. I want to admonish her to wear sunscreen or all that lovely collagen will be toast in a few years, but bite my tongue and smile instead.

Once a mother, always a mother. Even to kids you didn’t give birth to.

Without a second glance in her direction, Carter politely thanks her and orders champagne. With a wistful glance for him and a tight smile for me, she slinks away, trailing the scent of Chanel No. 5 and disappointment.

“You’ve got a fan there,” I note, draping the white linen napkin over my lap. “Come here often?”

“A couple times a month, I guess. The food’s incredible.”

“So is the view.”

He knows I’m not talking about the ocean. Smiling smugly, he tilts his head and leans back in his chair.

“Are you jealous?”

“Of the child hostess? No. Her complexion is another story, though.”

“Is it nice? I hadn’t noticed.”

“How safe of you.”

“I know you think I don’t have manners, but I actually do. Look, I even know which fork to use first.”

He picks up the fork beside his plate and waves it at me.

“Very impressive. It would be even more impressive if there were more than one fork at your place setting.”

“Geez, you’re tough. Next, you’ll be telling me something silly like we’re not getting married.”

I hide my smile behind my hand and wish his audacity wasn’t so endearing.

Our waiter arrives and exchanges small talk with Carter. I watch him from the corner of my eye, so at ease in this luxurious setting, so handsome and confident, and wonder about his insecurity he so casually mentioned. I wonder about the therapy he’s undergoing and what knots someone like him might need to work out.

From everything I’ve read of him, he’s led a life of privilege enjoyed by few.

“Sophia, do you mind if I order for us?”

“Not at all.”

“Any allergies?”

“None.”

Carter turns back to the waiter and proceeds to order our food. In Japanese.

When he’s finished, the waiter bows formally, leaving with a small smile when he notices my stunned expression.

“Aw, come on now,” drawls Carter, snapping his napkin open. “You didn’t think you were the only one with a big brain around here, did you?”

“No, but Japanese?”

“Are you impressed?”

“Thoroughly. Have you spent much time in Japan?”

“Never been. But I’ve spent a lot of time in sushi restaurants. God, I wish I had my phone on me. I’d take a picture of that shocked look on your face.”

“You don’t have your cell? Big muckedy-muck like you? What if someone needs to get in touch with you?”

His smile is as soft as his eyes. “They can wait. I’m on a date.” He drops his voice to a whisper and leans closer. “I’d say ‘with my future wife’ but I don’t want to get stabbed in front of all these people.”

“Good call.”

We lean apart as a server comes by to light the votive candle on our table, but our gazes hold. He slides his foot across the floor so it rests next to mine. My pulse crashes as loud as the waves.

When the server leaves, Carter murmurs, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not cancelling.”

I look out over the water and let my gaze linger over the last of the golden sunlight glinting on the waves. Seagulls swoop and cry overhead. Down on the sand, tiny spotted sandpipers race the tide in and out, timing the waves. The air smells of salt and seaweed, and the breeze is gentle and warm.

Nick and I used to bring Harlow to the beach when she was little. She loved to play in the sand, run joyfully screaming from the waves, hunt for shells. It seems like only yesterday she was a baby.

Out of nowhere, I’m overwhelmed by an aching sense of melancholy.

Time passes so fast. Every day, the sand in the hourglass falls more and more quickly until all at once, no grains are left. And neither are we.

Carter says quietly, “What are you thinking?”

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I murmur, “Sometimes life is so beautiful, it can break your heart.”

“Because everything ends.”

I turn my head and meet his gaze. Surprised he understood, I nod.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”

“Believe might not be the right word. Hope is more like it. You?”

“The same.” He smiles. “My father likes to say mankind created the idea of God to manage our existential fear of death, but I think that’s just to annoy people.”

“It is pretty bleak.”

“He has an interesting sense of humor.”

“He must be a real hoot at cocktail parties.”

That makes Carter laugh. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’ll be gaga over you, though he’ll also probably disown me.”

I tease, “Why would he do that if we’re not competition?”

He chuckles, inclining his head to indicate he concedes the point. “You’ll win him over. Nobody can resist you.”

I can’t imagine a world where Carter introduces me to his father, or that we’d even get that far in a relationship to be meeting each other’s family, so I simply smile and look back at the restless ocean, determined to enjoy our meal despite all the reasons I shouldn’t be here.

The waiter returns with a bottle of champagne and presents it to Carter for approval, then pops the cork. He pours a small amount for each of us, tells us he’ll return with a bucket of ice, and disappears once more.

Carter raises his glass for a toast. “To taking chances.”

When I touch my glass to his, it feels as if something has been decided.