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Chapter SEVEN
Jared
I lead the three women across the expansive lobby to the bar. Their energy and excitement for every shiny new thing pouring out of them. Even the angry little one seems glad to be here.
“So, how do you two know each other?” the blond with all the shopping bags inquires.
“Old family friends,” I tell her and realize I'm still holding onto Red from when I prevented her tumble.
I take my chance to hook her arm through mine. Her hand looks so tiny resting on the thick band of my forearm, I can't resist covering it over with mine, wanting to feel her in my palm. And for her to know the full strength of my protection with that small gesture.
I temper the length of my stride when I notice she's having to jog to keep up with me. And I want her here, hanging on to my arm, her curvy little body pressed lightly into my side, for as long as possible. It's going to be hard to let go of her when it comes to sitting in the lounge.
I take the women directly to the best table in the bar, beside the glass wall window and we settle into the four white egg chairs. With an enormous effort, I resist the fierce desire to pull Red into my lap. Having her curl up on my knee would be the epitome of all my dreams.
Except then she'd become aware of the raging fucking wood I've got going on for her and I'd be immediately outed as some kind of pervy old dude.
It's not like that. Not like that at all. But I know how people think.
Genuine affection is all too easily misconstrued as something dirty. Taboo and forbidden.
I want to be alone with her, with a desperate yearning that pulls at my heart. And my dick refuses to calm down, thrusting against my jeans like a fucking wild man.
I order us cocktails and sit back in the chair to observe the women interacting. Trying to figure out exactly what it is about Red that sends me over the edge of distraction. Six fucking days since I saw her shopping with her mother and still, not more than a few minutes passes without her beautiful face swarming up in my head.
“This place is cool,” the blond shopper says. “How come I've never been here before? How did you know about this place, Carina?”
“I -er.” Her eyes dart up at me. And that delicious soft blush blooms on her soft cheeks.
I know why she's here.
Her eyes are telling me loud and clear as she struggles to find an excuse. Not to admit to her friend she came for me.
“Carina,” I repeat the perfect name for the perfect woman. Knowing it at last feels like staking a claim on her. “That means 'Darling' in Italian. Darling baby girl.”
Her two friends on the other side of the round table giggle. Carina's cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. Her eyes don't move from mine as she smiles gratitude. I want to kiss each lid in turn as I unbutton her top and very slowly reveal the buds of her nipples that haven’t stopped poking through the fabric since she took off her coat.
“Your mother never introduced us,” I say, bringing us back from the other world we've been floating in, forgetting that we're in a bar crowded with holiday shoppers. And her two friends, who are so very different from the girl who has me hypnotized.
“Oh. Mellie isn't my mother, real mother,” Darling Girl says. “She married my dad when I was twelve.”
“Wait,” Rachel says, after draining her drink. “If you two are old family friends how come you've never been introduced and you don't know she has a step mother.”
The two women turn an inquiring gaze on Carina like she's withholding State secrets. I indicate another round to the waiter who gives me the nod from across the room.
“I've been away a while,” I finally interject, again catching Carina before she falls.
It's hard enough we have to sit here like strangers and put on an act for the friends when all I want is to discover everything about her so I can make her my own.
“Jared told me about a great gallery down the street,” Carina says, too loudly. She proves she knows my name with the deflection. Suspicions are deflated for now at least.
“An excellent gallery,” I agree. “Worth visiting for the architecture alone.”
“Yes, the building is the best part. Rachel's an artist,” she tells me.
“Digital artist. I don’t do paint,” the little one snaps.
A real rottweiler of a woman I’m sure is attractive to ironic young men with long beards.
