Love, Chloe
Page 53

“I love you.” The best response in the whole world. I smiled bigger.
“I love you too.”
“I can’t decide if I want to carry you to my bedroom or to lunch.”
“Bed,” I said immediately, and he laughed, dropping his arms and stepping down a few steps, pulling me against his chest and looking down at me for a moment—one heart-stopping moment where he stared at me as if I were everything in his world. I lifted my chin, and he kissed me softly.
When the kiss ended, he kept me there, his face serious. “Do you know how scared I was last night? When he proposed?”
Last night. How could so much have happened in just twenty-four hours? I wet my lips, and his hands tightened a little on my hips. “You shouldn’t have been. I was yours the entire time.”
He swallowed and his eyes moved to my mouth, then he kissed me again, this kiss hard and dominant, his tongue diving in and claiming me, his fingers hard as they pulled me close. “Bed,” he whispered, and I nodded.
“Now.”
My bag fell in his hall, my clothes got lost along the way, and I lay back on his bed and watched him yank at his shirt, his abs stretching and popping as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He kicked off his shoes as he undid his jeans, shoving them over his hips, taking his boxer briefs along with them, and then he was naked—fully naked—the sun coming in the window and showcasing the utter perfection of the man. Already hard, he took his time walking over to the bed, his hand gripping his cock, moving in slow and delicious strokes. I hated to glance away from the scene, but then he spoke, and I looked up to his face and there … I was a goner. Intense heat in those eyes, he looked at me with such need that I was instantly addicted, never wanting to look away from his face again.
“Spread your legs, baby. Let me see you.” He stroked himself, his voice hoarse and I slid my feet along the bed, my knees parting, nothing hidden from his eyes.
He stopped at the foot of the bed and stood, his legs slightly spread, and stared. “Touch yourself, baby. Put your fingers everywhere that you want my mouth.”
If I was wet before, I was soaked by the time I ran my tentative fingers in between my legs. And with him there, his chest flexing, arm moving, breath hard, I showed him exactly what I wanted him to do.
And then, he did it better.
I knew I’d said it before, but I loved this man.
88. Chanel No. WTF
If I ran fast enough through life, I couldn’t see its cracks.
Nicole’s drama.
My looming unemployment.
Carter’s parents.
Vic.
In the moments since that horrible night when Vic proposed—I’d run fast, and love had blurred my vision. Carter and I fit so perfectly together, in this new relationship of I love yous and orgasms and God you’re beautifuls that I managed, for almost a week, to ignore everything else.
Then real life came calling.
Cammie was coming over, and late. I eyed the clock and sipped my wine, turning up my playlist. The buzzer sounded and I skipped the speaker, letting her in without complaint, my hand swinging open the door at the first sign of a knock, my buzz kicking, pajama pants imperfectly paired with a Current-Elliot top. We were going to make cupcakes, drink wine, and watch a movie. Plans that stalled when I saw the couple at my door.
“Mom?” I almost checked my wine glass, to see if I had chugged it all, had slipped in pills, had done something to imagine my mother, her arm slipped carelessly through a Gucci crocodile bag, my father towering behind her. I hadn’t seen them in over a year, and yet, somehow, they looked exactly the same. No extra wrinkles from stress, no salt and pepper roots betraying the months since a proper dye job, no worn suitcase in hand. Mother was in a St. John suit, her hair perfect, smile wide, a mink stole around her shoulders. My father was in his typical garb: an oxford shirt tucked into dress pants, sunglasses perched on his thick head of hair despite the late hour. As handsome as ever, they looked like a million bucks. A million highly illegal bucks.
“Chloe, where are your manners?” She scowled at me as if she still owned my dwelling, her hand pushing open my door, and as she swept past, the scent of Chanel No. 5 catching me, a thousand memories tied to the smell.
“Chloe.” My father nodded stiffly and I nodded back.
“What are you guys doing here?” I didn’t close the door, just pivoted in place, a little wine sloshing out, and stared at them. Mom didn’t respond, too busy surveying my apartment, her lip curled in a manner that clearly indicated her disapproval. Something inside of me snapped.
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Aren’t you both under house arrest?”
“Oh,” she said airily, waving her hand. “Nothing so barbaric as that. I mean … the hearing is tomorrow morning. Then we’ll probably be restricted to the house.”
“If the judge doesn’t send us straight to jail.” My father said the statement mildly, lifting up my bottle of wine and examining the label.
“It’s turned into such a mess, it’s really quiet humorous.” Mom turned back to me, her eyebrows raised, and she grinned at me, as if we were teenage girls sharing a delicious secret.
“You have a hearing tomorrow?” I tried to follow this.
“Yes.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. “We came all the way up here just to see you, Chloe. You should really act happier to see us.”
I didn’t have a response. I patted her back awkwardly and looked to my father, who was busy tipping back a glass of my cheap wine. “So … you fly home tonight?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” Mom pulled back and reached in her bag, finding a tube of lipstick and pulling it out. “We may do a little traveling. We tried to deal with the investigators, but…” She waved a hand in the air like the FBI was a pesky little kid who was stomping through her hibiscus.
Then it hit me, and the only thing that really surprised me was that they had stopped in New York first. “You’re running?”
It was a waste of words. I knew, before my dad even coughed on my wine, the answer.
Twenty minutes. That was how long they stayed. How long I got to say goodbye. Long enough for a glass of wine, some critical comments on my apartment, a lot of evasive answers, and a brief set of hugs before they left. And when they did, I swore I smelled relief in their departure.
They missed Cammie by minutes. I met her in the lobby, my wine glass still in hand. I managed a hello then burst into tears. I didn’t know why I was crying. Why, after all this time, did I expect more from them? What did I want? A mention that they were proud of me? Recognition that I found my own way, got on my own two feet? They didn’t even ask if I was seeing someone. They didn’t even tell me they loved me.
Cammie got me upstairs, found a box of tissues, and refilled my wine glass.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffed, leaning into her arms, us side-by-side on the couch.
“Don’t be,” she chided. “You were overdue for this.”
I sobbed out a laugh. “You damn bloodhound. You must have smelled my tears.” Benta and I used to joke with her about it. If you were ever going to have a breakdown, do it with Cammie. She’d kick your ass into shape while feeding, nursing, and loving you through your pain. She sensed emotional weakness, and she came running.
She smiled. “It was good timing.”