Ready For You (13 page)

My hand slid up Mia’s bare leg and slipped under her skirt to grab her shapely ass. She’d been mine for just over a year now. Over three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of this. My buddies had made fun of me for dating the same girl for so long, but they didn’t know. They didn’t have a Mia.
 

I groaned and steadied my eager hand. “This is where you usually tell me to stop,” I whispered, leaning into the curve of her neck.
 

She leaned back, letting her long hair fan out beneath her on the blanket I’d spread out on the grass.
 

“I’m not saying stop tonight,” she replied.

I gulped and tried to reply. It wasn’t a very manly thing to do, but my hands were shaking, and I was trying to give her time to change her mind. We’d never gone past this point, and I didn’t want to push her into doing something she wasn’t comfortable with. I was sixteen and horny as hell, but for her, I’d wait forever.
 

“Are you sure? You know I’d never pressure you.”
 

“We’ve been together a year, Garrett. Of course I know that. No more waiting. I love you. I know we’re young, but I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”
 

Reaching down, she folded her fingers over my trembling hand and brought it up to the buttons of her blouse. “I’m ready, Garrett. I’m ready for you.”

With shaky fingers, I removed her blouse. Slowly, like we were cherishing every moment, we undressed each other with care. As we made love for the first time, she gave me her love and trust, and I knew I’d found my soul mate.
 

“I love you, too, Mia.”

“Garrett,” someone was saying, breaking through my fogginess of sleep. “We’re about to land.”
 

Soft fingers brushed my hand, and my eyes fluttered open to find Mia’s piercing blue eyes watching me. Her fingertips were stroking the top of my hand, but she quickly stopped when I took notice of it.

“We’re about to land. I’m not sure if you heard me say that,” she repeated.
 

I nodded and sat up in my seat. I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep. The flight between Richmond and New York City was short, so I couldn’t have been asleep for more than thirty minutes. Still a bit groggy, I watched the plane touch down and taxi in toward our gate.
 

“Oh, I forgot to ask. Where are we staying?” Mia asked.
 

I watched everyone power up their cell phones. I didn’t bother. Work could wait.
 

“I always stay at this small Irish hotel in Manhattan. It’s right around the corner from Grand Central Station, and they have a great pub.”

She became quiet, and her eyes shifted to the floor. I might not have been around Mia for several years, but I knew that look.
 

“What is it? What did I say? Do you not like pubs? Do you have a thing against Manhattan? We can stay someplace else.”

Her smile immediately brightened and recovered all too quickly. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just a little tired.”

Lie.

Like many things with Mia lately, I chose to let it go—for now. If she didn’t trust me to open up, I wasn’t going to force it out of her.
 

We deplaned, and then we made our way through the busy airport and gathered our luggage. I hailed a taxi, and we were on our way within twenty minutes. Mia looked out the window curiously, looking at the tall buildings and endless streets of yellow cabs.
 

The cabbie dropped us off at the hotel, and I hopped out to pay. He helped us with our two suitcases, and I thanked him, tipping him generously for his trouble. Having already made the reservations in advance, we didn’t have to deal with the awkward question of how many rooms. The person at the check-in counter just handed us our keys and told us our room numbers, assuming we were coworkers, and that was it.
 

Mia and I as coworkers?
That would never happen. I wouldn’t get shit done with her in the same building—right down the hall from me, having to listen to her laugh all day, knowing she was probably getting hit on by every male in the building.
 

I was having problems focusing with her being in the same city.
 

The elevator chimed, notifying our arrival on the twelfth floor. We exited and found our room numbers easily, only to discover they were adjoining. There was only one thin door separating us.
 

That would make for a good night’s sleep.
 

She went into her room, and I went into mine. I had to change for my meeting. I wasn’t one of those businessmen who dressed up to fly. I was sure some of them genuinely needed to because of schedule restraints, but I thought some of them just did it to look like assholes.
 

I pulled out my slacks, jacket, and dress shirt. I yanked my T-shirt over my head and took a look at the once crisp white button-down that was now sporting several wrinkles, thanks to its cramped quarters in my suitcase. I refused to do garment bags. Chicks used garment bags, not men.
 

I guessed I was ironing today.

I set up the iron and brushed my teeth while I waited for it to heat up. I finished up in the bathroom and started in on the task of ironing my shirt. I was halfway through when a tiny knock came from Mia’s side of the adjoining door.
 

I set down the iron and opened the door. I heard her suck in her breath as her eyes traveled up my bare chest.
 

Oh, right—the shirt, or lack of.
 

Her eyes lingered on my tattoos, and they paused on the script written on the underside of my right arm. The rest of my tattoos were scattered over my back and arms. They were things I’d randomly picked up along the way, but the one she had her eyes on now was special—and
mine
.
 

I spoke quickly to divert her attention, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to go down for lunch. I mean, if you have time.”

I glanced down at my watch and grimaced. “I’m actually running late.”
 

She nodded and smiled, but I could see the disappointment in her eyes.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise.”

“Okay, no problem.”
 

She looked lost and bewildered, and I felt like a jackass.
 

But I was not her boyfriend, and I needed to remind myself of that. It was not my job to make her smile and laugh, not anymore.
 

I closed the door and finished getting ready.
 

I thought about those sad eyes for the rest of the day.
 

Chapter Ten

~Mia~

I didn’t know why I had been surprised when he said we were staying in Manhattan.
Don’t a lot of people stay in Manhattan when they go to New York City?
I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of that.
 

Why should it matter? It was a gigantic, huge city.

Yet, there I was, lying on the bed with my greasy leftovers from room service and a giant foldout map, looking at the streets of Manhattan.

“Three blocks,” I said to no one.

Three blocks—that was the current distance between my parents and me.

The parents I hadn’t seen in eight years. The parents who had never bothered to contact me in eight years since moving out of my childhood home without so much as a forwarding address.
 

I was stupid to come here. But when Garrett would ask me to do things, I found it hard to say no. When he’d started talking about doing the things I’d never done as a kid, I’d felt myself melting for Garrett Finnegan all over again.
 

I’d spent many weekends in this city as a child, but I’d never seen a single part of it. I’d never been to Central Park or gone ice-skating. I’d never seen the lights of Times Square at night or had tea at The Plaza—and I’d stayed at The Plaza.

Garrett wanted to make up for that even though it wasn’t his place, and I wanted to let him. But now that I was here—staring at this map, knowing my parents were in the same city and sharing the same space—I wanted to run. It was what I was good at after all.
 

I needed to do something, anything to distract myself from the map sitting in front of me. I stood up, grabbed my purse and key card, and made a dash toward the elevator.
 

One taxi ride later, I ended up at the Met. I’d always loved art, and The Metropolitan Museum of Art seemed like the best way to spend the afternoon. It didn’t require talking or interaction with others—just quiet observation. I could roam through each room as quickly or slowly as I wanted, enjoying each piece of art as I went.

Around the second hour of my visit, I came into a room filled with children on a field trip. They had a docent leading them, patiently asking them questions and answering theirs. They were very well-behaved for being so young. I quietly snuck behind them and immersed myself in the painting on the far wall.

“She’s pretty,” a little girl said to my right.

She was petite with long brown hair and a cute button nose. Her eyes were green, and she had the same uniform on as every other child in the room.
 

“Yes, she is,” I said in reference to the ballerina in the painting.

“I want to be a painter when I grow up.”

“You do? I think that’s wonderful. Do you paint at home?” I asked.

“Yes, Mommy bought me all sorts of paints. She even got me an easel for Christmas!”

“Wow, you are a very lucky little girl! How old are you?”

“Seven,” she answered, holding her fingers out to show me.

My heart lurched for a second, and I nodded. “You are very grown-up for your age.”

“That’s what my daddy says. He says I was born middle-aged. What does that mean?”

I snorted a bit, but I covered it up with my hand.
 

“I think your daddy just finds you very mature for your age.”

She beamed, obviously understanding the meaning of the word
mature
.
 

Someone called the group, and the little girl said her good-byes, waving as she went.
 

Then, I was alone again.
 

I wasn’t much in the mood for being alone anymore after that, so I headed back to the hotel. The taxi pulled up to the curb just as Garrett was walking up to the front entrance.
 

He looked handsome in his dark gray suit and teal tie. He had a laptop bag strapped over his shoulder and looked the part of sophisticated businessman. Just as he was about to enter the hotel, he turned and caught my eye as I was stepping out of the cab.
 

He didn’t say anything. He just watched as I took the few steps closing the gap between us.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“Where did you spend your day?” he asked, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
 

I didn’t even think he’d realized he’d done it until my breath faltered. He hastily tucked his hands in his pockets.

“I went to the Met.”

“Ah, good choice,” he said, abruptly turning.
 

We both stepped forward and entered the hotel. We talked about the museum during our short elevator ride. He asked me several questions about which pieces were my favorite, and he told me his.
 

“So, you have something to make up to me?” I said as I slipped the card into my door to unlock my room.

“I haven’t forgotten. Be ready in twenty, and wear something comfortable. We’re walking—a lot.”

He disappeared into his room, and I slipped into mine. I raced around, freshening up my makeup and brushing my hair. I slipped on a pair of comfortable sandals and kept on my dress. It was comfortable, and I liked how I looked in it. I grabbed a sweater and tied it around my purse before making it out my door just in time.

“Not bad,” he commented. He was dressed down again, wearing dark jeans and a gray T-shirt. It clung to him and showed off the definition of his upper body.
 

I tried not to let my eyes linger too much.
 

“So, where are we going?” I asked.
 

We started walking down the streets of Manhattan.
 

“Well, you mentioned that you never left the hotel when you were a kid, so I’m taking you somewhere every kid has to go when visiting New York.”
 

Twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of FAO Schwarz.

“Oh my gosh! Are you kidding me? We’re going to a toy store?” I squealed, looking up at the massive store.
 

“Not just any toy store. This is
the
toy store. It’s awesome.”

We took the required cheesy photos with the live toy soldier standing at the entrance. I wondered how many photos that poor guy posed in each day.

Garrett wasn’t kidding. The store was massive with two floors and an escalator in between. It was insane. We spent an hour or more on the first floor, squeezing stuffed animals and playing with toys that were much too young for us. I didn’t think I’d laughed so much in my life.
 

We made our way upstairs and took a turn on the giant keyboard from
Big
. We were terrible.
 

Garrett went to go check out Legos, and I walked around. I stopped to check out something called Floam. An employee was doing a demonstration, and I was slightly envious that I hadn’t had cool stuff like that when I was little.

Now, I sounded old.

I made my way away from the Floam and wandered into the doll section. It was huge. They had every doll imaginable from expensive-looking porcelain ones that must have been imported from foreign countries to the type of dolls found at Target. My steps faltered in the aisle that had the baby dolls. I stood nearly frozen in place and stared, looking at the tiny outfits and shoes, as my fingers grazed the soft fabric of a baby blanket.