Authors: T. B. Markinson
Pat put one arm around my shoulder. “Why, Fiona, I do believe our little Ainsley is madly in love.” He squeezed my arm, and I rested my head against his barrel chest, letting him kiss the curly top of my head. Pat was like the brother I’d always wanted. Ham loved me, but he was so much older and rarely around.
“This sauce isn’t going to make itself.” Fiona pointed to us with her knife. “Chop, chop.”
We both saluted.
This tradition of us cooking one meal a week together had started when Fiona first moved into the apartment three years ago. Pat weaseled his way in not too long after. Actually, that wasn’t fair to Pat. We both enjoyed his company.
“So, when are you going to introduce Maya to the family?” Pat stirred the simmering sauce.
“Haven’t thought that far ahead.” I avoided Fiona’s eyes.
“Fee’s been bringing me home for years now.”
“Rory brought you home first.”
“Not the point. Your grandmother knows we’re a couple,” Pat explained.
“Shit!” Fiona slipped with her knife.
Dr. Pat rinsed her finger under the water. “Was it the word
couple
?” he teased.
Fiona laughed, fluttering bashful lashes. “Maybe.”
He left the kitchen and returned with a Band-Aid. “Just a nick, but we can’t let you bleed into the sauce.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, and Fee nuzzled against his chest.
My cell vibrated. Something told me I wouldn’t like the message, but I had to know.
Wit and valor are qualities that are more easily ascertained than virtue, or the love of wisdom.
Seriously, who thought these quotes instructive?
I stifled a groan and shot an email to Ham, hating that I had to. Who would hack into my phone to retrieve the text: Tess or Rita? The mere thought raised my hackles, but the fear of handling it on my own outweighed the invisible invasion. More than likely, they were already tracking all incoming texts.
I looked at Fee and Pat, who were too wrapped up in each other to notice my anxiety. Watching them, I realized I wanted what they had: open communication about their issues. I wasn’t certain their jokes and talks actually helped, but at least they had each other. However, “secrecy” was quickly shooting up my favorite word list, and it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to guess Maya cherished it as well.
***
“Okay.” I tapped a pencil against my head. “I think we have our thesis.”
Maya sat cross-legged on my bed, a notebook open in her lap. “Do you ever feel like Alcott?”
“I hadn’t considered it. Why?”
“I can relate to her some. She worked so hard to pay off her family’s debts. The mistakes of those closest to her brought much misery and suffering. Her sense of responsibility was a huge driving force in her success.”
“Do you mean—?”
“No, not my mom. She’s the only one who’s been there for me.”
“What about your aunt?”
“Who?”
“The one who died?” I tried to hide my surprise that she’d forgotten.
“Oh. She died soon after we arrived. I barely knew her.” Maya traced one of her fingers with a pen.
At Fiona’s she’d given me a different impression, or had I misread the cause of her unease?
“Your father?” I took a stab in the dark.
She let out a frustrated sigh. “I barely know anything about him. Mom says I have his eyes.”
“Your eyes were one of the first things I noticed about you.”
“Really?” Maya watched me with those magnificent gray irises that spoke directly to my heart.
She started to speak, but faltered.
“What?” I squirmed on the bed next to her.
“It’s just… oh I don’t know… My parents didn’t make the best choices, and I feel like I’m paying for it.”
“Do you ever think of contacting your father?”
“No.” Her squared shoulders were resolute.
“Are you sure? I know if I had…”
She jumped off my bed and perched on the windowsill, her arms crossed.
“Your family situation is way different. I’m not even sure who my father is or if he wanted me. Mom has only mentioned his name once.”
“Really? I’m sorry, Maya. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” She cut me off again. “It’s just hard to talk about.” Her shoulders relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“It’s okay. I’m a firm believer in open communication.”
Why had I said that?
“I think we should go back to Concord,” she blurted, a blatant attempt to change the subject.
“Uh, okay. Why?” Concord no longer conjured warm fuzzy feelings for me.
“We didn’t take any pictures, and I think it would be great to put together a montage for the presentation.” She looked away. “And…”
“And?” I motioned for her to continue.
“And I want to erase what happened there last time.”
“You mean when you freaked out?” I smirked. This thing between us was still so new. I wanted to be myself, but I didn’t want to overdo it. Diplomacy with a dash of humor.
“Yeah, that.” She raked a hand through her hair.
“I’m free Saturday.”
She looked unsure.
“I can try to make Sunday work,” I added.
“It’s not that. Saturday’s fine.” Her crinkled brow implied the opposite.
“What’s wrong?” I patted the bed.
She settled next to me but remained frustratingly mute.
“Are you okay?” I rested a hand on her thigh.
“I’m not used to… this.”
“To what?” My heart was spinning in my chest, like an out-of-control Grover had crawled inside and was madly chasing an errant tennis ball.
“Letting people in.”
“I know how you feel,” I whispered, knowing I sounded scared. “There’s a reason Carmichaels spend so much time with family. We get burned a lot.”
Her frame sagged with a burden that would have crushed Atlas, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I just don’t want to get hurt,” she said, and I wondered whether she wanted to add the word “again.” Was that what had broken her, a failed relationship? Or her father’s abandonment? Or was it deeper than that?
I feared knowing the whole truth, feared it would taint our relationship, but I still wanted to know everything about Maya the Gray. And I would, eventually. She was too fragile to be pushed all at once.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Maya. I want to…” I lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. Then I kissed her softly. A tear plopped from her eye, rolling onto our lips and making the kiss taste of salt. She pulled away and wiped her eyes with a sleeve.
“Please, stay the night. We don’t have to make love, but I want to be close to you, hold you, let you know I’m here for you, no matter what.”
Maya stood. She took two steps away before turning. “You promise not to abandon me if I let you in? No matter what?”
Her words knocked the breath out of my lungs, but I managed, “I promise.”
What in the hell had she been through?
I rose from the bed and wrapped her in my arms. “Let me in. Give me a chance.”
The tension in her body ebbed away. “I want to, but I’m scared.”
“Tell me why.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. I need time.”
“I’ve waited eighteen years to meet someone outside of the family I could trust. I’ll give you all the time you need.” I buried my head in her neck. “I love the way you smell. It makes me feel like I’m home, safe and sound.”
Maya lifted my chin with a finger and planted a lingering kiss on my forehead. Grasping her jaw, I pulled her lips to mine. The intensity of her desire kicked mine into hyperdrive, and I pushed her onto my bed, Maya pulling me on top.
I yanked at the buttons on her chambray shirt, nearly tearing them off as Maya removed my sweater and shirt in one swift movement. My bra followed, and then my jeans. Maya rolled me onto my back, slipping her hand beneath my panties and expertly separating my lips.
“I love how wet you get.” She smiled. “How wet you make me.”
I lifted my butt to remove my panties. “I don’t want your hand to cramp.”
“Not that I would notice.” She dove in with two fingers. “This is all I care about. You. Me. Together. Nothing else matters.” Her simmering gray eyes pleaded for my agreement.
I agreed.
“Kiss me.” Oh boy, did she. The chorus from the Alicia Keys song “Girl on Fire” blared in my brain.
“I love the way you feel,” I panted when she finally pulled away for breath.
Maya’s fingers glided in and out, slowly, unhurried. “I love how soft your skin is.” She rubbed her face in my cleavage, circling a nipple with her nose before nipping it with her teeth.
It made me moan.
Her lips skated down my stomach, never lingering too long, just ensuring they covered all the right spots.
She inched down.
And down.
Farther down.
Bypassing my bud, she caressed my inner thigh, sighing blissfully. Moving to my other thigh, she kissed it gently while her hand pumped ever so slightly—keeping me in the moment but not bursting with lust.
Her tongue landed on my clit, forcing me to gasp. “Oh yes.”
Maya circled it, her fingers increasing their steady penetration. My hips bucked, pleading for more, and another finger entered. “Harder.”
She enthusiastically complied. It was hard to decipher who was moaning louder; our sounds and bodies melded into one.
“Maya I’m—” I sensed I was about to come right as my body spasmed. Maya didn’t let up, and I didn’t want her to. Not ever.
Another wave coursed through me. “Jesus!” I screamed. An aftershock overcame me, making my legs quake.
Maya stayed inside me, but stilled her fingers and her tongue.
I gasped for air until I was finally able to say, “I could do this all night.”
“I’m game.” Maya snaked up my body and kissed me.
I flipped her onto her back. “Only if we take turns.” I motioned for her to lift her ass so I could dispense with her jeans and underwear.
“By all means.”
Maya’s pussy lips glistened with desire, and I traced them gently with a finger.
“I need you. Now,” she said.
The words hit me hard, with the sweetest impact.
Chapter Fourteen
“Maya actually said that? Not to abandon her if she lets you in completely? Which I’m assuming means her past—the one that doesn’t exist?” Fiona and I pushed and pirouetted through a herd of Red Sox fans heading in the opposite direction toward Fenway Park. Our destination was Nadine’s, one of Boston’s oldest and most exclusive restaurants. “What in the hell is she hiding? And please tell me you didn’t make that promise?”
I yanked on her arm to get her to stop, and then rested a hand on her shoulder so I could slip off one Christian Louboutin pump. The back of my foot was rubbed raw. “Why do I wear heels? My feet are killing me.”
Fiona shook her head. “Because you can’t accept that you’re a bit on the short side. Besides, Grandmother always insists you look glamorous. The rest of us are chopped liver.” She wore sensible black suede flats, which looked stylish and cozy, and didn’t make her limp.
I groaned and focused on the Maya problem. “What was I supposed to say? That I plan on running if my granny tells me to, because I don’t think I would.”
“Especially not in those babies.” She gestured to my bloodstained shoes. “Never understood the allure of bloody feet.” Fiona put a hand on my shoulder. “Back to the matter at hand, you don’t know that for sure. If you learn something truly awful, how can you stay with her? You, of all people, know the political game. Just a whiff of scandal and bye-bye White House.”
“Has Pat run out on you? He knows more than most about the skeletons in the Carmichael’s closet, even Uncle Liam. That would scare off most.” I attempted to put my shoe back on, but it hurt too much. “Do you have a Band-Aid?”
She fished through her black clutch. “You aren’t Pat. You do as you’re told, and if you’re told to run, you run.” She snapped her bag closed. “Sorry, I’m not much of a Girl Scout.”
I ignored her comment. Weeks ago I would have done as I was told. But now?
“Fine. I’ll walk in stockings until I have to look presentable.”
“Fingers crossed. Hopefully Susie the Shark doesn’t sniff your blood.” Fee motioned for me to walk ahead. “I did get a kick out of the wet T-shirt photo, though.”
I shot Fiona a look that would have curdled most people’s blood, but she laughed it off.
We arrived at Nadine’s just as Grandmother was getting out of her Bentley. Her chauffer stood with his hand out, assisting the crone. He made it look effortless, the way he carried most of her weight without revealing he was essentially lifting her out of the back seat. She probably only weighed ninety pounds. Her back slouched slightly, and the cane was a permanent fixture in her right hand. I took the opportunity to examine her face and neck, which were riddled with wrinkles and sagging skin. True to form, Grandmother wore a dress and hat befitting Maggie Smith’s character on
Downton Abbey
.
Spying us, she sternly tipped her head; that was her friendly greeting. If angry, she would only glare. Luckily, I had slipped my heels back on moments before.
Fiona kissed her cheek, and I followed suit. “It’s lovely to see you,” I said.
A tight-lipped nod was her only response.
Fiona offered Grandmother an arm, and I followed them inside. We shed our coats and handed them to one of the hostesses.
Mother and Uncle Owen waited in plush chairs, clutching tumblers of scotch.
“Why, Ainsley, something’s different about you,” my uncle said. He held my arms out and inspected me from head to toe. “You look so grown-up.”
Mom, in a royal-blue power suit that reminded me of Hillary Clinton, eyed my outfit as though my embroidered black crepe dress would confess all.
Fiona hid her know-it-all grin with a palm, and I imagined she was forcing a comment back into the pit of her stomach. She seemed disappointed I hadn’t blurted out, “Well, Uncle Owen, I popped my cherry.”
The hostess led us through the yellow-marbled restaurant. Most of the tables were semi-private, partitions of frosted glass strategically placed to block any gawkers, but that wasn’t enough for Grandmother. She always reserved the private dining room. She settled into her seat and promptly ordered oysters and a French Chablis. I think I was the only Carmichael who hated the raw, bluish-gray, booger-tasting flesh, and I was absolutely convinced that the first person who’d sampled one did so only in a life or death situation.