by K. Street
Tessa’s dad, Bill, is sitting in one of the white rockers on the porch with an ice bucket next to him. I walk up the front steps and extend my hand to him.
“It’s good to see you, son,” he says, standing to his feet and pulling me in for the man hug. When we step away from each other, Bill says, “Get yourself a beer, and have a sit-down.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” I reach into the container to pull out a beer and settle into the unoccupied chair.
A few quiet minutes pass before I ask, “How’s she doing?”
“Now, that’s a loaded question.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees with his beer in hand. “She doesn’t cry much anymore. She doesn’t talk about him either. Not that she talks to me about that sort of thing, but she hasn’t mentioned anything to Maggie either.”
I take a swig of my beer, and before I can respond, a car pulls up the driveway.
Bill turns to me. “You ready? I’m willing to bet good money, it’s not going to be pretty.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The car comes to a stop, and I watch Tessa and her mother step out. They’re both laughing like they’ve shared a joke, neither paying attention as they walk to the rear of the car. Sunlight catches Tessa’s ponytail, making the strands look like spun gold. She’s so damn beautiful.
I stand and make my way down the steps with Bill trailing behind me. When her eyes finally settle on me, her smile disappears, and she nearly drops the bags she’s holding. Shock washes over her features, and to say she’s surprised to see me here would be an understatement.
“Let me help you with those,” I say, approaching Tessa.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Her tone is pure venom, and her fists tighten around the bags.
“Tessa Rae!” Mrs. Carmichael chastises and then adds, “I did not raise you to talk like that.”
“Mama, I am twenty-seven years old—”
“I don’t care if you’re ninety-seven; you’re a lady.” She huffs. She passes her bags off to her husband and walks toward me with open arms. “Dante, it’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry about Trevor.” She wraps me in a hug and then pats my cheek.
“Thank you. It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Carmichael.”
“Boy,” she warns, “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Maggie. I swear, after all the holidays we’ve spent together, I’d think you’d know better by now.” She turns toward her daughter. “Tessa, why don’t you and Dante catch up?” she suggests, taking the bags from Tessa and giving her a stern look.
Begrudgingly, Tessa releases her hold.
“Come on, Bill. You can help me make dinner,” Maggie says.
“Good luck, son.” He looks at me with sympathy and follows his wife into the house.
Tessa walks past me. I reach out and catch her arm. Her breath hitches, and she fakes a small cough to cover up her sharp intake of breath.
“Talk to me, Tessa.”
“Let go of me.” She seethes.
I release her arm, lifting my hands in silent surrender.
“At the risk of repeating myself, what are you doing here?” She folds her arms across her chest, causing her shirt to shift and drawing my focus to her tits.
Shit. I need to reel it in.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Well, you’ve seen me. Now, you can leave.” She turns and walks toward the house.
I’m on her heels as she makes it up the steps.
“Tessa. Stop for just a damn minute, and let me talk to you.”
Both of us come to a standstill on the wraparound porch.
She turns to me, temper flashing in her eyes. “You have two minutes. And then you need to get into your car…” She stops short and peers at the driveway. “Wait. Where’s your car?”
Fuck me. This is about to go over like a ton of bricks.
“At my house.”
“What do you mean, at your house?” Her voice climbs an octave.
“At my house. As in the one I’m renting here in Charleston.” I prepare myself for the outburst I know is coming.
“Wait! What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost your damn mind? Why would you rent—”
Just then, the front door opens, the sound cutting her off.
“You kids okay out here?” Bill asks.
Tessa’s face is red, her chest heaving. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.
“Baby bear?”
The tips of Tessa’s ears go pink at the use of the nickname.
She faces him. “Yes, Daddy. We’re fine.”
“Okay then. Dante, Maggie wanted me to invite you to stay for dinner.”
“No. He’s busy,” she responds before I even have a chance. “Aren’t you, Dante?” she asks, shooting daggers and daring me to object.
She’s right. I need sleep more than I need to eat.
“Please tell Maggie thank you, but Tessa’s right. Maybe another time.”
“Well, you’re welcome anytime, son.” He walks back inside, leaving us alone on the porch.
The door clicks closed, and Tessa says, “Thirty seconds.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I grip my hair in frustration. “I know you’re pissed.”
“Pissed? You think I’m pissed?” She takes a step toward me. “This goes so far beyond just being pissed, Dante. You lied to me.”
“When have I ever lied to you?”
“A lie of omission is still a lie.”
“Tessa,” I nearly growl at her, “we’ve been over this. You were barely hanging on. How the fuck was I supposed to tell you he cheated on you? I couldn’t stand hurting you more than you already were.”
“How very noble of you.”
Noble? She wouldn’t think I was being noble if she knew what I wanted to do with that pretty, sassy mouth.
I blow out a breath of frustration and lean against the railing, crossing my arms. “Trevor was my brother, but I didn’t keep his secret out of some sense of misplaced loyalty to him.”
“Then, why?” Hurt makes its way into her voice, softening it. “Why didn’t you tell me? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to find out like that?”
“I told you before, I was trying to protect you.”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do. I was completely blindsided by that DNA test.” She accusingly points a finger at me. “And you expect me to believe you didn’t know he’d knocked up his whore?”
“Yes! Because it’s the fucking truth.” I lower my voice before I continue, “Trevor had an affair. One that resulted in a kid. Those are my brother’s sins.” I step forward. “Not. Mine.”
She steps back. “Dante, why are you here?”
I advance another step forward. The closer I get, the further she retreats until her back is pressing against the house between the doorframe and the large picture window. A light breeze picks up, blowing a strand of hair across her face.
I reach out to capture it, but before I can tuck it behind her ear, she grabs my wrist and squeezes.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
I pull my hand out of her grasp and place it against the house, caging her in. “You really want to know why I came here, Tessa?”
“Yes.”
I drop my head and whisper low against the shell of her ear, “I came for you.”
Without another word, I turn to leave. I imagine her staring after me, dumbfounded and speechless. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and make the short trek to the place I’ll call home for however long it takes. Until I own Tessa’s heart. Or whatever’s left of it.
seventeen
Tessa
I’m lying awake, staring at the ceiling, and no matter how hard I try to shut my brain off, I can’t. Rolling onto my side, I face the open window, breathing in the smell of the ocean. I throw back the blankets, leaving my legs exposed.
“I came for you.”
Earlier, when Dante practically pinned me against the house
, his warm breath dancing along my neck as he spoke into my ear, it took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to lean into him. How I wanted to press my cheek into the prickly roughness of his trimmed dark beard. His scent was intoxicating. Earthy with a hint of spice and sweat.
A light breeze blows across my skin, and need stirs within me. Slowly, my hand drifts down my body, halting when my fingers graze the lace fabric. Desire licks at my center. I slide one finger beneath the delicate material.
I miss sex; that’s all.
I spread my legs, slipping into my wet heat.
This isn’t about Dante.
Another finger.
It can’t be.
In. Out. In.
I bend the fingers inside me, in a come-here motion, and then writhe against my hand.
His mouth on me.
His tongue swirling inside me.
A quiet moan escapes me. I’m so close. It feels too good. The speed of the movement increases with every pass. Faster and faster. And, when I close my eyes, it isn’t Trevor’s face I see. I bite my lips to keep from crying out Dante’s name.
Unbidden tears prick my eyes as I tumble over the edge, soaring. My orgasm rockets through me. Then, too soon, the high of my release vaporizes. Swallowed in a sea of disgrace and regret.
Mortified, I get up to wash my hands, using the moonlight spilling across my room to guide my steps to the en suite. I don’t turn on the bathroom light because the last thing I want is to catch my reflection in the mirror. To see myself exposed without the shadows to shroud my shame.
I pad across the carpet and climb back in bed, tugging the covers up to my chin. Guilt clings like a second skin as I fall into a fitful sleep. The eyes that haunt me in my dreams aren’t blue. They’re dark. Mysterious. With an intensity so abysmal, it simultaneously excites and terrifies me.
Morning comes too soon. When I open my eyes, it feels like I haven’t slept at all. The memory of last night lingers at the edges of my mind, and I need to get out of this room.
I change clothes and go downstairs in search of caffeine. Stumbling to the fridge, I pluck the vanilla-flavored creamer off the shelf and then reach into the cupboard and snag a coffee cup. My eyes catch sight of the note Mama left next to the Keurig. She and my father have gone antiquing for the day, and I have the house to myself.
The weather is beautiful, so after I make my coffee, I head for the front porch, grabbing today’s paper off the kitchen table on my way. I plan to submerge myself in the madness going on in the world instead of the chaos causing havoc in my mind.
With my cup in one hand and the paper tucked under my arm, I twist the knob and pull the door open.
“Ah,” I yelp.
The unexpected sight of a pimply-faced young boy, his fingers curled and poised to knock, takes me by surprise.
Coffee—not scalding, thanks to the creamer, but still hot enough to burn—sloshes over the edge of the cup. “Shit.” Somehow, I manage not to drop the cup, and I set it on the entry table.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Really sorry,” he apologizes profusely.
I take pity on him. He can’t be more than seventeen.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, untucking the newspaper from my arm and placing it beside the coffee cup. Sticky tan liquid drips from my reddening hand, and I pat it against my jean-clad leg.
He holds out a clipboard. “Can you sign at the bottom?”
I notice the Best Buds Florist van behind him. I glance back to the kid whose name is Andy, according to the stitching on the polo he’s wearing, only to find him staring at my tank-top-covered cleavage.
“Andy.” I snap the fingers of my other hand, the one not covered in coffee.
He startles at the sound of his name.
“Eyes up here,” I say, my index and middle fingers pointing to my eyes. I pick the coffee cup up and tell him, “I’m going to go wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”
His face turns as red as his shirt. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, dropping his eyes to the ground. At least he has the decency to be embarrassed.
Once in the kitchen, I turn on the cold water and run my hand in the stream to relieve the slight sting of pain. Thankfully, I like a little coffee with my creamer; otherwise, I’m sure it would have been worse. I wipe the cup with the damp dishrag before drying it with a paper towel. Then, I wash the sticky residue from my skin.
“Let’s try this again,” I say aloud to myself. I pick up the cup and walk out to the porch.
Andy is nowhere to be seen, and the clipboard is sitting on the table between the two rocking chairs. Four large vases filled with white daisies sit on the top porch step. I can’t help but smile. It seems my dad has gotten romantic in his old age. Tulips are my mom’s favorite flower, but at least he tried.
Setting my coffee down, I pick up the clipboard and scrawl my name in the space. The sound of a door closing draws my attention, and I look up to see Andy carrying two more arrangements of white daisies.
“Okay, that’s all of them,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.
“I signed for the delivery.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiles nervously. “Do you need help bringing them inside?”
I open the door before turning to take the flowers from him. “I’ve got it, but thank you.”
“Have a good day,” he says and hurries away.
It takes three trips before the flowers are all positioned on the kitchen counter. When I deposit the last bouquet, I notice a small envelope. It’s not my mother’s name written on the outside; it’s mine.
I pluck the card from its plastic holder and open it.
TESSA,
JUST BECAUSE.
DANTE.
My jaw drops in shock.
In all the years Trevor and I were together, not once did he send me daisies. Instead, he sent long-stemmed red roses. Expensive. Beautiful. And way over the top.
It’s true; I’ve coordinated some of the biggest social events in Chicago. I might have run in those same societal circles, but underneath it all, I’m still the simple girl from South Carolina who will take white daises and peach chardonnay over red roses and Dom Perignon any day.
So, how did my brother-in-law pick up on the minute details that eluded my husband?
I head upstairs to retrieve my phone. I stare at it for a long time before I type out the first text I’ve sent to Dante in days.
eighteen
Dante
There isn’t a damn thing to eat in this house, and I’m starving. Yesterday, I called the florist and then ordered takeout for dinner. I was too exhausted to deal with going to the store, and there isn’t so much as coffee here.
I grab my keys and my phone and head out the door. My cell vibrates in my palm, and I halt midstride. It’s from Tessa. Two words appear on my screen.
Tessa: Thank you.
Maybe I should call her. See if she wants to go out for breakfast. I immediately dismiss the idea. It’ll be harder for her to say no in person.
The drive to Tessa’s takes less than a minute. I knock on the door and wait for her to answer. When she finally opens it, she’s dressed in jeans and a black tank top. Her hair is swept up into a messy bun, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. She’s stunning.
Our gazes lock for a few seconds before Tessa speaks, “Dante.” She seems flustered. “I sent you a text. Um, thank you…you know, for the flowers.”
“I got it, and you’re welcome. Look, I’m starving. Have breakfast with me.”
“I’m not really sure what you’re trying to do here.” She steps back. “Whatever it is, I want no part of it.” Her hand moves to a stray piece of hair, and she twirls it around her finger.
“It’s just breakfast, Tessa. I’m not going to bite.” Unless you want me to. “Besides, we need to talk.”
“About?”
“Salinger and Salinger.”
By the look on her face, that isn’t the answer she was expecting.
She
takes me in for a full minute before she relents. “Just a sec. Let me grab my shoes.”
We take my car, and Tessa gives me directions to a local café. Once inside, we join the line at the counter where a huge chalkboard hangs overhead with the menu items and daily specials written on it. After placing our order, we’re given our coffees and a number to put on the table. Tessa spots a booth in the corner, and I follow her, taking a seat opposite her.
“What’s going on?” she asks, cutting to the chase.
“I need to ask you a few questions, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Wow, Dante. That’s rich, coming from you.”
That fucking sassy mouth of hers.
Ignoring her comment, I ask, “Were you and Trevor having problems—financially?”
“What? Why would you ask that?”
Given her reaction, I know she has no idea.
“No. Things were fine. Better than fine.”
We’re interrupted when a runner brings our food to the table and picks up the number. “Just holler if y’all need anything else,” she says before walking away.
“Dante?” She looks at me over her coffee cup.
“I’m pretty sure Trevor was embezzling money from the company.”
“You think your brother was stealing? From his own company?” Shock washes over her features.
I pick up my fork and take a bite of chicken and waffles. Then, I swallow it before I answer her question. “I was going through the books before he died. There were some discrepancies in the finances. A few red flags. It’s why I asked him to meet me.”
She takes another sip of her coffee and doesn’t say anything. It’s then that I notice she’s yet to touch her food. I raise an eyebrow and eye her plate. She raises her eyebrow back at me in challenge.
“Tessa,” I say pointedly.
“Dante.”
“Eat,” I say, lifting my fork to my mouth.
“Why are you so obsessed with my eating habits?” she demands in a tone that tells me it’s none of my business.
“Because I care about you, and you hardly eat enough to keep a damn bird alive.”