Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3)

by Veronica Larsen

  While all of this is happening, I'm well aware of the tall, broad shouldered man with peppered hair watching me. I turn to him, and Julia introduces him as her father.

  "You're Julia's friend?"

  "Yes, sir."

  I keep eye contact, but don't feel the need to elaborate on such a direct question. Beside me, Julia shifts her footing, as her father's dark eyes consider me for a few seconds longer, his jaw working a subtle chewing motion as though he's literally biting back his words.

  Julia cuts into the brief silence to introduce me to her sister, who I already met at the door and who invited me into the house the moment I told her I was a friend of Julia's. With a warmth and friendliness that I didn't expect from a stranger.

  Julia's father continues to look right at me, he starts to say something but his wife intervenes, setting a hand on his chest as though in a gentle reminder, before ushering me to the table and asking if I'm hungry. I am, but she doesn't wait for my answer, and prepares a plate of scrambled eggs with a side of what looks like potato cakes with slivers of avocado. It takes her all of ten minutes and as she sets the food in front of me, she says something to her husband in Spanish. I know a few Spanish words, but hers slip past me so quickly I can't make sense of them.

  It appears that she's sending him to the store, listing off items on her hands, and Julia's sister adds, "Don't forget the drinks, there's going to be a lot of people."

  He seems hesitant to leave, slowly grabbing his keys from the counter. At the doors, he shoots one last look to where Julia and I sit, side by side. I give him a polite nod of acknowledgement, which he doesn't return.

  Julia relaxes a bit as the kitchen doors close behind her father. She gives me a long, scolding glare that silently communicates how pissed she is that I would just show up at her parents' house without telling her first.

  Her mother is tending to the stove, which appears to have pots on every burner, cooking a feast for her own birthday celebration. And her sister Lola sits across from me, leaning into the table, watching me eat.

  "Julia, tell me more about your friend, here," she says, dragging her words out in a playful way. Lola looks a few years younger. Twenty. Maybe even a mature eighteen. It's hard to tell ages when women wear makeup.

  "There's nothing to tell," Julia responds, plastering on a smile that seems more like a warning.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes," Julia says, still grinning wide, "I'm sure."

  It's clear they're having a conversation between the lines, one they don't want their mother to figure out. Her sister shuts her eyes and shakes with silent laughter, as though Julia's reaction is confirmation to something. I stay out of it, being in enough hot water with Julia as it is.

  I can sense she wants an opportunity to catch me alone in order to bite my head off without her family catching on to the fact that I'm crashing the party. Unfortunately for Julia, she's stuck helping her mother and sister set up the food. When her father gets back from the store, I make myself useful by helping him set up tables and chairs out in the backyard. The task isn't one that requires much discussion. I can tell the man's not a talker, but I don't blame him for eyeing me sideways. I'd eye me sideways, too, if I had a daughter like Julia and a random white boy showed up claiming to be her friend.

  Before long, the guests start to arrive four and five at a time, each group raising the volume level another octave.

  I lose sight of Julia for a short while, and during this time more than a few family members come up to ask my name. They greet me like an old friend, women kissing my cheeks, men patting my back. Some of them spewing Spanish phrases, completely lost on me. I'm sure not one of them has a clue who I am, but the simple fact that I'm here seems to indicate to them that I am part of their clan.

  I edge back without realizing it, the growing crowd on the patio inadvertently pushing me toward the hedges. Julia comes to stand beside me.

  "If I knew you were coming, I would've prepared you for the madness," she says, shooting me a playful glare before smiling. "Intimidated yet?"

  "I'm just trying to not get run over by someone else sprinting over to hug whoever comes through the door. Are they always this…energetic?"

  She lets out a loud cackle I've never witnessed from her but recognize from the sounds around me. It looks good on her, brightening up her whole face and forcing me to laugh with her even before I know where the humor is.

  "You think they're excited now?" she asks. "Just wait until we turn the music up."

  She's not exaggerating. Later on, someone turns up the volume of the music and most people abandon their food plates in a frenzy to find a clearing wide enough to dance in. It doesn't matter if they have a partner or not. Both women and men seem perfectly content dancing alone, arms and hips moving around in sync as though they are doing a choreographed dance.

  Three songs pass, and a noticeably different sound kicks in. An echoing, upbeat sound of electric guitar and bongos, with a romantic voice crooning slowly over the instruments.

  The dancing around me becomes a few degrees more sensual. The younger couples, especially, get closer than ever, bodies nearly grinding as they move in harmony.

  "What's this?" I ask Julia.

  "Bachata," she says, her body swaying slightly as if her hips are pulled by the sounds.

  "Do you dance it like Salsa?"

  She gives me an exasperated look. "No, white boy. Don't let a Dominican hear you say that. Can't you tell it's a completely different sound?"

  I shrug.

  I don't care much for dancing, but if this bachata dance means I get to feel her up against me, I want to know what it's about.

  "Show me," I say.

  "All right."

  The corners of her mouth pull up and she takes a step toward me. She brings herself close, left arm wrapping around my shoulder, fingers lying on the side of my neck. I run my hand down her other arm until our fingertips touch, just short of interlocking. It feels good, our fingers being right on the edge of curling over each other like this. She completes the grip, holding on to my hand and bringing it up beside us, parallel to our faces. I set my other hand on her hip, then decide to raise it to her waist, allowing my palm to curve over her.

  She tilts her head, bringing her face side by side with mine as she looks down at the space between us, at the half a foot of air between our bodies.

  "We have to get closer," she says.

  I tug on her waist and bring her body flush with mine.

  "Like this?" I ask, wondering if she notices my heart trying to punch a hole through my ribcage.

  She swallows. "Yeah. Like that."

  We're both still, looking down as she brings one foot between mine, urging my stance to widen enough to allow her leg to come slightly between.

  Her hips press against mine and I'm instantly worried she might feel the greediest part of me, which even now wants things it doesn't deserve. I take in a subtle breath, trying to pull myself together, but catch a lungful of her scent instead. That clean, faintly sweet smell that makes my mouth water.

  We lift our faces at the same time to look at each other. And for the first time, her expression softens by a thousand degrees.

  "Now what?" I ask.

  She swallows. "We'll start slow until you get it. Listen to the beat of the music," she instructs. "Do you hear the three hikes?" I don't. It's all a loud cacophony of sound to me. "Those are the steps. Come on, to the right."

  We move. She guides us by pulling on our intertwined hands. She sways her hips as we step sideways one, two times. On the third, she does something with her hip where she juts it to the side slightly. I don't try to replicate it. Then we move in the other direction.

  My nose is millimeters from the side of hers and it occurs to me how the simplest tilt of my head would land my mouth on hers.

  "Ow!" She pulls back.

  "Sorry," I say, glancing down to where I stepped on her and readjust my footing.

  We start mo
ving again, bodies connected and moving together. Faces insanely close, breathing the same air. And I'm counting the steps in my head, to keep from stepping on her and to keep from kissing her. There are only three steps. But somehow each sway feels different than the last.

  As we continue to move to the sound, I start to distinguish the hikes she mentioned, the steps seem to fall perfectly in line with those points in the song. For the first time we don't break our stride, falling into perfect momentum.

  "You're impressing me," she says, amused.

  I spin her around the way I saw someone else do earlier. "I have a good teacher."

  I'm just moving, with her against me, holding her tightly. But God, it's unbelievable. I wouldn't go as far as to say it feels better than sex, but it's pretty damn close. It's intimate in a way I'm not used to. Not in an obvious and explicit way, but in a more consuming way. Like my entire body is breathing her in, and our movements are stroking something in my stomach that feels comfortable and hopeful. Something that makes me want more…

  Fuck. The start of a hard-on swells in my pants and we are way too close for me to be able to hide it. I shift the next time we change direction, trying to subtly add inches between us. The last thing I need is to sport giant wood in front of her entire family. But she brings herself flush against me again.

  "Julia…" My warning is eclipsed by lust, and I have no control over my voice.

  "Yeah?"

  I'm not sure if I'm imagining the thickness in her own voice. The greedy part of me hopes this is leading to a point where we'll both strip off our clothes and use our hip movements in other ways. More delicious ways.

  "This is dangerous."

  "What is?"

  The song ends and we stop moving, or I stop moving, abruptly, and she trips a little and sort of lands on my chest. Then she bursts out laughing and takes a step back. I laugh too. Though, I'm not sure what we are laughing at. The situation is funny, somehow. It's funny until suddenly it's not. Until I realize the humor is in the fact that I want to screw my best friend.

  So goddamn bad it literally hurts.

  Almost the moment I think it, the delight on Julia's face drains and for a split second I get the irrational thought she read my mind. But she's not looking at me. I follow her gaze across the yard, to the end of the patio where a guy stands by the open gate, hands in his pockets and eyes fixed squarely on Julia.

  "Tell me that's not who I think it is," I say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Julia

  HE'S THE LAST PERSON I expected to see here. Not in a million years would I have guessed that he was reckless enough or stupid enough to show up at my parents' house.

  Andrew stands by the gate of the backyard, not making any effort to come further onto the property. I don't know how long he's been waiting for me to notice him, but now that I do, it's clear he came with the sole intention of seeing me. He knew I'd be here. He knows my mother throws a big family gathering for her birthday. What he should've also factored in is that my father will rip him in half if he notices him standing there.

  Blood rushes to my head, dulling the sounds around me. But what I feel isn't unruly or uncontrollable the way anger is. It's focused and razor sharp. It's a sheer resolve that turns my spine to steel and my breath to fire.

  "Tell me that's not who I think it is," Giles says.

  "Stay here, I'll handle this."

  Giles wraps a hand around my arm before I can take a step. It's a possessive move that doesn't sit right with me. I yank my arm free and fix my eyes onto his. "I'm going over there. Alone."

  "I can take care of—"

  "This isn't your problem," I snap, meaner than I intended.

  Every second Andrew stands at the threshold of my parents' backyard is another second closer to inviting disaster. And here I am arguing the issue with Giles because he wants to play hero. The last thing I need is another one of the men in my life overwhelming me.

  I walk off and Giles doesn't try to follow, but his eyes might as well burn a hole through the back of my shirt because his gaze follows my every step.

  When Andrew sees me approaching, he slides back out of the gate, to the side yard of the house and out of sight. I glance over my shoulder at Giles, who takes a few steps forward, shaking his head at me in warning. I'm not sure what he's worried about. I'm not in danger. If anyone's in danger, it's Andrew.

  I waste no time rounding on my ex-boyfriend. "What the hell are you doing here right now?"

  "I thought you'd come. I needed to see you."

  "You've seen enough of me," I say, unwavering in my glare.

  It's strange how his face is familiar in a distant, far off way. To a girl I used to know. A girl I used to be.

  "I shouldn't have uploaded the video. I'm sorry. Can you tell your lawyer to back off? Julia, I'm facing charges. And it's like every cop in the city is waiting for me to so much as run a stop sign to throw me in a holding cell."

  Of course he'd make this all about himself.

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" My hands close into fists at my sides. "You shouldn't have uploaded the video? You shouldn't have taken the video, you pathetic, sick bastard." I pause, hearing a ruffle of something beyond the gate, but no one approaches. My sights fix on Andrew again. "I've played this moment in my head. I've thought of all the things I wanted to say to you. I wanted to make you feel low, way lower than you made me feel. But you know what? There are only two things I need you to know. The first is that you need to get the hell off my parents' property before my dad rips off your pathetic face. The second is—" I drive my fist into his throat in a swift jab that he clearly doesn't see coming. He collapses to his knees, hands flying to his throat. "Apology not accepted. Asshole."

  He's kneeling below me, face bright red as he struggles to regain his breath, coughing and gasping for air. I look at the spot between his knees and resist the urge to kick him in the nuts. I need him to be able to walk out of here.

  I storm off, back through the gate, glancing back to see him still on his knees. Not looking where I'm going, I run into something. My face squishes against a solid chest.

  Giles.

  "Jesus, what happened?" he asks, craning his neck to look over the gate toward the gasping noises.

  "I handled it, that's what happened."

  Giles looks incredulous for a second then his shock melts away to a huge grin. He pulls me close to his side in a one-armed hug. I'm still so flooded with adrenaline that I almost shake him off of me. But his smell and warmth work to calm me down, centering me. My breathing starts to even out again as we walk, away from Andrew.

  "See?" Giles says, as he guides me back toward the thick of the party. "I knew you were a closet ninja. That's what I meant when I said I wouldn't want to mess with you."

  "Don't forget it," I say, a smile working its way onto my lips. But the reality of what just happened sinks in slowly.

  Holy shit.

  I just throat punched Andrew. And it was so amazing, I want to go back and do it again. Glancing over my shoulder to the gate, I see a figure slinking away across the lawn, toward the street.

  "Do you think he'll be okay?"

  "No offense, but you're not really a ninja. I'm pretty sure you didn't kill the guy with a single punch."

  "Brought him to his knees, though," I gloat, shamelessly.

  "You don't have to punch a guy to do that, little leopard. Trust me."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Julia

  THE FIRST CONSCIOUS THOUGHT I have is confusion. The scents I'm picking up with each inhale are familiar on their own, but out of place together. My mom's detergent, coupled with a spicier soap. My second thought is that my head lays on something firm.

  I blink my eyes open and notice the room is dim, though it's clearly early morning. Light from the edges of the blinds trickles in and it's enough for me to catch sight of white cotton, then further down my field of vision, someone's bottom half, in underwear. A large hand resting
on his inner thigh.

  Giles.

  I'm jarred by the thought that we've had sex in my parents' house, but quickly dismiss it as the details of the last few hours fall into place. My mother insisted Giles take the guest room on the main floor, instead of driving back to San Diego in the middle of the night. I was staying in my room upstairs, which is on the same floor as my parents' room.

  But Giles lured me to come sleep with him, the way he always does. I resisted at first, knowing it was a reckless thing to risk my father finding out about. My parents are extremely old fashioned and they would never condone my sleeping with a man in their own house, even if I could convince them nothing sexual was happening.

  Somehow, in my frustrated state of insomnia, driven by my apparent dependence of having Giles near me as I sleep, I snuck downstairs and climbed into bed beside him.

  We talked until we were overcome by drowsiness, the way we always do. But I don't recall how I ended up practically on top of him. This has never happened before.

  It might be the effects of drowsiness, but I'm slow and disoriented. I'm unable to move, as I assess all the parts of me that are pressed to him. I'm curled up on his side, my head resting half on his chest and half on the nook of his underarm. His other arm draped across me, his fingers are on the skin exposed by my shirt, which must've crept up during sleep.

  I try to move away, but his hold suddenly grows firm, locking me in place. His eyebrows furrow the moment his lids flutter open. He looks at me, then down at his arm and how my body is up against his, and seems to be gathering the pieces himself.

  "Well, this is different," he says with a small smile.