Taming Mr. Charming (The Taming Series Book 2)

by Nia Arthurs

  “Rule three,” I glared at him, “Never call me ‘honey’. I am not your honey. I am not your boo-thang. I am not your chocolate. My name is Mia. That’s it.”

  “Mia, got it. Do we have a deal?” He reached out his hand for me to shake. Groaning internally, I took his hand in my grip wondering if I was making one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

  We returned to our individual meals in awkward companionship. The scraping of the fork against the plates was the only interruption in our bubble of silence. Finally, Peyton threw down his fork. It clanged loudly against the plate.

  “Great job, Mia. Now you’ve gone and made everything awkward.”

  “It’s not my fault we communicate better when we’re fighting. Who knew!”

  “Is everything okay over here?” The nice waitress inquired at our table.

  “Fine.” We both snapped without breaking eye contact with each other. She scurried off, probably to run for cover.

  Peyton scoffed, “Why are you always so pigheaded?”

  “Why are you always sweet-talking me?”

  He choked on his drink, “I don’t sweet talk. I don’t even know how to do that.”

  “Really? Because I watch how you are with the ladies, Mr. Smooth and Mr. Swag.”

  “What?” Peyton exclaimed.

  “ Yeah, the females just fall at your feet, don’t they. I know men like you Peyton Lowry, and I’m not falling for it.”

  “If you are not the most obstinate, stubborn…” Peyton muttered under his breath, his blue eyes firing at me, “So what exactly do I say and do when I’m sweet talking all these hypothetical ladies?”

  “I can’t do it! I’m not you.”

  “Oh really?” Peyton crossed his arms as though he’d won the argument. Incensed by his smugness, I gave it my best shot. Unfortunately, my imitation resembled an expression of constipation rather than allurement.

  Peyton barked out a laugh. “That was terrible.”

  I giggled, “I can’t do it like you,” I admitted. “It’s like the male equivalent of this.”

  Peyton took a sip of his Coke as I flashed him my rusty rendition of bedroom eyes, by lowering my eyelids seductively. Peyton choked on his drink. Panicking, I rushed to his side and whacked him on the back until he stopped.

  “I’m okay! I’m okay!” he protested when I got a bit carried away with the walloping. He captured my arm and held my wrist firmly.

  “It was that bad, huh?” I teased when he seemed to be breathing properly again.

  “Actually, that was quite good,” he remarked.

  I looked down to our joined hands. Peyton gently drew circles on the inside of my wrist, so delicately that I wouldn’t have noticed had I not glanced to our interlocked hands. I grew fascinated by the deep contrast of my dark skin to his lily white one so much so that I could not move to pull away.

  “You are a very beautiful woman.” Peyton stated firmly. His words echoed the mantra that Melody had forced me to repeat in the mirror yesterday. Was the King trying to send me a message?

  Abruptly, Peyton let go and the spell was broken. Feeling self-conscious, I returned to my half of the booth, lost for words. I wasn’t new to the male-female touch, but the surge of electricity which coursed me at Peyton’s gentle hand deeply concerned me. He had the strongest hands, big and square. My hands had always been garishly long, but I was sure Peyton’s dwarfed mine. Who knew hands could be that fascinating.

  “I – uh –” Peyton stuttered, “I forgot what we were arguing about.” He admitted.

  Strangely, I did too. “I’m pretty sure it was over something stupid.”

  “Can I tell you something without getting you defensive on me?” he asked.

  “Shoot.”

  “My mother loved the blouses, but the red tribal dress that you designed, she wears it all the time. Thank you for making her happy.”

  I melted a little inside. I was so sensitive about my work. Peyton’s approval meant a lot, even if we weren’t exactly friends.

  “She did? That’s great. I loved the intricacy of it but I was afraid the color was too tame. Like maybe I could have gone with a brighter hue?”

  “Whatever you did, you hit a home run with her. If you have more, I’d love to take them off your hands.”

  “You know you didn’t have to pay for them the last time. I give those clothes away to my … friends.”

  “I’m upgraded to the friend zone now?” Peyton joked.

  “Not you. Your mom. I can always use another woman with a great sense of style in my circle of friends.”

  Peyton laughed, “Point taken. But your designs are good. I know you make them by hand. Work like that deserves to be acknowledged. Speaking of, when are you going to expand your designs to the rest of the country at least?”

  I sighed, “Not you too.”

  He grinned, “I’m stubborn when I see a good thing.”

  We shared a look.

  “Hey, you two. Ready to go?”

  Melody glanced at me with surprise. I knew I always stressed her out on these happy days, especially with my attitude toward Peyton. I was glad that for once, she didn’t have to worry that her best friend was going to murder her boyfriend’s business partner.

  “Are you ready?” I asked Peyton, astonishing everyone, even him.

  “Uh, yeah. Let’s go.”

  Melody’s mouth needed to be picked off the floor, but I don’t know… when I got over how annoying he could be, I almost enjoyed Peyton’s company this afternoon. He was an extremely witty man and matched me par for par in an argument. He was okay. For a white boy.

  I scooted out of my seat and even accepted Peyton’s hand as I emerged.

  “Thank you,” I said politely, amazed at my own progress. As the group strolled to the front counter to pay, I noticed that Peyton purposely kept his instigating comments to himself. Melody and I chatted as the guys paid. By now I was used to sitting back and letting them foot the bill. The first time we came to Sky’s, Melody and I had tried in vain to settle the bill or at least pay for our own portions. The men were adamant about not allowing us and eventually (being the cheapos that we are) we shut up and let them have their way.

  The ride to the guy’s house, which they’d rented for the duration of their stay, was undertaken in awkward silence. At least it was awkward in the backseat where Melody had insisted on climbing. I knew that she wanted an update on my most recent tide of courtesy toward Peyton. Still, her grunting and mute questions were ignored. I had nothing to discuss because it was not a big deal. After the guys left, Melody took the wheel and ordered me to the front seat.

  “What was going on between you and Peyton?”

  I sighed. “Nothing. We’ve just decided to turn over a new leaf.”

  “But, but… you looked like you were actually enjoying his company.

  “Yeah. I don’t know why I treated him so badly before. He’s not the douche I’d made him out to be.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ve been telling you that for months.”

  “Yes, well, I learn better by experience.”

  “So did he ask you out?” Melody prodded.

  “What! No! We’re barely going to be acquaintances.”

  “Mmhm, if you say so.”

  I paid no heed to Melody’s matchmaking schemes. Peyton was an attractive guy, I had already admitted such. But that changed absolutely nothing. I had a bad feeling that Peyton was just the kind of man that could add fuel to my fire. After that, it did not take much for me to burn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a hectic weekend at the boutique, I was more than ready for a break on Sunday afternoon. I’d skipped the service this morning, opting to catch up on much needed rest. I lumbered out of bed and sniffed. Ooh, I needed a shower. I padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge to gaze at my pitiful selection of groceries. My belly gurgled in protest as I selected an old Styrofoam plate and sniffed. Gross. At that moment, I heard a knock on the door. Assuming it wa
s Melody, I padded to the living room and flung open the door expecting her to just stroll in as always.

  Without checking, I mumbled, “Morning,” and returned to the kitchen to throw away the monster in the Styrofoam plate.

  “Actually, it’s afternoon, beautiful.” I froze.

  I could be dreaming, but I was pretty sure that was Peyton’s voice. I whirled around and discovered I was right.

  Sweet Stilletos!

  “What are you doing here?” I tried in vain to cover up the slinky tank top and cotton shorts I wore.

  “Mrs. Reyes asked me to deliver some food.” He dangled a plastic bag with a plastic dish before my face.

  I danced back as he spoke, heading for my bedroom to pull on a T-shirt. “Wait right there!” I commanded.

  Moving quickly, I rummaged for the biggest T-shirt I could find and returned to the guest outside.

  Peyton pointed out, “You still look good in that. If your intention was to be undesirable, you failed.”

  I walked across the room and punched him in the arm, hard, and then grabbed the food from his hands.

  “What is it?”

  “Something called escabeche. I was informed that it is a hearty onion soup.” Peyton gagged.

  “What, you don’t like onions?”

  “I don’t believe onions should be the main ingredients of a soup.”

  I inhaled the smell, “I love escabeche.” I didn’t mind Peyton’s invasion into my apartment nearly as much when I found out that my favorite soup was in the picture.

  I rummaged through the plastic bag, “Wait, there’s fried chicken in here too.”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t eat that nasty onion soup so I volunteered to bring the food over and stopped to buy fried chicken on the way. Do you mind if I eat with you. The whole Reyes house reeks of onion soup.”

  I looked at the food and then back at him. I weighed the container of escabeche in my hand. An afternoon in Peyton’s company was so worth it if escabeche was in the deal.

  “Fine, you can stay.” I caved grudgingly, “Make yourself at home.”

  “Great, thanks.” He said. He paused and surveyed me strangely, “Nice turban!”

  Rats, I’d forgotten to remove the scarf that held my weave in good condition. Oh well, it was a good thing I had no desire whatsoever to pretty up for Peyton.

  “Yup, keeps my weave fresh,” I informed him indifferently as we sat down around my small kitchen table.

  “What’s a weave?” he asked. I glanced at him, amazed.

  “You really don’t know what a weave is?” I inquired.

  Peyton pursed his lips and ran through his archive of “black speech”.

  “Nope, I’ve never thought of it. Is it like a wig or something?”

  “Yeah, it’s like a wig,” I said, savoring a mouthful of the amazing soup, “Except, the fake hair is sown in. The hairdresser would braid the natural hair so she has something to sew or glue the weave onto. Like in mine,” I scooted my chair closer to his and parted the weave so he could see the tracks in the middle, “She braided most of my hair and then left the front out so that I can cover the tracks and have versatility with styles.”

  “Wow. That’s kind of cool.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” I agreed. I usually never discussed things like wigs and weaves with men. Most Belizean men liked to pretend that my hair was natural and I let them believe it. But anything I could do to make Peyton feel more like a girlfriend and less like a guy who could possibly (if the world ended) become my boyfriend was better than nothing.

  “I’m thinking of putting in a curly piece for Mel’s wedding. Do you know when Spencer’s going to propose?” I asked innocently.

  Peyton smiled, “Sorry, that’s privileged information. If I told you, it would be a conflict of interest. You’re too close to the target.”

  I laughed at his phrasing, “This is a marriage proposal we’re discussing here, not an assassination.”

  “You’re still not getting anything from me.” He insisted.

  I backed off for now, “Hey, want to see something?”

  He nodded and I disappeared into my room for a minute and then emerged with my sketch book. I’d been through many sketch books in my lifetime. My parents had never tried to deter me from my love of fashion. But this sketch book was special. Mr. Reyes gave me this one when I turned twenty years old. It had a Bible verse about being fearfully and wonderfully made on the back of the cover page. Only my most inspired designs went into this book.

  “Don’t think I’m obsessive or crazy, please. Since I know the engagement isn’t even official yet.”

  I unveiled Melody’s wedding gown design. It was a simple sweetheart neckline tulle dress that flared to the floor but had the same elaborate flower pattern going down the torso as the evening dress Spencer had purchased for Melody in L.A. Mel had shown me a picture of the gown and when she’d shared how she’d felt in it, I knew that she needed to get married in it too.

  “Whoa, it’s incredible.” Peyton whispered with reverent awe. He touched the flower design, “That last day, Spencer spent hours looking for the perfect dress to give her.”

  I shook my head and sank back into the straight backed dining room chair.

  “Sometimes I look at them and I don’t understand how they ever got together. She’s black. He’s Asian. He’s American. She’s Belizean. She’s a nervous babbler; Spencer’s this taciturn guy.”

  “But,” Peyton added, “They share the same faith and read the same books. And most importantly, they love each other. Once you love someone, there’s hardly anything that can’t be overcome. Things like race and culture and nervous babbling, don’t matter.”

  I played with the onions in my soup to avoid looking into his eyes, “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Yes,” he admitted; his voice husky. Our eyes caught and held; the moment became intense in a split second. Standing so abruptly my chair rattled to the floor, I clumsily picked it up and set it back in place while exclaiming,

  “I’m gonna get some water. You want anything to drink? Orange Juice? Soda? You look like a soda kind of guy.”

  Before Peyton could utter one word, I zipped to the fridge and cooled my face in the blasts of cold air.

  What is going on with me? This was Peyton, annoying, older brother Peyton.

  He’s not your older brother, my Brain reminded me.

  Shut up, Brain.

  When I returned with the drinks, Peyton had already rewrapped his fried chicken and was standing near the kitchen door, palming his keys.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Mia.”

  “Oh, you didn’t make me… I didn’t feel anything.”

  His eyes dipped to my mouth and I quickly stopped worrying my bottom lip. Darn it. I would never play poker again in my life.

  “Thanks for the good company,” he said, strolling to the door. I followed him and pulled it open, focusing on the green pocket of his T-shirt.

  “You’re welcome, Peyton. Thank you for stopping by.”

  He hesitated and I tensed, hoping he wouldn’t try to touch me. My hormones were off-balance today and I’m not sure what I would have done. Fortunately, he seemed to rethink whatever move he had contemplated and simply bid me farewell.

  “See you later, Mia,” he called and then turned and walked away. I closed the door and leaned back against it. I didn’t understand my heart’s accelerated response or the turmoil in my stomach. I did not like white boys. I didn’t. It was a preference, a code by which I defined myself. Mia Johnson liked her men black and well-built. She knew exactly what she wanted.

  So why was I ‘feeling’ the white guy?

  I turned my head to the ceiling, “Look Daddy, I don’t know what the heck you’re cooking up there, but slow your roll please. I am not going for a white guy.”

  Satisfied that my opinion had been shared, I moved away from the door to return to my escabeche. I had just positioned my bu
m in the seat when I heard another knock at the door. This time I was more cautious and checked the peephole. I recognized my visitor immediately. It was only Mrs. Bethel, who lived in the apartment next to mine. The wrinkled brown face with wide round glasses was a staple in my growing up years.

  Mrs. Bethel was better than a newspaper when it came to delivering news. Her stories were always accurate, on time, and none of her business. She was a personal friend of my parents and loved to keep them informed on all of my movements. I was not surprised that she had chosen to stop over right after a visit from Peyton. My parents had a unique perspective on white people. It stemmed from a wrong that one white guy committed against my father when he was younger and it spread to a heavy animosity for all ‘white supremacists’ which, according to my daddy, could describe every culture that was not ‘black’.

  I let the portly busybody in.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bethel, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, Mia. How are you, baby. You’re getting so big!”

  I had stopped growing about three years ago, but I didn’t make any comments. I let her into the apartment, but did not invite her to take a seat. I wanted to get back to my soup. Mrs. Bethel didn’t mind standing and talking and she carried on and on about the recent scorching temperatures. I got it. Belize was desperately hot. Obviously, since we only had two seasons: dry and rainy, it would stand to reason that the temperatures were searing.

  I could have been half-way through my escabeche by now.

  Finally, Mrs. Bethel got to the meat of the matter, “Mia, child, I neva know you gon get a bwai.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend, Mrs. Bethel.” I corrected her assumption.

  “Oh, it’s jus dat I see wan man come outta yuh apartment. I jus di ask. No tink ah di intafere.”

  “I would never think that,” I said, barely keeping the sarcasm from my voice.

  “Good, good.” She looked around my apartment as if searching for another issue to bring up with my parents when she saw them at Wednesday Bible study.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. B. I was in the middle of something,” I hinted.

  ‘Get out’, I meant.

  “Right, well, if yuh need anything come right ova,” She offered.