Taming Mr. Charming (The Taming Series Book 2)

by Nia Arthurs

  I narrowed my eyes at him. If looks could kill, Peyton would be choking on a chicken wing.

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not. I just don’t understand the appeal of these movies. All they do is build up spectacular fantasies that real men will have to compete with.”

  I countered, “I disagree. It doesn’t build up fantasies. The guy and the girl hardly ever get things right the first time. Romantic comedies are about falling in love with a person, flaws and all.”

  “Hmm,” Peyton muttered, but I knew I hadn’t convinced him. I could tell when he was mentally disengaging from the conversation and I could see it all over him right now.

  “Don’t ‘hmm’ me.” I snapped.

  “See, I can’t say anything else or you’ll take that and run away with it. Do you realize we are fighting over the realism of romantic comedies? I don’t want to argue with you, so I won’t. Plus I need to go pee.”

  He stood and stretched before heading toward the bathroom. His level-headedness irked me. This man made me feel irrational and defensive for no reason. And that angered me too. I retrieved one of the fringe couch pillows and threw it at his head. I missed by a mile. Peyton widened his eyes in mock amazement from safely down the hall.

  “Mia, you could have hit me,” he said sarcastically.

  “Jerk!” I called after him as he closed the bathroom door and did his business. A smile bloomed across my face of its own free will. Peyton was a doof, but he was kind of nice. Shaking my head at his antics, I picked up my phone and checked Facebook. A little red bubble announced that I had a new message from Charles. Excited at the prospect of speaking to him, I answered immediately.

  MIA: HEY

  CHARLES: HEY BACK

  MIA: WHAT R U DOING?

  CHARLES: CHILLIN.

  MIA: COOL

  …

  I waited for Charles to take the conversation in some kind of direction. I’d already hinted that I was interested, but I did not believe in carrying on a one sided exchange. I had more dignity than that. When he didn’t reply to my last message, I shrugged my shoulders and uploaded a few shots of Spencer and I working in the boutique this evening titling the frames: MANEQUIN: 1, HUMANS: 0.

  When Peyton returned from the bathroom, I showed him the photos.

  “Nice,” He nodded, taking a sip of his soda, “I had no idea you were taking pictures.”

  “I thought I might add it to the website. Since you were such a hit with the ladies today, who knows, it might generate more buzz.” I poked him in the side.

  He smiled, ducking his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yeah you do.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. For a guy, he sure did that often and fairly well.

  “I’ll send you my bill later. I’m also adding an extra fee for torturing me with that girly movie.”

  I punched him in the arm, “Do not insult my movies. And you know you loved it.”

  Peyton nursed his sore arm, “Doubtful. Next time we’re watching The Dark Knight or Blades; something manly.”

  “Nope. Next time we’re watching “The Princess Bride”. It’s a classic.”

  I got up to deposit my empty plate into the wash. Peyton followed close behind.

  “See, this is where I’m taking a stand. I refuse to watch “The Princess Bride”. Do you know what that would do to my rep?”

  “What rep? You have no rep.”

  He set his cup and plate on the counter and surveyed my mess of a kitchen. I had a habit of filling the sink with water and tossing in my dirty stuff until I got up the feeling to wash them. Peyton gave me the stink eye and then pulled out the stopper to drain out the old water.

  “I will have you know men all around the world look up to my manliness.”

  I organized the dishes by utensils, plates, and cups, meeting his blue gaze head on. “You wish. The only men that look up to you are the ones beneath six feet.”

  “I’m six two.” He corrected me, filling the sink with fresh water and liberally applying the dish liquid.

  I stopped his generous hand, “Whoa mister, are you taking a bubble bath?”

  He yanked the bottle from my grip and strategically poured some more. “I’m sorry; would you prefer to wash all these dirty things?”

  “Carry on,” I bowed out.

  When Peyton turned off the sink, the noise made from the gushing pipe was drawn from the room, creating a vacuum of awkward silence. At least it was awkward for me. Peyton seemed completely at ease with the quiet. I hopped up on the counter and watched him. I never would have thought that a white man would ever be in my kitchen washing my dishes. Stranger yet was to think that this man was a friend. If I’d been in this position five years ago, I would have shrugged this strange connection with Peyton off and attributed our friendship to rebellion against my parents. My dad had a deep and historic antagonism towards foreigners, especially the ones with pale skin. But now, I didn’t know what to think. What was it about Peyton Lowry that drew everyone, including me, in like a moth to a flame?

  “Are you going to help me?” Peyton asked, disturbing my reflection.

  “I’m here for moral support.” I teased, not moving an inch.

  Peyton laughed at my reply and flicked my bare leg with soapy water. “Thanks for that. I needed it.”

  I wiped my calf with the back of my hand and saluted him. “You’re welcome. I know, I know. You’re overwhelmed by my generosity and good will.”

  “Not even close to what I was thinking.”

  Our eyes caught and held. His eyes were this intense shade of blue, it was truly mesmerizing. And the red of his hair was fresh and unique and not at all what I thought I would ever find attractive but set to the frame of his face, I liked it. I liked him.

  As a brother. I quickly reminded myself. Okay, it was starting to get hot in here.

  Startling both myself and Peyton, I hopped off the counter and strode toward the living room, “I think I’ll go bring a fan in here. It’s crazy hot.”

  I slowly trotted to the living room, taking my time so I could get my mind in order. So what if Peyton had these really defined arm muscles, muscles that he was flaunting in that tank top? So what if his deep voice gave me chills sometimes? So what if his smiles made me lose my train of thought?

  I had to pull myself out of this strange Peyton zone. Get myself together. Peyton and I were just friends. That’s all that I wanted. I groaned, wishing that I could blame everything messed up with my life on the Devil. This would be a great time to toss responsibility on something or someone other than me.

  “Did you make the fan while you were in the living room?” Peyton teased, when I finally found my way back to the kitchen and plugged in the machine.

  “Oh, my bad.”

  “I get it. You were just trying to worm your way out of work.”

  “Right. Yes, that was totally what I was doing.” I felt my teeth biting down on my bottom lip and quickly covered my mouth. Peyton wasn’t buying it, but thankfully he didn’t call me out on my strange behavior.

  “So,” he remarked casually wiping a dish dry, “Why did you think that Mia sent me to spy on you last night?”

  “Oh,” I played with a loose string on my oversized T-shirt, “uh, I haven’t always made the best decisions when it comes to the guys I date. Well, the ones that I dated in the past. I thought that maybe she sent you to make sure I wasn’t doing anything stupid.”

  “What are some of the stupid things you’ve done?” Peyton asked innocently, stretching to put the dishes back in their correct cupboard. I got distracted by the way his muscles strained against his shirt.

  Snap out of this!

  “Stupid things? Um, I don’t think you want to know.”

  “Come on, I won’t laugh,” he soothed, his baby blues twinkling my way.

  “Trust me,” I crossed my legs, “you have the wrong idea of ‘stupid’ things. Melody and I have very different pasts. Mine was a lot m
ore … hands on.”

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  “I made a lot of mistakes. I thought my body was my own and I shared it with anyone who offered me a good time. I’m glad I don’t think that way anymore, but you know, old habits die hard.” I finally popped that annoying thread and shook it from my finger, watching it defy gravity by floating very slowly to the floor. Peyton dried his last plate and flipped the towel over the sink to dry. He came close beside me and crossed his arms.

  “I’m not necessarily a clean book myself, Mia.”

  I shook my head, “No, it’s different. Men are expected to be that way. Their pasts are applauded and respected.” I smoothed my shirt over my tummy, “Women with pasts like mine have a lot more to overcome before they’re forgiven.”

  He touched my leg gently, “I thought we were already forgiven.”

  I shifted away from his touch. Even that brief contact seemed to burn me, “People forgive a lot less than The Big Guy does. Especially the upstanding church men. They all clamor for the sweet untouched books like Melody. See, the way you’re looking at me right now? If you only knew the amount of boys that have signed my year book …”

  “I’m looking at you this way because I don’t care about your history. Well, I do because it made you who you are, but it doesn’t diminish your value or your worth.”

  “You say that now because you don’t know what I’ve done, where I’ve been.”

  “No, I say that because I mean it. And any man, who holds your past against you, isn’t worth knowing the treasure that you are.”

  I blew out a breath and peered at him.

  “Thanks.”

  Peyton was so engrossed in keeping eye contact with me that he didn’t notice when my hand slipped into the sink full of soapy water or when I pulled out my sopping wet fingers or when I flicked him full in the face. He blinked once, surprised and then shoved his hand into the sink cupping a steady amount of liquid. I hopped off the counter and tried to get away, but he sprinkled me before I could get too far. With a huge damp splotch on my T-shirt, I raced for the sink and tossed a handful of water at him. Unfortunately, and this is a common thread to all my academic attempts, Peyton quickly jumped back and bypassed the entire assault.

  He laughed, “That was pathetic.”

  I knew that already, but he didn’t have to be so smug about it. We ended the evening mopping up the kitchen so that I didn’t fall flat on my face later in the night when I browsed around for a cup of water. Peyton left soon after and then I headed for bed, tired but satisfied. It had been a stressful kind of day, but it ended on a good note.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I was little, I loved watching Denzel Washington movies. I was obsessed with the confidence with which he carried himself, the smoothness of his voice and of course, the pleasing lines of his face. I promised myself that I would marry a man just like Denzel when I grew up, someone kind and confident and black. As I matured, my preferences did not change but I felt no guilt about that. I knew what racism was. The irrational anger that my dad held towards most white people was ignorant and racist. I didn’t blame him for the values that he held. I simply did not support them. But my ties to attraction were innate, stagnant; one could even argue they were God-given. I simply was more comfortable around colored men. I had more in common with Creoles who felt the same way I did, battled the same obstacles I faced.

  I knew without a doubt, that Charles Engells was my Denzel. In the two weeks following our first date, we went on three more outings: two to other restaurants and most recently we strolled down the streets of Charles’ village of Burrell Boom. When I simply focused on him, the conversation flowed easier, I opened up more, and I could see our future unfolding before us with clarity and ease. I was excited about our relationship, proud of myself for taking things slow, and secure in the knowledge that Charles respected me enough to let me set the pace. We hadn’t even had our first kiss yet, a fact I wanted to change when we hung out tonight.

  Unfortunately, the exhilaration of my blossoming relationship with Charles battled the tension pulsing between me and Peyton. Though we hadn’t gone on any official dates, though we rarely touched or even hugged good bye, and though Peyton was the complete opposite of Denzel Washington, he had become a staple part of my life. I felt closer to him than my Spencer-engulfed best friend lately. I knew his favorite soda (Coke), his favorite basketball team (Lakers), favorite color (brown, lame!) and other seemingly insignificant things that I’d picked up from our constant encounters. I feared that we were growing too familiar, but I knew that it was too late to withdraw. The days when Peyton wasn’t over at my house, watching Family Feud and eating totally unhealthy food were the days I felt uncomfortable and a little lost.

  I hated that I was confused. I had nothing to be confused about. The Peyton-Charles controversy was as simple as a math problem. There was only one right answer. I knew the formula and I knew the expected result. There had to be a deep psychological reason why I couldn’t make up my mind. Maybe I had daddy issues. I definitely had daddy issues. Charles was my future. But beneath the undercurrent of sedate friendship, Peyton and I held a spark of electricity. I could no longer blindly excuse my feelings. However, I refused to believe that my biological response to Peyton’s smell, look, and voice meant anything more than a kaleidoscope of cells doing their thing in my brain. I probably had some underlying form of curiosity to ‘be with’ a white guy. That problem would be firmly solved when Peyton returned to L.A. Plus why would I risk an amazing friendship to satisfy some in grown fetish?

  Those thoughts blazed through my mind as I got ready for my date with Charles that Thursday evening. I was determined to put Peyton to the back burner for tonight. I chose a black sleeveless halter top and light blue jeans paired with a strap up black wedge heel. I curled the ends of my long black hair (yes it’s mine because I bought it) and applied my darker evening time makeup.

  I want Charles; I want Charles I chanted to my reflection in the mirror as I heard a knock on my door. I flew to the entrance and yanked it open.

  “Hi… whoa.”

  “Whoa is right.” Peyton remarked, gazing at me like a child in a candy store. Warmth spread through me from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

  “What are you doing here?” I managed through the heat burning my body.

  Peyton stuck his hands in his jeans. He wore his favorite blue T-shirt and his ever present Chuck Taylors. His hair was in its usual state of disheveled disarray, a style which really worked for him. “I thought I’d drop by and see if you were free tonight. The Reyes family is having a homecoming dinner for some guy named Archie. But you look way too gorgeous right now. So I’m guessing I’m underdressed.”

  I avoided the appraisal in his eyes and leaned against the door, “Oh yeah, Archie has been visiting his mom in Miami for the past few weeks. I’m glad he got home safely.”

  Peyton nodded, his eyes narrowed as he leaned in and…

  “Are you sniffing me?” I asked incredulously.

  “You have a date tonight, don’t you?” Peyton said flatly.

  “How do you-”

  “Apart from the way you look tonight, you’re wearing your Charles perfume.”

  I smirked, “Did I overspray?”

  “No, you smell nice. But you only wear that fragrance when you’re going out with him.”

  The phone vibrated in my hand and I glanced down. The notification on the screen was from Charles.

  HERE, it read.

  How romantic.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.” I locked the door behind me and walked with Peyton down the hall.

  “He didn’t even come up and walk you out himself?” Peyton gritted his teeth.

  “It’s okay. I’m a big girl. I can walk to the parking lot.”

  “No, that’s plain bad manners. He should greet you at the door like a man.”

  I put a palm on Peyton’s chest; felt the rushing of his heart, the strong, stea
dy thump that could rock me to sleep if I let it. He needed to stop this. His behavior almost seemed… jealous. I didn’t want that on my mind tonight.

  “I like him, Peyton.” I gazed into his eyes and undid the walls around my emotions so he could see the vulnerability there. “I could use your support here.”

  “How can I support a guy I’ve never met,” Peyton grumbled.

  “You can support a guy you’ve never met because you support me.”

  He crossed his arms and muttered, “Fine. But you’ll call me if-”

  “I’ll call you. I promise.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “I know.”

  In the shadows cast by the moonlight and right before my feet walked the cobblestone path to the waiting car, Peyton tugged me into a firm hug. I gripped him back with the same earnestness, savoring the cologne that he used. Maybe I could get the name of that fragrance from Peyton and get Charles to use it. The buzzing of my phone, alerting me to an incoming message, snapped me back to reality. I broke away, ignoring the second text from Charles that stated: WAITING IN THE PRKING LOT and strode toward the silver vehicle. I refused to look back as Charles tore onto the street.

  “Hi,” he greeted, “you look great.”

  “Thanks.” I remarked, distracted.

  He reached over the console and gripped my hand in his. Our fingers interlocked perfectly, the shades of brown blended together in a secure clasp. The connected limbs did not shock me with the sharp contrast of white and brown. These hands could face the world together with a lot less stares and a lot less issues. I settled into the comfortable, blending tones.

  “You okay, you seem weird.” Charles asked me a few minutes later as we settled into our chairs in The Marina, a restaurant settled on the pier.

  “Wow, thanks that’s exactly what every girl wants to hear from her boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend huh?”

  My eyes widened and I nearly choked on the water I was drinking. I was so off my game. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He laughed at my wide-eyed expression.

  “It’s okay, Mia.” He kissed my hand, “I like the sound of you calling me ‘boyfriend’.”