Her voice is coming out breathy and stilted, the tell-tale sign of her tanking blood sugar.
Quinn produces a package of peanut butter crackers from her own purse. Opening it, she holds a cracker out to Harper. “Here. Eat these.”
Harper takes it without raising her head. “Thanks.”
“You know you can’t go out drinking without eating, Harp. The alcohol zaps your blood sugar.”
“I know,” she mutters. “It’s the first time I’ve forgotten in a while, okay?”
Quinn closes her mouth and rubs Harper’s back, knowing lecturing her won’t make a difference.
We all patiently wait for her to finish her crackers and her system to stabilize, having gotten used to her episodes with hypoglycemia. She’s not diabetic but is at high risk for the disease. Her blood sugar can drop drastically and unexpectedly and cause major issues if she isn’t careful.
Several minutes go by before Harper’s raising her head again, color slowly coming back to her cheeks. “Okay. We’re good.”
Quinn watches her in concern. “You sure?”
Harper flashes us her blinding smile and nods. “Yep. Definitely. Tequila isn’t getting the best of me tonight. That bitch can suck it.”
“And on that note,” Gretchen rises to her feet, draining the rest of her drink, “we sing.”
I rub my hands together giddily. “What shall it be tonight? Spice Girls? A little Salt ‘N Peppa? Maybe Backstreet Boys?”
“Already got that shit handled.” Gretchen crooks her finger at us. “The Badasserias are partying with Alanis tonight.”
Halfway through Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know,” the bar’s door breezes open, like something from a rock music video.
I instantly recognize Carter’s powerful form filling the doorway.
The lyrics get lodged in my throat as I stare, mouth agape, in his direction. It’s hard to tell with the stage lights shining on us, but somehow, I just know he’s watching me.
“He came,” I say to no one in particular. My voice can’t be heard over my friends’ caterwauling anyway. But the declaration comes out regardless because I feel like it needs to be said.
Squinting through the bright spotlights shining in my eyes, I watch Carter swagger over to the bar, rapt gaze glued to me. He briefly speaks to the bartender, then looks back at me as we’re wrapping up the song. His mouth tilts in amusement. He knows I can’t give singing my full effort now. Not when he’s fully decked out in his glasses, suspenders, and bowtie.
He did that on purpose.
While I’m taking in his appearance, his hips thrust in my direction.
He also did that on purpose.
When I narrow my eyes at him, promising him retribution for the tease, his mouth stretches into a wolfish smile.
I don’t even glance at my friends when the song ends. I hop off the stage while the crowd claps and cheers for our sub-par performance—none of us can sing a lick, but we usually get points for enthusiasm.
Carter’s eyes have heated considerably by the time I reach his side. “Darlin’,” he greets.
“Counselor.” I curl my finger underneath one suspender, pull it back, and snap it with purpose. “Nice outfit.”
“Nice skirt.”
He ought to like it. I specifically chose it for him tonight. It’s the shortest, tightest one I own, and he seemed so fascinated with my backside last night.
“You understand I want to rip it off you, right?”
A combination of satisfaction and arousal warms me. “I do.”
He nods once, as if we’re discussing something menial, like a contract. “As long as we’re on the same page.”
“Play your cards right and that exact scenario could be in your future.” My gaze lowers to the base of his throat. “One that might end with me on top, wearing nothing but that bowtie.”
He slams his drink down on the bar with a loud thunk. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He wraps his hand around my wrist, but I hold him still. “As much as I’ve fantasized about getting fucked in a dirty bathroom stall”—because I have— “we’re not going anywhere until you sing karaoke with me.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. I haven’t sung karaoke since I passed the BAR exam and got trashed on Everclear. My asshole friends posted that shit on YouTube.”
“And I’ll be looking that up later. What song did you sing?”
“Not gonna say.”
I grin. “Coward. Nevertheless, you are singing with me if you want to see what I’m wearing—or not wearing—underneath this skirt.”
His jaw hardens. “That’s happening no matter what.”
I yank on one suspender, pulling him closer to speak against his parted lips. “But I can make the foreplay last all night long. The sooner you sing, the sooner we can resume my lessons. It’s really in your best interest.”
He pauses, knowing I’ve defeated him. “Fuck.”
Feeling victorious, I drag him over to our table where a fresh round of tequila shots sits waiting for us, with an extra one for Carter.
I don’t want to give too much credence to this moment, but it’s kind of critical. The way he behaves around my friends will be telling of whether or not he can handle being around my age group. It’s not like I’m going to give them up just because I’m dating an older man. In the wise words of the Spice Girls, if he wants to be my lover, he’s gotta get with my friends.
“Having fun, ladies?” he asks jovially.
“Yay, it’s the lawyer!” Harper cheers, clapping.
“You all remember Carter from the bar the other night. Carter, this is Gretchen, Harper, and Quinn.”
“It’s a pleasure.” He’s grinning that charming grin that has the ability to set fire to panties everywhere. “I respect the song choice, by the way. Alanis Morissette? That’s bold. I like it.”
“Hot damn,” Quinn exclaims. “I like him.”
“You’ve earned your shot, sugar,” Gretchen decrees, passing Carter the shot glass and lime. “Salt up and let’s do this.”
I inwardly cringe as I glance over at him. I know for a fact he left his shot days in his twenties. He adamantly told me that one too many bad experiences in law school ruined them for him forever.
He doesn’t balk even for a second.
But instead of lifting his own hand to his mouth, he takes mine in his, looks me straight in the eyes, and drags his tongue over the back of my hand, providing quite possibly one of the most erotic sights of my life. Then he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles a good amount over the moistened area.
And fucking licks it all off.
The heat from his mouth is absorbed into my flesh and spreads throughout the rest of my body. My pulse starts pounding so hard, the people on the other side of the building can probably hear it.
I hear three indrawn breaths from across the table, but I couldn’t look away from him if someone pantsed me right here in front of the whole bar.
He throws back the tequila shot, his throat working as he swallows. Knocking me off-balance again, he presses the lime to my mouth, forcing me to part my lips and wrap them around the slice.
The tart tanginess stimulates my senses, making everything south of my brain tingle with heady arousal. Then he places his mouth over it, our lips connecting at the edges, and sucks every last ounce of juice from the lime. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t cringe, and he never breaks our eye contact.
Some lime juice drips down my chin.
He laps it right up with a quick swipe of his tongue.
Then he makes love to my mouth with that tongue. Just for good measure, I suppose.
“Ho-ly fuck balls,” Gretchen whispers. “That’s a Bigfoot right there.”
“I think he just got me pregnant.”
“I can’t feel my ovaries.”
I want to duct tape my friends’ mouths shut. But at the same time, I don’t care. Let them see exactly how tantalizing and utterly inescapable this man’s magnetism
is. Then maybe they’ll understand my insanity when I reveal how quickly I very well might be developing feelings for him.
Feelings that expand to create a heaviness in my chest after he willingly joins me onstage and picks out our karaoke song himself.
The two of us have the entire bar singing along to Lady Gaga’s “You and I” two minutes later.
As he belts out the lyrics in a tone-deaf voice with his gaze trained on mine, that heaviness in my chest becomes too heavy, creating a weight that nearly has my knees giving out under the pressure.
It feels like my legs can no longer support me.
It feels like I’m falling…
and falling…
and I have a feeling I’m going to land so damn hard.
Carter said he wanted to take me somewhere today, but he wouldn’t tell me where.
The case he was on ended up settling out of court, which opened up the rest of his day. Or at least, that’s what he said. Truth be told, I think he canceled some other appointments to spend time with me. But if he’s not going to acknowledge it, neither will I.
Miles outside out of the Charleston city limits, heading into the Mount Pleasant area, he turns off on an unmarked, unpaved driveway.
“Where are we?” I ask as acres of vast green foliage pass by the car window.
“You’ll see.”
The driveway is lined on both sides by humongous oak trees with Spanish moss dangling from their branches. Sun beams streak across the gravel path, creating a serene, almost celestial scene. Palm trees and blooming azalea bushes dot the landscape. I even spot a pond off to the right with a dock and white gazebo at its shoreline.
Geez, how long is this driveway?
And whose property is this?
Once we reach the end of the line of oak trees and the land evens out, I see what was clearly once a rice field. It becomes apparent that we’re on some type of plantation, but it’s not one I’m familiar with. Knowing the history of the Charleston area as intimately as I do, I’m aware of almost every large plantation in a fifty-mile radius, whether they’re open to the public for tours or they’re still privately owned.
But this one doesn’t ring any bells with me.
I haven’t seen any signs or landmarks that might hint at who the owner is or who previously owned it and what the property was used for. Other than rice farming, of course.
When the house comes into view, I’m rendered breathless.
“Oh, wow. It’s…spectacular.”
I feel him glance at me, though I can’t look away from the structure. “I’m glad you think so.”
It’s a white two-story house, built in the style that was so popular for wealthy southern plantation owners in the latter part of the 1800s. The imposing columns support a porch that stretches across the entire front of the house. There’s clearly been some modifications to the siding and painting, along with a brick addition in the back. It’s really just—
“Breathtaking.”
“Wait until you see the gardens.”
I practically squeal in excitement. “There are gardens? Oh, I want to see!”
He chuckles as he pulls the car up directly in front of the house and parks. “In due time.”
“How old is this place?” I unbuckle my seat belt and open my door.
He comes around the front of the car and takes my hand. “This house was built in 1877, but the original structure that was built in 1796 still stands, back on the other side of those trees.” He points in the direction behind me. “It’s been renovated over the years.”
Gah! The history!
“Can we go see it first?” I start pulling him toward the tree line, but I don’t get far.
“Hold on, we’ll get to it. Someone lives in the house, though, so we’ll have to check with them first.”
“Someone lives there?” I glance around the large front yard. “Whose property is this?”
“Mine.”
My head whirls around to him. “Yours? I thought…”
“The house downtown wasn’t the only thing my grandfather left me. The Rice Hope Plantation has been in my family since the house was built in 1877.”
He studies my stunned expression with curiosity and maybe a little wariness. Considering how I freaked out last time, he’s probably been nervous about revealing that he’s even richer than I thought.
“Why the hell do you ever leave here, then?” I bluster.
He laughs with his entire body, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. “Believe me, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to go to work every day.”
It’s actually commendable he even bothers with work, considering he clearly has enough money to never so much as lift a finger for the rest of his life.
“So, then who lives in the original house if no one lives in this one?”
“The former caretaker’s wife, Hattie. She’s lived in that house for over thirty years and is really my only neighbor. Her husband passed away a few years ago, so she likes to come over and make meals for me when she knows I’m coming out here.”
He pulls me toward the stairs leading up to the front porch. “And we better hurry because she hates it when I’m late.”
I rub my extremely full belly. “Hattie, that cooking was phenomenal.”
The sixty-five-year-old black woman chuckles. “Thank you, child. My mama always said if you can’t do nothin’ else in this world, at least know how to cook a decent meal.”
Huh. The only lesson my mama ever taught me was marry young, marry old, it doesn’t matter as long as he’s got a bank roll.
Hattie is an endearing woman with a generous soul. She’s lived on this property her entire life since her father, Seymour, was once the caretaker. Then her husband eventually took over the job when her father passed away. Now, with her husband gone, Carter hires a whole landscaping crew to maintain the grounds.
Hattie and her husband never had children, which is probably why she looks at Carter like her own son. Other than her three cats, the woman lives out here all alone, yet seems content with it that way.
“I’ll clean up,” Carter offers, grabbing our plates on his way to the kitchen. “You two sit and chat.”
Hattie shoots him a mother’s smile. “Aw, thank you, child.”
“So, you were born here?” I ask her as I sip from my mason jar of iced tea.
She nods, fanning herself with an old-fashioned hand fan, made of what looks like lace doilies. “Yes, indeed. Daddy got the job as caretaker here when he was just twenty years old. Those were hard times, you know, so it wasn’t easy for him to find a reasonable payin’ job. Not to mention, bein’ a black man in the South back then.”
I nod in understanding.
“But Josiah—that’s Carter’s granddaddy—he was a special man. Verra’ kind and fair. When Daddy couldn’t find no other job in town, he approached Josiah, hearin’ that he was the sort who helped out his fellow man. He gave Daddy a job even though he wasn’t desperate for workers. It was a good thing, too, ‘cuz who knows how my daddy woulda ended up if it hadn’t been for Josiah.”
I prop my chin in my hand, getting lost in her tale. She’s clearly a story-telling woman, having shared plenty of anecdotes from Carter’s childhood during lunch.
First time I’ve ever seen the man blush. I owe this woman a debt for that alone.
“You see, before Daddy came to work here, he was barely scrapin’ by. Only had the clothes on his back and half a soul on each shoe. He was born and raised on a cotton farm down in Georgia, abused for his entire youth, along with the rest of his siblings.
“He got outta there as soon as he could, but he had no skills or education to serve him well. Except for cotton pickin’, that is. He was livin’ under bridges and such and almost even got lynched one time. Thank God that policeman who interceded had a heart, cuz’ otherwise I wouldn’t be sittin’ here talkin’ to ya.
“Anyways, Josiah and Daddy actually became friends. Josiah al
ways took care of me and my brothers and sisters. Lord, I bet we ate more meals with him and Mrs. Van Gordon in this room than we did our own house. Then when I married Elijah and Daddy fell ill, Josiah said we could stay here and he’d pay us to work the land for as long as we wanted.”
“You never wanted to live anywhere else?”
I get why she’d never want to. The appeal of this place pulls you in from the second you step foot on the land.
She shakes her head. “Naw, not a bit. This land has always been my home. I can’t think of a single reason to leave it. Besides, once Carter was born, it became clear he needed some help raisin’.”
I hesitate asking my next question. But this woman is full of information about the man I’m falling for. She’s really the only person I have to ask, other than Carter himself, who has seemed less than reluctant to open up about his past.
“What happened to his parents?”
Her face falls in sympathy as she clucks her tongue. “Aw, now, that’s a sad story, it is. You see, Carter’s mama ran off with another man when my boy was about twelve years old. The betrayal devastated Moses, Carter’s daddy. Basically, the heartbroken man drank himself to death, though it took his liver a good ‘nother ten years to catch up to his habits. He died when Carter was in college.”
My heart sinks. “And I guess they were never really close?”
Her eyes droop with sadness. “Naw, they never were. But that boy sure loved his granddaddy, though. I think that’s why he turned out as well as he did. ‘Cuz of Josiah.”
“I’m sure a lot of that was because of you, too.”
Her expression turns affectionate. “Thank you, child. Honestly, I think a part of Moses was jealous of his son’s relationship with his daddy. For whatever reason, Moses and Josiah were never close, so Moses never felt the need to connect with Carter. My poor boy’s had no one ‘cept me since he was about your age.”
If I thought the woman was going to be bothered by mine and Carter’s age difference, I’d have been sorely mistaken. Aside from that comment, she hasn’t even acknowledged that Carter and I aren’t the same age.
The Divorce Attorney Page 12