Love, Chloe (39 page)

My phone rang as I opened the door, and I answered it, stuffing it against my shoulder as I lifted out Nicole’s groceries.

“Chloe Madison?” a stiff male voice asked.

“Yes?” I said warily.

“This is Agent Peter Hertslem. I’m calling about your parents.”

I shouldered the door closed and leaned against it, my hands full with bags, my heart beating hard in my chest. “I don’t know where they are,” I lied. Dad had pulled me aside before they left, whispering their itinerary, which had included a stop in the Hamptons before their flight to Dubai.

“I’m not calling for that, Ms. Madison. We know where they are.”

“You do?” Dante paused, and I waved him on, my chest growing tight, the life of a fugitives’ daughter stressful.

“Oh yes,” he said, with an air of superiority. “I’m looking at them right now.”

The FBI picked up my parents at the airport just an hour after they’d left my apartment. Yet, it took four days to get that call from the FBI, one that was apparently “just for courtesy” to inform me of their detainment.

Four days since they had been arrested and flown back to Florida, and that call was the
only
one I’d received. One from a smug stranger. Didn’t prisoners get phone calls? They must have made theirs to someone else.

I wondered, for a day or so, if they thought that
I’d
turned them in, if that was the reason for their silence. But if they thought I was a daughter who’d snitch, they wouldn’t have come to say goodbye. And they certainly wouldn’t have told me their plans—my mind stalled, bits of the agent’s conversation coming to mind. The airport. Wait. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have
flown
to the Hamptons. They would have driven. Much less inconspicuous, much less chance of being caught—plus Mom loves that drive. And the Hamptons were northeast of the city, not south. They wouldn’t have been at the airport unless…

It took me longer to connect the dots than it should have. For the last hours, my mind had just conveniently skipped over the fact that my father had completely lied to me about their itinerary. Either as a safety measure in case I ratted, or as a way to throw the cops off their trail in the expectation that I
would
rat. Both options dismal signs of my parents’ faith in me.

Inside, I felt one of the last bonds between me and my parents break.

I was torn. I wanted to be selfish, to hold Carter tightly to me and never let him go. But then I’d be responsible for him losing his inheritance. How could I do that to someone I loved? Wasn’t the sign of true love putting the other person’s needs before your own?

A part of me was egotistic enough to think he’d be happier with me than with his trust fund. I looked at how much better my own life was without my parents’ money, and how much richer I was with him in my life.

Regardless, it wasn’t my decision to make. It was his.

“Move in with me.”

The words didn’t register. Maybe because my head was tilted back, hard against the pillow, my nails scraping against the top sheet, trying to find something to hold on to. Or maybe the issue was the fact that his mouth was so far away, the heat of his words hot against my naked skin, his tongue finishing off the final syllable with a flick across my sensitive clit.

“Oh God,” I groaned when his tongue changed, from a flick to a flutter, soft and hot, the constant pressing going faster and faster, bringing me closer and closer…

I arched off the mattress, pushing myself harder into his mouth…

And he stopped. “Move in with me.”

My body yearned, the need intense, my hands reaching down, in between my legs, just a touch needed to…

He grabbed both of my wrists and slid forward, pinning them to either side of my head, my sexual haze lifting as I blinked at him. “Chloe.”

“Carter,” I shot back, struggling against his grip, my hips bucking off the bed, the orgasm still right there, just needing the right touch…

His body was now on top of me, a fine stretch of muscles that—at any other point in time—would have been celebrated. But right then, I could only think of one thing: my rapidly fading orgasm.

“Will you move in with me? You can have the big closet.”

“I’m so close.” I worked my legs free and wrapped them around his waist. Talk about sexy—having him huge and hard against me, each minute shift of his body a giant reminder of how lucky I was. “Please,” I begged.

I couldn’t even process his request. Couldn’t decide whether to be happy or freaked out. When a man like Carter moved his bare cock along your body, you didn’t think. You didn’t do anything but beg.

I tightened my legs and tried to change our angle.

I reached down and tried to grab him, to wrap my hand around his girth.

“Say yes,” he whispered, his weight on his hands, his head dropping down to brush over my lips.

“Why don’t you make me scream it instead?” The words were a challenge and I watched his eyes when they hit, the darken of his stare one that filled me with anticipation.

He sat up, his torso moving away and gripped my hips, positioning himself in between my legs, and I couldn’t help but whimper in relief as his fingers dug into me, his initial thrust slow and deep and perfectly in control.

After that, nothing about our sex was controlled. And my
YES
was a scream. A loud and long scream, followed by fifty or so short, concise versions, coming quicker and quicker before … I curled forward, my hands gripping at his shoulders, my body stiff as everything turned the most perfect shade of orgasm.

When I came down, limp against the mattress, it was settled.
Moving in together
. I steeled myself for panic, but there was none.

“Maybe this is a mistake.” I said. “Moving in together?” Something I never did with Vic. I’d never lived with anyone, save those months with Cammie.

“Why?” Cammie asked, sipping a red Starbucks cup, her elbow knocking Benta’s arm when she reached for her cookie. “You guys’ve been together, what … three months?”

“Two and a half, exclusively.” I corrected. “But we’ve dated since…” I scrunched up my face and tried to think. “July.”

“Carlos moved in with me after three months,” Benta unhelpfully supplied.

“Exactly. And we all remember how well
that
social experiment turned out.” Benta and Carlos lasted three weeks after he moved into her place. It took that long for them to come to the conclusion that they, in fact, hated each other.

“You know what the issue was?” Cammie asked, pointing a navy fingernail in Benta’s direction. I waited for this gem of knowledge with all the excitement of a root canal. “Carlos moved into
your
place. I think it works better when the girl moves in with the guy. Otherwise, you feel like he’s a freeloader.”

“Didn’t you guys split the rent?” I looked at Benta, who nodded through a mouthful of—damn her—my cookie.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cammie said. “Call it tradition, patriarchy, whatever. A woman wants a provider, and you don’t feel that way if he’s suddenly taking over half your closet.” This coming from a woman who’d never lived with anyone other than me. “You guys won’t have that problem, since you’re moving in with him. And plus…” she popped a peppermint into her mouth, “you’ll save on rent!” She beamed, like she had ever once worried over a rent payment.

But … she did have a point. Now that Nicole was back home and settled, the plan was for me to quit on Monday. I’d offer to work a final two weeks, but Nicole would most likely kick me out the door. Unemployed just in time for the holidays. JOY. It
would
help the situation if I didn’t have to worry about rent. But was that really a reason to move in with a guy? I voiced the question.

“What you need to think about,” Benta reasoned, “is if you would move in with him if your rent stayed the same. If the answer is yes,” she shrugged, “then you’re good to go.”

It was kind of a stupid hypothetical because I couldn’t even decide if I should move in with him and my rent
wasn’t
staying the same, but I understood her point.

“It’s the next step,” Cammie said. “Either you and Carter are serious about each other or you aren’t. If you are, then you need to know if you can live together.” She blinked at me as if it was so obvious, and I eyed her eyelashes suspiciously. The girl got extensions. She had to. She wasn’t that lash-blessed before. I swallowed the observation and tried to focus on her advice. She was right. It was the next step. Did I want a future with him? It was a question that took a minute to answer, a decision that I wanted to be absolutely sure about. And the answer, after three long sips of my coffee and a lot of time staring out the window, was yes.

I
loved
him. I fell in love with him thinking that he had nothing. And I wanted a future with him. The man was willing to risk his entire financial future on me … I could certainly risk the next step with him.

I wanted to try. I wanted more. And if the next step toward our future was moving in together, then I wanted to take that step. I swallowed hard and looked away from the window. “You’re right,” I nodded. “I’m going to do it.”

I didn’t know why they squealed, coming forward and hugging me tightly. But the celebration was what I needed. Validation that gaining a relationship didn’t jeopardize this friendship. “I’m proud of you,” Cammie whispered against my ear.

“Thanks.” I released them and sat back, glancing at Cammie one more time before I decided to risk her wrath. “Now, what the hell did you do to your lashes?”

Two weeks after Nicole’s hospitalization, I slowly climbed the steps to the Brantleys’, my eyes on the toes of my Jimmy Choos, my heart hiding somewhere in my chest. I stared at their front door and remembered, a year ago, how desperate I felt, ringing their doorbell. When I looked back at that woman, I barely recognized myself. Cammie was right. I had changed. Everything in my life had changed. I inserted my key and turned it in that lock for one last time.

Maybe I should have rung the bell
.

I opened the door and stepped into a fight. Clarke and Paulo, standing toe to toe in the foyer, a maid standing in front of me, her mouth half-open, a broom in hand, her steps hurriedly moving to the side to let me in. The director’s shirt was gripped in Clarke’s fist, Clarke’s dark and angry face growling out something too soft for me to hear.