No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (14 page)

He’s a phenomenal dancer. I could really get used to this. We move as if we’ve been dancing together for fifty years. I settle into the peaceful place where it’s just Aaron and me. The rest of the world fades away.

Then, I’m rudely forced back to Grandmother’s ballroom. “That guy. Is he going to be a problem?”

“He’s my childhood friend. He has feelings for me; I don’t for him.” It seems like such a trivial way to describe someone who has been so important to me.

Aaron spins me out and then pulls me tightly against him. I catch Jeannie’s stunned expression out of the corner of my eye. And, if the truth be told, I relish the moment. “Why are you smiling like you know a secret?” he asks with a beautiful smirk that makes his eyes glisten in the chandelier light.

“I’m enjoying the mouth-hanging-open looks on guests’ faces that poor, little MK, the black sheep of the family, is dancing with a rock star,” I honestly admit with a shrug.

“Want to put on a show?” he asks as he nibbles on my neck.

“I think we already are.” I sound breathy.

“I smell him on you.” His tongue swipes discreetly over my pulse point. “Fucking hate it. I’m half tempted to drag you out of here and fuck you until the only thing you smell like is me.”

“Mmm.”

The music finishes, and the band plays something more upbeat. Aaron and I dance together for two more songs before the bandleader announces it’s time for the toasts. We are front and center, and the guest seem to move in around us. Waiters walk through the crowd, passing out champagne. I grab a flute. Aaron declines.

Grandmother takes the microphone. “Dear guests, thank you for helping us once again meet our financial goals in support of the charities in this wonderful city we call home.”

She pauses, giving everyone time to clap. Aaron leans over and whispers, “You look like her.”

I’ve heard this my whole life. My mom resembles her late father. But me? Well, I look like Mary Katherine broke off a finger and I grew from it. When I’m with my sister, mom, and dad, I look adopted.

Grandmother and I both have the same dark hair, but hers is now more salt and pepper. We also have dark eyes and the same oval face shape. I know exactly what I’m going to look like when I’m her age, and I hope I stay in just as good shape as she’s in.

“Tonight, your tickets and donations are going to support my granddaughter’s very worthy cause, her organization, Star Bright. So enough of me, and more of her. Bethany . . .”

My sister gracefully walks on stage as if she’s floating. She’s as beautiful as she is smart, her blond hair and blue eyes shining. “Good evening. Yes, your donations tonight benefit an organization I founded almost a year ago. As most of you know, I’m a pediatrician and saw a real need to minister to the most helpless in our society—the desperately poor children. I, along with a great team of pediatricians and pediatric nurses, volunteer our time going door to door, checking on the welfare of the young. But none of this would be possible without our first and largest benefactor, Mister Johnny Knite.” The spotlight finds us in the crowd. “Please, everyone, give him a hand.”

The room erupts in applause as I stand awkwardly next to him grasping his hand tightly, realizing that twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t know this man had another name, what his occupation was, or that he was worth enough money to get my sister’s organization off the ground without going broke.

I study his face. He seems more relaxed when the applause has stopped and Bethany begins speaking again. “So thank you for attending Grandmother’s fabulous ball. From our family to yours, we hope you’ll enjoy the lovely food and tasty drinks, and dance the night away.”

That’s the cue for the band to begin playing again.

The same photographer who asked to take a picture of me earlier in the evening brushes my arm. “May I take a photo of you and Mr. Knite?”

Aaron shrugs and pulls me tightly against his side. My head and hand rest on his chest as his arm wraps around my waist. I know my smile is dreamy and heartfelt.

“Thank you,” the photographer says as he moves to another couple.

Aaron plants one last kiss on my lips right before he’s swarmed by people, and I step out of his spotlight.

Jeannie grabs my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Johnny?”

I just smile. Sometimes not saying anything feels pretty damn good.

MK Landry
@NoPinkCaddy

What a night! Look at my tired eyes. Can’t wait to share the details on NoPinkCaddy.com tomorrow. #NPCPartyPics

“Ma’am, the address?” the driver asks.

“Umm . . . I’m not sure. Hold on.” I extract my phone from the dress’s built-in bra and fumble to retrieve the address he texted me.

Aaron left soon after Bethany ended her speech. His excuse was he was causing a scene, and I agreed—every girl there had lusty eyes for him. He slipped out while I was forced to stay until the majority of the guests were leaving.

My feet ache and I’m starving, buzzed, and ready to be alone with Aaron, I think. I’m beginning to not trust myself. My feelings are not in question. I’m beyond the catchphrase “attracted to him.” Our chemistry is off the charts, but there are so many question marks. Just tonight, I learned he’d been in rehab. Then there’s the donation to Bethany’s charity. Was our meeting at Eddy’s random? I don’t know how it could have been. Our relationship so far feels schizophrenic. It’s like we haven’t found our groove, except on the dance floor.

When I ran to my upstairs bedroom at Grandmother’s to grab my things, I’d momentarily contemplated changing back into my yoga pants and LSU sweatshirt. Then I’d remembered I couldn’t unzip this dress even if I was a contortionist in a Cirque du Soleil show.

It begins to rain. First small drops dust the cab window, then the drops are larger and hit harder, with more force. I lean back against the dingy leather and inhale the scent of rain in the air. It’s a baptism of sort, washing away the pretentiousness of tonight, the awkward kiss, and Bella’s notion of settling for practicality instead of passion.

“Here we are, miss,” the driver says. The cab stops on a dark side street which runs perpendicular to St. Charles. I’m familiar with it. It’s full of old homes which have been purchased by individuals who have breathed new life into them without compromising the original architecture.

Aaron’s home is lavender with dark purple trim. It’s shotgun style with a porch that runs along the front. Probably, when it was originally built, it was a duplex. The entrance is flanked by gas lanterns, which are most likely original to the home. It’s modest-appearing—certainly not where one would picture a rock star living.

I slide my credit card and add a nice tip. “Please wait for the door to open just in case he isn’t home.”

The cab driver nods.

I use my flowery bag as an umbrella and run across the broken sidewalk and up the wooden steps to the safety of the covered porch. Unfortunately, my bag did little to keep the rain off me, and I’m soaking wet.

My fist balls, and I rap on the wooden door. The rain begins to come down in sheets and a strong wind blows water under the porch roof, absolutely not leaving an inch of me dry. My wet dress weighs a ton, and I bang again, willing the door to open as my teeth chatter.

Just when I begin fishing my phone from my cleavage, the front door opens and Aaron stands there in nothing but a tattered pair of jeans. I gasp loudly as he pulls me inside, slamming the door behind us. My phone slides into the side pocket of my bag.

“What in the hell . . .” he begins, but I don’t let him finish. Dropping my bag, I close the gap between us, wrap my arms around his neck, and pull his mouth to mine. It’s insane how much my lips crave his. I pour my night’s frustrations into our kiss. I try to communicate I want him and no one else. If that means his private life is public, I’m okay with that. I don’t care what he’s done or who he’s dated or whatever he did that forced him into rehab. I couldn’t care less what Google has to say about him. Aaron Emerson, the man who is right here right now with me, is the man I want.

A deep, guttural growl rings through his quiet house as he separates our lips and laps the rainwater from my neck. “Sweetheart, we need to get you dry,” he rasps as his hands skim my rain-soaked cheek.

Reaching between us, I rake my fingers over the firmness in his pants, and his dick twitches in response. “MK . . .” he warns.

Of course, I don’t listen. My polished nails scrape over the flannel-soft denim again, and Aaron moans. I want more, so I do it again a third and then a fourth time.

Aaron steps away, out of my reach. His hand drags through his now messy hair, and his face contorts in confusion, I think. He turns around and walks toward the back of the house disappearing down the hall. I’m left standing just inside his door.

To my left is a long dining room table made out of planks of farm wood. To my right is a comfortable-appearing living room. There’s a sectional couch, a couple of chairs, a fireplace, a piano in the corner, and art decorating the neutral-colored walls.

The kitchen runs along the back of the large room with a hallway just to the left of the French door refrigerator. It’s an odd layout, but I’m sure it was the best the architect could do to preserve the original nature of the home.

Just when I’m about to follow him, he emerges from a room carrying a stack of white towels. It’s the first time I notice the tattoos on his arm and torso.
How could I have missed them when he opened the door?

I can’t necessarily decipher what they are. They’re swirls of faded colors and greys that begin at the shoulder on his left arm and extend to his elbow. There’s a tattoo on his left pec which looks to be an anatomical drawing of an actual heart with a fist wrapped around it. The right side of his body is ink free, and there’s something about that asymmetry on a perfectly symmetrical body I find intriguing. I lick my lips in anticipation of giving his ink a closer inspection.

“Quit ogling me.” He smirks as my eyes drop to the floor, and my face flushes with embarrassment. He places the towels on the dining room table. “Come here.”

I stand obediently in front of him while he takes a towel to my hair. With tender care, he starts at the bottom and works his way up my locks. It reminds me of how my mom would dry my hair when I was a child.

“How was the rest of the evening?” he asks with a bit of hesitation.

“Uneventful, except for the buzz in the air about a certain fair-haired rock star.”

“What?” he asks, discarding the wet towel on his probably real hardwood floors which were no doubt lovingly restored and probably worth a small fortune and shouldn’t be wet.

“You see, it’s scandalous that I arrived with one boy and danced the night away with another.”

He ignores my comment about the other guy. I wish he would ask me about Tripp so I could explain, but I don’t know how to initiate the conversation or if Aaron even cares enough to listen. “As sexy as you look in this dress, I’m sure it’s not very comfortable wet.” He makes a circle with his finger, and I turn my back to him. The zipper slides from the top of my behind to just below it, allowing the multi thousand-dollar dress to pool at my feet. It looks like I’m standing in the middle of the Caribbean Ocean and I take a mental picture of the imagery to describe to my readers.

Aaron walks away as if he’s going to leave the great room again and I pick up one foot to move out of my ocean and follow him. He turns around with lust-filled eyes. “Stop.”

I put my foot back down. “Do you mind if I take a picture? I promise not to share it with anyone, but you . . . you . . . just look so gorgeous in nothing but your thong and silver high heels in the middle of the aqua sea.” He’s stammering and unsure of himself—vulnerable. I love his honesty.

I nod, without even really giving it much of a thought. He grabs his phone from the kitchen counter and walks towards me, clicking away. I’m not sure if I should pose so I just suck in my stomach and stand there.

Aaron walks back to me and offers his hand. I take it and step over my dress puddle. “I’d give you a shirt, but I’ll be damned if I want you to put it on.”

I giggle as he leads me over to the stack of towels and grabs another one to finish the job. He rubs the soft material over my left arm. “What happened to the asshole?”

Okay. Here’s my chance to try to explain this difficult situation. “Please don’t call him names. Look, tonight wasn’t a good night for him, but he’s not an asshole.”

“Fine, MK. I’m trying here.” He runs the towel over my other arm. His face is shielded by his hair. His voice strained. “I’m sure he’s a great guy who obviously has good taste in women, but it doesn’t mean I have to be okay with someone else pressed against the girl who I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

“We kissed,” I blurt out before my brain can close my mouth.

He pauses and studies my face as his eyes and forehead wrinkle. “God, MK, do you really want me to kill him? I’m trying damn hard to be okay with you seeing other people, but telling me you kissed him is pretty fucking cruel. Are you trying to make me crazy?”

Tucking the hair behind his ears, I look deep into his eyes. My tongue brushes over my lips. “And it just confirmed I’m not attracted to him. Tripp is my dear friend and nothing more than that. When I kissed him, it was an exchange of saliva. It was nothing compared to how I feel when I kiss you.”

He drops the wet towel and grabs a fresh one. “He wasn’t pleased I wanted to dance with you.”

I sigh. “We have a long, complicated history, but it’s evident he feels differently about me than I feel about him. That’s something we’re going to have to deal with and work through if we’re going to remain friends.” I take the towel out of Aaron’s hands and toss it on the ground. My pointer finger moves from his Adam’s apple, down his sternum, and to his belly button. “There’s only one man I want and think about who lives in my dreams.”

His mouth contorts as if he’s grimacing, and he turns away from me. It’s not the reaction I was expecting. Maybe coming over here was a mistake. He texted me his address, but he never invited me over. I’d just assumed he wanted me, too. Oh God, I’m such an idiot. He’s a rock star—why would I just assume he would want me? Maybe he was just being polite.