To Catch a Falling Star (10 page)

I rub my shaking hands over my eyes. There is no way in hell I’m crying in front of a man who knows shit about my life.

“Oh, by the way, Maritza invites you to dine with us tonight. Do you happen to like authentic Spanish food? Portia loves it. In fact, I still hold my suspicions that she only married Will because of Maritza’s culinary skills.”

The preacher places a hand over my shoulder and ushers me out of the ruins. What the fuck? Aren’t we supposed to dig deeper into the soul-searching crap? What just happened?

On our return, the preacher alternates between silence and small talk. He seems pensive at times. That irritating grin never leaves his face.

“Do you have any plans for when you are going back to work?” he asks.

“My manager is lining up some gigs for me. But I need a court release before I can go anywhere.”

“I see.”

He drives past the church and parks on the driveway of his house.

“Come on, son, it looks like you can use a good meal. You’ve lost a great deal of weight.”

I follow him inside. The house is just as I remember it, simple and warm. Right after I cross the threshold of the front door, an older version of Mel pulls me into a tight embrace.

“Welcome back, Tarry. Finally, you decide to come and visit with us. Portia talks so much about you, that it feels like we are lifelong friends. Come, we were just waiting for you to start eating.”

“Thank you. It is a pleasure to see you again,” I say politely.

In the kitchen, my eyes search unconsciously until I find Mel. She stands at the counter with Dominick hanging from her hip. She is chatting with Lucas. Wow, it’s a fucking family reunion.

I see Portia’s father, Mr. McGee shaking hands with the preacher. Un-fucking-believable, the tycoon seems right at home. With his arm draped over Portia’s shoulder, he laughs at whatever the preacher tells him.

I restrain myself from scratching my chest and stride across the room to greet Lucas and Mel.

“Hey, man, how’s going?” Lucas grins. Yeah, the grinning thing is a family trait.

“Just back from hiking. Man, you had better work me hard next week. It sucks to have a preacher kick my lame ass,” I say. To my surprise, I hear Mel’s crystal laugh resonating through the room.

“Don’t worry, Tarry. Dad is a professional hiker, if there is such a thing. He kicks ass at it.”

“No shit,” I say.

We talk for a while, before Maritza directs us to the dining room. A long table overtakes the small room. I steer close to Mel and sit next to her. From the opposite side of the room, Portia glances my way with a speculative look, but I ignore her. I fucking crave Mel and, the weird thing is, near her I can almost forget the damn craving that haunts me all day.

If Mel notices my clinginess, she does not display it. Our elbows bump slightly every time Mel brings the fork to her lips. I’m relieved that Lucas sits beside us. He pretty much carries all the conversation.

To my surprise, the empanadas and tortilla soup are delicious. I eat more than I’ve been eating. I can tell from Portia’s expression that my appetite appeases her.

After dinner, we gather in a living room adjoined to the kitchen. I swear this is true: Mr. McGee and the preacher wash the dishes. Lucas, Will, and I get a free pass. I wonder if the
New Yorker
has published a piece about how well Mr. McGee can organize a dishwasher.

I stand on the doorsill of the living room to observe the peculiar family—including Portia—at their prime. Dominick and Ella are playing catch when he stumbles into me.

“Sorry, Uncle Tally,” Dominick says.

“It is Uncle Tarry, Dominick,” Ella corrects him.

“That’s what I said, Ella,” Dominick says.

“Let’s watch Dora,” Ella proposes, rolling her eyes just like her mother.

“No, can we watch Diego?” Dominick asks.

“Okay,” Ella shrugs and they both run to the family room.

Maritza sets a tray with coffee on the center table.

“Mom, is my navy suit here?” Mel asks.

“Yeah, I think I picked it up from the laundry awhile back and forgot to give it to you. Why, do you need it?” Maritza pours a cup of Colombian coffee and hands it to me.

“Lisa, from the homeless shelter, is going for a job interview. Since I never use the suit, I offered to give to her. She tried buying one, but Goodwill was too expensive and Salvation Army didn’t have her size,” Mel explains.

“Check your room, it should be in there.”

I watch as Mel grabs a cup of coffee and strides across the kitchen, heading down a hall.

Mr. McGee and the preacher join the group in the living room. They engage in a serious discussion on the upcoming elections. When no one is noticing me, I pad my way to Mel’s room. I haven’t talked to her since Friday, when we had dinner. Without our counseling sessions, I don’t know when I’ll get to see her. I dread the thought. I really do.

I stride along the narrow hall. The last door is open. Enthralled, I hear her pleasant voice singing a song by Elvis Presley.

I silently enter the room. She is reaching for a box on the top of her closet. My dick stirs at the sight of her gorgeous ass, perking my way. Fuck, she is hot.

She must sense my presence, because she gives up on retrieving the box, turns and, to my disappointment, she stops singing.

“Please, carry on. You have a magical voice,” I say lowly.

“No frigging way I’ll sing in front of a twenty-two time Grammy winner,” she says with a shy smile.

“Twenty-two, huh. I wonder why I only have nineteen on my shelf. I must have lost a few.”

“Oh, one of the years, you didn’t show up to the awards. But don’t they send you the trophy anyway?” she asks, intrigued.

“Maybe.” I shrug. “It’s not all that important.”

“You’re kidding, right? That’s the award for when you are
it
.”

“I guess.”

I see the suit on her bed still in the dry cleaner’s plastic wrap. Mel turns, stands on her tiptoes, and reaches for the box. She is unsuccessful as the tips of her fingers glide across the box. I smile and approach her from behind, easily grabbing the box.

Mel spins and faces me. She’s so close I can smell the heady flagrance of her shampoo.

“What shampoo do you use?” I ask. My fingers lightly stroke the honey curls.

“Chamomile,” she says and steps back.

“It’s so delicate and deliciously intoxicating.” I take a step forward, closing the gap between us, and trapping her against the closet. I lean in, close my eyes, bury my nose in her hair, and inhale deeply. I’ve been dying to do this since the first day I caught a whiff of her scent. When I surface, I’m on a new high. I suspect this is the most addictive thing I’ve ever used. One snort and I’m hooked for life.

“Tarry, I, um…” She looks at me, and her eyes seem frightened. But, they’re blazing too.

“So fucking beautiful.” I moan and inhale the scent of her hair again. Her eyes are fixed on mine. She is as still as the ancient Greek statue of Aphrodite of Milos. Our bodies are so close that ripples of warmth, lust, and tension billow from her to me. God, my fingers tingle with a need to touch her skin. Unlike what I usually do, I restrain myself. I know if I touch her, I’ll succumb to the desperate desire to taste her lips.

But then, a soft moan escapes her lips. It undoes me. I know the door is open but, hell, I have to have a fix of her.

I drop the box on the bed. My hands cup her face. I sense her body trembling slightly, like a captured little bird. Gently, I slide my thumb across her lips, tracing their soft and voluptuous curves. She parts her mouth. I approach slowly, my lips barely touching hers. I breathe in her breath. It is sweet and minty. I swallow hard. I have never craved something as badly as I crave her lips. I want to savor them and make it last.

I slide one hand to the nape of her head, tangling my fingers in her hair, and I draw her to me. My lips glide lightly against hers. Then, unable to control myself, I devour her lips. Liquid fire sears through my veins. My tongue savagely strokes hers. I want to consume her. I’m lost, falling hard and fast. A shudder runs through my body, and I realize I’m the captured one.

Mel rests her hand on my chest. Her fingers stroke me lightly. My heart throbs fast and ferociously under her delicate touch. I slide one of my hands to her lower back and pull her to me. I’m hard as fuck. Her body stiffens, and I know I just jumped the gun. Fuck.

Mel slithers from under my touch and ducks underneath my arm. She circles the bed, using it as a barrier between us. She is breathing irregularly, but her eyes are hard and distant. Almost resentful. Fuck.

“Please leave,” she demands and looks away.

“Mel, please, I, um…” But, what can I say? I enjoyed kissing you. I want to be in your panties more than I want a syringe of heroin. I try to calm my erratic breathing. Why didn’t I fucking control my impulses? She’s going to hate me. Fuck.

I HEAR THE deafening sound of my heart beating in my ears. After Tarry leaves,
I step across the room and close the door. I lean on it and then slide down the door, dropping to the floor.

With shaking fingers, I touch my lips. I look at the room of my youth. I remember when Tim sneaked in to steal a kiss. We were fourteen. I remember when I dressed to go to prom with him. I glance at the bed, where I dreamed of being his wife and growing old and gray with him. Illusions of our fairy tale permeate the purple walls.

Unshed tears burn my eyes. What have I done? “Please forgive me, Tim,” I whisper.

A gut-wrenching pain swamps my heart. I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. My mind replays the kiss. Tears spill and flood my face. The kiss is not what has me crying. I’m terrified at how I responded to Tarry’s lips against mine.

Guilt grabs my soul. No one other than Tim has ever kissed me before. My hand returns to my mouth and I gasp. How could I betray Tim this way? How am I able to enjoy the touch of another man, as much as I just did?

Determined, I make a decision to stay the hell away from Tarry. He is no good for me. First, because I know he is a player who uses and then discards women. More importantly, he shakes the foundation of my world. The attraction I have for Tarry is dangerously potent. I don’t want to ever love a man as much as I loved Tim, especially, when I’m bound to have my heart broken in the process.

Today I start “Operation Avoid Tarry.”

I clean my face and dab on a layer of lipstick. I gather the suit—along with my wits—and, with a purposeful stride, return to the living room. Tarry stands by the living-room door and is in my way. His backside is enough to accelerate my heartbeat.

“Excuse me,” I say, careful to avoid touching him as I pass through the door.

“I found it, Mom.” I force a smile. “Where is Ella? We need to head home.”

“So soon? She’s having so much fun,” Mom says.

“I want to drop off the suit. Lisa is anxious that she doesn’t have anything to wear.” I grab my purse and jacket from the closet.

“Leave Ella here, we will drop her off when we go home,” Will offers.

“Okay, I guess she’ll be happy to stay longer.”

“I want to head home too. Would you mind giving me a lift?” Tarry asks nonchalantly.

What an ass. Did he just ask me for a ride? I sense the heat spreading across my face. Thank the Lord that all eyes are fixed on him that no one notices my discomfort. Shit, he deliberately put me on the spot. If I say no, I’ll have to explain why.

“Sure, I’ll drop you off. It is on the way to the shelter anyway.” I summon my best impartial face.

First phase of my operation? An epic fail.

I say a hasty good-bye, hoping that Mom or Dad don’t notice my agitation. Followed by Tarry, I head to the car.

“May I drive?” he asks and is so close that he startles me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask him, searching my purse for the keys. I do not intend to let him drive. But when I jingle the keys out, he snatches them from my hands.

“I just want to talk,” he says under his breath.

“You didn’t need to trap me and put me on the spot for that.” I yank the passenger door open and sink into the seat.