Best I Ever Had, page 12
I’m not sure what to say about that or what to think. I’m all for people owning their desires, but I don’t think I’d want to know that about my mom, speaking as her kid. It sounds like Story had a front row seat to the show. Not wanting to inject my own theories, I decide that listening is best.
Our gazes stay locked on each other’s until she looks down, plucking at an unraveled string. The smile I’ve gotten used to seeing on her face has slipped into a sadness that looks unnatural on her. The energy of the air shifts between us, and then she says, “I don’t know where we stand or if I’m even going to see you again after the holiday break. I’d understand, Cooper, I would. With you being a Haywood, you might not want to slum it on the wrong side of the tracks with me. But . . .”
Is she about to end us prematurely? “It’s only bad timing,” I say, trying to redirect and get us back on track.
“I don’t know about bad timing.” Her smile puts me at ease. “I’ve started believing that people come into your life when they’re supposed to and most needed.” Realizing I’m still filling her doorway, I step back inside the apartment and close the door. She adds, “So I may be bad timing in your life, but you have been a good change in my day-to-day.”
Coming around, I sit on the bed where I was sleeping an hour earlier. “I need to tell you something, Story.”
“Okay, you sound serious. Is something wrong?”
“No, just the opposite. It’s been really right with you. That’s what I mean about bad timing. I like the time we’ve spent together, but here we’ll have a month and many miles separating us.”
“Where are you from? If you’re driving, we can drive to see each other . . . well, I don’t have a car, but Lila might let me borrow hers for a day or two if the invitation is still open.”
“It is for you. And hey, I can come back at least once for a quick visit.” Leaning forward, we kiss as if a plan has been conspiratorially hatched. Maybe it has. Either way, we’re in this together. “Normally, we’d celebrate Christmas in the city, but my mom insisted on our home in—” I stop, cringing inside.
“Where? Where’s your other home, Cooper?” She smirks, giving me a little shit. Somehow, she makes it funny, unlike some of the guys when I was growing up.
I learned to throw a punch and take my opponent down in one hit after getting my ass kicked for being a Haywood. Learning to not only defend myself but also make sure people are too afraid to start anything has gotten me in trouble over the years.
I’m not exactly the son my parents dreamed of.
“Haywood.”
“What’s Haywood?”
Internally, I brace myself for the usual reaction I receive. “The town my family founded.”
“You’re so fancy, Cooper,” she says, laughing. “I don’t think I can take much more. Next, you’re going to tell me you live up on the hill.” But when I don’t laugh, hers fades away. “You’re kidding me?”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid not.” Holding tighter to her hand, I ask, “Is this going to be a hurdle for us?”
She brings me closer by tugging on my hand with hers, and with her other, she grabs my coat and then kisses me. “Only if we let it.”
“I won’t,” I say as if I can control the world and how it treats us, as if I have the final say. God, I wish I did.
With our foreheads tipped together, our gazes fixed on the bond of our hands, she says, “I can’t promise that I won’t be surprised again, but I’m glad I got to know you without any of that interfering.”
This time, I nod, but I’m cautious of breaking our connection, more than just our foreheads, but what the past few days has created. “I am, too. I care about you, Story.” I let the sentiment settle between us, waiting for her to reply, to say something that lets me know we’re in the same place and heading in the same direction.
Which is?
I’m not sure I’m ready to put a voice to it, but it feels good with her no matter where we land, as long as we’re together.
I need to get going, but I stay and lean back to look in the eyes that make me feel invincible, like I can be more than I’ve been, more than the past that tries so hard to hold me back.
Story’s a powerful aphrodisiac for wanting to live a better life. Guess she’s rubbing off on me.
Dipping her head back, she moves in as close as she can while holding eye contact. “You came into my life and swept me off my feet, going a hundred miles an hour.” She kisses my chin. “And I’ve loved every minute of it. I’m going to miss you, Cooper Haywood.”
I kiss the top of her nose and then her lips because damn, those lips are amazing. “I’m going to promise you something, Story Salenger.” She smiles. “I’m not going to be out of your life long enough to be missed. I promise you that I’ll be back before you know it.”
We kiss once more. She lies back as I head for the door. When I open it again, I glance at the note. “I might have been sneaking out, but this time, I left a note.”
She’s quick to her feet. Seeing it, she snatches it off the desk, scans it, and holds it to her chest. “You gave me your number?”
I don’t give my number to every girl I fuck, but Story’s not just any girl. My feelings have grown even stronger overnight. Of course, I don’t need to sound like a sap, so I keep it simple. “Figured it was time since we’ve gone to the next level with this relationship.”
“Do you want mine?”
“Text me whenever you want to share something or call me day or night.”
Climbing onto the bed, she stays on her knees, looking at me like she’ll find some loophole to this plan. “Even if I just want to hear your voice?” She doesn’t understand how deep I’m falling for her, and saying it before I walk out this door doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. Especially not after fucking her like she wasn’t a virgin.
Moving forward, Story will get the best of me. Not only does she deserve it but it’s also what she brings out in me.
“Anytime, babe.” I give her a wink and close the door behind me.
I’m not sure how long I stand in the hall tempted to run back in and break my own rule, but I remember who I am, and leave, already morphing back into the prodigal son returning home.
Part II
We Fell too Fast to Turn Back
Not giving a fuck, and being an angry teenager, I signed away my rights to the family fortune at seventeen.
At twenty-two, I sit before the jury of my family as they offer me pieces of my inheritance back. Enough to get my attention, to crave the freedom the money could give me, but I’m not able to stomach the amendments.
Not after this week.
Not after meeting Story.
I look down at the screen of my phone and the photo Story sent before I reached the bottom step of her apartment building when I had to leave. Hair splayed across the cream-colored pillowcase. Not a stitch of makeup left on her pretty face after I spent the night kissing every inch of it. Bare shoulders and a hint of the top mounds of her breasts, the sheet refusing to stay put. I approve of that for what it’s worth.
It’s those eyes that captivate me every time—the green of the bay battling for priority over the henna-hued cliffs at sunset. Her eyes bring me back to the coastline of the sea where I used to wish I could go during the familial battles in my life. It was my solace, my haven away from the expectations I failed and the disappointments I achieved.
Staring at this girl, the woman who I’ve developed intense feelings for, I look up and push the contract back. “I can’t sign this.”
17
Cooper
“It’s so wonderful to see you again.”
The moment I hear her voice mingling with my mother’s tone in lilted discussion traveling from the foyer to the bar cart in the living room, I brace myself. I drop the ice into a crystal glass, realizing that reinforcements, namely Camille Arden, have been brought in.
My mom invited her over as if the breakup didn’t happen at all. How thoughtful of her . . . I pour the bourbon over the ice and prepare myself for the onslaught that is Camille and my mom together. They’re two peas in a pod.
The clack of their heels against the marble entry sounds alarms like sirens in the middle of the night. Unsettling. I find myself looking for the closest escape route.
“Cooper, look who stopped by.” My mom holds her expression—too smiley for the coincidence. It doesn’t suit her.
Too late.
My mom slides her hand gracefully along the side of her hair that’s perfectly pinned up without a hair out of place. She has a softer green than the harshness of my eyes and not a flaw on her, not even a freckle daring to mark her face. The black-and-white-houndstooth skirt and white blouse under a striking yellow sweater complete her Haywood look—country clubs, charity events, and society parties. She fits right in when we’re here. I prefer how she dresses—more black, sleeker styles, “casual” days as she calls them when she wears jeans with a designer jacket—in the city better.
“Camille,” I say. Even I can hear the boredom in my voice, and we haven’t even exchanged formal greetings. As for “stopping by,” that’s not Camille’s style. From her expensive clothes to the jewelry she wears, from dates to daily life, she never does anything unplanned. There’s not a wild bone in her body. It was one of our greatest conflicts, though our match didn’t rival it. It surpassed all other issues to become the barrier I relied on when I broke up with her last July.
She was never a girlfriend. She wasn’t even really a friend of mine. Camille Arden was brought in for damage control. I just wish I would have figured it out sooner.
The perfect agent to pull off the job, her hair was styled long with no curls, her eyes as blue as mine are green, startling if you’re not used to them. Taller than average, she’s done some modeling but prefers hosting conversational dinner parties for twelve instead. But that means landing a husband in Haywood or waiting for her wealthy parents to pass away.
Right before I broke it off, I found out that a deal was struck between our two families years prior to my high school graduation. My arrest for disorderly conduct that landed me in a drunk tank overnight made them skittish about the commitment.
I take a long pull from the glass before I—fuck it. I don’t have the energy to play these games.
My mom sidesteps while adjusting the sweater draped around her shoulders. “I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.”
I glare at her as she disappears down the corridor to my parents’ wing of the house before I can correct her. I’m sure that’s another piece of the plan.
Camille says, “You look good, really good, Coop. School’s going well?” She gets compliments on her blue eyes all the time, but she’s hollow inside with no soul to be found beyond the coloring. I’d almost forgotten.
And though it’s not fair to compare the two, Story’s eyes hold a world of depth. The thing is, I don’t hate Camille. She was another pawn in the game. She just hasn’t realized it yet, not like I have. “It’s going. How’s Huntley College?”
“It’s such a bore, and since the university is small, it doesn’t offer much either.” She comes over to me, takes the glass, and holds it under her nose. “Bourbon always made you do bad things if memory serves. Interesting you’re drinking again, or did you never give it up?”
“I was never an alcoholic, Camille. I was on a mission to destroy this town one bar brawl at a time.”
She pulls a bottle of Dom Pérignon and starts ripping the wrapping from around the cork. “I’ve traveled a lot, but not much compares to home. So, I never did understand why you hate this place so much.”
“Because the Haywoods are and were awful people.”
“You’re a Haywood, so what does that say about you?” she asks, handing me the bottle to open like our old routine is still in play.
“I was born with all their terrible deeds running through my veins.”
Popping the cork, I then set it on the counter, thinking this isn’t the war I’m waging with her. She gives me a look, and though she tries to hide it, I see the slight roll of her eyes as she starts filling the champagne flute. “Your history is wasted on you.”
“It’s not wasted. I’m the product of it.”
Pressing the 18k carat gold rim of the glass to her bottom lip, she stares at me over the crystal and the bubbly liquid inside. Camille always loved to pause for dramatic effect and the attention it allowed to flow in her direction. She sips, and then her gaze turns to linger over the furnishings. “Your mom’s redecorated. I like the beachy vibe.”
For her whole life, Camille has had dreams of a home full of valuable antiques and a baroque and depressing art collection. And she’s not shy about putting that out there to any suitor who shows interest. I witnessed it for years before I thought I’d try stepping in line to please my parents and get a trust fund owed to me from my grandparents back in my name.
Like a tiger trying to hide its stripes, it’s impossible. I would never fit into the mold just the way they wanted. Not interested in my mom’s new couch, I finally ask, “What are you doing here?”
She gingerly sips her champagne. “I heard you were back and wanted to see you.”
I raise my arms out from my sides. “Here I am. Are we done now?”
“Rude, Coop.” She finishes her drink and begins to refill it.
Pouring just a finger more of the bourbon into my glass over the melted ice, I wonder how much I want to entertain her.
If I’m hiking or running in the snow, pushing my lungs to open while I work through my life, that contract, and the deadline they’ve added of Christmas Day, I spend hours in my room where my patience has worn thin by the lack of human contact.
They’ve tried to tame me my entire life. Glancing at Camille, I know it worked for a short time. I just couldn’t hack the confinement of the prison they’d constructed for my life before I figured out what they were doing.
I move to the window to stare outside at the sky that decided to dump snow like there’s no end in sight. I grin, hearing Story’s voice inside my head. “I don’t mind it so much . . . it’s more the images it conjures.” She’d love this snow and sitting by the fireplace keeping the living room warm.
Six days of little ways of touching base keep us connected. I’ve gotten a photo every day of things that remind her of me. A photo of rain through the window of the coffee shop somehow brings me comfort. Another of the note I left her that looks like it’s been read a thousand times from the rough edges and bends in the paper. My side of the bed because yes, I’ve already claimed that. And some others of the world we’re building together—the empty bottle I left on the floor after we had sex for the first time, a glove that stayed behind. I tore my apartment up looking for that.
All these things have me smiling.
Story has me feeling different about myself, the man I am here versus when I’m with her. I miss it—all of it—her, that bed, the dim coffee shop that feels like a second home to so many.
A difference in our schedules has left us fumbling to bridge the gap in time. She works late, and I’m up early, so we find ourselves somewhere in between.
There’s no sexting, but that’s understandable since I just took her V-card. Fuck. Guilt riddles through me, and I shake my head. Until I make that right, it just feels wrong to have it play out the way it did. Not that it wasn’t great, but just not what it should have been.
But yeah, sending photos on the illicit side or even getting off on a live connection seems like something she might not be ready to do. I’m craving her—touch, the taste of her lips, the feel of her silky hair running between my fingers, being inside her, and spending time together.
Is it witchcraft? Or sorcery that has me feeling empty without her? What kind of spell has Story cast on me?
“Christmas morning and presents under the tree.”
I turn back to find Camille staring at me. “What?” I ask.
“The tree is beautiful.” She studies the ten-foot noble fir in the corner. “I was asking if you’re looking forward to Christmas.”
Not really. “Sure. It should be better than the four days since our family meeting.”
“Sounds serious. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about how my family hinges their love on if I bend their way?”
“We can talk about that.” She comes closer but appears to remember we’re not together and veers a little right, keeping a few feet between us. “We broke up, but we’re still friends. Are we still friends, Coop?”
I always hated that name. She knows that but thinks it keeps us on a friendlier term like we hang out all the time. I let the liquid coat my throat, my thoughts more morose around the fakeness that used to motivate me to push boundaries. I remind myself of Camille’s situation again. She’s still Thomas A. Anderson before he takes the red pill in Matrix, blind to the reality of this place.
Finding myself more distant from the people and this place, the idea of getting drunk isn’t a bad one. I’m not striving to black out. I simply want to burn away the edges of my irritation that have flared. If nothing else, she will always remind me of who I refuse to be and the mold that will never quite fit.
After another sip of mine, I lean against the counter. “Why are you really here?”
“Your mother said you were lonely and acting depressed.”
And they wonder why I used to drink heavily . . .
“My mom wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for days, and the only contact we’ve had are a family meeting with the attorney, a lunch where she was mortified that I’d wear jeans to the Chez Cab, and then her telling me ‘don’t ruin my future’ when I said I’m considering options outside of Haywood or New York.” I take another drink to calm the wave of anxiety crashing in my chest. “So my mom isn’t the best judge of what’s going on with me.”
