CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
STERLING
I should be getting ready for Rorke’s presentation today, but I keep getting distracted. First, I got distracted by him bending me over the bed, then he distracted me in the shower, then breakfast in bed turned into him having me for breakfast.
Holding out his shirt for him, his long, muscular arms slip through the cool material. He turns around, and I start to fasten the buttons for him. He pushes my hair off my shoulders, so it’s no longer covering my breasts, the last bit of modesty shot to hell. I’m standing in front of him completely naked, and the heat between my legs is proof of how easily distracted I am. Just the way his blue eyes are looking at me makes me want to fall on my back with my legs spread. “We’re never going to make it to this meeting,” he growls, his hand sliding up my inner thigh.
I stop him, and my body curses me. “I have to get dressed.”
He groans playfully, and I quickly grab my clothes before I change my mind. I packed two dresses for the event. A girl needs choices. I hold each one up trying to decide.
“Blue,” he says.
“But I think it might be too short,” I say, tilting my head.
He comes up behind me, his lips grazing my ear. “Don’t wear panties.”
Sounds good. I slip the dress over my head without a bra, either. He chuckles, gathering his stuff together. A quick application of mascara and lip-gloss, my hair pulled up, and I’m ready to go. I take one last look in the mirror to check my booty and boobs. Yep, everything is covered, and nothing is jiggling too much.
“Why do women always check their asses and cleavage before they walk out the door?” he asks.
“The better question is, why don’t guys check their junk? That way, they wouldn’t have to adjust it in public all the damn time.”
He laughs as I grab my purse. And when Rorke turns his back, I flip open his notes for the presentation and place a pink heart sticky note inside. He’ll love it.
*
The banquet room is set up in a horseshoe shape with a screen at the far end. Rorke used it to show images of the farm and artist renderings of what the camp will look like. There’s a bar in the back, and a seafood and steak lunch was served. Rorke’s friend is a player with women, and he knows how to seduce in the boardroom, as well.
I know the moment Rorke sees my sticky note because his entire body looks like it smiles. I’m sitting in the end seat closest to where Rorke is standing. To be relegated to a chair is a much different experience for me. I’m usually the one giving the pitch, but I think this is actually harder. I’ve gone from feeling like I could throw up, I’m so nervous for him, to being teary-eyed when a picture of Levi flashed on the screen behind Rorke. I’m so proud of him. I always am, but watching him in action, placing the perfect joke or pausing for effect, it’s hard to believe this man is the same shy boy I grew up with.
Rorke ends by telling a story about Levi’s list, and the adventure they had checking off the strip club experience. The story involves sneaking past a bald, burly bouncer, a stolen bottle of whiskey, and hitchhiking across our town.
“We ended up at this girl’s house,” Rorke says, grinning. “This girl I had a crush on forever.”
Dear God in heaven, he’s talking about me.
“We’d had so much to drink that Levi was able to convince me that I needed to tell her how I felt. He was crouched down in the bushes, hiding. I was hopped up on liquid courage when I knocked, but no one was home,” he says, glancing at me. “Levi told me in his drunken wisdom that I’d get my chance. He died just a few months later. He never got a chance.”
Rorke never told me that story. I wonder where I was that night. I wonder what I would’ve said if I’d been home. How did I not know how he felt? I guess we never really know the extent to which someone loves us. It’s our job to try to convey that every single day.
He finishes his speech and finds me, giving me a kiss. Then he proceeds to work the room, doing a brilliant job, and I’m by his side for most of it. After reaching my fill of sports conversation, I decide to give him some space and grab a drink at the bar.
“Only woman in the room,” Pierce says, walking up to me.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I say, and that’s true. Unfortunately, it still happens a lot in business. It’s not unusual to be the only woman in a room full of suits, even in my line of work.
“Then you’d be the only one,” he says. “Every guy in this place has eye fucked you.” My head flips around ready to attack, but he holds up his hands. “Except me, of course. Wouldn’t do that to Rorke.”
“Glad to see even male whores have a code of ethics.”
He busts out laughing and says, “Standards as high as vibrator inventors.”
My stomach twists a little, something that happens every time someone catches me off guard about my occupation. It shouldn’t. It’s stupid. Pierce is Rorke’s friend—I’m sure he meant nothing by it. It would be natural to ask about your friend’s new girlfriend’s occupation.
Still, it’s not a topic I wish to discuss with him, so I ask, “How do you think it went today?”
We make small talk until the room empties out. Pierce gives Rorke and me a quick goodbye, and as soon as he leaves the room, Rorke picks me up, kissing me hard on the lips.
“Thank you for my note.” He pulls it from his pocket, so I can see my handwriting.
If you get nervous, remember I’m not wearing panties!
“You little tease,” he says, grinning.
“Maybe you should tease me back,” I flirt.
Taking my hand, he practically runs to the elevator, both of us thankful it doesn’t stop on the way up. Our thankfulness is short-lived when we see our door at the end of the hallway, with the maid’s cart parked out front.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans.
I laugh at the absurdity of it. “Do you think they’ve started clearing out the presentation room yet? We could go back.”
“Naughty girl,” he says as we make a mad dash down the elevator and back to the room we just exited, only to have our dreams dashed by yet another cleaning crew. “Rent another room?” he asks.
“No!” I say, laughing.
“Why not?”
“What are you going to do? March up to the front desk and say, ‘I need to have sex with my girlfriend and the maids are cock-blocking me’?”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asks, laughing.
*
Without a room, we decide to hit the historic streets of New Orleans. I’m not sure the air in any city is like the air here, the smell of Cajun spice mixing with the Mississippi River. The sound of street musicians setting the rhythm of the city. It’s a place where voodoo and the Catholic Church are neighbors. And the dead and living walk side-by-side.
Bodies are buried above ground. French Quarter houses are protected by placing broken glass bottles on the fences, and sin and seduction are celebrated on Bourbon Street, and in Mardi Gras parades. The history is deep, the scandals deeper. But the love of the city is felt in each trumpet that sounds and each oyster that’s shucked.
Every corner holds romance in its architecture, sex in its streets. It’s a city where desire is a tourist attraction, which might explain why four hours without sex has left my man in a foul mood.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he begs for the tenth time, like a child wanting the newest toy.
“But I want to get my tea leaves read,” I say, pulling him inside the little shop.
The place is set in the French Quarter and has a storefront filled with all kinds of crystals. I don’t know a dang thing about crystals or their supposed powers, but some of them are absolutely beautiful. I pick up a book on the art of reading tea leaves. “Tasseography,” I say. “Such a fancy name.”
“Sterling, you can’t believe any of this stuff.”
Ignoring him, we head to the back of the store and ask if I can get my leaves read. They explain an appointment is usually required, but someone didn’t show, so they have a slot for me. Rorke rolls his eyes, assuming they’re already pulling a fast one on me.
We’re led to a tiny room where a little table sits between us and the psychic. He’s older, wearing long chains with crosses and crystals. His hair is gray, and his clothes are tailored, fitting him perfectly. We sit across from each other, and he asks our first names. Rorke is quick to inform the master of ceremonies that only I’m getting the reading.
The seer, that’s what they call themselves, places an oversized mug with a piece of cardboard over the top in front of me, asking me to flip it over. I do as I’m told, and then he lifts the mug up, pulling out a mound of tea leaves and discarding them.
“Now, turn the cup three times counter-clockwise.”
Slowly, I turn it, counting the rotations. Smiling, he picks up the cup and looks down inside. “A pile of wealth,” he says.
Rorke glances at me, his eyes telling me not to confirm that. But I wonder how the seer knew that. I’m not dressed in anything designer, not even my shoes or handbag. The only jewelry I’m wearing is the ring from my garden. He had to see it in the leaves, unless they just tell everyone that they’re going to be rich.
“But,” the seer says, peering down deeper into the cup. “Solitude and loneliness. In the past, I see sadness.”
I nod my head. “Yes.”
He continues, “This is strange. Death and love are mixed together.”
My eyes dart to Rorke. There is no way this man could know something like that.
“Another death,” the seer says, but he glances at Rorke.
Rorke rolls his eyes. “I’m not dying.”
“No, not you,” he says.
“Who?” I ask.
“Someone close to you both.”
“What else?” I ask.
“A bad decision,” he says. “You’ll face a crossroads and go the wrong way.”
“Is there anything happy in that cup?” Rorke asks snidely.
The seer smiles. “A move and a shift in your career. All for the good.”
The move I could see, but not the shift, unless a new toy counts as a shift.
“Anything you’d like to know?” he asks.
Grinning, I glance at Rorke. “How many kids will I have and when?”
The seer smiles. “I see a line of twins, possibly triplets.”
Our mouths both drop open. “Rorke is a twin,” I say.
“Hmm, but this looks like you’ll have your own set. Twin boys and then a little girl. Or triplets, with two boys and a girl. Hard to tell.”
Rorke shakes his head. “The gene from twins comes from the mother’s side, not the father’s.”
The seer simply raises his eyebrow, grinning, almost like a little dare. He must be used to skeptics. I reach over, placing my hand on top of Rorke’s, resting on the table.
The seer looks down at the ring on my finger, his forehead wrinkled. “You’re not married.”
“No,” I say, sitting up taller, wondering how he knew that. The ring on my finger would indicate otherwise. And the fact that Rorke isn’t wearing a matching band doesn’t mean anything. Lots of married men don’t wear rings. A fact I despise, by the way.
“Marriage is coming soon,” he says.
I look over at Rorke, who’s giving me a promising little smirk, like he’s a complete believer now. “How do you know that?” I ask.
“It’s destined,” he says. “The ring on your finger. It’s almost blessed or divine.”
“But I don’t know who it even belongs to. I just found it.”
“The universe wants you to have it.”