Chapter 19
Tallulah
Isat down at the table, impressed with the spread before me. Jamison had outdone himself. I popped one of the prawns in my mouth when his back was turned, and it was grilled to perfection and very flavorful with his cilantro sauce. I'd have to find a way to get the recipe out of him.
We ate outside on the balcony. Below us, the city of Ellington was quiet yet busy. Quieter than a place like New York, but alive with the sounds of the night—a siren wailing in the distance, the low rush of passing cars, and laughter drifting up from the sidewalk.
Jamison was dressed in jeans and a soft gray Henley, both of which looked fantastic on him, the shirt molding to his muscular torso and the denim hugging his firm legs.
He drank beer while I had water to accompany my second glass of wine.
We ate in silence for a few minutes before he finally looked at me.
"Well?"
I finished chewing a grilled baby corn. "I'm sorry, I was enjoying the food so much I forgot to tell you how good it is. Absolutely delicious!" I said enthusiastically.
He grinned. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Did you cook like this when you were married?"
"I've been cooking like this since high school. I was the second oldest, so I helped take care of the younger ones. My older sister Lori, by the way, ended up not having children of her own. She said she had raised seven kids already and was done."
"Is Lori married?" I took a sip of water.
He nodded as he chewed a piece of steak. "She found someone she was compatible with. Her husband is a great guy and didn't want kids either."
"Smart Lori."
"Very."
"So what finally ended your marriage, if you don't mind my asking? Was it the financial incompatibility?"
He stopped eating, a pained expression crossing his face. "I wish. If our problems had remained financial, we could have worked through them. Maria had an affair."
I involuntarily gasped, hoping I hadn't dredged up painful memories. "I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "We were having problems, but cheating certainly didn't help. We couldn't come back from that."
He said we, but he probably really meant he couldn't forgive her for that final betrayal.
"They didn't last. She had several more relationships before marrying an accountant and having two kids."
"You ever thought about getting married again?"
"It has crossed my mind. What about you?"
I paused, not because I didn't know the answer but because I had never said my thoughts out loud to another person.
"I would like to get married again. I like having a partner and someone to do activities with.
Someone to talk to." I pushed the broccolini around on my plate.
"But next time, I'm going to make sure we're compatible. I'm not making the same mistake twice."
Slowly, he nodded, studying me in silence. "Why did you and your husband end up getting divorced?"
"How much time do you have?"
"As much as you need to tell the story."
"I'll keep it short," I promised. "Karl—that's my husband's name—and I were having problems, like you and Maria. Then one day he told me he wasn't happy and wanted a divorce."
"Was there someone else?"
I shook my head, stabbing a prawn with my fork. "He just didn't want me anymore."
The truth had been brutally painful to digest. I'm not sure which was worse: losing your spouse because of someone else or losing them because they didn't want you.
"I'm sorry. He was a fool."
"You think so?" I asked, appreciative of his attempt to make me feel better.
"I know so," he said with surprising intensity, his eyes never leaving mine.
The spark—whatever you want to call it—returned. Stronger. More of a charge reaching across the table.
It didn't help that he looked extra appealing tonight in his casual clothes, the sleeves of the Henley shoved up to his elbows to showcase strong forearms covered in fine hairs. He'd had a haircut too, revealing more of his distinguishing gray hairs.
I glanced down at my plate to regain my bearings.
"Karl remarried, and Blossom has two younger sisters.
She's not very close with them because of the distance and the age difference, but she has continued to have a good relationship with her father, which I appreciate.
I was worried our split would mean losing her relationship with him, but that never happened. "
After we finished dinner, I helped Jamison clean up and wash the dishes.
Then we lingered outside for a bit, our arms resting on the metal railing as we overlooked the city.
We talked some more and shared stories about our marriages.
Not as a way to complain or bash our exes, but to point out the mistakes that were made and how we had bounced back from them.
He told me that he and Maria got along much better now, proof—in his opinion—they never should have married in the first place. I admitted my relationship with Karl hadn't improved since our divorce, and we were simply cordial to each other.
We exchanged funny workplace stories and admitted we couldn't imagine doing any other work than what we did on a daily basis.
"Is that your car down there?" Jamison asked, pointing into the parking lot.
"Yes, that's Orange Julius."
"You named your car?"
"I had to. There's so much history riding on those tires, it's practically part of the family.
Both of my parents were teachers. My mother taught math and my father was an art teacher, so we always had the summers free, and the year I turned thirteen, they took us on our first road trip.
From then on, we traveled the whole summer, every year.
We slept and ate in the bus. The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean was from the back of that bus. "
"Were your parents hippies?" Jamison asked, looking handsome with a soft smile on his face.
"Hippie adjacent. My middle name is Flower, by the way."
"You're kidding."
"No," I shook my head, laughing. "Tallulah Flower Washington."
"It suits you."
"You think so?"
His eyes skimmed my appearance, and heat coated my skin.
"Definitely."
We eventually moved into the living room, where Jamison pushed the coffee table out of the way to make room for us to dance.
"We might as well get comfortable," he said, removing his shoes.
"Oh, I like this." I slipped off my sandals.
"I figured you would."
I rested my hands on my hips. "What does that mean?"
"You seem like the type who'd walk around barefoot if it weren't socially taboo."
"You know me too well."
We both laughed.
He turned on the music, and all of a sudden, the mood in the room changed.
It was the same type of song we had danced to in the studio, but this time was different.
We weren't surrounded by other students and didn't have Carmen's watchful eyes on us or the bright lights shining down from the ceiling.
Instead, we were alone in his condo with only the muted glow of two lamps in the room.
Jamison extended a hand. "Ready?"
I stepped closer, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. The second we touched, I experienced the same electric awareness that had been building between us during every dance lesson and each time our gazes held for a beat too long.
His firm hand settled against my back, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin through the soft fabric of my dress. I placed my hand on his strong shoulder and met his eyes, my back automatically straightening into the precise posture Carmen had drilled into me, though I longed to lean closer.
We began to move. "One, two, three," Jamison murmured.
Our bodies found the rhythm, and we danced with the ease earned from doing the same steps repeatedly. Jamison led with confidence, no longer tentative or uncomfortable, and I followed instinctively and without hesitation.
He spun me out and then pulled me in closer than necessary before we separated again, gliding through the movements we had rehearsed dozens of times.
Each spin out and reel in brought us closer, and when his hand slid lower on my back, my breath caught.
He held me against him, our faces mere inches apart. Then his gaze dropped to my lips.
"Tallulah." My name was a rough sound in his throat.
The music continued, but we had stopped moving. We stood still, both of us breathing hard, as if we'd just finished running the Ellington Memorial Day Marathon. His hands cupped my face, one thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
He looked down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. "When I said your husband was a fool, I wasn't just talking. I meant it."
He dipped his head, and I held my breath. He paused, his eyes searching mine.
"Do you want me to stop?" he whispered.
I gave my answer when I lifted onto my toes.
The kiss started softly, tentatively, as if we were asking a question. His lips brushed mine once, twice, testing my response. I answered by threading my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.
My actions unleashed something in him, and the kiss deepened, turned hungry.
His arm clamped around my waist, and he lifted me to the tips of my toes, crushing my body into his as he angled his mouth over mine.
I tasted the tang of beer on his lips and pulled him closer, pushing my tongue into his mouth to explore more deeply.
I touched him everywhere I could—sliding my hands from his hair to his shoulders, down his torso and up his back—taking my pleasure in learning the solid warmth of his body.
He made a sound low in his throat—half groan, half surrender—and walked me backward until I hit the wall.
He cradled the back of my head, kissing me with more demand, with more passion.
The classical music continued to play, background noise completely ignored as his mouth trailed a fiery path from my lips to my jaw and down the column of my neck. Tilting back my head, I gave him full access and felt him smile against my skin before he kissed the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"Should we talk about this?" he asked huskily, gripping my ass with both hands.
"Later," I panted, pulling his mouth back to mine.
"Much later," he whispered against my lips.
He kissed me again, thoroughly and hard, as if he'd been waiting weeks to do so.
Maybe he had—just like I had been.