9. Trina
TRINA
“Your mom wants your phone number.”
I’m silent for a moment, trying to process this information from my Aunt Donna, and asking myself one more time why the fuck I thought it was a good idea to answer the phone.
Oh, I know why. Because I told her I’d call her when I got home from this conference, and she called again anyway, so I thought for sure someone had died.
Nope. Just someone resurrected from my past.
I haven’t spoken to my mother since she was arrested and incarcerated for drug possession with intent to distribute when I was nine.
It was determined I’d live with my Aunt before she even went to trial, and when she was convicted to a three-year prison sentence, I stayed there.
At the time, I remember hoping she’d come back for me, but she didn’t.
I was devastated, but I can admit now it was for the best. She was in and out of jail a lot.
Now that I’m thirty-two, I haven’t even really kept tabs on her, and the only information I’ve gotten is when Aunt Donna updates me, which admittedly isn’t all that often.
“Catrina?” Aunt Donna asks when I’m silent for too long, her tone sharp. “Stop biting your nails.”
“I’m not,” I say as I lower my hand from my mouth. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
“Mm.” She’s clearly unconvinced. “So, what do you want me to tell her?”
Theoretically, I should want to talk to my mom. I have fond memories of her, and there was a time I would have given anything to hear from her. But my clammy hands and shallow breathing are telling me I don’t want this at all.
“Why does she want to talk to me now?”
“This is really none of my business,” Aunt Donna says dismissively, almost annoyed.
She’s literally made it her business by calling me in the first place, but I don’t dare say that.
“Can I think about it?” My voice is weak, almost small, and I hate myself for how it sounds.
Aunt Donna sighs heavily. “She asked to contact you. I thought I was doing the right thing by asking your permission.” She sounds magnanimous, as if she’s doing me a huge favor by even consulting me on something that could disrupt whatever tenuous hold I have on my emotional stability.
“Okay, then tell her no.”
She makes a dissatisfied noise, and I allow myself an eye roll. She can probably sense that through the phone too, but I don’t care. If she wants a certain outcome here, she needs to just come out and say it.
“She’s your mother.”
“I lived with you longer than with her,” I mutter.
“I’m not your mother.”
As if I needed reminding. The difference between how she treated me and her actual daughter—my cousin, Evelyn—was stark.
Maybe an outsider wouldn’t have noticed, but it was clear as day to me.
I was an annoyance. Something that was thrust upon her, not something she desired.
And she made it known in small ways, like her tone when talking to us, or how disgusted she always was at my anxious habits whereas she was so empathetic of Evelyn’s.
“Look,” I say. “I have another session in ten minutes. I’ll think about it and call you back when I get home on Sunday, okay?” It’s a bald-faced lie, but I am not equipped to make this decision right now.
“Will you, really?” It’s more of a statement, like she obviously doesn’t believe me.
“Yes. Goodbye, Aunt Donna.”
She’s barely said goodbye, and I’ve already hung up.
Stewing in anxiety surrounding a decision about whether or not I want my estranged mother to have my phone number is not how I wanted to spend my evening.
Not that I had any plans. My only concrete goal was to avoid the social events at all costs.
I’ve peopled enough for today. But now I’m feeling itchy and irritable, like if I don’t get out of this hotel room or find some kind of a distraction, I’ll crawl out of my skin.
I’ve felt this way once before, which is what led me to the Anastasios Press holiday party that Casey happened to be at…and what prompted me to go home with him that night in the first place.
As much as I might want to, I can’t do that again. But he’s right here. And the way he was looking at me last night would suggest he’s not opposed to…something.
Dinner? Yeah, dinner sounds good. There’s no reason why two friends can’t share a meal, and even though I don’t want to make pointless small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know—or worse, be pitched some manuscript out of the blue again—I’m too jumpy to stay in this room all alone.
I shoot him a quick text before I can think too hard about it.
When he doesn’t respond for several minutes, I bring my nail between my teeth and start gnawing on it again.
It’s not like him to not respond…or at least, it wasn’t back when we used to talk regularly.
That man always had his phone on him, and he would respond to messages within moments no matter what time it was.
Maybe I was too forward. Maybe he’s not thinking about me at all. Maybe he’s got a thousand better things to do besides—
A knock at my door stops my spiraling thoughts. Frowning, I take a few steps and peer through the peephole to see Casey standing there, his white button-down shirt untucked and shirtsleeves rolled up, tapping his foot like maybe he’s just as nervous as I am.
I uselessly fluff my hair and check my lipstick in the mirror by the doorway. Could be worse. I shake myself a little, just to release some tension, then open the door, hoping I don’t look too unhinged.
But even if the apprehension the conversation with my aunt left me with was written all over my face, it wouldn’t have mattered with the way Casey drags his gaze down my body and back up again. When he finally makes eye contact, I cock an eyebrow.
“Hi,” I say, trying desperately to sound cooler than I feel. “I don’t remember ordering room service.”
“No? That’s too bad, because I could eat.” His voice is about an octave lower than normal, husky and sultry, his eyes boring holes into me.
My breath catches in my throat as I choke out, “Yeah? What are you in the mood for?”
He shrugs one shoulder, clearly feigning nonchalance. “Pasta, maybe? Tacos?” Then, he smirks, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe an appetizer first?”
I can’t help the little laugh that escapes me. “That’s quite the line.”
“I rehearsed it the whole way down here.” He smiles, and it breaks the tension between us.
Suddenly, I can breathe again. But then I register how gorgeous he is—with that disarming smile and those shirtsleeves rolled up revealing dark, taut forearms—and I’m right back where I started with my breath hitching.
“If I invite you in, we’re not leaving the room, are we?” I blurt out.
His smile falters, but the heat in his gaze intensifies. “Is that what you want?”
Yes, my brain screams. I don’t want to be logical right now.
What I want is to forget about that phone call, the fact I have to get back on an airplane in less than two days, and Suzanna’s insistence I sign more authors despite the abysmal pitch session I attended today.
And why shouldn’t I? We’re not actively working on any projects together.
We’re both older and wiser—we can do this without feelings.
There’s no reason why we shouldn’t start again right where we left off.
Biting my lip and praying this is what he wants too, I nod as I step back to open the door wider and let him in.
But instead of stepping inside the room, he folds his arms, which only gives me an exclusive view of those forearms. He gives me a disappointed look and tsks.
“Now, Trina, you know better than that.”
My heart skips a beat. Did I read this whole situation wrong? “What do you mean?”
“I asked you a question, and I need to hear your answer. Or don’t you remember?”
Oh, I remember. And suddenly, those memories come rushing back—of the way Casey took control, stripped me of my anxieties and inhibitions and piled them in the corner with my clothes for a time. Of how good it felt to let him.
His gaze catches on where my teeth are marking my bottom lip, and I squeeze my thighs together under my dress, hoping to relieve some of the pressure there.
“I want you to come in.” My voice is steadier than it has any right to be, given how I’m practically trembling with anticipation.
I'm rewarded with another smile as he crosses the threshold into the room and lets the door snick shut behind him. “That’s better.”
The hotel room door closing is reminiscent of the airplane door being secured just yesterday, and my heart jumps in almost the same way—nerves and anticipation warring with excitement as Casey takes one more determined step into my space.
He looks down at me, his eyes bouncing back and forth between my own. “Just casual, right?”
“I’m still not looking for anything serious,” I assure him. “We’re on the same page.”
Something flashes behind his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “Good.” He purses his lips and appraises me once more as if he’s trying to decide exactly how he wants to approach this. His gaze drops to my legs, which are now squeezing together so hard, my thighs are shaking.
“You want this.” It’s a statement more than a question.
“Yes,” I breathe. I’m flushed, the heat almost consuming me from the inside out.
He hums, the sound rumbling through his chest. His expression turns determined, his eyes hard and his jaw set. “Show me,” he practically growls.
“What?” I whisper, my eyes going wide.
“Get on the bed and show me how much you want this,” he says, his voice commanding.
A shiver travels up and down my spine. “Okay.” I’m happy to let him take over.
Relieved. This is exactly what I need—to not have to think.
So I obey, sitting on the edge of the bed and scooting up until my back is resting against the headboard.
Casey never takes his eyes off me, the heat in his gaze apparent.
As I pull my dress up over my hips, his fingers twitch at his sides as if he’s having a hard time not touching me.