13. Warren
13
WARREN
When I arrived at Kira’s home to pick her up for our trip today, the last thing I expected was to be invited inside. Lucky for me, it was her brother who answered the door and ushered me inside before Kira caught on to my presence.
The inside of Kira’s home is just as bright and eclectic as the cotton candy pink exterior. I’ve only seen the entryway–painted a shade of cream with pops of neon oranges and pinks, giving the space a retro seventies vibe–and the kitchen. I wasn’t invited into the living room, where Kira is currently giving Dean directions on how to care for her home while she’s gone.
Her brother is tall and broad, muscled in the way you’d expect a professional athlete to be. He has the same grey eyes as Kira, but when he shook my hand and introduced himself, they didn’t hold the same beautiful storm clouds that Kira’s do .
Her kitchen is cluttered but clean, with open shelving instead of cabinets lining the walls. From the looks of it, she doesn’t have a single matching plate or bowl. Above the mismatched dinnerware, a Carly Simon lyric is written–one of my favorites that muses about dreams and clouds in coffee–in hot pink swooping letters as if they’d been hand painted with a thin brush.
Her appliances don’t match, either. From the pastel pink toaster to the avocado green oven, there doesn’t seem to be a color missing from the spectrum in her home. The space is welcoming, warm, and smells like sugar and the coffee Kira brewed before I arrived. Coffee that, again, her brother offered to me, but I took it nonetheless. I lean up against the counter, sipping from a mushroom-shaped mug while staring at a hole in the lemon-yellow wall next to the refrigerator.
A framed hole.
A labeled , framed hole.
Champagne Problems
Jerry Garcia - 1967
Cork on drywall
I stare at the…art? Is it art? It feels like art.
I stare at the art, wondering if it’s some sort of abstract piece made by Kira and labeled to confuse her house guests or if the hole was actually left there by the late musician himself .
Either way, it suits her personality to have it here in her home.
I take the last sip of my coffee, then rinse my mug in the sink. I give it a quick wash, since it looks like a handmade piece that probably shouldn’t go in the dishwasher. Under her sink, I find a basket of dish towels in various patterns and choose a red and white one covered in cherries to lay out on the counter and set the mug to dry. Checking the watch on my wrist, I wonder how long it could possibly take Kira to go over care instructions for her fish.
I mean, honestly, it’s a fucking fish, not a dog. Can’t it survive a weekend on its own?
I cross the room, intending to poke my head into the living room and let Kira know we’ve got to get a move on. We’re flying private at her request, so the plane technically leaves when I tell it to, but I don’t like to keep the crew waiting.
I raise my fist, ready to rap on the door to announce myself before entering, but stop when I hear the siblings on the other side.
“He’s cute, Keeks. Major Mr. Sheffield vibes, especially with that accent.”
“Shut up, Dean. And don’t forget to unplug the heater before you change the water in Pancakes’ tank. His pellets are–”
“Oh, changing the subject. You like him, don’t you?”
“No, I do not.”
“I knew it. You love him. How old is he? IronDad is gonna have a heart attack when you bring him home for Chrismukkuh. Pops might hit on him. Tía Camila will be so proud, she is always telling us the importance of making sure our first husband is a rich old man who will die before us.”
“?Calláte la puta boca! Dios mío, él puede oírte.”
“?Lo sabía! Mi hermana está enamorada.”
“Sí, me gusta un poco, ok? Pero es muy complicado. Es molesto y me robó el trabajo.
“El es muy guapo.”
“Dejá de romper las bolas.”
They continue to argue in Spanish, much to my chagrin, since I can no longer understand them. But that’s what I get for eavesdropping. The punishment fits the crime.
I back away from the door as I hear their footsteps draw near. Kira bursts through the door, looking annoyed and a little flushed. When I smile at her, she blushes deeply as her lips part. If I were a betting man, I’d say that Kira chose to berate her brother in Spanish because he was onto something with his teasing.
My ass, she doesn’t like me.
“Is your slime mongrel all set for the weekend?” I ask, earning me a searing gaze from her alluring grey eyes.
Dean reaches out, offering me a fist for knocking and winking.
That’s all the confirmation I need .
I return his fist bump, then hold my hand out to Kira.
“You ready to go, love?”
“I hate you both,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t protest when I place a palm on her shoulder and lead her towards the door.
If I had been foolish enough to hope for conversation on the flight, I would have been sorely disappointed. Kira had headphones over her ears from the moment she slid into the back of the town car, and they didn’t come off until we landed at the airstrip outside of the city–not even while she slept. I tried to remember some words I overheard this morning so I could translate them and try to piece together what she and Dean had been saying about me. All I came up with was “annoying, handsome, job”.
It’s not a whole lot to go off of, but it’s not nothing.
“Alright, Mr. Yates, you’re all checked in. We’ve got you and Miss McKenna in deluxe king rooms overlooking the courtyard. You’re on the same floor, just a few doors down from each other. Take the elevator to the seventeenth floor and I’ll have someone along shortly with your bags. ”
“Thank you,” I glance down at the associate’s name tag. “Grace. You’ve been a wonderful help.”
Grace winks at me, biting her lower lip as I take the keys from her outstretched palm. I ignore the flirtation, pretending not to notice as I retreat from the desk.
Kira is waiting for me, sitting on one of the velvet yellow loungers by the lobby fireplace. When I catch her gaze, she rolls her eyes.
“You haven’t even seen the rooms yet. Are the accommodations here at The Carlyle not to your liking?” I ask, attempting to feign ignorance but unable to stop the smirk creeping at the corner of my mouth.
“It’s beautiful. I understand why you insisted on staying here instead of The Four Seasons like I’d planned.”
She glares past me, and a quick glance over my shoulder shows Grace still looking in my direction, waggling her fingers at me when she notices me looking. I turn back quickly, not wanting to give the front desk clerk any reason to believe I’m interested in her flirtation.
The woman sitting in front of me, though? I think she might be jealous, and I think I might like it.
Scratch that–I fucking love it. So, I shrug my shoulders.
“She’s nice. She seems invested in making sure our stay is everything we hope it is.”
“I’ll bet she is,” Kira grumbles under her breath, and I press my lips into a hard line to hide my amused smile. “Give me my key. I’m exhausted.”
She holds out her palm and I press her key into it, savoring the warmth of her skin for the brief moment of contact. She turns, hoisting her purse onto her shoulder and sashaying towards the elevator. Something tells me she doesn’t want to ride to the seventeenth floor with me.
“Here,” I call after her, fishing in my pocket for a few bills and extending them in her direction. “For the bellhop, when they bring up your bags.”
“I have money, Warren. I’m perfectly capable of tipping someone on my own.” She rolls her eyes so hard I’m afraid they might get stuck like that. I open my mouth, ready to tell her I know she has her own money, but that I don’t want her to use it. But then she reaches forward and snatches the cash from my hand, turning on her heel and stomping into the awaiting elevator.
“That’s my girl,” I murmur under my breath as I watch the elevator doors close. I give her a few minutes head start before heading to my room on the seventeenth floor and jumping into a cold shower.
The frigid spray does nothing to tamp down my arousal. Even as I towel off and find some fresh clothes, I can’t stop thinking about how sexy Kira is when she’s acting stubborn and being mean to me. I love the way her eyes go dark and the little creases she gets in the corners of them when she glares at me. I love how her peachy lips purse together when she’s trying to think of something to say that will piss me off. I love the way she smiles when she thinks she’s landed her blow. A smug little “gotcha” thrown at me like salt on the wound.
And fuck, my cock loves it, too. Fucking Pavlov’s dick between my legs has been trained to get hard whenever Kira is being pissy with me.
So basically, the damn thing has been hard for weeks. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to get any work done.
It’s late, nearly ten o’clock already, but the time change has me all kinds of fucked up. I’m too restless to sleep. I’m hungry, but nothing on the room service menu is appealing to me at the moment.
Fuck it, this is New York. The city never sleeps. Why should I?
I slip into a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved navy sweater. I only brought business casual and gym attire on the trip, and it’s too cold outside to brave the streets in just shorts. I decide to walk without a plan, letting the sights and smells of the city call to me and tell me what it is I want to eat for dinner.
Two short blocks in the chilly Manhattan night later, I stumble upon a small, cozy-looking Argentinian cafe. The smell of chorizo and empanadas fills my nostrils, and my stomach growls in response. Perfect, I’ll have a warm meal and a cocktail and then go back to my room and try not to think about Kira or the way her leggings hugged her heart-shaped ass all day .
Except when I push through the doorway, who else is sitting alone at a table in the corner, chin in her palm and a retro paperback romance novel covering half of her face, but Kira herself?
I tuck my hands in my pockets, lingering by the host stand for a moment while I watch her. She’s engrossed in the book, eyes flitting over the pages while she ignores the dirty martini on the table in front of her.
I could walk away. I could turn around and find somewhere else to eat, but when the hostess approaches and asks me if I’m dining alone tonight, I shake my head.
“Actually, I’m meeting someone. She’s right over there, thank you.”
I glide across the dining room, my sights set on the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head for nearly a year. She’s going to be so mad when she sees me, and that thought has my cock stirring behind my zipper.
“Of all the empanada joints in all the world…”
Kira doesn’t bother looking up from her novel as she answers.
“There are seventeen thousand restaurants in Manhattan, Warren. Go find somewhere else to lurk.”
“Such a pest. You’re not going to ask me to join you?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. I told the hostess I was meeting someone here, and what a tragedy it would be to go back up there and reveal that I’d been stood up. She seemed like a lovely woman, though. Kind eyes. I’m sure she’d take care of me. Give me the best seat in the house, maybe a free drink. I wonder what time she gets off, if she’d have a seat and keep me company. She’d do well to mend my broken heart.”
It’s bold, it’s obnoxious, but it works. Preying on the jealousy I detected earlier in the hotel lobby scores me one of Kira’s sexy as hell scowls. I can practically see the green-eyed monster enter her body as she glares at me.
“Fine. Sit down, but only because I ordered enough food to feed a small nation and I’ll never eat it all by myself.”
“What if I don’t want what you ordered?” I ask, poking the bear. She sighs, and my cock twitches.
“Trust me, Warren–”
“Ren. Call me Ren, please.”
Come on, baby. Say it. Play with me. Remember how we felt that night. Remember how good we were together.
“Trust me, Warren. You’re going to like what I ordered.”
A server pops by, and before I can ask him for his best whiskey, Kira points to her martini glass and says something to the man in Spanish. Then she buries her head back into her book, intent on ignoring me.
Kira is right about the drink. It’s been years since I’ve had a martini, but the herbal flavors of the gin mix perfectly with the brine of the olives. I sip it slowly while I watch her read, studying her facial features as she turns page after page. Whatever the author had to say about the shirtless man holding the woman wearing a pink dress that barely contains her heaving bosoms on the front has her undivided attention.
I type the title into the search bar on my phone and find the book on a secondhand site. I add it as well as a handful of others by the same author to my cart and place an order. I’ve never been one for romance novels before, but it can’t hurt to have one more thing in common with Kira.
“I like your tattoo. Is it new?” I ask, gesturing to the little ears and whiskers on her wrist. I ask the question even though I already know the answer. I’ve memorized every inch of her skin that I’ve been lucky enough to get my eyes on, and the tattoo only appeared a few weeks ago.
“Yes,” she says, not looking up from her book. “Me and the girls all got matching tattoos right before Am and Rach’s wedding.”
“Right, the newlyweds. How rude of Amir not to invite me. We’ve only been friends for a decade,” I grumble.
Of course, I heard all about the intimate courthouse nuptials on a recent golf outing with Amir and James. I wasn’t really offended. I know the whole thing was quiet and last minute. I still sent the couple a lovely gift along with a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.
“I enjoyed not seeing you there,” she quips with a bratty little smirk on her face. I scowl, but there’s no malice behind it. In fact, the scowl is helping to hide the sudden rush of lightheadedness caused by every ounce of my blood draining to my dick. God, she’s so hot when she’s being mean to me.
Kira’s right about the food, too. An army of servers bring two fresh salads, a plate of empanadas, branzino, and three different steaks to the table along with a variety of sauces and chimichurri. Except for the fish–which I avoid like the plague–there isn’t a single dish that doesn’t explode with flavor. I take a bite of the perfectly medium-rare strip steak with salsa criolla, the tender meat melting on my tongue.
“I told you you’d like the food. Though I have to admit, I thought all you British people preferred boiled potatoes and pudding. I was a little afraid that seasoning might cause you to combust,” Kira says, breaking the silence we’ve been eating in. I smile, loving the sound of her voice even when she’s fucking with me.
Especially when she’s fucking with me.
“It may be true that the British aren’t known for their exciting cuisine, but I’ve lived in California for a long time. It would be a tragedy if I didn’t pick up an appreciation for Latin American food in all those years.”
“The tragedy is that you people pillaged half the world for spices but never figured out how to use them. ”
The quip catches me off guard in the best way. I throw my head back as I laugh, not caring if I disturb the other diners. I laugh so long that my stomach cramps and my eyes begin to water. When I catch my breath and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, I find Kira looking back at me with a smile on her face.
Not a smirk, not a lift of her lips that she’s trying to hide. A full-blown smile that reaches all the way to her sparkling eyes. The sight of it nearly knocks me off my chair. It’s been months since that smile with those damn white teeth and her pretty pink mouth have been pointed my way, and I want to savor it. I’m tempted to pull out my phone to take a picture and set it as my background.
Fuck, I’m tempted to lean forward and kiss her, to taste the lime and peppers on her lips. I shake my head, clearing my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.
“Well, you know that I’m a Brit. Purebred, unfortunately. My father always claimed we had Tudors in our lineage, but I couldn’t be fucked to look it up. What about you? Where’s your family from?”
She tilts her head, giving me an almost sympathetic look.
“You don’t have to do this, Warren. We don’t have to play the ‘get to know each other’ game.”
“Ren,” I correct. “And come on, it will be fun. We can go question for question. You and your brother both speak Spanish. Is that a coincidence or a family thing?”
She nibbles on the corner of her lip, worrying the plump flesh before picking up her glass and tossing back the last of her martini.
“I’m a bit of a mutt. IronDad has Irish ancestors, but he’s as All-American as they come. He’s from a long line of cowboys and ranchers. Guys who came to California looking for gold and all that. Pops’ side of the family is all Polish and Jewish. He actually grew up here in Manhattan. Went to NYU before moving to Tennessee to work with the Knoxville Crushers back in the nineties. I think he was the first person in his family to ever settle down with a gentile. And Tía Camila is Argentinian. So, there you have it, my 23 and me.”
I don’t think she’s said so many words that weren’t meant to be insults in a row since the wedding. She’s softer when she talks about her family. There’s a gentleness to her tone that makes my stomach flutter.
“That’s where your dads met, right? Your Pops worked for the team that…IronDad played for?”
She nods, closing her lips around a bite of smashed potato on her fork.
“And your Tía Camila? How does she fit into all this?”
“That’s your third question, Warren. Do I get three, too?”
“Ren. And you can have as many questions as you’d like, love. You don’t even have to answer mine if you don’t want to.”
The server drops off another round of martinis, and Kira picks out an olive and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly before answering.
“Tía Camila has been my Pop's best friend since Hebrew School. They grew up on the same street in the Lower East Side, went to NYU together, moved to Tennessee together. I’m sure you put two and two together that my dads are gay men. They couldn’t exactly get each other pregnant, but they desperately wanted kids. You were around in the nineties, I’m sure you remember that things were different back then. They tried to adopt, but even with IronDad’s fame and money they kept getting shot down. So eventually, they took Tía Camila up on an offer she’d been making for years. She had the eggs and the uterus, and she carried and gave birth to Dean. Then I came a few years later.”
“Got it. So your Tía is–”
“Biologically, she’s our mother. But we never called her mom. She wanted to be our Tía. She didn’t parent us, but she didn’t not parent us either. She’s always been there and has always loved us just as much as our dads. Camila is like…she’s like a cool older sister who buys you beer and whoops your ass when you’re out of line. When she offered to carry us, the only condition she gave my dads was that she get to teach Dean and I Spanish and that we be connected to our culture. That was an obvious no-brainer for them. She took us to see her grandparents in Buenos Aires every year until they passed away while I was in college.”
“Are you close with her? ”
“Very. She’s our biggest fan. She never misses a Crushers home game; she likes to hang out with the WAGs up in the suites and sling back beers while she cheers on Dean. And she takes all my classes. Not always live, because she refuses to get up before eight in the morning. But Tía Camila is a Spin Sync social media star. She’s the self-appointed head of the Spin Sync Ratchet Aunties Club.”
I nod, appreciating every nugget of information Kira is willing to give me about herself. The way she speaks about her family, with such reverence and appreciation, like she knows how truly lucky she is makes me fall a little harder for her. Her tough exterior is wildly sexy, but this softer side is just as beautiful. I want more of it. I want every side, every angle, every mood of Kira’s. I watch as she digs her fork into the plate of fish, and I must not do a very good job of hiding my grimace, because she rolls her eyes as she chews.
“Alright, my turn. What the fuck is up with the fish thing, Warren? Did a goldfish murder your family or something? It’s so weird.”
Of course, that would be her first question. I want to know about her life, her family, her heart, and she wants to know why I have an aversion to seafood. I snort and bring a bite of salad to my mouth, chewing slowly before answering.
“My mum was an awful cook. Truly terrible. She also couldn’t keep a chef around to save her life. Couldn’t keep anyone working in the home, really. She was mean and particular and quick to fire someone over the smallest indiscretion–a speck of dust on the mantle, toast that had spent a second too long in the toaster, anything could set her off.
Suffice it to say, there were nights when we’d be left without a chef to make dinner, and Mum would have to feed my father and I. She’d always make fish and chips, and it was always terrible. She’d batter up any kind of fish we had–cod, salmon, tuna–then she’d fry it to all hell. The fish would always be dry as dust while the batter was soggy and tasted like sushi gone bad. Even the chips were disgusting, like taking a bite out of a raw potato. And they’d force me to eat it. If I refused, Mum would cry and Dad would hold my mouth open and stuff it full, then clasp a hand over my mouth until I swallowed. That lasted until I was about thirteen and could resist his hold. So, yes, I despise fish. I don’t like to look at them, I don’t like to eat them, and I don’t like to think about them out there, living their fish lives, taunting me with their existence.”
We’re quiet for a long moment, and I feel a bit silly. I’ve never told anyone that story before because, really, it’s an odd thing to complain about. I had food to eat. Who cares if it didn’t taste good or if my father left bruises on my jaw every now and then? Being force-fed fish wasn’t even the worst punishment the man ever doled out to me. Mostly, I had everything a boy could want while growing up. I may not have had parents who loved me, but who needs that? Mostly, Mum and Dad left me alone until I was old enough to have the weight of the Yates name thrust upon me, and even then, I was able to get out before it smothered me.
Still, watching Kira’s facial features harden, her lips pursing like this time she’s mad for me–not at me–makes me feel vulnerable. Exposed. Like I want to crawl over to her and lie my head in her lap.
“That’s fucked up, Warren. That’s really fucked up.”
Quietly, Kira gestures to a passing server. She points to the table, saying something I can’t understand in Spanish. A moment later, the plate of branzino is whisked away, and Kira doesn’t ask me any more questions.
When we finish eating, I pay the bill and carry the banana bread pudding the server packed up in a to-go box for Kira. We quickly shuffle back to the hotel, braving the frigid air that has dropped at least a few degrees since earlier this evening. And when we reach our hotel floor, Kira gives me a small wave and a smile before disappearing behind the door of her room.
I stand alone in the quiet hall for a moment, rubbing at the ache in my chest and realizing how positively fucked I am.
No longer is Kira McKenna only in my head. No, she’s made herself a home right in the center of my heart, as well.