Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Outside the kitchen, I pause in my tracks, my eyes automatically following the contours of Victor’s bare back as he brews a cup of coffee with the Keurig. I’m starting to think he does this on purpose. The whole not-wearing-a-shirt-in-the-morning thing is getting old. How hard is it to put on a shirt before leaving Esme’s bed?
Damn. My eyes aren’t listening to my brain as they linger on the intricate tattoo that spans across his upper back. And although I can’t see the front of him right now, I know from all the other times he’s walked around here shirtless that the pattern of black ink wraps around his shoulders, crawling up his throat, across his chest, and down the length of his arms, stopping at his knuckles.
He’s pretty much a walking art canvas, but the work is cohesive and decent. It’s more than decent, if I’m being real. It’s spectacular and must’ve cost a fortune. I don’t even want to think about how many painful sessions it took to perfect.
With his unkempt hair jutting out in every direction, he appears as though he just tumbled out of bed and hastily pulled on a pair of sweatpants. His unruly locks seem to have a life of their own, defying gravity and any attempts at being tamed. But this is his usual look—the one Esme affectionately refers to as “artfully disheveled.”
Esme, as in his girlfriend. As in my best friend in the whole world.
“Morning, Skylar.”
My heart nearly jumps out of my chest at the unexpected sound of his deep, rumbling voice, tinged with a hint of morning grogginess. He turns around and leans casually against the counter, his shirtless torso revealing a well-defined six-pack. Fuck, that’s hot.
With flushed cheeks, I avert my gaze and try to focus on the conversation. “Morning,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose. Ian has abs too. I like Ian’s abs. And I can stare at Ian’s abs anytime I want.
“Coffee?” His icy blues study me as he raises his mug to his lips. My eyes are blue, but not like his; his are a striking electric blue, like the Arctic.
My response is delayed due to obsessing over his eye color, but I finally mutter, “Sure.”
He grabs the only mug I ever use from the cabinet. It once belonged to my mother. The things that woman could do with a lump of clay. One would think that being born to two incredibly artistic parents—a potter and a painter—I’d have at least one creative bone in my body. But nope. I’m a lefty like my dad, but when I was a kid, even my stick-figure art was a hot mess.
Taking a hesitant step forward, I join Victor at the counter as he adds another coffee pod to the Keurig. “Two sugar cubes, right?”
“Yep.” So he noticed . Not that it’s a big deal or anything. As we both reach for the porcelain container of sugar cubes, our hands brush. Purely coincidental, but I apologize anyway. “Sorry. I’ve got it, though.”
His eyes dart to my left hand, lingering for a moment on the sparkling diamond engagement ring. We haven’t talked about it, but why would we? He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, his focus solely on the screen. “When’s the wedding?”
Leaning back against the kitchen counter, I take a slow sip of my coffee as I process his surprising words. But after the scalding liquid nearly burns my tongue, I pause to blow on it to cool it down. “We haven’t set a date yet,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
He nods but doesn’t look up from his phone. It’s almost as if he’s searching for something more interesting than our conversation. Wanting to steer away from the awkwardness, he shifts gears and asks, “How was your night last night?”
It takes me a moment to catch up to the change in topic. “Fine,” I answer with a slight shrug. “Ian and I tried out this new sushi restaurant we’ve been wanting to check out.”
Electric blue pierces through me as he looks up from his phone. “But you hate sushi.”
He’s right, I do. Esme must’ve told him. Or maybe it was Isabella. “Ian loves it, so I ordered teriyaki beef over rice.” I take a slow sip of my coffee. “Compromise, right?”
The noise he makes is supposed to be a chuckle, but it sounds more like a grunt. “How was the rest of your night?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I blow on my coffee again, surprised by his sudden interest. “It was…all right.”
“Just all right? Did you fake it?” Victor’s expression twists into a mocking smirk as he dares to challenge me with his inappropriate question. His eyes glint with a hint of malice, and I know this is just another game to him. But it’s not a game to me.
My jaw tenses as I struggle to keep my composure, knowing that any signs of weakness will only fuel his fire. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“Why not? It’s a genuine question.” Victor dares to look confused, but I know it’s bullshit when one corner of his mouth twitches.
“It’s an intrusive question. Not to mention it’s highly inappropriate.”
“But it’s just sex,” he persists, his tone dripping with condescension.
My blood heats as I glare back at him. “It’s not just sex to me. You can’t just ask me whatever you want. Respect some boundaries. Please and thank you.” Fucking asshole—that’s what I want to add, but I try to keep the cussing to a minimum.
“Have you always been this uptight?” he taunts, pushing all the wrong buttons.
My teeth grind together as I try to remain calm. “It’s too early for this.”
“I’ll take that as a big fucking yes.”
“You don’t wanna hear what I think of you,” I snap. Has he always been this obnoxious ? What a fucking prick.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.” His indifference only stokes my anger. “That’s the difference between you and me.”
I scoff in disbelief. “And you think I care what people think about me?”
“I think it keeps you up at night.”
“The only thing keeping me up at night is your and Esme’s sex noises,” I retort. Why did I say that ? It’s like I’m constantly putting my foot in my mouth around him.
He chuckles, the low rumble aggravating my nerves. “Sex noises?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, embarrassed and irritated by his teasing.
“You know I’m only fucking with you, right?” he says with a sly grin.
“Oh, joy.” My sarcasm drips with irritation.
That pulls a smile from him before he hides it behind his coffee mug. Silence settles between us, our eyes locked and my heart racing. Heat floods my cheeks, and I can’t move. I can’t speak. And it’s him who looks away first, but it should’ve been me. It was supposed to be me.
The silence is broken by Esme’s loud yawn as she enters the kitchen, wearing Victor’s T-shirt from the night before. Two purple marks stand out on her light-brown skin, marking where Victor had claimed her last night. “It’s too fucking early,” she grumbles, stepping into Victor’s arms and plucking his mug from his hand without asking.
While they’re having their moment, I take the opportunity to cross the galley kitchen to the counter on the opposite side, giving them some space.
With a wide grin, Victor looks down at her. “Since when do you drink coffee?”
“Since you kept me up all night,” she says, running her hand up his chest.
“I made that for me.” Victor leans down for his lips to meet the shell of Esme’s ear, brushing her curly hair out of the way. “But if you’re a good girl, you can have some.”
Esme tips her head back and laughs, her melodic laughter filling the kitchen. “You told me you didn’t like good girls.”
He grabs a handful of her ass. “You’re right. I don’t.”
That feels like a slap in the face, but it shouldn’t. Why should I care about the type of girls he’s into?
Sipping on my coffee, I look away, feeling like an intruder as they continue their flirtatious banter. They don’t need an audience, but part of me is drawn to their obvious attraction, while another part feels guilty for even being here.
“Where’s Ian?” Esme asks, looking around the kitchen as if he could appear from thin air.
I’m about to respond, but Victor beats me to it. “The boyfriend’s not here.”
Esme releases a chuckle. “You mean her fiancé?”
I cock my head curiously, a puzzled expression spreading across my face. “Is selective amnesia a thing?”
Neither of them hears me. They are so in tune with each other, completely lost in their own world; their mouths close as Esme runs her fingers through Victor’s hair, pushing the longer dark strands out of his eyes.
“Sky, did you finish your paper?” Esme turns her back to Victor’s chest.
“I did. Finally.”
She raises the coffee mug to her lips. “I don’t know why you bother. It’s extra credit.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You probably already have an A in the class.”
“A minus,” I mutter.
Esme wrinkles her nose as she sips Victor’s coffee and immediately spits it back into the cup, her face twisting in a grimace. “That’s disgusting.”
“Really?” Victor chuckles, taking the cup back from her and placing it behind him on the counter.
Glancing back at Victor, she has to tilt her head back. He’s at least a foot taller than the both of us. “Black coffee, though? No cream. No sugar. No nothing?”
He shrugs. “I like it black.”
Esme grins her most charming smile—the one that effortlessly wins people over. “We know. Not that we blame you.”
Victor’s curious gaze lands on me. He probably thinks I told her that—which I didn’t.
Wait, did I ? Maybe I did. Who knows. His name was on my lips a lot during our high school years.
I’d told her all about the guy who streaked Covington’s homecoming football game on a dare. A five-day suspension followed that stunt of his. If Victor had been born into a less prominent family, the repercussions of his actions could have been much more serious. He could have faced expulsion or even a charge for indecent exposure.
Word on the street is that his stepfather used his connections to help him avoid trouble—connections that only a US Senator has. I can almost imagine how the conservative right-wing Senator Quentin James IV reacted to his stepson’s daring act of sprinting completely naked across the field during the most important game of the season, in front of thousands of spectators.
“What else have you heard about me?” Victor pulls Esme closer, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt. As he playfully nips at her shoulder, she squeals and tries to wiggle out of his grasp. They both laugh, their playful banter filling the space. I can’t help but smile at the sight of them together. Their chemistry is straight fire, evident in every touch and word exchanged.
Giggling, Esme lets out a squeal. “Stop! You play too much.”
“I have to leave for work soon,” Victor admits almost reluctantly, dropping his chin to rest on her shoulder.
“You’re flying out to see Isabella soon, right?” I ask.
They both look at me with surprise, as if they forgot I was standing here. “Yeah,” he responds with hesitation, a hint of surprise on his face.
“Isabella told me,” I say, answering Esme’s unspoken question before she turns around to face him.
“Wait, what? You’re leaving and didn’t tell me?” Oops . Esme’s pissed at him, the tone of her voice blaring like a warning.
“I was going to.” He shoots me a look as if to say, Thanks for that. “I’m flying to Rhode Island next week to spend time with Izzy and Lizzie before Izzy’s graduation.” Elizabeth, Victor’s younger sis, is a couple years behind Isabella. Apparently, it’s some kind of family tradition for all the James siblings to do their undergrad at Brown. But Victor’s always marched to the beat of his own drum, especially when it comes to family expectations. So him skipping college altogether to become a tattoo artist? Not exactly a shocker to me—or to anyone, I think.
“What about my graduation?”
“When is it?”
She scoffs. “In three weeks on Saturday. You don’t remember?”
“No. I forgot,” he says, his tone indifferent. “But I’ll be there. Izzy’s graduation is in two weeks.”
“You better fucking be.” She whips her hair purposefully—a signature move when anger strikes. “You’re still friends with his sister?” The question comes out tinged with an emotion that looks a lot like being blindsided.
I thought she knew that. “We’re still cool. But it’s been, what…two years since she’s been back in Texas?”
“Yep,” Victor confirms. “Did Izzy tell you she’s moving back for law school?”
A grin spreads across my face at the news. “She did.” Isabella intends to attend law school here at Rice University this fall, wanting to be closer to her family.
“That’s nice.” Esme turns her back to me, facing Victor again and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I can’t wait to meet Izzy and the rest of your family. Your brother was nice. I met him at Yasmine’s baby shower. You know, the baby shower you blew off.”
“Stepbrother,” he corrects. “And I had to work.”
“If you didn’t have to work, would you have gone with me?”
“Nope.”
Esme laughs, shaking her head. “You’re so messed up.”
It’s not the first time Victor has clarified his exact relation, or lack thereof, to Quentin James V—his stepfather’s namesake. He corrected me once as well. Isabella says it has to do with the fact that her father puts Quentin on a pedestal that has always been too tall for Victor to climb. Eventually, he stopped trying.
Victor was a baby when his mother, Eleanor Prescott, married the senator, a single father raising a ten-year-old Quentin. The military-widowed single mother helped her husband reinvent his image after indiscretions during his first marriage nearly ruined his reputation. The senator and his new bride made a dynamic team, restoring hope to like-minded voters through their loving marriage and growing family.
One year later, Eleanor had Isabella, followed by Elizabeth and Stella. Their family has been featured in magazine spreads and television interviews as the perfect family—as if there is such a thing—for as long as I can remember.
For a few years now, Victor has been noticeably absent in his family’s publicity efforts. And with a face like that, it’s a real tragedy. But the longer I stare at his profile, the more uncomfortable I become. It’s feeling like three is a crowd as Esme and Victor start kissing, tongues dueling. “I better get going. I have class,” I say, though I don’t expect them to hear or care.
“Bye, Skylar,” he says, turning his head from Esme. But she grabs the sides of his face, turning his head back to focus on her. I quietly exit when their mouths meet, and the sound of their deepening kiss follows me out of the kitchen.