Chapter 22 Donovan #2
As she leans over her desk, I suddenly really want to check out her ass. Which is exactly what I do. She reaches into her bag and sprays a little fragrance on her neck, slips her jacket off a hanger, and pulls open the door.
“Okay,” she sighs. “Let’s do it.”
She locks up, and when she turns back to me, her face is like sour milk.
“Is coming to dinner with me really such a pain in your ass?”
“It’s just weird, that’s all…”
“Why?” I frown. “All my friends have had dinner with my parents, Carrie. It’s a totally normal situation.”
I’m lying, of course. But how else can I get her to relax?
THE DRIVE TO DAD’S IS smooth and breezy—we barely have time to argue about whether naming your penis is cute (according to me) or weird (according to Carrie). I pull into the carport.
She slams the car door. “I’m telling you—giving your dick a nickname is instant ick.”
“My exes didn’t think so.”
“Wolinski, please listen to me very carefully. It’s not a thing. And it’s especially gross when you consider Lewis uses that exact same repulsive name, too.” She snorts. “How do you even get onto that topic, anyway? Like, ‘Hi, I’m Donovan Wolinski, meet the Punisher—my dick’?”
“Hi there, Mrs. Hartmann!” I call over her head, waving at my neighbor.
Carrie freezes mid-rant and half turns toward her. The older woman lifts a hand covered in dirt before going right back to gardening.
“Take me inside, before the whole suburb hears how I was ranting about your—”
“ ‘Dick.’ ” I smile. “You said ‘dick’…”
“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”
She starts making her way up the front steps, and having her here feels so damn right.
“Oh, please. You don’t hate me. You adore me…”
“I have no idea how you came to that conclusion.”
I shrug. “You’re here.”
“Physically, sure. But my brain is on some astral plane far, far away.”
“That’s cool with me. Who wants a girl with a brain anyway?” I smirk.
I know I need to stop pushing my luck, but she’s so easy to rile up.
“Not the Punisher, that’s for sure,” she deadpans.
“You sure loved being punished, though,” I say, with a triumphant smile.
“Eww!” She covers her ears. “Shut the fuck up.”
I grip her wrists. “Punish me, please! Yes, Donny, yes!”
She bursts out laughing and punches my arm. “Oh my God—stop!”
“Ouch!”
“I’m warning you—next time it’ll be my knee, and I’ll be aiming a lot lower.”
“I like it when you talk dirty to me…” I wink.
“You drive me insane—you know that?”
That makes two of us…
“Ready to explore Wolinski World?”
I offer her a hand, and she accepts with a ceremonial flourish. As I lead her into the hall, I squeeze her fingers for good measure. I could get used to this. I want to get used to this.
I could let go, but I don’t—not until she looks at me meaningfully, tugging her hand away.
I help her wriggle out of her jacket and hang it on the coat tree while she gets her bearings.
“The kitchen’s this way.”
I follow behind her, taking in the view. Her ass is incredible. She glances over her shoulder.
“What are you looking at?”
Fuck! I shuffle through my options. I could downplay it, I guess—but I’m feeling playful.
“I was just thinking about what you said earlier—about being too fat for the dress. I personally think it makes your ass look amazing.”
She laughs. “I knew you were checking me out! You could’ve at least tried to deny it.”
“Okay, I lied. I was actually checking out your calves, and how one of them is slightly bigger than the other.”
I shove her gently between the shoulder blades, nudging her into the kitchen and toward the fridge.
Once our ingredients are lined up on the counter, it hits me.
“Hmm, so full disclosure. I’ve actually never made lasagna before. Have you?” I ask.
“This is unreal!” She starts rifling through the cupboards. “You invite me to dinner, and I have to cook my own meal?”
I clear my throat. “So, is that a no? Neither of us know how to make this shit?”
She sighs. “Google is your friend.”
I fumble with my phone, swiping through the recipes until I find one with five stars.
I pull up a playlist, turn up the speakers, and head over to the sink.
Carrie has slipped a hideous apron on over her dress and nearly stabs me in the eye with a carving knife when she catches me trying to grab a photo of her.
We work in comfortable silence, moving in time to the music, reaching past each other for onions and passata, our fingers brushing, our sleeves rubbing, and when one of my favorite songs comes on, I grab her hand, feeling the sauce squelch as our palms meet.
“If you like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain…”
Carrie narrows her eyes. “I hate this one. You’ve got a guy who’s bored of his wife, just because they’ve been together for so long. Basically, a prime asshole.”
“Hey, come on!” I protest. “His wife put an ad out looking for an alcoholic to elope with!”
“Uh—duh?” Carrie widens her eyes at me. “She’s living with a guy who doesn’t give a shit about her anymore! What do you expect?”
“That’s such a cop-out. Did you forget the part where they realize they’re still in love at the end? And then they decide to go drink pina coladas in the rain?” I smirk. “I guess the moral of the story is that the perfect girl might just be right there in front of you all along.”
She stares at me. Shit, was that too direct? I wish she’d say something right now—anything would do. The silence is freaking me out.
She tilts her head. “You really have changed, haven’t you?”
I suppress a sigh. She’s just not getting what I’m hinting at, but I swallow my frustration. There’s still a whole evening ahead of us.
We slide the dish into the oven and stand back, taking in the trail of destruction we’ve left behind us in the kitchen. I glance over at Carrie. I can’t take my eyes off her. The way she’s standing there like that, bent over the counter…
Fuck it. I’m done pretending I don’t want her.
Since the subtle approach doesn’t seem to work with her, I decide to tackle this head-on, and before I have time to second-guess myself, I skirt around the kitchen island. When she straightens, I put my hands on her hips.
“What are you doing?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Remember why we slept together that first time?”
“Vaguely.”
“You had all this pent-up tension,” I remind her, stepping a little closer. “And I was feeling generous.”
She snorts.
“ ‘Generous’? You just needed to get laid, dude.”
“Great!” I say brightly. “So, you do remember.”
“And?”
“And so why did we stop? We were good together—I don’t get why it ended.”
She ducks under my arm before I can block her escape.
“You were learning to be the perfect boyfriend. Don’t overthink this.” She takes a step back, putting space between us. “And you’re kinda slacking off lately. Sure, things didn’t work out with Cheyenne—I get that. But that doesn’t mean you give up. Find a new girl and get back out there.”
Exactly, Carrie. Good to see we’re on the same page.
“I do have someone in mind,” I admit.
Careful, Don.
Carrie’s like a skittish animal—she’s practically feral when it comes to relationships.
I need to tread carefully, here. Before I met her, things were so straightforward—girl likes Donovan, Donovan likes girl, Donovan sleeps with girl.
The end. But with Carrie, it’s different.
None of my usual moves work. I actually don’t even want to use any of my usual moves, which is even more concerning.
Carrie looks pissed at my confession.
“Now you tell me?!”
“Surprise,” I say flatly.
“Who’s the lucky girl, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“Scratch that—I don’t want to know,” she muses. “Whoever she is, at least it’ll spare me from knowing which poor victim I’m helping you seduce.”
A maniacal laugh echoes in my head, unless it’s a scream of despair. This damn woman.
“You think maybe one day we’ll get to have a conversation where you’re not tearing me to pieces?”
“Isn’t that why you picked me?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m still hoping I can tame you, though. If I can handle you, I can handle anyone.”
“Well, good luck with that, buddy.”
She sounds determined. I can’t even see the smallest crack where I could maybe ease my way in. But luckily for me, Carrie has armed me with a long list of rock-solid tactics that she thinks are romantic and I’m very much about to try them out on her.
“Want a drink?”
She nods. “Sure.”
“Glass of milk?”
I watch her eyes slide over to mine.
“Whiskey on the rocks. Make it a double,” she adds.
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “I don’t want you climbing up on the table and dropping your Shakira moves tonight.” I beam at her. “So—how about that milk?”
“How about no? What’s with the milk obsession?”
“You’re a growing girl—I care about you, that’s all.”
“Aren’t you so darned sweet?” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll take a juice.”
“Orange?”
“Perfect.”
I fill two tall glasses to the brim and beckon her over to the living room, then I run out to my car for my shirt and tie. While I change, Carrie checks out my trophies and cups and medals.
“These all yours?”
“Yup. There’s more back on campus, too.”
“Your dad must be so proud,” she says after a beat.
“Yeah. It’s a good thing we both love basketball.” I nod.
“For sure.”
Here’s your chance…
“You get on with your dad?” I try.
“No.”
I pause. “Care to expand?”
She shrugs. “Nope. We never hang out. He has his life, I have mine.” She points across the room. “You play piano?”
“Dad got me into basketball, so Mom thought she’d try me on piano.”
“Let me guess—you’re not the typical jock? You just happen to be a talented musician, too?” She puts a hand to her chest. “I don’t think my heart can take it…”
“If I’d known I was gonna meet you one day, I would’ve taken my classes more seriously.” I smile at her. “I only know one piece. Wanna hear?”
“Hmm… Okay.” She shrugs.
Practically begging.
I pull out the seat and pat the space next to me. Reaching across, I take two small, worn maracas out of a drawer and hand them to her.
“What am I supposed to do with these?”
“I need a backing singer.”
“In your dreams, Wolinski.”
“Oh, come on!” I frown. “You look like someone who could shake those maracas like crazy.”
“What gave it away?”
“I just knew the moment I first saw you. The anger issues were a dead giveaway.”
She laughs at that, and the sound goes straight to my head.
“Ready?”
She nods. I position my fingers over the keys and take a deep breath in. When the first notes sound out, she straightens in her seat.
“Shit. You weren’t kidding… Nina Simone, right?”
“My mom loves this one. She forced me to learn it so she could sing along—every damn day. It used to drive Dad and Amelia crazy.”
I continue playing “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” and I can feel Carrie’s stunned eyes on me. I think I’ve got this in the bag.
“So, basically—your mom was trying to tell you she wanted you all to herself.”
I stop playing and turn to her, my mouth falling open in mock horror. So much for that.
“Oh my God—you’re so right! We should go to therapy.”
She waves impatiently at the keys. “Come on! Keep it going.”
“Don’t fangirl yet! Wait till I start singing, at least.” I bite back a laugh.
“This is too much for one night…”
My hands hover back over the keyboard. “The maracas, if you please.”
“I don’t remember there being any in this song.”
“They do the job.” I shrug. “Think of it as a remix.”
She grabs hold of the shakers and sighs. “The things I do for you…”
“I’ve never played for anyone except my parents, so be gentle with me,” I warn.
“I’ll be as gentle as you need, honey,” she murmurs.
I laugh, but my heart skips a beat.
“No distracting me! You just concentrate on shaking your maracas and worshipping my genius.”
“Oh yes, Donny… Let me worship you,” she whispers, pressing down on my arm.
Her sultry tone makes my jaw clench; I flex and unflex my fingers, trying to focus on them.
You are not fucking her on the family piano, Don. Get it together.
I want her so badly, though, it’s almost painful to have her this close.
I can’t do anything about it right now, but as soon as we hit that party, I plan on doing exactly what I need to do. She’s sending me more mixed signals than a broken traffic light, but no matter how well she plays the ice queen, I know we’ve got something real—and I know she feels it, too.
She shakes her maracas in my face, her thigh pressed warm and soft into mine. I clear my throat. Remind me why I’m doing this, again?
I launch into the first verse, and I’m just getting into the swing of it all, when Carrie cuts me off mid-riff.
“Hold up! ‘My baby don’t care for cars and races’? Yeah, that’s not gonna work for you. You love your cars—you need a girl who feels the same.”
“I’m flexi-curious.”
I pick back up where I left off, Carrie swiveling around to sit with her back to the piano, and now when I look up, my eyes meet hers. When she starts to sing in time with me, a smile spreads across my face.
Slowly but surely, the atmosphere is thawing, and for a fleeting moment in time, I forget that she’s still just a friend.
Once I hit the closing chord, I gaze into Carrie’s face, and I’m electric. She’s not staring me down, for once. She’s not slapping me down with her usual sideswipes. She seems open. Willing.
She’s the one for me—however long it takes for us to get there.
I lean into her just as I play the final note, and… applause breaks out behind us.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Carrie flings a maraca right into my temple as she springs to her feet.
Ouch!
I spin around to find my parents watching us from the doorway.
“I’d love to come hug you guys, but I’m seeing stars.” I pout at Carrie. “You promised you’d stop beating me.”
Carrie is still frozen in place. I get to my feet, slinging an arm over her shoulders.
Get her while she’s stunned into silence.
“Mom, Dad—meet Carrie Wolinski.”