Chapter 7 Everything Everywhere Always #2
One hour later, Elliot sits cross-legged on the floor, syringe feeding the tiniest kitten.
Oliver stands on Franki’s lap, his long brown body stretched up so he can keep his face shoved into her neck.
He oscillates between scorching Elliot with the dachshund version of side-eye and observing the cats in the lectern like they’re a fascinating squeaky toy.
Piper perches on the armchair Elliot offered her when she entered the room. She flicks her dark hair over her shoulder and watches him with a cross between intrigue and suspicion in her eyes. She may be only a couple years older than Elliot, but she’s decades more mature. She’s also genuinely nice.
I should probably warn her that Elliot is a work-in-progress, but our newest employee has a good head on her shoulders. I wouldn’t trust her with Oliver if she didn’t, and, frankly, this is damn good practice for Elliot on how to actually impress a woman. Accountability is sexy. Or so I’ve heard.
We finished off the room service breakfast fifteen minutes ago, and for the past forty-five minutes, I’ve made call after useless call about these menus.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just make them open the print shop,” Elliot says.
“Wanker,” Franki says into her teacup, stretching out the syllables until it sounds like two words.
I lift my eyebrows at Elliot. “Is that what you would do?”
He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.
“I can see that it is. Tell me, whose fault is it that these menus need to be corrected?”
“Mine,” he mumbles.
“Yes. The printer has no contract with us and made no commitment to do this job. They turned down a lot of money to open their shop, so they clearly have other priorities. What gives any of us the right to force another person who has done no harm to our will?”
He shrugs and looks down at the cat.
“I see. You think because I can do something, I have the right to do it? That would make me a very, very bad man.”
“But you . . . you . . .”
“Yes. You were causing problems, and you insulted my wife. You weren’t innocent, but I wouldn’t have allowed your mother to cling to that railing to convince you to stop being an asshole.
Human beings are never acceptable collateral damage.
Do you understand? If the person who caused these problems owned the print shop, I would feel no compunction applying pressure. But she didn’t.”
I can see the wheels turning in his mind. “What if it were life or death? Would you force them then?”
“What do you think?”
“Yes?” He watches me then repeats more confidently, “Yes. So that means Phyllis isn’t going to actually kill me.”
Of course she won’t. But she’ll want to.
I glance toward Franki, and she offers me a small smile, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. I should be naked with her in that bed right now, not explaining to Sir Whines-A-Lot why forcing people to serve me is fucking repulsive.
“I have an idea for the menu situation,” Franki says.
I listen, entranced, as she spells out how to fix this problem and leave people happier than if it had never happened at all. She ends with, “What do you think?”
I drop a kiss to her lips. “That you’re a very clever woman.” I straighten. “And that I’ll have to go with him to make sure he doesn’t make a mess of it.”
Franki sets Oliver on the floor, attaches his red leash to his harness, and rises. “We’ll come too.”
I look at Piper and the men. “Please wait for me in the hallway. You too, Oliver.”
He thumps his tail, and I give him a scratch behind the ears.
They file out, Piper taking charge of the leash. On his way past me, Elliot reaches for the fake menus.
“Leave them,” I say.
He yanks his hand away as though he just realized the stack of paper was a wasp nest.
When the door closes behind them, I swoop Franki into my arms. She squeaks, then laughs, but I don’t smile back.
“I can handle this alone. You relax. I’ll take care of you, and we’ll talk when I get back.”
She smooths her thumb between my eyebrows. “I’m too anxious to relax right now.”
I press my forehead against hers. “There’s nothing we can’t figure out together.”
“I know.” But she doesn’t sound sure, and I hate it.
There are so many unknowns. So many variables.
I can want something and still have logistical concerns.
My brother-in-law adopted his niece after his sister died in childbirth.
Children are fragile. My sister rolls her eyes because she says I speak to them like small adults—the list of ways I could fail my wife and child seems unending.
But a parent doesn’t have to be perfect to give a child a good life. Quantifiably, my parents are not perfect people. They made mistakes, but they loved us and they worked hard to give us what we needed. They were enough.
It’s too much to talk about now. I lay Franki on the bed. She removes my glasses and sets them on the nightstand beside her.
Decisions can wait. I trail the backs of my knuckles over her cheekbone and down the side of her neck where her pulse beats strong and steady.
When I wrap my fingers gently, so gently, around her throat, she arches beneath me and thrusts her fingers into my hair, pulling my mouth to hers.
I explore her, as though she’s an unopened gift that I’m removing the paper from, careful not to tear the wrapping.
My cock pushes, hard and aching, against my zipper. I trail my hand down the length of one slender arm, curl it around the curve of her hip.
When she tugs my shirt from my waistband, I kick my shoes off and crawl over her, bracketing her beneath me, my forearms propped on either side of her head.
She twinkles up at me, her whiskey eyes sparkling. “Hello, Henry.”
I take her mouth in another luxurious, carnal kiss, then lift my head to smile down at her. “Hello, Franki.”
I love her. Love this. The history between us. The consistency. How will we change if we go from a couple to a family?
She tunnels beneath my shirt, her palms and fingers hot against my skin. With one hand, I unbutton her loose white linen blouse, revealing her perfect breasts cupped in white lace. The fabric slides easily to reveal her nipples, ripe little berries under my fingers and tongue.
She writhes as I work my way down her body. When I get to her waistband, prepared to slide the fabric down, she slows me with a hand in my hair. “There are people and a dog waiting for you in the hallway.”
I lower my head to her stomach, dropping a kiss just below her navel. “I don’t want to go.”
“We’re not fast enough for this.”
I laugh against her skin. “A challenge. I can work with that.”
“I didn’t mean—Oh.“ She loses track of her words when I drag everything below the waist off her in one smooth motion, throw her legs over my shoulders, and wrap my lips around her clit like it’s my only purpose in life.
She gasps and bucks. I know her body. I’ve studied it.
She orgasms harder when I take my time. The buildup matters.
But I also know how to get her there quickly.
How to close the deal. I fill her with first one finger, then a second, and massage her G-spot with a rhythm that works for her.
It’s not about experimentation or exploration this time.
I hold eye contact, one hand tweaking her nipple as I work her through it with my mouth and fingers. It doesn’t take long before her entire lower body quakes with her orgasm. I don’t stop until she tugs at my hair.
“That was . . . wow,” she says.
“Fast. I know. I’ll make it up to you later. I’ll send Oliver back in to keep you company. I love you.” I drop a kiss on her lips, then rise.
“Wait, what about you?” she asks.
I shake my head, regret swimming in every cell of my body. “No time, remember?”
“That’s not fair to you,” she says.
“The delay increases anticipation. The wine cellar may not have been the best choice, but I promise you, I have a plan for later.”
She pushes herself to a sitting position. “Today will be even busier than yesterday.”
“We’re going to celebrate our friends getting married, and we’re also going to find time for us, love.”
She swallows hard and nods. “For us.”