Page 69 of Trusting You

19

Carter

I’m in a car on the way to meet Locke’s sister, and all I want to do is go back to the apartment and hang with Locke and Lily on the couch instead.

We could binge-watch movies well into the night. We might have to put on Disney’s latest until Lily goes to bed, but I can sing all those songs from memory, enlist Locke to do the chorus, and the three of us would have a laugh, sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, couch abandoned.

On the clean floors, I’ll add, which Locke didn’t seem to notice, like at all.

Then again, he seemed all too caught up in…me.

Not merely physically, either, but sensitively. He showed an unexpected concern when asking about Paige. He should be pissed at her, regardless of whether or not she’s dead, because she kept a crucial part of him secret. Yet he’s asking me how I’m dealing with her loss, instead of focusing on how she screwed him over. How I’m doing, and he’s checking in with kindness.

Yeah, I definitely want to go back.

I stare out the backseat window, clutching my small purse on my thighs, wishing I could be clutching Locke instead.

Does he want it, too? Is that what every womanly part in me sensed while standing in that room with him? Heat sparked, flames encircled, and the only way to bank them was to jump in his arms and topple us to the floor, tearing off our clothes before fire burst through them.

God, he’s sexy. So hot that he had me forgetting Lily was very awake and active nearby, and nobody has ever, ever done that before. Lily is my priority. My everything. Nothing could set my sights away.

Until him.

But he was Lily. Lily was him. There’s no separating the two, and I’m only setting myself up to lose all of my heart instead of half when I leave. I can’t do that do myself.

I mustn’t.

Not if I want to keep any of the Carter Jameson that remains after Paige.

Too soon, the cab clears the bridge—I can’t remember which one—and into Manhattan. I’m so absorbed in my turmoil that I didn’t take in the lights of the city as we crested over the curve, Lower Manhattan sparkling and shimmering bright against a placid summer river.

Next time. When I’m getting a car back to Brooklyn, I’ll make sure to focus intensively on what’s going on outside instead of the conflict within.

The car pulls over in front of a tavern-like bar, with wooden beams and yellow-bulb lettering flashing BLU’S in all caps. There are a few people outside, smoking and scrolling through their phones. I thank the driver and exit, fumbling slightly when my heels hit the curb. I don’t wear heels much anymore, but on a whim, I decided that tonight should be the night. Sophie packed them with purpose, and I figure, since Astor was almost as tall as her brother, I shouldn’t look any more of a shrimp next to her than I already do.

I enter into the bar after showing the bouncer my ID, into a small alcove with more wood paneling and vintage tin signs displaying things like Coca Cola, Campbell’sTomato Soup, and the “We Can Do It!” woman flexing her arm with a red handkerchief donning her hair.

I like it already.

The lighting is warm, more gold industrial lightbulbs lining the ceiling and the bar, which can barely be seen through the thick of people crowding for drinks. Music blasts, bass shaking the floorboards underneath, and I take quiet calm in it.

Loud music means less awkward conversation. I can dig it.

I scan the place for a sleek brunette bob capped off with a sleek body in a tailored cocktail dress but see nobody matching such a description.

I’m about to step up to the bar and order a stiff drink to soothe my nerves while I wait when there’s a light brush against my arm.

“Hey! You’re on time!”

I turn to the voice, and it’s—is it?

The woman standing beside me sounds like Astor, but her short, brown hair is in loose, tousled waves, her lips bright pink, and her shoulders exposed in a lavender strappy top. She has on tight denim with carefully placed rips and holes and is basically more stunning than she was in a suit.

Women who can be so comfortably hot in nothing but jeans, a shirt, and a sexy texture to their hair are naturally intimidating. That effortless gorgeousness? I used to wish to emulate that, then gave up when my hair decided it would frizz instead of falling into a come hither side part.

“Astor, hi!” I say with bright cheer.

We meet in an awkward, loose hug, before separating.

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