Page 37 of Covetous

“Do you think I’m too friendly toward him?” I’m genuinely curious. I don’t think I’ve crossed any lines with Victor—not since that morning at his loft when we stood a little too close to one another at his kitchen sink. But things are different now. There are no ulterior motives or underlying emotions during our regular early morning coffee chats, which we have a couple times a week while everyone else is still asleep. This “friendliness” that Ian speaks of just seems to happen whenever we’re together. What can I say? Victor Prescott really is dope as fuck.

“You haven’t smiled at me like that in a long time,” Ian says, a hint of jealousy coloring his tone.

I take his hand across the table, bridging the physical gap between us. He kisses my ring finger.

Ian and I are still holding hands over the table when Victor and Esme arrive at the same time as our waitress. Ian slides over to sit next to me, making room for Victor and Esme, who settle into the booth opposite us. The waitress takes their drink and all of our food orders before disappearing again. With his arm draped around my shoulders, Ian beguiles us with interesting stories about the OR with him and his dad. Get my man to talk about the medical field, and he’s on a roll. Sometimes, he runs his fingers through my ponytail. Or leans over to steal a soft kiss.

Every now and then, I catch Victor watching us, his eyes hard and unblinking, and I can’t help but think he’s not exactly Ian’s biggest fan.

When Victor’s not eating or drinking, he has both arms draped over the back of the booth, with Esme leaning into him when she’s not eating. Her hand sometimes disappears under the table, likely resting on his leg. Their body language is similar to ours. Not at any point during dinner are they not touching in some way.

“So what do you do for a living, man?” Ian asks between bites of food, finally shifting the focus away from himself.

“I’m a tattoo artist.”

“That explains all of this,” Ian says, gesturing to his neck with a wrinkle of his nose, like an asshole. He’d get a nosebleed if he stuck his nose up any higher. “You’d be hard-pressed to get a job in corporate America or politics with all that ink unless your father pulled some strings.”

“Stepfather,” Victor corrects.

“Ian.”

Feeling both embarrassed and annoyed by the way he’s acting, I give his foot a kick under the table. Esme’s not even trying to hide her disgust, her lip curled in a sneer.

Victor appears unfazed, his face even portraying a hint of amusement. “It’s all right.” He pops a piece of cornbread into his mouth. “This is the best damn cornbread I’ve ever had,” he says, chewing with a smile. “Try this.” He tears off a piece and aims it for Esme’s mouth.

She swats his hand away, her matte red lips twitching in annoyance. “I hate cornbread.”

He furrows his brow. “You do?”

“I told you, like, a week ago when we went to that soul food restaurant on Almeda. You weren’t listening. Shocker.”

Victor rolls his eyes, and she makes a face, her fake smile giving off irritated vibes.

“How about dessert?” I ask, looking around the tense table.

“I’m in.” Esme reaches for the plastic menu. “They have peach cobbler.”

I slap my palm down on the table. “That’s what I’m getting, and I’m not sharing.”

“That’s too many calories, love,” Ian says, reading through an additional dessert menu. “You should get the vanilla ice cream, low-fat, or maybe a fruit cup.”

Silence falls upon the table. My nostrils flare in anger as his words hit me like a slap in the face. Why would he say that? Especially here, in front of Esme and Victor. Can he be more of an ass? And can I be any more humiliated than I am right now? The embarrassment washes over me like a wave.

“What?” Ian says innocently, looking up from the menu. “What did I say?” Can he read the room or, more specifically, our table?

Esme gives me a pointed look that seems to ask, Is this muthafucka for real? And Victor looks like it’s taking everything in him not to punch Ian in his nose, every muscle in his face tensing and twitching in anger.

“Let’s just drop it,” I mutter, pretending to read my dessert menu.

“Must be that time of the month,” Ian mumbles.

“Or maybe it’s you.” Victor’s composed yet scathing response speaks volumes, even though his tone is even and his posture is relaxed, with his arms once again draped over the back of his booth.

Ian doesn’t back down, his arm becoming rigid around my shoulder. “You want to run that back one more time?”

“You heard him,” Esme chimes in, crossing her arms over her chest.

This cannot be happening right now.

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