Page 4 of Covetous

It’s time to get to work, and at least the house is quiet, so there won’t be any distractions.

Three thousand words later, I drag myself back to bed and into Ian’s arms, staying there until he leaves for his shift at the hospital. After four years of undergrad, four years of medical school, and now being four and a half years into his medical residency, he’s on his way to becoming a cardiac surgeon like his father, Dr. Griffin Davenport.

Ian has his whole life figured out, with me by his side. And the sense of security and structure he gives is what I yearned for as a child but never received from my parents.

My alarm wakes me at 6:00 a.m., and I reach for my glasses from the nightstand, putting them on before silencing my phone. Soft sunlight slices through my blinds, dragging light beams across my bedroom. The heat’s already ramping up in Houston, and it’s only May. If this is any indication of what’s coming, we’re in for one hell of a scorching summer.

My first class starts in two hours. And there goes my senioritis kicking in again. I have absolutely no desire to sit in a lecture hall, surrounded by my professor’s monotonous drone as they explore the complex topic of the gender wage gap and its far-reaching consequences on economic inequality between men and women in the workforce. Very important topic, but I’d rather stay home and read smut on my e-reader, checking out from everything school-related.

Reluctantly, I climb out of bed and throw on my robe. The house is quiet as I pad barefoot down the hallway to the bathroom.

I wait for the shower to warm up, rummaging through my makeup bag for an eye shadow palette that brings out my sky-blue eyes—identical to my white father’s—and a tinted moisturizer that adds a glow to my golden skin tone, thanks to my black mama’s melanin.

Most of my post-shower routine involves blow-drying and flat-ironing my long waves into submission. I usually wear it away from my face, secured by a claw clip or up in a tight bun or ponytail. Today, I brush it back in a ponytail, the ends of my hair stopping at my mid-back.

I dress in khakis and a powder-blue cotton blouse, finishing the look with ballet flats and Grandma Cora’s pearl necklace. Esme likes to crack jokes at my style, but what she calls dull and uninspiring, I call simple and classic.

A rich aroma of coffee wafts up to me as I go downstairs. I’m not the only one awake as I thought. Esme doesn’t drink coffee, and Liv spent the night with her mom and dad. That leaves only one other person.

The one person I’d rather not be alone with.

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.”

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