Page 26 of Covetous

Isabella: Leaving in about fifteen.

Leaving in fifteen? She is killing me.

I’m in love—with Victor’s blender. Seriously. I want one. I’ve seen it advertised in one of those infomercial commercials on QVC. For just ten payments of $29.99, it can be yours too. “Did you buy this blender online?” I ask, pouring the blended contents into my cutesy cocktail glass—courtesy of Isabella’s shopping trip to Target.

After Victor pulled out all the ingredients and supplies I needed for my daiquiris, he made himself comfortable on one of the stools at his kitchen island. “It was a housewarming gift from my mother. She’s obsessed with those QVC infomercials.”

I gasp. “Me too!” My enthusiasm causes him to chuckle. “Are you and your mom close?” I shake the can of whipped cream before adding a dollop on top of my daiquiri.

“We are.”

“I love that.” Taking a sip of my deliciously crafted drink, I beam with pride at my bartending skills.

“Were you close to your mom?” He knows she’s no longer with us, but I’m unsure how much he knows.

“I’m a daddy’s girl.” I grab one of the empty daiquiri glasses. “Want some?” There’s enough in the blender to fill half a glass. When Isabella gets home, I’ll make plenty more for us.

His face hints of distaste, suggesting he’s about to refuse my drink for being too feminine. But then he shrugs, surprising me. “Why the hell not?”

“Whipped cream?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” I pour his glass, noticing how we skillfully avoid touching each other’s fingers when I give it to him.

I watch him with eagle-eyed focus as the frozen daiquiri slides down his throat. I expected him to take only a sip, but he downs the entire thing. “That’s goddamn delicious.”

I giggle, his response tickling me. “Told ya.”

He tips his glass back again, trying to get the last few droplets of strawberry slush.

“I can make you another one.” It seemed like a good idea in my head, but when the words come out and his demeanor tenses, I wish I could take it back.

“It’s, uh?—”

“It’s okay if you don’t?—”

“No, it’s…it’s fine. I’ll have another.”

“Sure?” A part of me wants him to say no, and a part of me wants him to say yes.

“I’m sure. I’ll even help.” He cracks his knuckles and pulls up his sleeves, revealing all that tattooed flesh.

“All right, then. Let’s do it.”

Leaving in fifteen, my ass.

I don’t know what time it is, but if Isabella had left in fifteen minutes, she’d be home by now. Not that I particularly mind. For the first time in months, Victor and I have coexisted in the same space without one of us getting on the other’s nerves. It could be the daiquiris—we’ve had two each now—but my anxiety is long gone.

Neither Victor nor I have addressed the conversation I overheard from my bedroom. We’ve talked baseball—we’re both huge Astros fans—high school, his dreams of opening his own shop, and why I want to become a social worker. He listens without judgment or shock when I talk about my parents. And I listen attentively when he talks about his relationship with his stepbrother and how one of Quentin’s best friends, Conner Brathwaite—the heir to Brathwaite Hotels—helped them mend their relationship.

“Where have you been all week?” he asks, rolling the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers.

My hair falls around my shoulders as I release it from its claw comb and massage my scalp. “At Ian’s.” I close my eyes as a yawn escapes me. When I open them, he’s watching me, his gaze indecipherable.

He wets his lips before darting his gaze away. “So you and Esme are okay?”

“We’re fine. What about you guys?”

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