Page 6 of Covetous

Sipping on my coffee, I look away, feeling like an intruder as they continue their flirtatious banter. They don’t need an audience, but part of me is drawn to their obvious attraction, while another part feels guilty for even being here.

“Where’s Ian?” Esme asks, looking around the kitchen as if he could appear from thin air.

I’m about to respond, but Victor beats me to it. “The boyfriend’s not here.”

Esme releases a chuckle. “You mean her fiancé?”

I cock my head curiously, a puzzled expression spreading across my face. “Is selective amnesia a thing?”

Neither of them hears me. They are so in tune with each other, completely lost in their own world; their mouths close as Esme runs her fingers through Victor’s hair, pushing the longer dark strands out of his eyes.

“Sky, did you finish your paper?” Esme turns her back to Victor’s chest.

“I did. Finally.”

She raises the coffee mug to her lips. “I don’t know why you bother. It’s extra credit.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You probably already have an A in the class.”

“A minus,” I mutter.

Esme wrinkles her nose as she sips Victor’s coffee and immediately spits it back into the cup, her face twisting in a grimace. “That’s disgusting.”

“Really?” Victor chuckles, taking the cup back from her and placing it behind him on the counter.

Glancing back at Victor, she has to tilt her head back. He’s at least a foot taller than the both of us. “Black coffee, though? No cream. No sugar. No nothing?”

He shrugs. “I like it black.”

Esme grins her most charming smile—the one that effortlessly wins people over. “We know. Not that we blame you.”

Victor’s curious gaze lands on me. He probably thinks I told her that—which I didn’t.

Wait, did I? Maybe I did. Who knows. His name was on my lips a lot during our high school years.

I’d told her all about the guy who streaked Covington’s homecoming football game on a dare. A five-day suspension followed that stunt of his. If Victor had been born into a less prominent family, the repercussions of his actions could have been much more serious. He could have faced expulsion or even a charge for indecent exposure.

Word on the street is that his stepfather used his connections to help him avoid trouble—connections that only a US Senator has. I can almost imagine how the conservative right-wing Senator Quentin James IV reacted to his stepson’s daring act of sprinting completely naked across the field during the most important game of the season, in front of thousands of spectators.

“What else have you heard about me?” Victor pulls Esme closer, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt. As he playfully nips at her shoulder, she squeals and tries to wiggle out of his grasp. They both laugh, their playful banter filling the space. I can’t help but smile at the sight of them together. Their chemistry is straight fire, evident in every touch and word exchanged.

Giggling, Esme lets out a squeal. “Stop! You play too much.”

“I have to leave for work soon,” Victor admits almost reluctantly, dropping his chin to rest on her shoulder.

“You’re flying out to see Isabella soon, right?” I ask.

They both look at me with surprise, as if they forgot I was standing here. “Yeah,” he responds with hesitation, a hint of surprise on his face.

“Isabella told me,” I say, answering Esme’s unspoken question before she turns around to face him.

“Wait, what? You’re leaving and didn’t tell me?” Oops. Esme’s pissed at him, the tone of her voice blaring like a warning.

“I was going to.” He shoots me a look as if to say, Thanks for that. “I’m flying to Rhode Island next week to spend time with Izzy and Lizzie before Izzy’s graduation.” Elizabeth, Victor’s younger sis, is a couple years behind Isabella. Apparently, it’s some kind of family tradition for all the James siblings to do their undergrad at Brown. But Victor’s always marched to the beat of his own drum, especially when it comes to family expectations. So him skipping college altogether to become a tattoo artist? Not exactly a shocker to me—or to anyone, I think.

“What about my graduation?”

“When is it?”

She scoffs. “In three weeks on Saturday. You don’t remember?”

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