Page 27 of Red Hot Harmony

“Sometimes I don’t think I’m doing it right.” It was a slip of the tongue. The phrase was meant to stay in my head and I partially blamed it on the remnants of the cocktails I had earlier and partially on Dante’s strange ability to make me want to spill my secrets to him.

“Which part?” he teased, his palm now curling around my side, just above the waistband of my jeans.

“The motherhood part.” My voice turned hoarse. “I kept her because I couldn’t let her go, and now I feel like I did her a disservice, because half the time, I have no idea what to say to her or how to get her to understand that everything I’m doing is because I love her so much it hurts.”

There was a stifled gasp and a noise close to a sob, but my eyes remained dry.

“You’re overthinking this, mama,” he said quietly.

That name again. I wouldn’t think such an unsexy word could sound so hot, but he managed to infuse something very primal andverysensual in those syllables, and I shivered each time he called me that.

“I snorted my first line at fifteen, and I turned out okay. Well...considering. I’d say if your kid isn’t doing drugs, she’s fine.”

“Do you believe that makes me feel better?”

“I was hoping it would.” He smiled, his lips stretching against my stomach, his stubble pricking my skin. “Trust me, I know what a bad mother is like and you’re not it.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

“There’s nothing to say. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“What about your childhood?” I brushed my palm over his hair. “Don’t you have any good memories?”

Dante was still and the seconds went on, turning into a full minute, then two, then he finally said, “I have a few.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

He spoke in a low voice. He spoke of the music. He spoke of the kids who lived on his block. He spoke of dinners at a neighbor's house. He spoke until I fell asleep.

4 Dante

I knew the bed wasn’t mine when I woke up. It was smaller, sturdier, and...warmer.

My eyes needed a moment to take in the design on the ceiling—patterns of barely visible cream-colored swirls. I realized I’d never really seen what Camille’s bedroom was like until now, and as the visuals began to settle, it became clear that she was the exact opposite of me.

She liked her comfort and she was sentimental.

Whereas my place looked like an expensive hotel room that gave off a utilitarian luxury vibe, hers was filled with years and years of life.

There were countless photos of Ally on the wall to my right, several shots with Harper, a picture of a stern-looking middle-aged couple—definitely her parents, judging by the woman’s hair—a huge painting, a tall shelf filled with all sorts of things. Books, CDs, porcelain figurines, jewelry.

The top of the dresser was strewn with cosmetics, and in the mirror above, I could see the reflection of our slightly disheveled bodies, clothes twisted, hair mussed. A thick carpet lay on the floor and tan curtains shaded the window, leaving only a small portion in the middle open, where the bright morning light streaked inside.

For the first time in months, waking up in a house that wasn’t mine felt odd. It didn’t bother me per se, just tipped my world a little.

Because I’d never spent a night in a bed with a woman without fucking her.

Memories came in fast, a rush of phrases, images, and sensations. I felt them surging through me, heating my blood and worrying my heart.

In my past life, where drugs and booze always had the last word, there were no mornings like these, half-clothed and semi-decent. Those mornings were all bare skin, hangovers, sometimes more sex, and numbers and names I didn’t bother to collect.

This bizarre feeling—this knowledge of the person who lay next to me was new.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Camille, I turned to my side, tucked my hands beneath the pillow, and studied the spill of her hair, the seductive swell of her breasts, the slow rise and fall of her ribcage as she breathed in her slumber.

At some point, I reached for her cheek and her eyes fluttered open.

Our gazes met.

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