Love, Chloe (26 page)

“Turn here,” I argued, looking down at my phone.

“I can’t get around to the loading dock if I go that way.”

“Well the next road is a one-way.” I let out an irritated breath and he laughed. “What?” I growled.

“I’m just curious if you have ever, in your life, been to Long Island.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been to Long Island.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.
Really
.” Granted, my trips had been a long way from the industrial area we were lost in.

“Let me guess…” He took a left, in a direction that went against everything that Google Maps suggested. “To the beach.” He glanced my way. “And the theatre?”

“There’s also a vineyard,” I pointed out, pursing my lips to stop a smile.

He turned down a side street and parked, somehow right in front of the tile store we’d been headed to. I glared at the sign.
Dammit
.

My purpose in tagging along with Carter had been to help him pick out materials. I had readily agreed, thinking it would be easy to pair a backsplash with granite, especially for someone as stylish as myself. I stared at the countertop before me, at the eighteen different options I had pulled for review, and my confidence wavered. I glanced out the window, at the truck, where Carter was helping load a vanity. His T-shirt tight, his biceps bulging, he pulled the heavy piece up into the bed. The picture was so utterly male that I almost fanned myself. I watched him as long as I could, my eyes darting away in the moment before he pulled open the store’s front door, his steps echoing across the floor toward me. “Pick something?” he asked, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans and I looked up from the options, my breath catching in my throat as I saw the damp cling of his T-shirt to his chest, the wide grin of his smile, the way his eyes even smiled at me. The man looked at me as if I were something
special
, a look so foreign that a part of me wanted to cry. How long could that look last? How many women had gotten it?

I wasn’t special. I wasn’t even—the more I got to know myself—that great. But that look, that smile—it made me want to be more. I smiled back at him. “Yeah,” I said. “I found the perfect thing.”

“Awesome.” He stepped closer and leaned in, pressing his lips to mine softly, then pulled back. “Meet you at the register?”

“Yeah.” I mumbled, already wanting more. “I’ll be there.”

He walked off, and I stared down at my mess of tiles.

I needed to stop overthinking it and just make a decision. It was two colors that some renter would never notice.

I grabbed two samples and headed for the counter.

Presa Little’s show was at the Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea,
the
place for anyone to hold anything. I debated for a good hour over what to wear, finally opting for a silk T-shirt dress that, paired with heels, worked as well for a cocktail party as for a formal event. When Carter knocked at my door at eight, I smiled at the view—him in a suit. A
very
nice suit, one his build filled out perfectly.

“Nice threads,” I mused, running my hand over his lapel before tilting my head up for a kiss.

“Thank you. You look stunning.”

“Thanks. Ready?”

“If you are.” His face was tight, and I felt my first bit of unease as I grabbed my purse.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Just a long day.”

I bet. There’d been plumbing vans parked out front all day, men in uniforms carrying things up and down our stairs, all with urgency in their steps. Nothing like that to stress me out every time I flushed the toilet. “Is everything okay? I saw workers…”

He shrugged. “A leak on an upper floor. It was a beast to get to. Sucked up the whole day.”

Glamorous stuff, our conversation. I nodded and stepped into the cab, double-checking my wallet for the tickets.

“I should probably warn you about Presa…” Carter glanced out the window, and I looked up at him, suddenly alert.

“What about?”

“She can be territorial. Aggressive,” he corrected himself. “Unfriendly.”

I blinked, surprised at the string of adjectives, none of which matched the worldly ambassador I had pictured. “Territorial? Over
what
?”

“She’s known me a long time. With girls I’ve dated in the past … she can come on a little strong. Protective.”

“Like a momma bear with her cub?” I tried to follow his train of thought.

He grimaced. “No. Like…”

Our conversation was interrupted by an accident, two cars ahead of us colliding, our cab slamming on the brakes, throwing us both forward. Carter’s hand reached out to protect me, my eyes rolling as he took advantage, his fingers caressing me through my dress. I swatted his hand and reached for the handle.

By the time we stepped out, there was already a full-fledged New York City argument going on between the drivers over what looked, to my untrained eye, like a big scratch. He slipped the cabbie a ten and we decided to walk the remaining four blocks to the gallery.

When we approached, there was a crowd outside, paparazzi clustered, a few looks shot our way and then we were ignored, his hand in mine as we entered the already crowded show. Inside was pure eye candy, brilliantly lit canvases everywhere, my eyes jumping from one to another as we moved deeper inside. “Want a drink?” Carter offered.

“Yes please. Champagne.”

“Wait here so I don’t lose you.” He pressed a gentle kiss on my neck and I smiled.

I was studying
Peace of Heart
—a red and pink wonder, tiny veins flowing through the large abstract, when I was bumped from behind and turned. Across the room, my eyes caught sight of Carter, his hand resting on the bar, his head tilted down toward the woman who stood close by his side. Presa Little. I recognized her immediately, her jet-black hair pulled back and pinned up, her stance strong and in control. The woman once had a lion as a pet. I still remember the 2005
Vogue
cover where she stretched naked over its back. As I watched, she ran a hand over Carter’s arm and my gaze narrowed.

I knew nothing about love and less about succeeding in life. But I knew what a woman on the prowl looked like. Presa Little angled her head up to Carter, and I saw the history in every ounce of their interaction.
A friend of his parents?
Bullshit.

Carter moved his arm away, but it was too late. When he glanced over, our eyes met, and I raised my eyebrows. I ignored Carter’s directive to stay put and walked through the crowd, watching as her head turned to me, a smile crossing her face.

I hoped, when I approached fifty, to look like this woman. Even through jealousy, I saw her beauty. The woman was worldly, sophisticated, and utterly comfortable in her own skin. When she shook my hand, her shake was strong and confident, and I felt incredibly young and naïve.

“Presa, this is my girlfriend.” Carter ran his hand down my back and cupped my waist. “Chloe.”

Girlfriend
. It was such an unexpected title that I mentally stuttered. I tried my best to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work … have been for a long time.”

“Thank you, Chloe.” She smiled at Carter. “It’s so great to see my Carter
settling
. I thought it would never happen.”

Her accent was full of rolled Rs and elongated vowels. I could tell that she wasn’t a native English speaker, but she was adept enough to know the difference between “settling down” and “settling.” Oh, and
my
Carter. I caught the possession. Saw it in the way her eyes sharpened as she looked at him, verbal claws of ownership digging in and taking hold. It pissed me off and I swallowed a retort, mentally counting to three before I responded.

“How do you two know each other?” I smiled when I asked the question but it still came out a little sharp. She turned to me, her eyes lighting, feeding on my insecurity.

“God, I met Carter when he was … what? Nineteen?” She glanced at him and he nodded warily. “His parents were some of my most loyal clients. Carter worked at my studio, assembling canvases and packaging up my sales. He’s always been good with his hands.” She smiled at me. “But I’m sure you know that.”

My face blushed hot, and I felt off balance. If I were Benta, I’d snap off a witty comeback. Cammie would simply smile, with eyes that killed. Me? I wasn’t qualified, not to spar with the likes of Presa Little. Not to fight over a man I didn’t really have ownership of. I returned her smile weakly.

“Ms. Little?” A tall man in a suit appeared at her right. “We are ready for you at the podium.”

Presa nodded and turned to Carter. “I’ve got to run. It was wonderful to see you and to get a chance to meet you, Chloe.” She hugged Carter, a hug that lasted a few seconds too long. She smiled sweetly and, in a swish of fabrics, left.

I looked up at Carter. “Well?” I asked.

He groaned and reached for my hand. “Let’s find someplace to talk.”

We stepped outside, navigating around the incoming stream of people and walked west. Aside from the gallery, we were in the industrial part of Chelsea, an area virtually abandoned at night. We didn’t have to go far to be alone, stopping at a bare spot alongside a wall. I leaned against the rough brick and he faced me, his hands tucked into his front pockets, his eyes glancing back to the event before focusing on me.

“When I started working for Presa, I was pretty much just hormones and attitude.” He shrugged. “I was nineteen and she was … I don’t know. Thirty-five? Forty? One night, I worked late and…” His shoulders lifted, and he looked at me like he wasn’t going to finish the sentence, like that dangling morsel was all I was going to get.

“You worked late and?” I pressed.

He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “And she came into the back room in nothing but her underwear, and I fucked her over a crate of paintings.”

I blinked. “Had you had sex before?”

He raised his eyebrow at me. “Yeah. I’d had sex with a few different girls. But Presa…” His hand moved up, rubbing his neck. “Presa was different. Sex with her was different. She taught me a lot, about women, what they like. And about relationships.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So … she was your sexual mentor?”

He pursed his lips. “If you want to call her that.”

“For how long?”

“About a year. Give or take.”

I sorted through my feelings. “Did you love her?”

Before he even answered, I found the root of my unease. It wasn’t because he’d been nineteen, and she’d been two decades older. It was because she was PRESA LITTLE and I was little ol’ broke Chloe. They’d probably had a sophisticated, sex-filled, worldly affair, while I spent Saturday nights in my apartment crying over gifts from my ex-boyfriend. In the back of my mind, an insecure part of me suggested that Carter only brought me there as a way to rekindle his romance with Presa.

He nodded. “I did.”

“Do you love her now?”

Another response, without pause. “No.”

It was a good answer but I would have loved a few sentences of clarification. Preferably a few lines about how much my killer bedroom skills trumped hers.
That
would have been a good response.

I bit my bottom lip and looked away. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

He shrugged. “It’s not the first time a girl has wanted to know.”

Girl. Not girlfriend. I wanted to chase down the distinction and stab it with the heel of my Tom Ford stilettos. Had he called me his girlfriend because that was what he wanted, or was it to ward off Presa? And at the same time, did I
want
to be his girlfriend? Was I ready for that step?

I liked him—a lot. Almost too much. There was still so much I didn’t know about him, and so much he didn’t know about me.

“Want to go home?”

He held out his hand and I took it, thinking about how I hadn’t yet seen Nicole. I didn’t want to, couldn’t stomach her hanging on Clarke, playing the part of loving wife. Not tonight. And even though we’d only been there fifteen minutes, the thought of seeing any more of Presa made me gag. I smiled up at him. “Yeah.”

Home
. I liked the sound of that.