“So, what do we think?” Bridget triangulates a glance between Bristol, Mrs. O’Malley, and me. “You like it?”
Bristol and I exchange a quick look and an almost indiscernible nod before I speak up.
“We love the place.” I direct my words to the sweet Jewish lady with the Irish last name and naughty smile. “What do you say, Mrs. O’Malley?”
“I think we have a deal.” The wicked glint in Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes should warn me she’s up to no good. “Just remember that I want the house to remain as it is, so I hope you like the way it’s decorated. At least we already know Bristol likes the powder room.”
I want to keep her around just to make Bristol blush.
Chapter 7
Bristol
“THIS WILL GO BETTER than I think it will.”
I’ve recited this mantra to myself all morning, hoping it’s like one of those affirmations you just keep putting into the universe until it comes true. If that’s the case, I’ll chant it all the way to Compton for the going away party Grip’s mother is hosting for him. I’ve been back a few times since that first disastrous Sunday dinner, and Ms. James has warmed considerably toward me.
I think she actually likes me now.
Jade, on the other hand, continues to give me a bit of a cold shoulder every time we meet. A few weeks ago, I ran into her at the studio where Grip was recording. He passed some of her songs on to a few artists, and now she’s actually writing for several of them. I congratulated her, but she still looked at me like I was something she stepped in—or maybe something she wanted to step on, like a bug . . . a white girl bug who has no business being with her cousin. She hasn’t said that outright lately, but every roll of her eyes and suck of her teeth tells me she wants to, and Jade isn’t one to hold back for long. I just hope that today at this party, when I’m surrounded by strangers and already feeling like I don’t fit in, she can refrain from saying what her body finds a dozen other ways to tell me.
“This will go better than I think it will,” I say again when the cage door of the elevator lifts on Grip’s floor—just in case the universe is listening.
I had an early meeting with an event organizer this morning. Grip hates it when I take meetings on the weekends, but with me leaving for New York soon, I have a lot to get settled in a short amount of time. It was so hard to drag myself out of the warm bed with Grip naked and at half-mast in his sleep. The white sheet, stark against his roasted caramel skin, had dipped so low I could see the muscled slashes at his hips. A little restless when I left the bed, he flipped onto his stomach, and I wanted to lick up the wide smooth expanse of his back, nip the firm rounded cheeks of his ass when the sheet slipped even more, hid even less.
I check my watch to see if we have time to make good on that morning wood he was sporting before we leave for the party, and my key is still in hand when the loft door swings open. The last person I expect to see standing there is Angela Gray.
“Mother?” Surprise quickly congeals into suspicion. “Why are you here?”
Guilt clouds her expression before she reassembles her features into the lovely indifference I’ve been accustomed to my entire life.
“Just stopping by.” She digs around in her bag until she finds her keys.
Grip steps into view just behind her, and I’m distracted by the worry in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask him over her shoulder.
“I’ll tell you inside.” He glances down at my mother. “Thanks for coming by, Angela.”
She sketches a curt nod without glancing up at him.
“I’ll keep you posted,” she says easily before turning her eyes to me. “We need to have lunch before you go to New York, Bristol.”
I stiffen at her words. She’s already told me what she thinks of me leaving LA to “chase” Grip. Apparently, it’s anti-feminist to be with the man you love even when your job allows the flexibility to do so. I thought feminism was supposed to be about the power of our choices, and yet when I choose Grip, when I put him ahead of my career and convenience because I love him, that choice is denigrated. When women truly understand feminism, they see the power of knowing what you want more than anything and pursuing it.
And I want Grip more than anything.
“You are still going, right?” she asks when I’m silent.
“Definitely.” I cross the threshold and tuck under Grip’s arm, pressing into the faded scent of yesterday’s cologne and the pure, raw maleness of him. “I’ll call about lunch. I have a lot to get done.”
She nods and walks over to the elevator, holding my stare until the doors close.
“She’ll miss you.” Grip kisses my forehead and closes the door. Once we’re inside, he cages me against it with his elbows and forearms pressed alongside my head. “That’s why she’s salty, not any of that pseudo-feminist crap she spouts about you adjusting your plans to come with me.”
“Why was she here?” I won’t be distracted by the hard body crowding me, by the delicious shape of his shoulders straining against his T-shirt.
“Hmmm?” Grip licks at the curve of my neck and shoulder, his tongue like rough velvet.