Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond
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hotel, they slowed, as if by mutual consent. A spring chill had settled over Midtown, and Carlotta shivered slightly, although the goose bumps could just as easily have been caused by Peter’s proximity. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and more memories flooded back—the perfection of his profile, the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought.
The sidewalks in this area were nearly deserted, but cars zipped by on Fourteenth Street in a steady stream. Peter walked on the outside of the sidewalk, between her and the traffic, like a good southern gentleman. Carlotta desperately wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say, afraid if she started talking, she might say too much. So she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, satisfied at the moment with breathing the same air as Peter.
“I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” he said finally.
A response seemed unnecessary.
“Have you heard from your parents?” he asked gently.
“We received a few postcards over the years, but even those have stopped.”
He looked pained. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”
“I’m sorry for leaving you stranded when you needed me the most.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. She studied the toes of her shoes, afraid to look at him, afraid she would burst into tears over the admission that she’d longed to hear for over a decade.
“I was a coward,” he said. “I let my family talk me into something I didn’t want to do.”
So, his family had pressured him to break off their relationship. She had suspected as much, but now that she knew, she wasn’t sure what hurt the most—that they had considered her spoiled goods, or that Peter hadn’t defended her.
He grimaced. “I’m not being fair to my folks, though. They were doing what they thought was right. I was the coward for not standing up to them.”
She stopped next to her Monte Carlo Super Sport, which, she acknowledged, probably seemed garish to him. The damn car seemed to represent the sorry state of her life. She looked up and shielded her eyes against the lamplight. “What do you want me to say, Peter? Do you want me to agree with you?”
The pained look was back on his face. “I already know that you agree with me, Carly.” He reached down and picked up her hand, sandwiching it between his. “I’m asking you to forgive me.”
She felt the pulse in his thumb throbbing against hers, the warmth from his hands surrounding hers like when they had made love, with the kind of abandon that only two teenagers could possess. She had always teased that his body was like a furnace, and he had always said she put the fire in his belly. Her body tingled in response to his touch, as if answering some long-forgotten call.
“Is that what you need to be at peace, Peter? For me to forgive you?”
He looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand tighter. The tension between them crushed her ribs and constricted her airways. It was as if they were suspended, as if time stood still, poised to resume when one of them spoke or moved or breathed.
“No,” he said in a raspy voice, releasing her hand. “Even if you forgive me, I can’t say that I will ever be at peace.”
She pushed her tingling hand inside her jacket pocket and tried to compose herself. “We can’t turn back the clock, Peter. We’re different people now. You have your life, and I have mine.”
He smiled. “You’re right. When did you become so pragmatic?”
“Ten years ago.”
He sighed and nodded. “What choice did you have?”
She pulled out her car keys and hit the keyless entry button. “I should go.” She opened the driver’s-side door and dropped her purse inside.
“Carly.”
She turned toward his voice—an old habit, easily resumed.
He stepped toward her and dropped a kiss on her cheek. The unexpected closeness of his body to hers sent a surge of desire rippling through her stomach. He groaned softly and suddenly the innocent kiss went from cheek to mouth, and his lips seared hers. She gave in to the overwhelming rush of longing and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His mouth devoured hers and instantly, she was home. She knew his mouth, knew how he tasted, how he liked to flick his tongue against hers, how he slanted his head just so for better leverage.
She moaned and kissed him with all the pent-up years of longing for him to come back to her, to climb into her bed and thrust his body into hers and whisper against her neck that he’d loved her all along. She kneaded the cords of his back and pressed her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. But when the hardness of his erection pressed into her stomach, warning bells sounded in her head. And when she heard footsteps approaching, reality came crashing back. She tore her mouth from his and stumbled back. She didn’t know the couple walking by, but she was still awash with shame.
“Carly,” Peter said on an exhale, then pulled his hand down his face. “You’re killing me.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe what she’d just done—what she’d been about to do. “You’re a married man, Peter.”
“I know,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that,” she said. “Stop saying that!” She brushed past him and swung into her car seat.
“Carlotta—”
She held up her hand to cut him off. “This was a big mistake. Go home, Peter. Go home to your wife.”
She closed the door with a slam, separating herself from him. Somehow she managed to get the key in the ignition with a trembling hand, then cranked the engine. She pulled away, squealing tires and accelerating at a breathtaking speed. So the muscle car was good for something after all: rocketing her away from Peter Ashford.
She resisted the urge to glance in the rearview mirror, and broke every speed limit on the way home.
It wasn’t until she pulled into her garage that her coworker Michael’s words came back to her. Just when you make up your mind that you have no intention of falling for someone—whammo!
She sighed and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “Whammo!” was right. She would have been better off getting hit by a truck.
Minus ten points.
10
When Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run. Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning she was feeling more crazy than usual.
Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving.
At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen, she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the covers, she reached for her yellow chenille bathrobe and pulled it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smells.
Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove, stirring and flipping and…whistling?
“Good morning,” she said warily.
He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hell.”