#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (16 page)

Chapter 46

I hastily dry off and rush to the closet. I hop on one foot as I try to squeeze my damp legs into skinny jeans, when a figure fills the doorway behind me. I freeze. I hope to God that it's not Mrs. Costa finding me in her closet or Mr. Costa spotting me wearing his wife's bikini top.

I turn, balanced in an awkward crouch with one leg hovering in the air, my pants half off, and granny panties on display.

Heat zaps the space between my legs. Whoa. Chiseled features, dark hair, muscles visible through his Henley. And the lips. The lips. Double hashtag kissing.

He says, "Well, you're not my stepmother."

"No." I swallow. "I am not your stepmother." I hold my hand out to catch my balance and topple over.

"Ordinarily I'd offer to give you a minute to change, but I really like what I see." He steps into the closet.

I'm instantly charmed, attracted, and senseless except granny panties, wet hair, and probably smudged eye makeup.

"No need to get up. I'm happy to get down there." He lowers to his knees and crawls toward me, eyeing me seductively. "You're not Esmerelda," he whispers, tucking a piece of my wet hair behind my ear.

"I'm not Esmerelda," I echo.

His eyes meet mine in question. His lips hypnotize. I lean closer.

His lips brush mine. They're cool. Mine are on fire. The bulge in his pants and the way he shifts his pelvis toward me tells me everything I need to know about heat. JQ was my first and aside from him and Niko, the only guy I'd kissed until my recent project was Casper. Things like this don't typically happen to me.

He leans over me, his kiss pressing me back until I'm lying on the plush carpet.

His kisses continue, the clear winner if there were to be a #Kissing contest. He takes off his shirt, revealing Latin skin and the kind of sexy strong that comes from good genetics and time spent at the gym.

He trails his lips along my jaw, then my chest, still hugging Mrs. Costa's bikini top. He takes it off with his teeth. There may be a hand involved somewhere, but his mouth tantalizes me. He takes my nipple and does something with his tongue that makes my back arch, lifting my pelvis toward his. I rub against his hardness. He smiles slyly and works his way down toward my stomach.

Oh, shit. Granny panties. I shimmy out of them, forcing his attention back to my lips. I tug on his belt, fumbling until it's off, and I unbutton his jeans. Before he tosses them away, he fishes in his wallet for a condom. I slide it on, his hard shaft huge in my slender fingers.

It's been a few weeks since I've had sex and the desire pulsing through me suggests I'm a desert island refugee and desperate for it—and probably look like one, with my hair damp and makeup messy. I squeeze his arms, run my hands along his back, and buck my hips up as he slides in and out of me.

It's rug burn rhythm as he thrusts, but I don't care. He fills me up with heat, with lust.

"You fuck so good," he says.

Then I remember the kids. Shit. If they find us... The door to the closet is open. For the first time this week, I hope they're watching TV.

My Latin lover mouths my breasts as he pulls me closer, tilting my hips up, up, up, almost hitting the right spot, but not quite. Inside me, his cock throbs when he comes.

I puddle on the floor from the intensity of the encounter, but disappointed at the lack of an orgasm. The big, ever elusive,
O
.

"I'm Manolo, and I don't know who you are, but damn, that was hot." He rolls off me with one last kiss.

"You're not it," I say inside a sigh.

"Huh?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Could we do that again?" I ask, reaching for my phone.

"What? Already?" His eyebrows lift and he glances down at his cock, which is still a specimen to behold but doubtful that it would be ready to go so soon.

"The kiss." I brush the tangles of hair from my face. I lean in, my lips meeting his and press video. It lasts ten seconds as our lips reluctantly peel apart. If my attraction to Niko was his voice and adoration of me, this was a carnal experience; a primitive call from Mother Nature to make sure the species carries on. I'm swept up in a moment of lust.

Naked, he leans on one elbow, trailing his other hand down my side. "Do you catalog your conquests?" His eyes are buttery chocolate with long, dark fluttering eyelashes and he meets my eyes, taking me in. "Wait a minute. You do. I recognize you."

"#Kissing."

"You're Josie."

"I'm Josie."

"And you're fired," a strident female voice calls from the doorway. "Thankfully, the children are safely downstairs watching television. Manolo, I expect this kind of behavior from you, but from the help? Get up and get out." Her disparaging tone resembles my mother's. "I'll have your father deal with you," she says to him.

Once more, I crouch down to get dressed, but this time my skin isn't wet from the hot tub, instead from the glistening sheen of sex. The granny panties sit like a discarded white cotton ball, and I leave them there. Mrs. Costa isn't wrong for firing me, but she's totally irresponsible with her children—leaving them with someone like me. I consider the abandoned underwear a suitable insult. Plus, going commando after that romp gives me the slightest hit of pleasure as my swollen pussy rubs against my jeans with each step I take.

Manolo gives me one more kiss. "That was fun. Maybe we can do it again sometime." He disappears down the hall to leave me to deal with his seething stepmother.

I say good-bye to the kids. In the kitchen, Mrs. Costa, with her arms across her chest holds out a check. "This should cover the week. Next time I'll have to hire the nanny for the children myself."

"Or you could try involving yourself directly in their lives," I hiss.

Chapter 47

Instead of going back to my mother's, I pull down the street, the reality of losing my job like the slow freeze of an icicle. I need money. I call my father. It goes to voicemail. After two and a half minutes, not expecting him to return my call, his image lights up my screen.

"Hi, Dad."

"Sweetie. How've you been?"

He never wants the honest answer, but I give it to him anyway.

"I just got fired from my job."

"Your mother mentioned you were a nanny. What happened, sweetie?"

"Never mind. I need money. I can't live with Mom."

"Well," the
L
s stretch out forever, his patent move when he's about to say something that will make one of us uncomfortable. "Your mother and I have been in communication, and we've decided, well—" There he goes again.

He must take my silence for being upset. Which I am, but more surprised that they've finally agreed on something, even if it was her interfering with my relationship with him, which mostly involves monthly checks, but still. He's always coddled me: divorce guilt and a spongy backbone.

"She decided that if you'd like our support, you have to go to college. We also discussed you continuing to work and staying with her, but from what I hear it isn't going well."

"What about you? Can I stay with you?"

He clears his throat. "Well…I've been meaning to call you." There's a pause where I expect him to see how long he can stretch the word well, but instead he blurts, "I'm getting married."

Silence stretches like a rubber band between us.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I've been so busy—" He goes on in detail about his fiancé and her children, but all I hear is that he's ditched me for a new family. It stings.

I drive in loops: figure eights and infinity symbols traversing town, repeatedly passing the coffee shop, Highland, and Richie's. My life is a twisted knot. When I go by a tavern, the girls I saw running the other day gab in the parking lot before ducking under the green awning hanging over the entrance. It's happy hour, though I feel anything but.

I fix my hair, straighten my top, and then waltz through the wooden door still sans underwear. I find the runners at a booth near the back.

I plop down next to Maria and say, "Don't ask, unless you're taking my drink order."

There's a round of strong laughter followed by a round of even stronger margaritas. We swap stories, but they mostly want to hear about the Halos and #Kissing, and I mostly want to hear about Meg's job in advertising, Mary's recent trip to Italy, and Maria's hobby as "The Bakeress"—she's hoping to open a storefront by the same name soon. Anything to keep my mind off me.

"So what's next for you?" Maria asks.

"I try not to ask myself that question."

"Go where the wind blows you?" Mary says.

"Fly by the seat of your pants?" Meg adds.

"More like crash and burn," I say candidly.

"The high school is always looking for subs. I get called in a few times a week, and if I'm not too tired from my night shift at the hospital, I snap 'em up," Maria says.

"You're a nurse, a sub, and you bake?" I ask, reminded of Penny. I shake my head, reminded of the CHS parties. "I'm not teacher material."

"You're whatever you want to be," Maria adds, tapping her empty glass onto the table.

"Including an A+ kisser," Meg says.

We go on to talking about #Kissing for a while and veer into times for the triathlon, before Maria says, "Speaking of which, we've reached our quota. Two pitchers, ladies."

"And two plates of apps," Mary says.

We say our goodbyes with them insisting I promise to meet them Monday evening.

Thankfully, the house is quiet when I return. I plod to the shower, surrendering to the fact that I'll be spending Friday night home, alone.

I'm not sure what I miss more, having a family or the life that I created when that didn't work out: lazy mornings having sex with Niko, breakfast at lunchtime—the sudden freedom of no homework, committee meetings, and social expectations. I miss the parties, the clothes, and the music. But I miss something else too, something none of that gave me.

I throw on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and wrap my hair in a towel before plopping down on the smooth piano bench. I close my eyes and play. I play and play until my fingers are stiff and numb and I forget myself.

Chapter 48

I wake to white. The Nor'easter hits Cranville hard, snowflakes whirling in the wind, uncertain if they're supposed to obey gravity or find a window or tree branch to cling to. I keep to my room, texting with Penny, ignoring Niko, and yearning for that someone who was decent enough to try to recue me from myself and from under a tree.

Penny texts
Finally, a proper snow day. Even the Chinese restaurant is closed. I'm not getting dressed. I'm not brushing my hair. I'm…going to go stir crazy in my four-hundred and fifty square feet of space.

I reply.
I'd offer for you to come here, but I'm dubbing this the house of illusion. My mother came up a little while ago with college info. I think we're past that, no?

You really don't want to go? To be honest, if I had someone offering to pay, I'd jump on that.

I read what she doesn't write: that I'm an idiot for turning them down, for throwing away what I had, and it serves me right to be back where I started. She has a point, but I can't imagine the commitment. I also want to ask her about her parents; I've gathered tidbits that they're somehow out of the picture, but still alive.

A few minutes later Penny texts again.
Whoa. Just got an email from Hype TeeVee and they want to interview you.

I text her back a question mark.

She writes again.
Also, we've reached over 35,000,000 views on the YouTube channel. Yes, all those zeros. You've officially gone viral.

Wow.
I can't think of anything suitably self-deprecating or funny to say.

And um…but instead of finishing her sentence, my phone jingles. "Do you know what this means?" Penny asks after I say hello.

"Um, people really like watching me kiss strangers?"

"I didn't mention this before because I didn't think that it would matter, but when I launched the site and YouTube, I monetized it, meaning I enabled ads that return revenue."

"In English…"

"In any language this means the site is making money."

"Oh. Then that solves a few problems."

"With these numbers I'm seeing, I think it might."

"In that case, I have some footage you—or the viewers— may like. It's short, but steamy. I'll send it to you so you can work your magic. Be sure to call it
the reason Josie got fired from her day job
."

"Oh."

"Yup. You're friends with an idiot."

"I thought you were a genius, but who's keeping track?"

"Certainly not me."

After I hang up, I flop over on my bed, surveying how everything in this room is the same except me, but I'm not sure who I am either. That needs to change. Now.

I start with my clothes, going through heaps and piles. Then I dump out drawers, reading old papers and recycling notes. There are journals and diaries including a page with an acrostic I made about JQ using the letters
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
. Lizzy loved to tease us with that tune when we were little. Our mothers were friends so we were often at get-togethers by default, but it wasn't until senior year we actually sort of became friends.

I leaf through old photos, hopes, and dreams. I paw through a drawer and find a gift from Lizzy during senior year spring break. It's pink and it vibrates. I chuckle. I try to power it on, but it doesn't have any juice. Maybe I can change that. Although my kissing experiment is public, perhaps I can endeavor upon an orgasm experiment in the privacy of my bedroom.

My mother moves around in the kitchen as I descend the stairs. I reconsider using the toy in case she walks in on me. Through the big window opening to the back yard, snowy clouds hug the dusky light where the sun should be. I consider going running, but I'll probably break a leg on the ice or disappear into a snowdrift. Instead, I scour my mother's organized kitchen drawers.

"What are you looking for?"

"Batteries?"

"For what? A flashlight? I sure hope the power doesn't go out."

I hide a smirk.

She disappears to the hall and returns with a box of batteries in every size. "I was just going to come up. The Pringles invited us over for dinner and games. Remember when you were young and we'd all get together for barbecues in the summer and go skating on the pond in the winter? So many fond memories."

"Except you wouldn't let me use sparklers or go on the ice."

She shakes her head. "Honestly, Josephine. I was just cautious. Anyway, no harm will come to you from playing Scrabble and indulging in a few appetizers. When was the last time you ate? Have you been taking your medicine? Have you talked to your father?"

My glare says back off. "I had lunch—a sandwich. Yes, of course, I took my medicine; otherwise, you'd have found me in a coma. And he informed me you've been in communication."

"Good." She moves on without skipping a beat. "I thought it best that he and I get on the same page as far as you're concerned. Did he tell you about Karen? I guess they haven't set a date yet, but I assume you'll be in the wedding party."

"I won't."

Her lips aren't accustomed to lifting, but I detect the faint hint of a smile. "Let's go to the Pringles' house. It'll be fun. Remember we'd gather around the piano and everyone would sing while you played?"

I edge toward the stairs.

"You'd touch those keys and make magic. I've always said that."

I stop in my tracks. "No, you haven't." She never said anything about my piano playing. In fact, I had to beg for lessons and offer to use my allowance to pay because she had me so scheduled.

"Why, sure I have."

"Nope. I'm sure I'd remember a compliment like that coming out of your mouth. You're not generous with them."

"That's not fair. Everyone knows how wonderful and skilled I think you are musically."

"Apparently, everyone but me." My fight lasts all of thirty seconds before the tears find their way through. Years of doubt and not quite reaching her measuring stick, no matter how hard I strived and how far I stretched makes me feel smaller than ever.

This is where she'd reassure me and wrap her arms tight, soothing me with her mommy scent. But she doesn't.

"They're expecting us anytime. Let's head over there. I'm bringing mini-quiches."

I don't disagree because if I have to spend another minute alone with her, or alone period, I might crawl away and not come back.