“Booker was telling me he’s not pursuing baseball as a career. What is it that you plan to do?” Ms. Montlain swings her attention back in my direction. “Your father is a lawyer. Will you be following in his footsteps?”
Over her shoulder, Carrie shakes her head vehemently. She wants me to deny it, which isn’t hard to do because I don’t plan on being a lawyer. Or anything like my dad.
“No, ma’am. Lawyering seems like a pain in the ass, excuse my language.”
The brightness of Ms. Montlain’s smile lowers even further. She’s barely maintaining the upward trajectory at the corners of her lips. “What is it that you plan on doing then?”
“Dunno. Maybe art? I mean, if I had any talent, that’s what I’d be doing.”
Carrie makes a face since she knows I’m talking about her.
“Art?” Her mother nearly shrieks. “You can’t make a living out of art.”
“That’s what I’ve told Booker a thousand times. You can’t make a living out of art.” She slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
I set the glass on the table and give Ms. Montlain a chin nod. “Thanks for the water. I’ll have Carrie home by midnight.”
We hurry out the door. Inside the car, Carrie asks, “Why midnight? The Sugar Factory closes way before that.”
“Gives you some leeway. You can hang out with me until then.” I back out of the driveway and gun the engine toward the ice cream shop.
“Maybe. It depends on who you have over.”
“It’d just be you and me. If you wanted to invite others, I guess that’d be okay.”
“No strippers?”
I cast her a sideways glance. “What is with you and the strippers? You keep bringing that up. Are you morally opposed to stripping? I thought there was this sex positive thing going on, and we weren’t to judge what choices people make.”
“Of course I’m not against strippers! Strippers are awesome. I totally respect them, but I highly doubt that your dad is hiring them so you can stare at them respectfully.” Is she jealous? Fuck me. I should not be happy about that shit, but I am. Reality is she has no reason to be jealous and I am going to let her know that. Especially if it’s something that might be standing in the way of us being something more.
“You’d be surprised. Not many of the guys are into it. Half of us end up in my basement playing Overwatch or watching a game. Logan can’t see anyone but Renoir. Colt is only—was only into baseball. He wouldn’t be caught dead within five miles of another woman, let alone one that was taking her clothes off. Tommy is up with the strippers, but since he’s gay I think he’s just trying to pick up tips on how to dress in case he takes up drag. Dean...well, he’s a dog. What can I say?” I shrug as I pull into The Sugar Factory’s parking lot. “The last time Dad hired strippers, they did one song and then Mom had them helping her set up for a garden party the next day. The one girl, can’t remember her name now, decorated the bunny sugar cookies that you threw in the trash.”
“I remember. The handwriting was really pretty.”
“Yeah it was. Lisa was her name. She had a little girl, Ronnie. She showed me pictures and said Ronnie wanted to grow up to be a pilot and that’s what she was doing the job for. I think Mom gave her a big tip because Lisa was crying when she left, and she wasn’t the sad type.”
Silence falls. I turn to peer at Carrie’s face. “You’re welcome to come over the next time my dad hires a crew of them and meet the girls. You’d probably like them.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“About meeting them or that they’re spending most of their time with my mom.”
“Both, I guess.”
“Yeah. I can see why it might bother you. I mean, it makes me look like an asshole.” I rub a hand across my chin. “I never gave it much thought because we’ve all seen more of Frankie and Ethan in the locker room than of strippers in my house.”
Carrie gnaws on the corner of her mouth. “Now I’m feeling like an asshole.”
“Nah.” I reach over and touch a lock of her hair, winding the silky strand around my finger. “Like I said, easy to see why you would find that dumb. I can’t promise you my dad’s not going to embarrass me in the future, but I’m not interested in any stripper or any other woman for that matter.”
“Any other woman?” She peeks up at me through a veil of lashes, and my skin grows hot and my jeans tight.
“Only one.”
Chapter Eight
Carrie
Booker makes it really hard to work. I thought he was going to drop me off at The Sugar Factory and come back later. Nope, he plopped down at one of the back corner tables and hasn’t budged an inch. To make matters worse, he’s pulled out a paperback and is reading it. With each flip of the page he gets hotter. I know I’m not the only one thinking about it, either.