Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

Bernard gives me all the credit, and at last, I can see my esteem rising slightly in their eyes. Maybe I’m a contender after all.

“Where’d you learn to play chess?” he asks, fixing us another round of drinks from a wicker cart in the corner.

“I’ve always played. My father taught me.”

Bernard regards me, bemused. “You’ve just made me realize I don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s because you forgot to ask,” I say playfully, my equilibrium restored. I look around the room. “Don’t any of these people ever go to bed?”

“Are you tired?”

“I was thinking—”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he says, brushing the back of my hair with his lips.

“You two lovebirds.” Teensie waves from the couch. “Come over here and join the discussion.”

I sigh. Bernard may be willing to call it an evening, but Teensie is determined to keep us downstairs.

I endure another hour of political discussions. Finally, Peter’s eyes close, and when he falls asleep in his chair, Teensie murmurs that perhaps we should all go to bed.

I give Bernard a meaningful look and scurry to my room. Now that the moment has arrived, I’m shaking with fear. My body trembles in anticipation. What will it be like? Will I scream? And what if there’s blood?

I slip on my negligee and brush my hair a hundred times. When thirty minutes have passed and the house is quiet, I slip out, creep across the living room, and up the other set of stairs, which leads to Bernard’s room. It’s at the end of a long hall, located conveniently next to Teensie and Peter, but, like all the rooms in the new wing, it has its own en suite bathroom.

En suite. My, what a lot of things I’ve learned this weekend. I giggle as I turn the knob on Bernard’s door.

He’s in bed, reading. Under the soft light of the lamp, he looks sleek and mysterious, like something out of a Victorian novel. He puts his finger to his lips as he slides back the covers. I fall silently into his arms, close my eyes, and hope for the best.

He turns off the light and rearranges himself under the sheets. “Good night, kitten.”

I sit up, perplexed. “Good night?”

I lean over and turn on the light.

He grabs my hand. “What are you doing?”

“You want to sleep?”

“Don’t you?”

I pout. “I thought we could—”

He smiles. “Here?”

“Why not?”

He turns off the light. “It’s rude.”

I turn it back on. “Rude?”

“Teensie and Peter are in the next room.” He turns off the light again.

“So?” I say in the dark.

“I don’t want them to hear us. It might make them . . . uncomfortable.”

I frown in the darkness, my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t you think it’s time Teensie got over the fact that you’ve moved on? From her and Margie?”