“I hate you,” I growl.
“Yeah, it sounded like it.”
He has the audacity to smirk, and it’s so damn sexy I’m tempted to hop back up on that sink. Instead, I draw a deep breath, reaching for the breeding my parents paid so much for, and open the door. I want to sink through the buffed-to-high-shine hardwood floors when I see a third person has joined Charm and Bridget. Apparently, Mrs. O’Malley arrived while Grip and I were indisposed. Bridget looks uncomfortable and slightly shocked. Charm looks amused and slightly jealous. She introduces me to Esther O’Malley.
The powder room door opens behind us and Grip steps out, turning his smile up to full wattage. Charm practically swoons.
“You must be Mrs. O’Malley,” he says, reaching for Esther’s hand. “I’m Marlon. You have a beautiful home.”
“It really is,” I agree. If he can recover smoothly and be all normal, so can I. “We were just admiring the powder room.”
Abort mission.
Why did I remind them about the powder room? But I can’t stop. My mouth runs ahead of my good sense.
“And noticing the, um . . .” What was I noticing other than Grip’s head between my legs? “The wallpaper.”
“Wallpaper?” Mrs. O’Malley’s thick, dark brows pull center. “There’s no wallpaper in there.”
“Exactly,” I rush to say. “I told Grip, I said, Grip . . . um, Marlon, I’m so glad they didn’t use wallpaper in here.”
“She did. That’s what she said.” Grip nods with great gravity. “What color would you call that paint, though, honey?”
The polite smile freezes on my face, and my eyes jerk to find his. He’s laughing at me. His mouth is a flat line, but those eyes are a-live with laughing at me.
“Oh . . . gosh, well, it’s such a . . . such a . . . rich color,” I stammer. I’m not a stammer-er, but it’s not every day I have an all-out orgasm within earshot of a little old Jewish lady with an Irish last name. “I’d call it . . . well . . .”
“White?” Mrs. O’Malley offers helpfully.
Damn. White. I didn’t exactly take note of the walls when were in there.
“But it’s such a rich white,” I say, forcing my lips to stay curved.
“Well, this is Tribeca,” Grip deadpans. “There’s bound to be a lot of rich whites.”
An uncertain silence blossoms among us, one of those spaces where you’re not sure if it’s safe to laugh or if things just got really awkward. And then the most unexpected thing happens.
Mrs. O’Malley laughs—gut-busting, bend-at-the-waist, wiping- tears laughs. It’s a hearty sound, full of life. Chuckling, she links her arm through my boyfriend’s and starts walking off to show him the place. I’m still standing there getting my shit together as their voices mingle down the hall, and then a goofy grin finally finds its way to my face. I knew I liked this place. Anyone who laughs like that knows how to make a home.
Charm and I pull up the rear, with Bridget, Grip, and Esther ahead of us.
“Bristol,” Charm whispers. “You were right.” “About what?” I ask cautiously.
“That time we had that threesome with Bumpy Dick”—a skanky smirk slides onto Charm’s lips—“you definitely didn’t sound like that.”
Chapter 6
Grip
“YOU CAN’T KEEP your hands off her, can you?”
Esther O’Malley studies me with a knowing grin. I don’t want to grin back. I should be embarrassed that this nice old lady just heard Bristol screaming her head off, but it’s hard to find the shame with Mrs. O’Malley grinning at me like a Cheshire cat.
“Um, no, ma’am.” I chuckle and try to look chagrined. “We haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks, and I missed her. Sorry about earlier. That was . . .”
Remarkable. Earth-shattering. World-rocking.
“Unacceptable,” I say instead.