Banner Morales is more than I bargained for. We’d had sex twice in ten years, and I remembered every vivid detail of both encounters. Last night was . . . more. Her stripping down to nothing, dropping her robe and her guard, not just showing me her skin and the ripe curves of her body but showing me herself, she completely bared her inner self to me. The trust of that act heightened the intima
cy between us in a way I’ve never experienced.
“I think I’ll have steak.” She smiles at me in the glow of lit candles. The restaurant, one of the island’s finest, features a private terrace, which hangs over the Caribbean with its gradated shades of blue, a startling bed of aquamarine, cerulean, and turquoise. The balmy breeze off the water toys with loose strands of Banner’s hair and carries her clean scent across the table to me. If it weren’t for the solicitous server checking on us every few minutes, I could imagine we are the only ones here.
“Points be damned,” she says with a laugh. “I’m on vacation. What are you having?”
I stare into those long-lashed espresso-colored eyes, and all I can think of is how she looked down at me when I was between her knees, head buried in her pussy, slurping at her like one of the intoxicating island drinks that deceive you with their fruity sweetness. That’s Banner. She’s so sweet, you don’t realize how dangerous she is at first—that she goes to your head until you’re reeling from the effects. You don’t realize she’s a beautiful snare, and once you’re trapped, not only can you not get out, but you don’t want to.
“Jared?” She shoots me an inquiring look over her menu. “What are you having?”
“Oh.” I glance at the menu I’ve been holding for the last ten minutes, but hadn’t bothered reading. “The paella looks good.”
“Oooh.” She narrows her gaze on the menu and nods. “I’ve changed my mind. That does look delicious. I think I’ll have that, too. It’s one of my favorites to make.”
“You cook much?”
It’s when I have to ask these kinds of questions that I realize how much Banner and I don’t know about each other. Despite feeling like I left irretrievable parts of myself inside her last night, and that I’ll carry the secrets of her body to the grave, we’ve missed a lot in the decade we were apart.
“I do actually.” She shrugs, the olive skin of her shoulders gleaming sun-kissed and smooth in her strapless dress. “When I have time.”
“Maybe you can cook something for me.”
We stare at one another across the table, the possibility of an actual relationship— something we’ve never had the chance to consider—silently unfolding between us.
“Yeah,” she replies. “I could make you my favorite dish.”
“Which is?”
“Chicken enchiladas with mole sauce. I make it even better than my mama.”
“You and your mom are close?”
“Yes, in the way mothers and daughters who are too much alike are close. Usually arguing after ten minutes together.” She sips the fruity drink she ordered and grimaces. “I didn’t realize this had pineapple. Blech.”
I laugh at the face she makes. “I take it you don’t approve?”
“I hate pineapple. Always have.”
She sets the glass down on the table and there’s a tiny lull in our conversation. It doesn’t feel like that awkward “so what do we talk about now,” as much as there’s so much to talk about, we aren’t sure where to start. I hesitate, unsure if I should say what I’m feeling, but then I remember her bravely sharing herself, her fears and insecurities with me yesterday, and I know there is only forward for us. I’m not sure where we’re going, but it has to be forward. I reach across the table for her hand, smiling at the wary look she offers. She’s unsure, too.
“I feel like we have a lot to learn about each other,” I tell her. “In some ways it feels like I’ve known you for years and can predict your next move before you think it, but in other ways I feel like I know nothing at all.”
She squeezes my hand, a smile blooming on her mouth and rising on her cheeks. “You’re right. I don’t even know if you watch TV, much less what your favorite show might be.”
“Billions.”
“I’m seriously not surprised.” She smiles at me across the table. “Let me guess. Your favorite character is Bobby Axelrod, right?”
“Wrong,” I come back, pleased that she mis-pegged me.
“Who, then?” she asks, eyes narrowed in speculation.
“Wendy Rhoades.”
Her mouth falls open and she leans forward, elbows on the table.
“I’m shocked you didn’t say Bobby, or at least Chuck. Why Wendy?”