Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(67)

“You going?”

The silence gathering between us is weighted by all the words and sentiments we haven’t spoken; things I’d like to say tonight, if she’ll listen. If she’ll let me.

“Um, I’m still deciding,” Hendrix answers, finally glancing up from the table and finding my eyes with hers. “You?”

I sense that my answer will impact hers. If I’m attending, I can bet my Bugatti that she won’t.

“I don’t think so.” I shrug. “Not that it would be awkward. She and I are on good terms.”

It’s technically true. Things are still a little tense between Zere and me, but damn. She invited me to her party.

“Just busy?” Hendrix asks.

“I think I’m on the West Coast that weekend,” I lie.

“Oh, gotcha.” I can’t interpret her look as relief or disappointment.

“You joined the four-oh club yet?” I ask.

“Yup. You?”

“Last year. Zere invited maybe two hundred of my ‘closest’ friends for a party at the house in Miami.” I flash a wry grin. “How ’bout you? You do anything special?”

There’s reminiscence in her extended sigh. “My fortieth birthday was amazing. I flew me and my besties Soledad and Yasmen to Dubai. It was spectacular. Spared no expense, drank like a fish.”

Defiance enters her eyes. “Hooked up with anything breathing.”

“Good for you,” I reply neutrally. Is she saying that to put me off? I don’t care who she fucked before. Once I have her, all other pussies and dicks will be laid to rest. “It was just the three of you?”

“That’s all I needed. I’m closer to them than anyone. My other friends in Atlanta threw me a huge party, but forty was big for me. I wanted to turn up, yes, but I also wanted to reflect. Yas and Sol are the full range of friendship.”

“You guys grew up together?”

“You’d think, but no. We’ve only known each other a few years. We met in a yoga class and just clicked. I knew very soon after we met that these were my people, and we’ve only gotten closer year after year.”

“You said they have kids.” I raise my voice a little to be heard over the group singing Keyshia Cole’s “Love” at the other end of the dining room.

“Yes, I’m always on rich auntie duty,” she laughs. “Yas has two kids with her ex-ex-husband.”

“Ex-ex?”

“They divorced and remarried.”

“People do that in real life?”

“They did. They belonged together. It was obvious to everyone that they needed to reconcile, so we were all relieved when they got their shit together. And Sol has three daughters.”

“She’s married?”

“Divorced.” She screws up her face with disgust. “Her husband was a trash ass… Hmm, hmm, hmmm. He wasn’t good to her. And not your standard-issue trash. We talking embezzled money from work, cheated with his secretary, got a baby on his side piece, went to jail—”

“Wait. That’s some soap opera shit.”

“Oh, believe me. It was OTT drama, but it all happened to Sol,” Hendrix says, a rueful twist to her mouth. “It was hard as hell for her and the girls.”

“You and Yasmen were there for her,” I guess.

“Of course we were. They’re the sisters I never had. We ride for each other always.”

Ms. Pearl approaches the table, balancing loaded white Styrofoam plates on her arms.

“Here we go,” she says, laying out all the plates. A young man comes up behind her and puts the last of the items Hendrix ordered on the table.

“This looks delicious.” I grab the syrup and douse my pecan waffle. “Hungry as hell.”

“Me too,” Hendrix says. “Hold up. Be right back.”

She stands, grabs the second All-Star meal she ordered, and speed-walks up the aisle and out the door to the parking lot. When she reaches the Bentley, Matthew rolls down the window, grinning and looking half lovestruck when he accepts the plate of food. He watches her when she walks back to the diner, appreciation in his gaze. I can’t blame him. Even dressed down, she manages to look sophisticated. Fucking forty and looking that young and pretty and fly.

No, I can’t blame Matthew for looking at Hendrix that way, but if he keeps it up, dude will be out of a job. That’s my girl.

She just doesn’t know it yet.





CHAPTER 25





HENDRIX


I’m not inviting Maverick up. He’s not coming into my apartment. We’re saying goodnight right here in the car, and that’s it.

“Nightcap?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say unhesitatingly, shocking and kicking my own self in the ass. Before I can withdraw the offer, Maverick gets out on his side and quickly crosses around to open the door for me. I stare at his proffered hand like it’s a hissing snake instead of a polite way to assist a lady.

“I changed my mind,” I blurt. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“One drink,” Maverick says, grasping my hand and tugging until I get out of the car. When I step down, he doesn’t step back, and there’s little to no space separating us. The heat coming off our bodies is not just physiological, not generated from mere metabolism or circulation or the mechanics of keeping us alive. The air is alive between us. It breathes. It seethes. It has a pulse that pounds loud in my ears every second we stand too close.