King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (12 page)

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

“Do
you need me to tell you what we’re eating?” I shake my head yes, and he points
at the main dish. “Jumbo deep sea scallops encrusted in pumpkin seed,” he says,
checking my expression before he proceeds to the next item. “Chayote with
calabacitas with chipotle peppercorn sauce. It’s not ‘American’ food. I’m
sorry. I wanted to share some of my favorites. I assumed you would like Mexican
food. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

I
do love Mexican. I mean, growing up in Texas, it’s pretty much mandatory, but
these aren’t your average Mexican tacos or burritos.

“No,
no, I love Mexican food. I just haven’t had these particular things before. It
looks great, and honestly, I would eat just about anything right now.”

Relief
spreads across his face again, and I wonder why he’s trying so hard. Why does
he care so much if the food is to my liking or if the mood is set perfectly? We
hardly know each other.

“You’re
sure? I can have something else prepared in seconds if you’d like.”

“No.
Please, King, this is perfect, all of this,” I say, looking around the room and
back to him. “The table, the room, the music, the food . . . but most of all,
you, King,” I say, reaching out to cover his hand with mine on the armrest of
his chair.

The
same jolt I felt earlier passes between us, flooding my body with that strange
combination of electricity and contentment. I’m reminded of the comment he made
earlier, and I decide to ask what he meant by it.

“What
did you mean when you said ‘You make things different’?” I ask and
watch
as he seems to search for the right words to explain.

“I’m
not exactly sure. You just make me feel . . . different somehow.” His eyes
narrow and his brow furrows softly as he regards me carefully for a heartbeat.
“Now eat before you pass out on the floor and suffocate in a sea of orchid
petals,” he says, removing my hand from his and placing it over my fork.
Something about that answer stirs suspicion as well as guilt. It’s as if he
wanted to elaborate but he stopped himself; that’s the suspicion. The guilt I
feel stems from the secret I’m keeping. I hadn’t considered telling him how old
I was before, but the further the day goes on, the more important it seems.

The
food is out of this world delicious, but it’s
spicy
. I try to keep my cool for a few bites, but finally I
surrender and down another glass of water. With one hand splayed on the table
and teary eyes, I look at King over the rim of my glass and see him biting his
lip and holding back a laugh. When I’ve drained the glass, I set it down hard
and gasp.

“You
knew this was hot.”

“Ah,
yes. I guess I did,” he says sheepishly, gritting his teeth and bowing his head
to look at me through his thick dark eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Really, I think
they actually made it a little spicier than usual. Here, have some champagne.
I’ll have Sebastián get you more water.” He lifts his hand, motioning to
someone in the shadows around the dance floor. Right away, my glass is filled
and a pitcher of water is placed on the table between us. I’ve already downed
my champagne in a very un-ladylike manner when I start in on my second—or
is it my third—glass of water.

He
isn’t holding back now. His chuckling has turned into a full-fledged laugh, and
I start to giggle along with him. He’s taken an extra drink of water as well,
so I know it’s not just me feeling the heat of the spicy food.

“You
okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,
I think I will be now,” I say, coughing while I watch him refill my champagne
flute.

“I
promise something more traditional next time.”

“Traditional?
As in less Mexican or less hot?” I ask.

“Less
hot, never less Mexican.” He smiles, and I wonder if he was born in Mexico.

“Are
you from Mexico originally?”

“No,
Puerto Rico. My father moved us to Texas when I was fifteen,” he says, pushing
his food around on his plate.

“Really?
I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, but my daddy took us to Mexico on vacation
once.” I too push my food around on my plate, unsure if I want to risk another
bite. I expect King to elaborate on growing up in Puerto Rico, but he’s grown
unusually quiet and withdrawn. A strange unease hangs in the air between us, so
I decide to veer the topic of discussion in a different direction.

“What
sparked your interest in classical music?” I ask, tentatively taking another
bite of shrimp. His face brightens as his eyes find mine again. Smart move. He
loves music, it seems—almost as much as I do.

“I
was five, and my mother bought a piano. No one knew how to play, but she
encouraged me to learn. She always wanted me to do the things she wasn’t able
to when she was a child. I started lessons and caught on immediately. My mother
wanted me to try other instruments, but my father said I should focus on one
thing and be great at it, so of course I did as he wished.

 
I listened to classical music when the
other kids in school were listening to Rap and Pop. My dad regretted
encouraging me to play the piano when he decided I should be involved in team
sports, but I didn’t enjoy being part of a group. I was more interested in
running, swimming, playing the piano . . . things that I could do on my own.
Anyway, to answer your question, my mother instigated my love of classical
music.”

“You
don’t seem like the loner type to me, what with owning and running dance clubs
for a living.” I can almost taste his disquiet.

“I
got over it. My father made sure of it.” His tone is bitter, and I’m picking up
that their relationship was less than ideal.

“I’d
love to hear you play sometime.”

“I
think that can be arranged.”

Someone
is approaching from behind. I can hear the shuffle of flower petals as they
near the table. King looks up, initially irritated, but quickly his expression
changes to concern. Sebastián bends to quietly say something in King’s ear on
the opposite side of me, so I can’t make out what he’s saying.

“Fuck.
Tell her I’m busy,” he snaps, but Sebastián raises his brows as if to say
Yeah, right
and turns to leave us alone
again.

“I’m
sorry, Holland. I’ll be right back. I have to deal with some . . .” he begins
to explain, but before he can get the words out, he’s cut off by the screech of
a woman’s voice.

“What
the hell is all of
this
?” She
shrieks, and I turn to see a familiar very tall, very angry woman standing
ankle deep in orchid petals with her hands outstretched. It’s the woman from
the pictures on the
internet
—the one in the red
dress.

“And
who the fuck is this?” She screams in an even higher pitch.

“Crystal,
what the hell are you doing here?” King yells, and I jump an inch off of my seat.
His eyes swing back to me when he realizes he’s startled me.

“I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, reaching out to touch my arm.
“I’ll be right back.” He pushes out his chair and bends to kiss me softly on my
mouth. I squirm when the angry woman gasps.

“It’s
okay. Just a misunderstanding, I promise,” he whispers, but not quietly enough.

“A
misunderstanding. So I’m just a misunderstanding? What the fuck, King?” she
screams, and King closes the distance between them in three long strides.

“Shut
your fucking mouth, Crystal,” he hisses, taking her arm roughly and leading her
toward the front entrance. She stumbles and complains all the way until they
pass through the doors, leaving me alone and confused. Is this Crystal his
girlfriend? Is he cheating on her with me? Am I the other woman? The questions
begin to pile up, and I don’t understand how I could have gotten mixed up in
such a mess.

After
a few minutes alone, my mind settles and I hear soft music wafting through the
high-powered sound system. Chopin . . . now that is something I understand,
unlike the hysteria of the surprised woman who was just dragged from the room.
Chopin is soothing and relaxing. It makes sense. I close my eyes and lean my
head back on the chair, trying to
not
figure out what just happened here. As always, I’m instantly transported far
away from the insanity of being a nineteen-year-old girl sneaking away from
home to have dinner with an unsuspecting older man, who is now in the lobby
with his very pissed off girlfriend. I relax and loosen my grip on the arms of
the chair while I loll my head to the adagio tempo. It’s beautiful here in the
calm of my private musical world. I used to think there was no place I’d rather
be, until I met King . . .

Muffled
angry voices pull me from my reverie, and I open my eyes to see King leaning on
a column, with one hand in his pocket, staring at me as if I were the most
fascinating thing in the world.

“You’re
so fucking amazing,” he says, pushing off the column to make his way to the
table.

“Who
was that?” I say, nodding my head toward the doors where the angry woman is
still vehemently arguing with someone.

“A
mistake,” he answers simply.

“How
so?”

“Her
name is Crystal. I met her a little over a year ago. She’s always interpreted our
friendship differently than I do.”

“As
in she thinks you’re a couple and you don’t?” I ask.

“Yes,
essentially,” he says as he arrives at the table, reaching for my hand. “Dance
with me?” I place my hand in his, and he gently pulls me to my feet. The little
bit of alcohol in my body begins to circulate, and I remember my vow to never
drink again. How on earth did I ever forget that? Being with King seems to
vaporize all of my common sense. There is no wrong or right, just here and
now—never
no,
always yes.

King’s
arms circle me. One hand rests just below the small of my back, the other
behind my neck. He softly pulls me against his chest and nuzzles his nose into
my hair, inhaling deeply.

“You’re
amazing.”

“What
do you mean?” I ask, not fishing for further compliments but genuinely curious
as to why he thinks I’m amazing.

He
moves his face away from my hair and slides his hand from behind my neck,
slowly along my shoulder, and down my arm until our palms are pressing
together.

“We
are having a magical date. My ex walks
in,
screaming
hysterically, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in Chopin. That’s
amazing.” Our eyes are focused on our hands as he lifts them to lace his
fingers with mine.

“You
chose Chopin . . . it’s irresistible,” I say, looking into his quizzical eyes.

“I
don’t know if I should be insulted by your lack of concern about my ex or in
awe of your capability to compartmentalize.”

I
smile and lean into the warm heat of his body.

“Be
in awe, but tell me about Crystal.”

“That’s
very diplomatic of you, Ms. Bennett.”

“Well,
I don’t want you to think I’m not curious or worried, because I’d be lying if I
said I weren’t, but I am good at keeping things separated. Music would consume
me if I couldn’t. It would swallow me up, and I’d never experience anything
else.”

“There’s
no need to be worried. You can rest assured of that. Like I said, she’s nothing
to me.”

For
some reason, hearing him say that makes me sad. It’s obvious that King is
something to her—how could he not be? I could easily be Crystal in a week
or two. I’m not sure I would be handling the sight of him having a romantic
dinner with another woman any better than she just did.

“What’s
the matter? You’re tense,” he says, rubbing his hand in small circles on my
back.

“How
long did you say you two were together?”

King
sighs. “We were never really together. We slept together, and she went with me
to formal functions, but it wasn’t an actual relationship—for me,
anyway.”

“It
seems like it was for her. She’s pretty upset. And you didn’t really answer my
question.”

“Holland,
I don’t want to waste time thinking about Crystal, but if it makes you feel
better, I met her over a year ago at a club opening. We went to a few functions
and had dinner once in a while. She always wanted more, but I didn’t feel the
same way. Are we good now?”

“Sure.”

“Good,”
he says, smiling mischievously, and he suddenly twirls me away from his body
when the tempo of the music speeds up. I’ve never danced this way before, but
King makes it effortless, moving me around the floor.

Being
with King is easy and natural. It’s amazing how well we relate to each other,
considering we have a six-year age gap. I giggle as he over-exaggerates a
couple of dance moves, acting silly. When the music fades, he leads me back to
the table, where
our dinner plates have been replaced by
small saucers
. He pulls out my chair while I sit and catch my breath.

“What’s
this?” I ask, looking at the round, white disk. I assume its dessert, because
it’s being served after dinner, but I’ve never seen anything like it before.