"If you can't, I'll buy you more."
"No more gifts. What's next? Because I doubt I can move."
“I want to take you to see The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. But it might be too cold.”
“I don’t care. There’s no way I came all the way to New York and not see that tree.”
We get out of the SUV. It’s crowded, and the time seems perfect. The ice rink is full of families. The tree is spectacular.
“It’s said they constructed the site in the early 1930s by men thankful for jobs after the Great Depression. Close to a million people visit this city to see this tree.”
I look over at her.
“Look at that star. Take a picture of me.” She runs over to have the tree in the background. I snap several pictures for her and a couple for myself.
We start our tour on foot. She stops at every decorative element posing with giant red Christmas ornaments, the oversize string lights. Her nose is red, and her eyes are full of joy.
“Thank you, Carson.” She falls into my arms. “This is the best Christmas ever.”
“You’re welcome.” I kiss the tip of her frozen nose. “What shall it be? Back to the hotel or ice skating?”
“Don’t you have work?”
“Hotel or ice skating?”
“Ice skating.”
I stop by a tourist shop and buy her a cheaply made yet expensive mask and gloves set. “I won’t be held responsible for your nose falling off.”
Quanesha laughs as I yank the mask over her head. “Daiya will hate she missed it.”
“We can always visit again before they close.” Her leaving at the end of the month is a thought I don’t want to consider. “Ready?”
“You know it.”
We skate, holding hands until the rink closes. We fall back in the heated SUV, thankful Deacon thought to grab hot coffee for me and hot chocolate for her.
“Absolutely perfect. Now I see why Hallmark loves Christmas. It’s infectious.”
“And cold.”
"I may never feel my nose again." She chuckles, drinking her chocolate.
“Your turn.”
She turns in the seat. “Shoot.”
“How will you handle your Quanie-Rachelle dilemma?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. It’s a risk I’m not sure I’m ready to take.”
“But how can you be both?”
“It’s hard to explain. Did you attend church as a child?”
“Yes, every Sunday.”
“Okay. Do you behave the same, use the same vernacular, tell the same jokes on Friday with your friends that you say on Sunday with your pastor?”
"No. I guess I never gave it much thought. In the office, I'm Mr. Wellington, with my family. I'm a son, brother, uncle. But this line of division feels different somehow. How does it feel for you?"
"Fun. Conflicting. Overwhelming. Some people call it whitewashing, acting White, pretending. I call it surviving. My life in Hollywood has rules and boundaries, seen and unseen. It's a dynamic I didn't expect. Back home, you're judged by your word, your work ethic, and I guess by your family reputation. But the moment I enrolled at UCLA, all that changed. My grades and smarts got me there, but I lacked the most valuable asset."
“And what’s that?”
“Pedigree.”
I decide on the spot I want all of her. “Tell me about it, baby.”
Chapter 9
I’m over halfway through my vacation. Carson’s makes me feel at home. But I’m so comfortable that it scares me because I know I’m falling for him.
He hears my unspoken words, sees through my bullshit, and suddenly my Christmas fling feels real. I could blame it on the long walks in the snow, the Christmas trees, and decor, or the mistletoe he keeps in his pocket.
Not because he ended my drought, although that shit is the bomb. But because I’ve never met a man like him.
I look across the room, and he’s studying me.
“You’re starting to freak me out.” I close the laptop lid and prop my feet on the chair.
“My apologies. I enjoy having you around, which means you’re probably scared.”
“Shitless.”
He smiles, and my heart warms. The salt-and-pepper hair gives him a mature appearance. He says the gray hair came with the responsibility of running this place. He has over a thousand employees, and this conference has reached the daily news and the newspaper more than once. He's making a difference in his world, and he's only thirty-four years old.
“Your turn.”
I shake my head. It's our thing to dig and explore. Emotionally two weeks seems like a lifetime, but we know very little about each other.
The statement is an invitation to open up and let him in. However, the more I let him in, the harder it'll be to let Carson go. Because on December thirtieth, I'll board a plane back to Los Angeles.
"I think I figured out why Daiya called you Miss Cookie Monster."
Heat floods to my face, and I lift my laptop to block my face.
"Oh, so now you're busy." His laugh fills the room, and I smile, although he's laughing at my expense. One day he'll share that laugh with someone else, and that crushes something in me that's irreparable.
Click.
I look over, and he's standing beside the door removing his jacket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“About to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Your ass is crazy.”
He loosens his tie, and my hands itch to undress him. His clothes feel smooth and undressing him is like opening the best Christmas present ever. He turns off the light, and the billboards in Times Square light the room.
Carson drops his jacket and his tie. He kicks off his shoes. Then the jingle of him loosening his belt sends my eyes straight to his package. But not for long because now I'm hypnotized by the slow unbuttoning of his dress shirt.
“Why did she call you Miss Cookie Monster, Quanesha?” He licks his lips, and my eyes bounce from his eyes to the front of his pants.
This man’s body is walking perfection. Sleek and powerful. He can carry me without issue, even with the extra pounds I’ve put on since arriving. He has my nose so wide open I can’t imagine what will happen if he tastes my cookie.
We haven’t done that. He’s had me all over his suite, my suite, his elevator. But never oral or in here.
I blink, and his shirt is open. Fuck, I missed it.
"Take off your shirt." He stops, and the lights flash, giving a quick glimpse of his face.
I obey. Pulling my shirt over my head, and I place it in his outstretched hand.
“Your pants.”
My hands shake, playing with the button.
“Now, Quanie, I’m hungry.”
“Yes, sir.”
His growl makes my pussy vibrate. Ready to play.
I turn over my pants, my bra, my panties. I’m naked for the world to see.
“Ass on the table. Legs on the chairs.”
I push all my work aside and sit on the cold table, opening my legs.
“Touch yourself.”
“What?” I ask.
I'm positive I love this man, and if we do this, how in the hell will I leave him? How?