Noelle August - Boomerang

Mia stands beyond the reach of the lights, but I can feel her looking at me.

“Mia?”

“Yes?”

“Shirt?”

“Oh, right,” she says, looking down at her hand. She tosses the towel onto the table and comes over with the shirt.

“Here you go.” Finally, she looks up at me. “I’ll try to clean yours. Or replace it. With the other one I stole.”

Standing, I take her father’s shirt. “Thanks.” I can tell just by looking that it’s going to be too small. Not a surprise since I’m six-two, and Mr. Galliano is maybe five-nine. But what makes me hesitate isn’t the fit.

I don’t want clothes to be added to this scenario, I want them subtracted. I flash on an image of Mia’s peach dress puddled at her feet, and the way she’d look under these lights. Under me under these lights, and I wonder . . .

I stare into her eyes, searching for the vibe I felt from her during our text chat earlier, or when she walked into the studio, but it’s not there. There’s no invitation from her, and I don’t know if it’s because of me, or the job, or her fuckwad ex, and right now, it really doesn’t matter.

I need a solid green light, and I’m not getting it.

Adam’s laugh echoes from the kitchen, like the call to retreat.

Mia says, “I guess we should go.”

“Right.”

I yank on the shirt. Just as I suspected, the thing is like donning a second skin. That’s four sizes too small. Mia’s laughing before I start buttoning it.

“Can you even breathe?” she asks.

“Barely, but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat anything.”

“You’re just trying to avoid my mother’s cooking.”

“No way. Sulfuric acid is my favorite.” The higher buttons won’t even stay closed, so I give up and look at Mia. “I wish I had some chest hair to complete the look. Got any gold chains I could borrow?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “You can’t go to dinner flashing all that cleavage. Come here, I’ll button it.”

As soon as she touches my shirt, my hands frame her face, and I bend close, only inches separating us.

Mia doesn’t tense or flinch in surprise, and I have this feeling she knew what I’d do when even I didn’t.

We stay there, just breathing the same air for a few seconds, making a little pocket of shadow in the brightness that surrounds us.

This has to be our secret, or we could lose everything.

No one can know.

Neither of us says a word but the pact is right there, between us.

Then Mia’s fingers close around my collar, tugging me closer, and I can’t wait anymore.

I brush her lips with mine. This isn’t our first kiss, but it sure as hell feels that way, and it seems important, somehow, to be tender with her.

That doesn’t last long. I want more of her right away, and my tongue slides into her mouth. She tastes cool and sweet, like chilled grapes. When I feel her respond, kissing me back like she wants more, I wrap my arms around her, fitting her against me, and give it to her.

Mia draws back slightly after a moment, dashing kisses along the corner of my mouth. I take the opportunity to steal a glance at her from this close—she has the hottest body I’ve ever seen. I smooth my hand along her ribs, finding the curve of her breast. She sighs and presses closer, and the sound almost makes me lose my mind.

I need more. I hoist her up and turn, settling her on the barstool as I kiss her. Her knees are in my way, so I nudge her legs apart, pushing her dress up her thighs. Then I settle between her hips.

“You feel incredible, Mia,” I say.

But the truth is she feels fucking perfect.

Mia

Q: Do you like surprises?

I grip Ethan’s taut biceps and ease my thighs further apart, pulling him against me. I can’t get enough of his strong arm bracing the small of my back or his perfect fingers moving over my nipple, skimming the length of my body—familiar and new at the same time. I want more of his lips, soft and searching, and his delicious wine-warm tongue plunging against my own. We are locked in this world between the studio’s shadows and the bright, all-seeing lights, and it feels like a dream, like a moment that already belongs to memory.

My hands wind into his hair, and I pull him closer still, wrapping my legs around him and crossing my ankles, trapping him. I feel him, all of him—his broad, solid chest, the heat pulsing between us, and the hard length of him against my lower belly, undeniable, insistent, and sending shockwaves through my core.

“Jesus, Mia,” Ethan breathes against my lips.

I press against him, my lips and tongue needing to be everywhere—on his lips, on the hollow of his chin, on his jaw, his throat, where I graze my teeth against the heartbeat throbbing there.

My lips stay there, exploring, while my hand slides down, down . . .

“Mia,” my dad calls. His heavy footsteps thump in the hallway.

Ethan and I leap away from each other, and I’m off the stool and halfway to the door, my heart a furious piston, by the time my father appears.

“Dinner, honey,” he says, and lightly bumps into one of the walls. He really has gotten into the booze. “Didn’t you hear us?”

“Oh, sorry, no,” I say, resisting the urge to smooth my clothes or my hair, which I know must be a crazed snarl. “Ethan and I were . . . um, talking. We’ll be right there.”

“I did what I could,” he whispers. “But it’s time to face the music.”

“What?” Panic washes over me. Are we busted? How long have we been gone?

“Added some spices. Threw in some chicken and veggies.” He shrugs. “Best I could do.”

“Oh, right!” I exhale with enough force to blow out a candle. “Dinner. Right.”

“Come on. It’s getting cold. Or congealing.” He executes a sloppy pivot to return to the dining room.

I breathe and peek back into the studio. Ethan leans against my mother’s worktable, legs crossed, grinning in this way that’s smug and charming and brazen and makes me basically want to burn the house down around us so we never have to leave this room.

“Dinner,” I say. Though I want to grab his hand and slip out through the French doors into the coolness of the night.

“I heard.”

“You coming?”

“In a minute,” he smirks, glancing down at himself. “I’ve got a . . . umm . . . a situation to take care of here.”

I follow his gaze. Yep. Definitely a situation.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I tell him. But because I can’t resist, I steal over and throw myself on him again, give him one last full-on kiss and pour myself against the length of him. The situation becomes a full-on incident, and I dart away, laughing.

“You suck,” Ethan calls after me.

I carry my idiot smile down the hall with me, thankful for the murmur of conversation and the strains of Béla Fleck that tell me that the evening is winging by comfortably without us.

I can’t get the image of Ethan in my mom’s photographs out of my mind. True, they portray a darker Ethan. Brooding, with that same intensity in his face that reminds me of the morning—less than a week ago—that I woke up in his bed. I want to know what moved through his thoughts in that moment.

My whole body feels light, untethered. Like I’m drunk or stoned. I slip into a chair across from Adam, who has gathered himself and sits with his usual air of crisp self-possession.

“Did you already do away with the competition?” he asks, grinning.

“Yes.” I smooth my napkin over my lap. “He’s been completely immobilized.”

My mother waylays Ethan as he comes down the hall, and the next thing I know, he’s staggering over with a serving dish large enough to hold a massive turkey. He sets it down and sits on the other side of the table, next to Nana. I’m afraid to look at him because I know I’ll give myself away. But I do, and his eyes flick up to meet mine before focusing on his plate. A sexy half-smile plays across his lips, and I know he’s entertaining the same thoughts.

Mom tugs off the lid of the serving dish, and I gasp. A surprised what-kind-of-freakin’-alchemy-is-this?-kind of gasp. Because the food looks, and smells, normal. Tantalizing, even. As a plus, it also resembles actual food—chicken in some kind of sauce. Things I actually recognize as root vegetables.

Mouths drop open in surprised “O’s” all around the table. Except for my mom’s, which presses into an exasperated line. My dad’s in trouble, but dinner’s saved.

“Wow, that smells different,” Ethan blurts. He flushes and tries to recover. “I mean delicious.”

Nana laughs and pats Ethan on the arm. “Nice try, young man.”

Dinner is dished, and we all settle into comfortable conversation.

“What kind of things have you and Ethan been getting up to in the office?” my mother asks.

I almost choke on my wine but realize she means the Boomerang office. “Well, we’ve really only just started, mom. But we’re working on a branding campaign.”

“Rebranding, actually,” Adam corrects. “I’ve asked Ethan and Mia to help push the Boomerang brand forward. They’re working on boosting our presence at an upcoming trade show in Las Vegas.”

“Speaking of which,” Ethan inserts, smoothly, “Mia and I have been wanting to talk to you about the display design.”

We focus on Adam while we give our pitch, but really it’s like we’re talking to one another, like we’re a perfectly tuned machine.

“It could be so much livelier,” I tell Adam. “Sexy and bold. It could really speak to the people you’re trying to reach. The current design—” I look to Ethan for help.