The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,141

give. “I can’t stop shaking,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He holds me up by my waist as he takes me. When his breathing shallows and his grunts intensify, he slides a hand up to grip my breast. He bucks up into me and erupts.

He fills me for the first time.

After what we’ve been through, it binds us in an irrevocable way.

THIRTY-FOUR

When I emerge from the guest bedroom in the morning, I’m embarrassed by how late it is. I normally leave for work around seven, but thanks to the large, cloud-like bed, the complete stillness of the suburbs, and the workout Andrew gave me last night, I overslept. I barely remember waking up at dawn to sneak back to the guest room. After a shower and dressing in my party outfit, it’s ten in the morning.

I follow the only noise in the house, which comes from the kitchen. Bell and Flora are surrounded by baking ingredients, from a heavy bag of flour to a carton of eggs to a colorful array of mixing bowls.

“Morning,” I say.

Bell whirls around, and her eyes double in size. “Mila!”

My heart drops. What was I thinking, wandering in here like this without considering how it might look to Bell? I should’ve waited for Andrew to come get me. I look hurriedly at Flora for direction, but she just shrugs, so instead I address Bell. “I hope you don’t mind that I stayed in your guest room—”

“You . . . look . . . beautiful.” She covers her mouth with both hands. “You’re wearing that to my party?”

“Oh.” I look down at my dress, a colorful DVF wrap from the spring collection with enormous, budding flowers in pink, orange and red. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” She tiptoes toward me, holding out her hands.

“Bell, honey,” Flora says. “That’s an expensive dress. Wash your hands first.”

Bell has her father’s purple-blue eyes, and they’re saucer-sized with wonder. Her giddiness reminds me of standing in my mother’s impressive, Texas-sized closet, surrounded by glamorous pieces that always smelled of Chanel No. 5. As much as I shelled out for this dress, I’d rather spoil it than this moment—a young girl’s budding love affair with fashion. “It’s okay,” I say. “You can touch it.” I hold out the fabric. “This is Diane von Furstenberg. The fabric is silk. Flora’s right—it is delicate and beautiful, so you want to treat it with respect.”

Bell wipes her hands quickly on her pajamas and then gently takes it in her small hands, stroking one of the flowers.

I glance up at Flora, who’s smiling at us. “Where’s Andrew?” I ask.

“He and Antonio ran out to pick up some last-minute things.”

“Antonio?” I ask.

“My son. Pico.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Right. Should we start the cake?”

Flora hesitates and nods at Bell. “It could get messy, especially with this one.”

Bell goes rod straight, as if possessed by some great idea. “Daddy has an apron. I’ll get it.”

“You look very . . . put together,” Flora says while Bell rummages in a closet.

“You mean overdressed.”

“Just a touch. The heels alone—you’ll sink in the backyard.”

There are jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers in my duffel bag, but I purposely chose this dress. It may be a party for a seven-year-old, but it’s a party nonetheless. I wouldn’t wear anything more casual if it were in the city, after all. This is who I am, whether New Jersey likes it or not.

Bell finds the apron and brings it to me. “Here you go.”

“Do you think I should change, Bell?” I ask, taking it from her.

“No,” she says. “Please don’t!”

“Me neither.” I tie the apron around my waist and neck. “I can’t think of a better occasion to dress up for.”

Flora chuckles to herself, muttering, “It won’t last.”

Bell squeaks. Her face is bright red with exertion, and I quickly figure out she’s doing her best to hold in a laugh.

“What?” I ask, following her gaze. I hold out the apron and crane my neck to see it upside down. There’s a silhouette of a man with a spatula next to a grill. I read it aloud. “I Like Pig Butts and I Cannot Lie.”

Bell bursts into a fit of giggles, wheezing from her effort to keep it in. Her glee spurs my own. Laughter travels up my chest, and soon, I’m no better than her, an immature pre-teen laughing at a butt joke.

“Now there’s a sound I could get used to,” I hear from behind me. I turn around. Andrew fills the