Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,224

I attended. When I wasn’t there, I was at our estate a few hours outside the city. My parents and Rhyson were rarely at either since they were usually on the road, and those places never felt like home—but this, this was someone’s home. I can feel it.

“It is beautiful.” My gaze drifts over the sprawling space, the exposed rafters, the red brick wall fitted with wide windows overlooking the city, and the slatted staircase leading to the upper floor. “Your mom said the owner wants to meet us, right? How close are they?”

“Oh! Let me check.”

Charisma, or Charm as we chopped her down to growing up, pulls her phone from the latest Birkin bag. She looks every inch the New Yorker, shaded in black and gray, swathed in leather, accessorized and name-branded from head to toe. The knife-sharp points of her precisely bobbed hair slice into her skinny shoulders. The Gucci eyeglasses framed by her perfectly arched brows say more about how smart she likes to look than they do about her nearsightedness. I know her secret. In the cutthroat publishing industry, a woman as delicate and lovely as Charm does whatever necessary to be taken seriously by the intelligentsia, including wearing glasses she doesn’t actually need.

My wardrobe has adapted to New York, some, too. There’s always an edge I don and doff depending on the coast. Today I’ve paired my black tulle-ruffled mini skirt with a tight black leather jacket and ankle boots. If we’re spending the fall here, I need to shore up my sweater-weather game.

“My mom’s fifteen minutes out. She got stuck uptown,” Charm says, slipping her phone back into her bag and flashing the impish grin that landed us in the principal’s office more than once. “But that gives us a few minutes to catch up before she arrives. How is it that you’ve been here all week and we haven’t even had dinner?”

“Your author released a book.” I run a finger over the mantel topping the glass-encased fireplace, noting its dustless-ness. “And it was a huge week for several of my clients. Me being here instead of LA, managing the time difference, trying to see properties . . .”

I shrug carelessly, used to our dynamic by now. Charm and I have kept in touch some, but we have demanding careers we’ve been completely dedicated to since graduating. It’s paid off. Both of us hold pole position in our respective industries, but there’s been little time for long-distance friendships, and missing each other has become a habit over the years. The two girls who grew up together and knew each other’s secrets are now women who have a lot to learn about who the other has become.

“Well we have a few minutes now.” Charm pats the cushion of the slate-colored suede sectional. “Come talk to Mama.”

I sit beside her and smile involuntarily. My affection for Charm has stubbornly hung around since we searched for ways to make our modest school uniforms sexier.

“Tell me about this man of yours, the one you’re dropping everything to follow.” Charm purses her lips and wiggles her brows with salacious speculation. “I must admit, I was surprised to see you with a Black guy.”

Charm’s eyes stretch and she gasps, covering her mouth with one perfectly manicured hand.

“Oh, God. Did that sound bad? You know I’m a progressive.”

“Of course you are, Charm.” I pat her hand while holding on to my humor and patience. “Grade A liberal.”

“I just meant . . . well, you never dated Black guys in college.” My shrug is easy, my laugh less so. This feels weird.

“I never really thought about it. It didn’t matter—it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She puckers her perfectly plucked brows. “I sound like those people assuring you that they really do have Black friends.”

I don’t answer, just lift both brows. Sometimes when you’re quiet, people hear themselves.

“I really do have lots of Black friends.” Her tinkling laugh pokes fun at herself.

“I’m sure you do.” I grin and decide to let her off the hook for now.

“I’ve seen pictures, of course. He’s . . . wow.” Charm licks her lips, anticipation all over her face. This is more her speed—talking about how hot a man is rather than the sticky issues of race.

“You have to tell me everything,” she says, practically flushing. “Don’t hold back. Remember the Dick Diaries?”

How could I forget our regular debriefs after sexual encounters and misadventures?

“I’m not talking about this with you, Charm,” I say with neutral determination. “It’s