Beg For Me: Chapter 13

Carter sits at the island with his tequila and watches as I make our meal. We talk, we laugh, we share stories. Nothing traumatic or too personal, just getting-to-know-you things couples do on their first few dates.

He’s lovely. Attentive, funny, self-deprecating, and just all-around lovely.

There’s a part of me that wishes he’d reveal something distasteful about his personality so I could give myself an out. Some hint of bigotry or chauvinism. A little latent hostility. An obvious need to be in control.

I find nothing objectionable, which maybe means I just need to try harder.

Or maybe I need to relax and give him a break.

When the meal is finished, he helps me with the cleanup, cheerfully stacking the dishwasher and making a game of trying to fit in every dish as if it were a puzzle. Then he thanks me so sincerely, I wonder if he’s ever had a home-cooked meal.

We settle onto the sofa in the living room in front of the unlit fireplace, facing each other from opposite sides, our legs entangled. He tucks his bare feet under my thighs. I smile at him.

“This was a nice date. Thank you for coming over.”

He chuckles. “Was that my cue to leave?”

“No. I’m just communicating. I know how you like to talk.”

“You always seem surprised about that.”

“I guess I’m just more used to tense silences.”

Wrapping his hands around my ankles, he gives them a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“That your ex is such a dick.”

I throw my head back and laugh.

“Was that rude? That was probably rude.”

“No, I was just picturing you saying that to his face. Or anyone saying that to his face. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.”

“Do you mind if I ask what he does for a living?”

“He’s a music producer.”

“That sounds like a cool gig.”

“It’s a cutthroat business filled with narcissists who prey on the dreams and inexperience of young people.”

After a beat, he says, “So it’s a lot like the news business.”

We smile at each other. I nod. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I actually wanted to be a musician when I was young. I learned guitar in fifth grade and played all through high school. I was obsessed with it.”

When he looks down, his expression pensive, I ask, “Do you still play?”

He shakes his head.

“Why’d you give it up?”

“I’m a McCord. We don’t go into the arts. We go into the family business.”

I can tell that’s a touchy topic, so I don’t probe more. “Well, the guitar is very cool, but it’s nowhere near as cool as the accordion, which I played all through junior high and high school.”

“You played the accordion?”

“I did.”

“Voluntarily?”

I laugh at his look of incredulity. “No. Well, nobody was holding a gun to my head, but I did it for my dad. His grandfather had played when he was a kid. He had such fond memories of the instrument. He actually was hoping my brother would pick it up, but Will’s never been very interested in making other people happy, so…”

When I don’t finish the sentence, Carter says softly, “So you picked it up instead.”

“Yes. I wonder if women are natural-born people pleasers, or if we’re molded that way as we grow up?”

“It’s not exclusively a female thing. I could write an entire book about all the things I’ve done to make other people happy.” He thinks for a moment. “Mainly my father.”

I watch him go somewhere dark. It’s like watching the sun slip behind thunderclouds. His face is pinched and his brows are drawn together. His full lips have thinned.

“I won’t pry if you’re not comfortable with the question, but are you close with your dad?”

Carter glances up at me. His blue eyes are stormy.

“I don’t think anyone really knows him. Not even my mother. I mean, they’ve been married forever and are completely co-dependent, but he’s not the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s got a lot of secrets. It always seems as if he’s plotting war.”

From everything I’ve read and heard about Konrad McCord, that’s an accurate statement.

I say gently, “It can’t have been easy growing up around that.”

“I don’t mean to make it sound like he was abusive or anything. He was just…”

“Distant?”

“Yeah. Distant. Unfathomable. Everyone was terrified of him.”

“What’s your mother like, if you don’t mind me asking?”

At the mention of his mother, his face lights up. “She’s amazing. Smart, funny, outgoing. Everybody loves her. She’s actually a genius with people. She can make anyone feel comfortable around her, no matter how much or little they have. I’m really lucky she’s my mom. She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

I’m so touched by that sweet, heartfelt speech, I have to look away for a moment to blink the water out of my eyes.

I suspect that if Harlow were asked about me, she wouldn’t answer with half as much enthusiasm.

“She sounds great. You’re very fortunate.”

“Yes. I am. I’m lucky. I have nothing to complain about.”

I study his expression. The averted eyes. The smile that looks forced.

I say softly, “It’s okay if you don’t love everything about your life, Carter. You don’t need to feel guilty about that, no matter how much wealth your family has.”

Startled, he gazes at me for a moment, then huffs out a breath and drags a hand through his hair.

“You’re spooky. Are you a mind reader?”

“There have been a few times you’ve spooked me too.”

He grins, the moment of seriousness gone. “Maybe we’re telepathic. But only with each other.”

“And maybe we need another drink. You up for more tequila?”

He bats his lashes coyly and smirks. “Why, Ms. Bianco, are you trying to take advantage of me?”

“If I were trying to take advantage of you, Mr. McCord, there wouldn’t be any question about it.” I swing my legs up and over his, then stand, looking down at him and holding out my hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He grabs my hand and leaps to his feet. “If it has anything to do with you getting naked, I’m one thousand percent in.”

“I’m not getting naked.”

“In that case, I’m only two hundred percent in.”

“For a person in such an important executive position, your math is terrible.”

He grins. “That’s what calculators are for. What are we doing? Where are you taking me? I’m excited!”

Feeling a little high, I laugh. His exuberance is so disarming.

Taking his hand, I lead him to the stairs. He keeps hold of my hand as we go up to the second floor and down the hallway past my bedroom to another room at the end. Opening the door, I flip on the overhead light.

Then I stand back and smile at Carter’s expression of amazement.

Eyes wide as he looks around, he breathes, “Holy shit.”

“I had a feeling you’d like it. Nick used this as his home office. Go on in.”

When he doesn’t move, I give him a gentle bump with my elbow. “Take a look at the purple Stratocaster. It’s signed.”

When he just stands there gazing around with stars in his eyes, looking dazed, I walk past him to the opposite wall where about a dozen electric guitars hang from custom racking. The other walls are adorned with guitars too, both electric and acoustic in a rainbow of colors, some old, others newer, all expensive collector’s items. In between the guitars are framed photographs of bands and musicians playing live.

I carefully remove the Stratocaster from the wall rack and bring it back to Carter. “Here.”

He stares at it. “Did that belong to…?”

“Yes.”

He slaps his hands on his cheeks and opens his mouth in a silent scream.

“Take it.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“What if I hurt it? I could scratch it or something. I could drop it. I’d go to hell!”

“Don’t be such a drama queen. Besides, it’s insured.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “If I harm one of Prince’s guitars, my life will be forfeit. I’ll have to perform a ritual killing of myself in shame or my family will be dishonored for seven generations.”

“It’s a guitar, Carter, not a mystical object the gods will require your blood for if it gets damaged.”

“That’s what you think.”

Trying not to smile, I say, “Okay. But it’s really heavy. In fact, I’m not sure I can hold it much longer…”

I pretend to stagger under its weight, letting my knees buckle and emitting a soft cry of distress. Faster than I can blink, Carter snatches the guitar from my hands and cradles it protectively against his chest.

“Oh my God. Look at your expression of outrage! You actually thought I was going to drop that thing, didn’t you?”

He scoffs. “Thing? Excuse me, heretic, but she’s a priceless piece of musical history played by one of the only true geniuses of our time, not a thing.”

I prop my hands on my hips and grin at him. “I like you like this. All riled up and snooty. You look like a cover model, but inside, you’re a grouchy grandpa yelling at kids to get the hell off his lawn.”

Still offended by my fake threat to the guitar, he nevertheless takes a grudging moment to bask in the compliment. “A cover model, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He thinks about it. “For which magazine?”

“Melodrama Monthly.”

His expression sours. “Ha.”

“Overreactor’s Digest.”

“Okay, very funny, Lucille Ball.”

“You know who Lucille Ball is?”

He twists his lips and gives me a sour look. “We’re having a nice evening, so I’ll pretend you didn’t just insult my intelligence.”

“It’s just that she’s way before your time.”

“Yes, and so are Shakespeare, Socrates, and Sinatra. I suppose you think I’ve never heard of them either?”

Without waiting for an answer, he brushes past me and walks farther into the room, leaving me wishing I’d never opened my big mouth in the first place.

He’s not my teenage daughter, who thinks everything that ever happened was invented on TikTok and that anyone over the age of thirty is so old, they might as well be dead.

He’s educated. He’s sophisticated. And, despite his charming boyishness, he’s a grown-ass man.

“I apologize, Carter. That was thoughtless of me.”

He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. “You’re forgiven.” His smile is small and suggestive. “I mean…almost. You might have to work a little bit for it.”

He turns back to the collection of guitars and sighs in contentment, looking everything over. “God. This is like heaven. I can’t believe you bought all this just for me. So nice of you. I might have to buy you a restaurant now.”

Stifling a laugh, I stroll closer to him and play along. “Then I’d have to cook all the time. What about my day job?”

“I’m sure you’re very good at COO-ing, but there’s no way you’re as good at that as how well you cook. That meal you made me was fantastic. Did you notice I was erect all during dinner?”

“And here I thought that had something to do with my hideous sweats.”

“Oh no. It was the green curry, baby, totally.”

I take a seat on one of the blue velvet swivel chairs in the corner and watch him. He looks like a kid in a toy store.

Despite his job, Nick isn’t what I’d consider a real music fan. He has a great ear for what will make money, and he appreciates the talent of the artists, but he’s more like a man who owns a stable of racehorses for their potential earnings.

His encyclopedic knowledge of music was born of ambition, not love.

“Who’s your favorite guitarist, Carter?”

“That’s like asking a parent who their favorite child is.”

He strolls from guitar to guitar, inspecting each closely, admiring their color and shape, shaking his head in awe at fretboards and headstocks, squinting at signatures scrawled across wood.

“You must have a few. Top three?”

He gazes down adoringly at the electric guitar in his hands. “Prince, Prince, and Prince.”

“Hmm. Will it freak you out too much if I tell you that’s one of the guitars he used in his famous 2007 Super Bowl halftime performance?”

He wheezes, then coughs out, “Yes.”

“Okay, then I won’t tell you. Will you play me something?”

He looks at me, looks down at the guitar, then looks up at the ceiling. “I can’t say no to a beautiful woman, brother. I know you understand.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to God or the spirit of his favorite guitarist, but I forget all about that when he launches into the solo from “Purple Rain.”

It’s stripped down because he’s not plugged into an amp, but I’m astonished at the ease and quality of his playing. I sit with my mouth open, watching his nimble fingers flash over the strings, until he finishes with a flourish and starts laughing.

“Fuck!”

“Yes, I’d say so. That was amazing!”

He looks over at me, his eyes shining bright, his handsome face beaming. “Oh my God, that felt so good.”

“It sounded so good. I can’t believe you’re so talented!”

He holds out the guitar in front of him and offers it a small bow. Then he carefully places it back onto its rack, steps back, and admires it, arms folded over his chest. He exhales a soft breath and shakes his head.

“Goddamn, Sophia,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’m over here fangirling.”

“Why are these here? Do you play?”

“Oh no. Nick took his desk and clothes when he moved out, but he left everything else here. He couldn’t be bothered to pack it all up.”

Carter’s face is a mask of horror. “Couldn’t be bothered? Does the man not have a soul?”

I laugh. “I’ll plead the fifth on that, your honor.” I stop laughing when an interesting thought occurs to me. “Do you want them?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious. You can have everything in here. I have no use for it. I was actually thinking about turning this space into a library.”

Frowning, he turns to look at me.

“Or do you already have a guitar collection?”

After a moment of silent contemplation, he says, “No. I have the beat-up acoustic I learned on, but that’s it. I gave away the few others I had when I joined the company.”

I can’t tell by his expression if I’ve made a mistake with my offer. Was it tacky of me? Have I offended him? He can afford to buy himself anything he wants, after all. Why would he want another man’s cast-offs?

I press a hand over my chest. “I’m sorry if that was weird. You just seemed so happy to be playing that I thought you might enjoy keeping them. Or one of them. I…I just thought—”

“It isn’t weird. It’s incredibly generous. You know you could make a mint if you sold these, right?”

“I suppose so, but some things are more important than money. Nick only had these so he could show them off. He doesn’t play any instruments. I think they’d be happier with you. You’d give them a good home.”

Eyes burning, he stares at me. “A good home.”

“Yes. Instruments are made to be played, not just looked at or locked up. I want you to have them.”

He continues staring at me so long, it becomes uncomfortable. “Have I said something wrong?”

“No. You paid me the best compliment I think I’ve ever been given.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I just declared I’m from outer space?”

“I was just wondering how you’d react if I picked you up and threw you over my shoulder so I could take you into your bedroom and show you exactly how much I appreciate every word you’ve said.”

My body reacts to those words and the husky tone they were spoken in by sending a rush of adrenaline into my bloodstream and making it hard to breathe.

Heart thudding with excitement, I stand. “Tell you what. If you can catch me before I get to the door, you can throw me over your shoulder and take me into the bedroom. But if I’m faster than you and I get there first, you have to mop my kitchen floor. Naked.”

He glances at the door, then back at me. He smiles.

Five seconds later, he’s carrying me upside down on his shoulder, headed toward my bedroom, and I’m laughing harder than I can remember laughing in years.