The Crazy Rich Davenports: Dare to Enter (the CRD Series)

Chapters 4-6

Chapter Four

Gemma

"SMELL THESE." I lean my nose in the direction of the fruit Rye is holding. "Do you smell how fresh and ripe it is?"

I can only smell whatever scent is called Rye. He smells good. So good. The whole interior of his hippie Volkswagen van smelled outdoorsy and soapy, complete with a bed in the back and books—I'll be honest, the books surprised me. I didn't peg Rye as a reader. I can't seem to get enough of his smell. I'm going to dream about this smell—and the rumpled sheets on his bed.

He sets the fruit in the pile already stacked in the shopping basket he's holding in his other hand and reaches for another.

I'm trying my hardest not to stare—I don't remember it ever being this difficult to not look at someone, but the boys at my school don't walk around in tank tops and they don't have arms built like Rye. Huge, thick arms, bulging with a trail of tattoos I'm curious to explore...with my mouth.

I choke. On my own breath! Or spit. Am I drooling?

I wipe along the bottom of my lip just in case.

What is wrong with me? I blame my mother and Slutty Pepper. They're both bad influences. Yaya's not much better.

What does my mom expect? That I'm going to sleep with the same guy she does?

Yuck.

Gross.

Just gross.

I'm waiting for love, love like my mom and dad had, and honestly, I'm not in a rush to find it. I have goals and none of them include sleeping with my mom's male mistress. Is there a name for him? And is he considered a mistress if she's not married?

She would've never cheated on my dad when he was alive. They were the real deal. True love. I would know the difference after watching my Davenport grandparents arranged marriage fail. And in some messed up way, Yaya and Pops have the real thing too. I see the way Pops looks at Yaya and it's the same way my dad used to look at my mom. Real love.

Rye moans as he picks up a tomato and holds it in front of him.

Is he serious?

My brain tells me to run to the car. This guy's brain is half baked. Good thing he has looks or he wouldn't have anything going for him.

I scold myself for being judgmental. I'm better than that. Sort of. I judge my family. All. The. Time.

"Touch this." Rye thrusts the large round tomato in front of me. When I only stare, trying to set boundaries in my head as not to end up another Davenport in his bed, he reaches for my hand and covers the red vegetable. Or fruit. Screw the details I'm not arguing this topic when I can't even think straight.

His hand completely covers mine and when I still don't respond, his fingers apply pressure. "Do you feel that? Fresh? Ripe. Subtle. Ready for the taking."

I've never flirted with a guy before. I'd rather read a good book than listen to some immature pickup line that sound as if it came from a tacky eighties teen movie, or ghetto—sometimes the pick-up lines are disgusting.

But this—with Rye, right now—this is so different.

"Do you feel it?"

I feel something.

I nod and a small "uh-huh" passes my lips in more of a whisper.

"That's a good one." His deep, smooth voice travels to a place nothing has ever stirred before.