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court. Then, she moved back into the Taylor mansion and took back her maiden name.”
    I always wondered what inspired a grown person to live in the old family home, albeit one that had more square feet than a boutique hotel. Essentially, you’re living with the same siblings who squeezed toothpaste in your ear and whined like it was the end of the world when you snatched the last piece of bacon.
    Like any family, there were different sides to all stories. Rich, middle class, or poor, families usually had drama. That might be one of the reasons I was hesitant to permanently settle down and have a family—I wasn’t sure I wanted to raise kids who would one day blame me for their mental and emotional anguish.
    “I’m surprised she never got the chance to run a Taylor company,” I said.
    “She learned a lot from her dad before she got married, from what I’ve heard.” Zoey sounded like she’d written the Wikipedia entry for the Taylor dynasty. “Victoria’s father, Stephen Taylor, had been an entrepreneur, striking it rich in oil and gas. He was known for taking on fields that larger corporations had abandoned. He ran a private company, and taking risks—sometimes very calculated and other times based on hunches—built his fortune and his reputation. The two younger sons, who didn’t know the difference between a gas field and a soccer field, never had a desire to learn the family business. Victoria did, but given how Stephen and society viewed women back in those days, he didn’t feel comfortable giving her a formal title or job. He eventually sold the business, which allowed Victoria and the rest of the family to live a lavish lifestyle. Victoria probably resented the fact there was a glass ceiling in her own family.”
    Marisa and I stayed for the last Christmas carol, then said our goodbyes. She drove as I stared at the Christmas lights flashing through the trees on the side of the road. You always think people with money have an easy life. It’s partially true, I suppose. But the more I learned about the Taylors’ dramas, the less envious I grew.
    Marisa startled me by rolling down my window, nearly taking my forehead with it. I snapped my head to the left, only to see her smiling in her special way. She raised her eyebrows for a second and then drew my eyes down to her legs. She started inching her dress up her thigh.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Twenty-Two
     
    My hand glided along Marisa’s silky leg, slowly moving up her right thigh as our car slowed to a stop at a red light absent of other cars. Our bodies slammed together over the console like teenagers who hadn’t been alone in weeks. In seconds, her dress was hiked up to expose her red panties. She moved her hands down my chest and unbuckled my belt. She yanked up my shirt and clutched my back, her manicured fingernails scratching for a firmer grip. My hands massaged every inch of her satiny skin. Our lips remain locked as our intensity heightened.
    A whoop-whoop sound startled us back to our senses. Our heads turned to look at flashing lights out the back window.
    “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration.” The police officer used his flashlight to look around the inside of the car while Marisa dug under the seat for her purse.
    He was an older fellow and had probably seen just about everything in his years on the force. “Looks like you’ve been to a Christmas party. There was a big one down the road at the Taylor estate.”
    “Yes sir. That was the one we attended.” Marisa offered only basic responses.
    The officer eyed her ID. “I thought I had caught a couple of teenagers who couldn’t control themselves. I didn’t expect to find a couple in their thirties.”
    We gave him embarrassed, short-lived smiles and nodded.
    “I was going to give you a ticket, but I think you’ve suffered enough. Get on home now, and keep this personal stuff behind closed doors. One more thing—don’t forget to call your parents to let them