The Ground Rules (11 page)

And this new development is just too big not to share. I’m going to explode if I don’t confide in someone.

So I cheat.

And I tell Gwen all about it on “Girls’ Night” at our favorite dive. I still have that vision in my head—her face looms over her giant slushy Bellini—the thing is bigger than her head—and when I tell her, her jaw drops in shock.

“You’re putting me on right now, Mirella,” she shrieks.

“I’m not making this up.”

She bites her lip. “I think Weston Hanson might be the sexiest man on the planet, and you lucky girl, are going to get to
tap that
,” she says, whispering the last words. “I am
so
jealous right now.”

My breath catches thinking about him. “I know. He’s so different, enigmatic, and intense. I don’t know what to expect. I’m kind of scared,” I confess. “What if he doesn’t like me…once…you know…”

It feels so nice to get this off my chest, to finally share my fears with someone.

“He will love you, Mirella. How could he not? You’re so beautiful.”

“Thanks, Gwen. But you’re my bestie…you almost need to say that.”

She takes a sip of her giant Bellini. “Hey, you know me. I don’t say crap I don’t mean.”

I laugh. “That’s true.”

“I say exactly what’s on my mind.”

“But…” I go on, exposing my vulnerabilities to the only person I can expose them to. “You should see his wife. She’s perfection. She looks like a supermodel…tall, blond and not a single ounce of fat on her.”

“Well, that
is
the kind of woman men like Weston Hanson marry, isn’t it? The trophy wife. But I’m sure he’s aching for a gorgeous, curvaceous bod like yours, you know what I mean?”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, not quite convinced.

“Hey, he’s the one who propositioned you, isn’t he?” she points out. “Obviously, he wants to be with you. Just enjoy it.”

We both sit in silence, sipping our drinks, looking over the menu. She’s right. I should just stop obsessing. What will he think of me? Will I be good enough? Beautiful enough? I’m driving myself insane.

“This all seems very fun and exciting, Mirella,” Gwen adds, looking up from her menu. “But don’t you worry this could really mess up your relationship with Gabe?”

“Honestly, I prefer not to think about it.”

I haven’t. I’ve pushed those thoughts away, far away. I’ve wrapped them up in a box, and brought them to the dark, dingy back basement of my mind.

“And won’t you be jealous, thinking about Gabe with that supermodel lawyer?”

“Maybe a little.” I don’t admit I’m just so insane about Weston, all I can really think about is him. This will remain my little secret. I don’t even dare tell it to my best friend.

We spend the evening talking about nothing but the “swap.” By the end of the night, Gwen knows about everything—the initial meeting in his office, the group meeting, and the rules.

She plops her credit card down in the leather bill folder, as excited as I’ve ever seen her. “We need to go shopping tomorrow.”

“Shopping?”

A mischievous smile curves on her lips. “Naughty shopping,” she clarifies, “you dirty little girl.”

“Have you been waxed yet?” Gwen asks, as we make our way to her favorite lingerie shop downtown. It’s a quaint privately owned little place. Gwen says the service is more personal, and the atmosphere is more relaxing than the big chain stores.

“No. You know me. I don’t do that. I hate pain.”

She smiles at me. “Weston Hanson sounds like the kind of man who likes his women primped.”

I can’t disagree. “He does. He’s so pragmatic and orderly. He’s almost obsessive about it…a place for everything, and everything in its place. You should see his office…it’s sleek, clean, and freakishly orderly,” I tell her, remembering our meeting at his office. “He’s also a germaphobe.”

“He probably expects you to be bare,” she points out.

“Well, he can expect what he wants, but he’s going to get what he gets.”

“You go girl,” she cheers.

“I’m not suffering through this crazy, modern day torture ritual for any man. He can take it or leave it.”

She grabs me by the shoulders, taking me by surprise. “This is why I love you, girl,” she almost screams out onto the street.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m going to trim the hedges and make everything look pretty. Pick something lacy and pretty to wear, but that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”

“Yeah…let’s go pick out something cute,” she cheers as we make our way into the old Victorian building.

Gwen was right—the atmosphere is very calming. The place is bright, airy, and smells of patchouli. Soft music is playing in the background. There’s just one other client shopping, a young woman sporting a dark bob.

“How are you ladies?” the woman at the cash register offers, her flaming red hair flowing softly over her shoulders.

“We’re good, Jasmine,” Gwen tells her. “This is my best friend, Mirella.”

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand. “Likewise.”

“Do we have a special occasion we’re shopping for?” Jasmine asks in the softest voice.

“Ohhh,” Gwen almost growls. “You could say that, Jasmine.”

I am completely mortified. I bury my face in my hand, thinking I’m going to kill Gwen if she whispers a word. But thankfully, she doesn’t. She tells Jasmine I’m looking for a few sets to spruce up my love life with my husband.

“You know what it’s like, Jasmine,” Gwen says, a mischievous smile on her face. “You have two kids of your own. Things can get pretty boring in the bedroom.”

“Yes, the magic sure can disappear,” she agrees. “Let’s find you something fabulous.”

I eye this beautiful white lacy set with delicate flowered embroidery. It’s incredible and also very pricey. Gwen notices me look at the price tag.

“How ’bout if I get you a few sets,” she offers. “My treat…an early Christmas present.”

“I couldn’t, Gwen. It’s too much.”

“I’m the one who dragged you here, knowing you can’t afford it.”

“You do make a good point,” I half-joke.

“I do.”

The thing is, Gwen is a little better off than I am, money-wise. Her husband Greg is a successful hedge-fund manager, and he keeps her happy in designer wear and a luxury home. Mind you, she’s not a gold-digger by any means—she just happened to fall for a guy who has a way with money.

We pick out a few sets. Gwen is quite opinionated about the whole thing, but she has more experience in the bedroom department than I do, so I listen intently. She tries to push me toward the thongs.

“Men love thongs.”

“But again, don’t I have to be comfortable?” I argue. “You know me. Thongs are not me.”

She looks me up and down, her gaze falling on my long skirt and comfy Mary-Janes, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re right,” she concedes. “Let’s look for sexy briefs instead.”

We end up picking out the white pretty set I was eyeing, a sexy red lace set, and a black silky one.

I try on the white set, slipping the lace panties over my cotton undies.

Gwen sits on the pink Victorian bench, filing her nails. Her brow perks up as she looks up at me. “You have a really good body. Curves in all the right places. I’ve never really noticed before.”

“Why, thank you, Gwen,” I tell her, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you ever wear bikinis?” she asks. “I’ve only seen you in those horrible mommy one-pieces.”

“They’re more comfortable for playing with the girls,” I explain. “I don’t want to fall out of my bathing suit.”

“Oh, Mirella…” she sighs. “You’re so uptight.”

I laugh a little.

“Me…uptight? I
am
shopping for lingerie for my upcoming swap,” I point out, slightly catty.

She laughs. “Yes. You make a good point. But I’m still getting you a bikini for this summer.”

“As you wish,” I say turning around, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I do look kind of pretty.

“That one’s nice for the first time,” she says. “It’s demure and classy. You don’t want to come off too horny the first time.”

I turn to her and smile. She can be so funny.

“Save the red set for when you really want to get fucked hard,” she says.

My jaw drops. “Gwen!”

“
What?”
she says with a quick shrug of her shoulders, one leg crossed over the other, still filing her nails.

I smile at her. Sometimes I ask myself how in the heavens she and I fit so well together.

Well, it’s finally here.

The night I have been anxiously waiting for…our first “date.”

Part of me wants it to be over before it begins. And the other part wants to discover it slowly…and all its possibilities.

Gabe seems as nervous as I am. I help him pick out an outfit—we settle on sleek black dress pants and a striped gray and black button shirt.

I stand next to him and study his reflection in the tall mirror hung in our walk-in closet. “I think Bridget will like this.”

He doesn’t say a word.

I look miniscule in my slip of a dress, standing next to his tall frame. “This is so weird.”

“We are so fucked up,” he says simply, a hint of humor in his expression.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually going through with this.”

He wraps his hand softly around the curve of my hip. “Me either. Are we crazy?”

“Yes.”

“Are you having second thoughts? We can still call it off, you know.”

I think about Weston, about the last time I saw him, dressed in a charcoal tailored suit, the brilliant green of his eyes peering at me through gorgeous lashes as he went over the “rules” so diligently. And I think about his hand on my knee that time at his office and the electrifying current it sent through me.

I smile up at Gabe’s reflection. “No…let’s do this.”

I smile at Edward as he opens the car door for me. I’ve got this down pat now—I’m supposed to wait and let him open the door for me. It kind of makes me feel like a movie star. I take his welcoming hand as I gingerly step out of the town car. I run my manicured fingers (today, both my hands and feet look amazing) along the lace on my dress (one of those impulse buys I thought I’d never get to wear—vintage-inspired, sheer, cream, delicate, lace-trimmed and tiny). The dress almost looks like a slip that could easily be torn off—and that’s the point. I’ve worn the lacy white set underneath, the demure one.

The air is surprisingly hot and humid tonight. My up-do, sheer dress, and strappy sandals were a perfect choice. Weston is waiting for me when I enter the restaurant, a small, casual, intimate Italian place.

I clutch my beaded bag nervously. For a brief second, I worry I’m going to be sick and hurl all over the quaint black and white tiled flooring.

The expression on his face is unmistakable.

He likes my dress.

He leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.” My knees almost give out.

He kissed me.

The food is delicious but I can’t quite appreciate it—I’m just too on edge. Weston seems to have a healthy appetite—completely unaffected. What is it with men? Why do these kinds of things not affect them? Perhaps they just hide it better.

My gaze travels to the jars of pasta sauce and bottles of olive oil lined along the wall. I think about Gabe and Bridget and wonder what they’re doing at this exact moment. And I push the thoughts immediately out of my mind.

Weston and I don’t say much. And he doesn’t really look at me—his eyes seem to be glued to the red and white checkered table cloth.

He occasionally puts his knife down and rubs the back of his neck or traces circles along the bottom of his wine glass. I watch him, fork mid-air, completely fascinated by his quirks.

He’s just as nervous as I am.

Even on edge, he’s gorgeous—dressed in a dark striped shirt, open at the collar. He doesn’t wear his customary cufflinks tonight.

He sets his glass on the table and finally ventures a look up at me and puts his hand softly on mine. “I want you to know…”

His touch lights me up.

“I have no expectations. Let’s just see where the night leads.”

He’s so sweet. I breathe a little easier, realizing there’s really no reason to worry. Whatever happens, I know he’ll treat me with respect.