The Ground Rules (25 page)

He walks over to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle of Shiraz. “Everything from the Cure to Beyoncé.”

“Well, I couldn’t make you a mixed CD without a little Beyoncé, could I? I love her.”

He laughs. “I’ve noticed. I’ve heard your ringtone.”

“Have you listened to all the songs?”

He fetches a dish from the cupboard. “Of course…I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say with a shy smile—I know it wasn’t much.

He plops the grapes on an ultra-cool serving dish. “That Melissa Etheridge song…quite clever.”

I smile. “I thought it was fitting. ‘Your Little Secret’…that’s what I am, aren’t I?”

He looks down at me. “I wish you weren’t. In another life, I’d introduce you to everyone I know.”

My breath catches at his words—my heart caught like a fish on a hook.

Me too.

He opens the Shiraz in a matter of seconds with some cool looking, ultra-modern bottle opener.

“You like gadgets, don’t you?”

He fetches two wine glasses. “I do. I love them.”

“What else do you love?” I ask. I want to know everything about him. I just don’t know enough.

He seems taken aback and takes a few seconds to contemplate my question as he pours me a glass. “I love my children,” he confesses with a huge smile. “I love my work. I love architecture and technology.” He looks around the room. “I love the sea. I love quiet…I love spending time with you,” he finally adds, his words soft.

My body warms at his words.

“I love spending time with you too.”

And we stand there, looking at each other—the energy between us seems to heat up.

“I want to show you the master,” he says with a playful smile, “but I fear you might just pounce on me when we get there.”

I laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Admit it,” he presses, “you can hardly wait to tear my clothes off.”

He’s so arrogant. But he’s so right.

“Guilty,” I finally admit, slightly embarrassed, “but I promise I’ll be good.”

“Good,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

He was right—as soon as we step into his bedroom, all thoughts turn to sex—his naked body on mine, mine on his. Now. The room is so sensual—tufted velvet soft brown headboard, crisp white linens, colorful retro looking pillows, and a few of those soft, white furry cushions. The whole room has a retro seventies vibe. I spot the sleek black music player in the corner.

“Do you like The Doors?” I ask him, “The band, I mean.”

“I do actually. I have the greatest hits on my iPod.”

A smile curves on my lips. “Why don’t you put that on and make love to me on that deliciously comfy looking bed.”

“You are a temptress, Mirella,” he proclaims, his eyes dark. “I told you I wanted to wait. You promised you’d be good, remember?”

“You’re driving me crazy, Weston. You are the king of delayed gratification.”

He laughs his delectable laugh. “I’ve never thought about myself that way, but that’s quite accurate, actually.”

“It’s maddening, is what it is,” I almost scream.

“Sit down on the bed,” he urges. And I do, thinking this could lead somewhere.

He takes a seat on one of the retro, white leather, egg-shaped chairs.

He stares at me, his gaze intense. He seems to want to tell me something. So I don’t utter a word, and I wait for him to talk.

“Have you ever experimented with tantric sex?” he asks.

I bite my lip, not quite able to catch my words.

“Or the
Kama Sutra
?”

God, he’s full of surprises. “Um…no,” I say. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you know anything about it?” he asks me, his gaze serious.

“Not much,” I admit. The truth is…I know nothing.

“Is it something you could see yourself doing?”

“Uh…maybe,” I stammer a little. Where is he going with this? “Why? Is this something you’re interested in?”

“Yes, very much so,” he confesses, not a hint of humor in his expression.

I suddenly find myself very aroused by the conversation and the way he’s looking at me.

I’m not sure if it’s the conversation, the sensual room, or how delectably sexy he looks in his snug-fitting plaid shirt, but I find myself in serious want.

“Tell me about it,” I say, my words soft and raspy. “I want to know more.”

From the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he knows I’m turned on. And he is too. There’s no denying it—it’s palpable.

“Well, it’s all about bringing awareness into the sexual act, a consciousness, a certain level of intimacy between lovers.”

“Interesting…”

“It’s about being in the moment, breathing it in, and appreciating each other. There are many sexual positions which foster intimacy.”

“I see,” I say, “and you’ve done this…with Bridget?”

His smile is barely discernable. “Well, Bridget’s not really into it. We’ve dabbled. But I’ve always wanted to explore it deeper.”

“I see.” And I can’t help but play the devil’s advocate. “But you mention it’s about increasing intimacy…isn’t that exactly what you and I should be avoiding?” I’m quick to add, “Isn’t this arrangement between us supposed to be purely physical?”

He looks slightly offended and takes a deep breath. “What I’m talking about is physical intimacy, not emotional intimacy.”

“But doesn’t physical intimacy translate into emotional intimacy?” I ask, confused.

“Damn it, Mirella,” he snaps as he stands to his feet.

I stare down at the bed linens. “I’m sorry.”

He kneels in front of me and tilts my chin to face him, straight in the eye. He’s so beautiful. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes,” I confess. But I don’t tell him I’m already falling for him and that
making love
to him might just throw me over the edge. I don’t tell him I don’t want to jeopardize the most important thing in my life—my family. And I don’t tell him I don’t quite trust myself to not go down that road. “You are a man of contradictions, Weston. One minute, you tell me to back away, keep my distance, to not be jealous. And the next, you kiss me with such emotion, whisper sweet nothings, and talk about fostering deeper physical intimacy.”

He stares down at the floor, speechless.

“I’m serious, Weston. You’re so mercurial. Make up your mind, already.”

He looks up at me again. “I know,” he says. “But…we are allowed a certain level of physical intimacy.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Weston. I don’t mean to sound cliché, but we’re walking on thin ice, you and me, don’t you think?”

He looks down at the floor, not able to face me. “Perhaps,” he says matter-of-factly.

There’s an uncomfortable silence between us, and I’m desperate to fill it and end this conversation.

“I want to go check out the bathroom. I’m sure it’s fabulous,” I venture as I jump to my feet.

When he joins me in the washroom, I’m glad to see the energy between us has shifted.

The space is sterile—sleek, clean surfaces abound. I’m intrigued by the toilet, which seems to float on the wall, the toilet handle sticks out of the walnut finish. There’s no tank, no bottom. I’ve never seen a toilet like this—I’m fascinated.

“Where’s the tank?” I ask, intrigued.

“It’s built into the wall,” he explains, seemingly amused by my fascination.

“And what keeps it up?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “I’d be afraid to come crashing down.”

He laughs. “A little thing like you,” he says. “You’d probably have to be a thousand pounds to bring that toilet down.”

“It’s kind of freaky.”

“You haven’t been out much, have you?” he teases.

“You’ve noticed?”

“A little.”

I laugh inwardly at the sound of our discussion. This is just what we needed—a conversation about a toilet—non-sexual, not intimate at all. Things were getting
way
too intense back in the bedroom.

I take in the rest of the bathroom—it is purely innovative. Two square, stainless-steel sinks sit side by side under a seamless mirror, which almost melts into the wall. The glass enclosed shower is accentuated with a dramatic mosaic backsplash—the tiny tiles making up an image of an oriental tree.

“I love the shower. What a nice touch.”

“I can’t take the credit, I’m afraid,” he confesses. “That goes to our designers.”

There are about a zillion shower heads, including a large overhead one, and a digital touch pad on the outside wall with LED display.

“That is one fancy shower. It looks complicated.”

He laughs. “It is.”

The large sleek soaker tub looks very inviting. “You and me, later,” I say with a sly grin, “in that thing.”

“Maybe,” he says with a devilish smile. “But I think you might enjoy the shower more.”

“Oh…would I?” I say. “I’m more of a bubble bath kind of girl.”

“Trust me…you would like this shower.”

I’m not sure exactly what he’s saying, but he’s turning me on, nevertheless.

I grab his shirt and pull him to me. “Well, let’s try it right now,” I venture with my sexiest voice.

He kisses me…another sensual, soft kiss. But then he pulls away again.

The man is driving me absolutely bonkers.

The intercom buzzes just as I’m about to beg.

A lady’s voice tells him the catering crew has arrived.

“Please send them up,” he says.

And I know I won’t see any action anytime soon.

The crew arrives and the atmosphere becomes chaotic and loud. After we offer our initial hellos, they set up in the kitchen—boxes, crates, stainless-steel food heating contraptions, and dishware. A plump, middle-aged lady with sharp bangs seems to be in charge, barking out orders.

“Do you need anything from us, Rhonda?” Weston asks.

“Nope. I think we’re all set,” she tells him, smiling at both of us. “You two pretend we’re not here.”

The two assistants, a young man and woman, travel up and down the glass-encased staircase. I haven’t even been to the second level yet, and I wonder what’s up there. They seem to know what they’re doing and where they’re going—I gather they’ve been here before.

“You entertain a lot?” I ask, wondering if he’s brought other women here before.

“Yes. We’ve had a few parties here. Mostly when the units first opened…showings, for promotional and marketing purposes.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “This is all being covered by the company? Isn’t that an inappropriate use of company funds?”

“Who are you?” he jokes. “My accountant?”

“What’s upstairs?” I ask, curious.

“Do you want to see?” he asks, taking my hand. I love it when he takes my hand. Unlike Gabe, Weston is not the most touchy-feely person, but when he
does
touch me, he usually lights me up.

He leads me up the stairs, and I follow eagerly. When we reach the landing, I am awestruck. The contemporary theme continues up here, warm shades and soft lighting. A window looks out to a wonderful view, and that’s when I’m reminded we’re in the penthouse.

“It pays to be the boss,” I say casually. “This place is fantastic.”

He smiles as he brings me into his den, furnished with a sleek walnut desk and white leather desk chair. Multiple large, flat screens cover the desk and a large TV stretches along the wall. Everything is meticulously ordered, groups of objects forming perfect lines and angles, books and display pieces arranged flawlessly.

I slide my finger along the edge of his desk, not daring to touch anything. “You must be the most orderly person I’ve ever met.”

“Yes,” he admits with a sigh. “I’m not sure if it’s a virtue or an affliction, to tell you the truth. I feel much calmer when everything’s in order.”

I contemplate his words, wondering what kind of effect this arrangement of ours has on him—it is anything but simple.

“And…you and I,” I say, my words soft, “that’s not quite orderly.”

“It’s a great source of stress, to be honest,” he confesses, taking a seat at his desk. “But also a great source of pleasure,” he adds with a sly smile.

“I mess up your life a little, don’t I?”

He laughs. “You have no idea.”

I love his laugh. When he smiles, he seems more relaxed, more human, more approachable, and I have the urge to hug him and hold on forever.

“Do you want to see the rest?” he asks, getting up from the desk.

He leads me to the kids’ bedrooms, which are immaculate, a far cry from my girls’ rooms.

“My children have barely set foot here,” he admits. Although I realize this isn’t his main home, where he spends the majority of his time with his family, I still feel privileged to be able to see a small slice of his life.

Then, he leads me to the terrace—it’s wonderful—a little piece of heaven nestled amongst the myriad of buildings surrounding it. We’re surrounded by greenery, topiary type trees, large stainless-steel heat lamps, and sleek, contemporary outside patio furniture in shades of black and beige. There’s even a matching lounging canopy bed, fully dressed in plush-looking, white linens.

The crew is busy at work—the young woman is setting the white linen covered table. The night is warm and there is a small pleasant breeze. I’m thrilled by all this—what a wonderful idea…dining under the stars.

“This is amazing.”

“I was hoping you’d like it.”

“Of course I love it,” I almost gush. “I’m sure all the ladies love it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You might not believe this, Mirella, but this is a first.”

“Oh…is it?” I ask, not quite convinced. “You’ve never had a romantic dinner like this out here with anyone?” I ask. “Not even with Bridget?”

“No.”

Wow.

The food is wonderful.

We start off with a deliciously tangy, homemade vegetable soup. The crew, dressed in white, is very efficient and professional, and very discreet.

Despite the heating tower close to us, the air is slightly cool, and I’m glad I’m wearing a sweater. Weston seems at ease in his thin dress shirt. But then, I’m convinced his blood runs hotter than mine—every time we come together, his skin is sizzling. I long to reach out to him as I look at him sitting across from me. He’s so near, yet he seems so far, untouchable—I can’t very well jump him with all these people walking about.