The Ground Rules (28 page)

The atmosphere is sexy—contemporary, sleek chrome finishes, muted colors. But then again, I probably think everything is sexy at this point…I’m just so turned on. One slight touch from Weston, and I’m done for. It’s as easy as the tap of a button—I’m completely pliable under his stare, his touch.

As the hostess leads us to our table by the window, I notice the breathtaking views of the Chicago skyline. But I’m not awestruck or surprised—I’ve come to expect this from Weston—the man knows how to entertain a woman and bring her to her knees.

“I can’t wait to get that charming little dress off,” he teases as soon as the hostess leaves us. His tone is even and business-like, without the slightest hint of playfulness, which makes his words all the more…hot.

My heart leaps in my chest, and I’m at a loss for words.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says, his words almost dancing. He knows what he’s doing to me. And he loves it.

“Uh…I…I’m glad you like the dress, Weston,” I finally manage, trying to sound coy. But it’s no use—I’m
completely
flustered.

He smiles.
That
smile again.

I want him to take off the dress.

As soon as humanly possible.

Weston orders a bottle—a Bordeaux of some kind—I’m not paying too much attention, I’m just too distracted.

Something’s not right.

Despite the playful smiles, Weston seems in a rather serious mood tonight, and I wonder what’s on his mind. He’s not quite as talkative as usual.

He looks at me…he stares, really. There’s emotion in his gaze, something foreign, something I haven’t seen before. I’m not sure what it is, and I tell myself I’m reading too much into it, as I always do, overanalyzing everything and everyone.

Weston orders the oyster appetizer, and I opt for the peekytoe crab. Taking my first bite, I’m happy with my choice—it’s delicious.

Weston offers me an oyster.

I refuse without a moment’s hesitation.

“Are you sure?” he asks, playful.

I nod profusely. “Yes, I’m positive. I don’t like them. They look disgusting.”

“I bet you’ve never even tried them,” he says. And it’s true—I haven’t.

But still…

“You know what they say about oysters,” he says, his words playful.

I laugh a little. “Yes,” I reply, a little shy all of a sudden. “They make you horny.”

He laughs. “Well, we both know you certainly don’t need them.”

My jaw drops. “What are you saying?” I ask, my words buried in laughter.

He flashes me his megawatt smile. “You know what I’m saying.”

“I haven’t heard you complaining,” I point out rather coyly.

“Oh…I’m not complaining,” he says. “I love the way you are. I love the way you respond to me.”

His words bring on that old familiar feeling deep in my core—desire.

“I love the way you react to me too,” I say softly.

He looks at me but doesn’t say a word for the longest time. And his eyes fill with that foreign emotion again—I can’t quite put my finger on it.

He pulls his gaze from mine and takes a drink of his wine. “We
do
fit well together,” he says, his words soft.

What the hell is bothering him?

I desperately want to know.

We eat our meals mostly in silence. It isn’t uncomfortable but rather intense, emotionally filled. I can barely eat the halibut I’ve ordered under the scrutiny of his gaze—his stare is passionate—I know he craves me as much as I crave him.

“You look quite different tonight. Very sexy…I like it.”

I laugh. “I know…you’ve been looking at me all night like you want to eat me up.”

“I do,” he says, his voice soft, “I want to
feast
on you.”

Good God.

He puts his knife and fork down—his steak half-eaten—his gestures slow and deliberate. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cell, and I wonder what is so urgent all of a sudden.

“Hello, Edward,” I hear him say. I take another bite of my fish, but I don’t really taste it, my senses lost in Weston’s conversation.

“Well, there’s been a change of plans,” he says with a soft laugh. “We’ll need the car in ten minutes…”

He shoots me a playful smile and tucks his phone away. “I hope you won’t mind,” he says with a mischievous grin, “but we’re skipping dessert.”

“Are we, now?” I ask, my voice silky. I wonder what he’s up to.

“Yes, we are. I need you.”

And that’s all he needs to say.

I undo his buttons and pull him between my legs onto the bed, my hands sliding down his torso and sliding off his suit jacket. He takes my face in his hand and kisses me softly.

He slips his hand under the sheer fabric of my dress. I reach for his belt and undo him. I slide my hands over his rear and pull down his pants, freeing his erection. I turn over him and straddle him.

“I like a woman in charge,” he teases.

His playful grin is doing things to me again.

I undo his shirt buttons one by one, slowly, shooting him a sly smile every now and then. He grins up at me, not saying a word—he loves it when I undress him. I pull up his undershirt, trail kisses down his chest, and make my way to that dark line straggling under his navel. My tongue swirls around his belly button and travels south, teasing him. I hear grunts of pleasure—I’m probably driving him insane.

“You are so cruel,” he breathes.

“Payback,” I whisper…and finally take him in my mouth. He moans as he grabs a fistful of my hair. I want to give him the same sensations he’s given me.

I delight in the sounds he makes as I pleasure him. As I go a little harder and faster—his breathing becomes labored—I can tell he’s close, and the thought arouses me.

I’m shocked when he tenses up.

He slides his hand against my cheek, pulling me to him. “Mirella,” he breathes. “I had something different in mind for tonight.” His eyes filled with that same foreign emotion I had noticed back at the restaurant—I want to know what it is. “I want us to be together.” He kisses my cheek softly.

I don’t quite understand. What man doesn’t want a blow job? I’d done it before and he loved it.

“But,” I say, doubt suddenly filling me. “I wanted to…was I not doing a good job?”

“God…” he sighs. “You were doing an
amazing
job. It’s just not what I want tonight.”

He reaches for my back zipper and pulls it down slowly, his eyes fixing mine. He slides his hand slowly up my body, pulls the dress over my shoulders, freeing me of the sheer lace fabric. I’m left in my white lace underwear.

He gazes at me as he trails his finger down my stomach. “You are so beautiful, Mirella,” he says, his words soft. “You’re perfect. Don’t you
ever
forget that.”

I’m both flattered and a little uncomfortable—I’ve never taken compliments easily. But his words make me happy—no one has ever made me feel as beautiful as he does. “Thank you,” I say, my words barely a whisper.

“And you are just as beautiful inside.”

“You’re beautiful too,” I whisper as our lips meet. His kiss is soft and tender, his hands are gentle as he undoes my bra and explores my breasts with his mouth. He has always been gentle, but never quite like this—this is different.

He pulls me under him and slides my panties down, kissing the length of my thighs. His lips travel all over my body, and his gaze catches mine occasionally, his eyes full of longing. He kisses me again and again, softly…kisses my eyelids, my cheeks and the tip of my nose, the sensation of his lips soft on my skin. He looks into my eyes for an eternity—I sense he wants to say something—I can almost hear what he wants to tell me. His eyes don’t leave mine as he sinks into me.

He’s
making love
to me.

My heart swells up at the realization.

Just maybe…he loves me too.

Oh…shut up, you stupid cow.

K
ATHRYN
C
ALLS
M
E
O
N
T
UESDAY
M
ORNING
—I’m surprised—Kathryn
never
calls.

She tells me Weston and Bridget would like to meet with us as soon as possible at his office. I’m surprised and extremely curious. The last time we met at his office was when he first made us the proposal for the exchange. What could they possibly want to talk about now? This must be somewhat important—I can’t imagine what in the world would require an official meeting at his office.

Different possible scenarios run through my brain—and the worst comes to mind—they want to end the arrangement. But then, I think about it for a second—things have been going so well—the last time Weston and I were together was…almost magical.

It can’t be it.

Maybe they want to organize a trip for all of us…

“What is this all about?” I ask Kathryn.

“I honestly don’t know. I was just asked to contact you and make arrangements for a meeting, as soon as possible.”

I call Gabe and tell him about the meeting.

“Do you think they want to end it?” he asks, going exactly where I had gone.

“I don’t know, Gabe,” I say, my heart sinking a little. “How have things been with you and Bridget?” We’re not in the habit of talking about this stuff, but the situation warrants the question.

“Good. She seems happy. I haven’t sensed anything different. How ’bout you and Weston?”

“Uh…” I hesitate, thinking about the night I told him I loved him, the night we fought. But the last time we met seemed so perfect. “I think we’re okay,” I finally manage to say.

“That’s probably not it. Maybe it’s something good.”

“Can you take some time off tomorrow afternoon?” I ask. I want to arrange this meeting as soon as possible, or the suspense might very well do me in.

“Uh…sure,” he says. “Just let me know when.”

Gabe has never been to Weston’s office, and he seems both impressed and unimpressed—the sleek glass and chrome finishes probably don’t appeal to him—he’s more of a traditionalist—solid hard wood is more his style.

The receptionist tells us Weston will come and meet us in a minute. We sit impatiently on the ultramodern white chairs—Gabe’s large frame seems out of place, tucked in the compact curved seat. He seems as eager as I am.

Finally, Weston appears and greets us, dressed in a fitted gray suit. He extends a hand to Gabe with a forced smile. He does the same to me, not quite making eye-contact. And suddenly, I feel strange—the moment is reminiscent of the early days of our relationship. We wait awkwardly at the elevators, my attention drawn to Weston’s tapping foot.

He stares at the wall, clears his throat. “How was your drive here?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Gabe tells him as we enter the mirror encased elevator. “But my truck is brutal on gas—it costs me quite a penny to make it to the city.”

“You should consider a hybrid,” Weston suggests as he presses a button. As we make the quick trek up to his offices, it occurs to me that he hasn’t looked at me
once.

Bridget greets us when we enter Weston’s office, dressed in a tailored black suit.

We exchange one of those slightly uncomfortable, pretentious hugs.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I reply, forcing a smile. I’m not sure if I’m happy to see her yet. I just want someone to tell me what the hell is going on.

Weston paces across the room. “Take a seat,” he urges us, pointing toward the contemporary, tufted, white leather seats. As I sit down, I’m brought back to that conversation Weston and I had long ago—when he told me he wanted to be with me—it was so erotic. I close my eyes for a second, remembering the delicious sensation I experienced when he touched me for the first time, putting his hand softly on my knee. That day, I made a decision that changed my life.

Bridget takes a seat across us. “Can we offer you a drink? Weston has quite the coffee selection.”

“No, thank you,” I say politely, my palms sweaty.

Let’s just get this over with already.

“I’m good too,” Gabe says.

I shoot him a quick sideways glance, curious to see how he’s holding up—I think he’s as edgy as I am.

Weston takes a seat across from us as well. Both he and Bridget sit upright, stiff, like they’re accountants about to go over our income taxes. Bridget has one leg crossed delicately over the other, her heeled foot bouncing ever so slightly.

Weston sucks in a breath. “Well…” he starts, his expression heart-attack serious. “We might as well get straight to the point.” His words are heavy, dragging like lead weights. “Bridget and I wanted to meet with you today to discuss our arrangement.”

My heart sinks at the sound of his words.

I know what’s coming—and I know it’s not good—body language is an amazing thing—it speaks louder than words.

I look down at my black heels, not wanting to face them when they tell us they don’t want to see us anymore.

“Weston and I have had a wonderful time with both of you,” Bridget tells us, her voice sympathetic. I venture a look up at her, and she’s as stunning ever and seems genuinely sorry. “But we think this might be the time to…” she hesitates, looking out the window at the Chicago skyline, “cool things off.”

My heart fills with heaviness…a heaviness I’ve never felt before. My eyes tear up…I really don’t want them to see me like this, but I can’t help myself. I’m translucent—my heartbreak completely obvious.

Weston sees me. He sees the heartbreak. This is hard for him too—I can see it.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Bridget and I have discussed this thoroughly,” he explains, not quite looking at me. “And we both feel we have all gotten a little
too
close.”

I have no words. I’m completely shattered. Oddly, I don’t feel shocked—I just feel numb.

“This is…exactly when things…could start to get complicated,” Weston says, his words caught between heavy breaths. “And I think we are both very dedicated to our respective marriages and families,” he adds, his gaze catching mine. He seems truly heartbroken. Maybe he doesn’t want to do this—perhaps this is all Bridget’s doing—maybe she’s jealous.

“Well, you guys are the experts, aren’t you,” Gabe scoffs, his tone drenched in sarcasm. “I guess you’ve had your fill of us.”

Weston fidgets in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Please don’t take offense,” he says, his words measured. “We are simply trying to avoid both our families a lot of heartbreak.”

“Believe us,” Bridget chimes in, “this is for the best.”

Oh…shut up, you stupid cow.

“How…can we not take offense,” I finally manage to speak, my words shaky. “You’re dumping us.”

Weston sighs. “We are not
dumping
you, Mirella,” he stresses, his gaze boring into mine. “We are merely making a well-advised decision for
all
of us.”

I roll my eyes. This situation is getting to me—I can feel the anger building up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so upset.

“And although we don’t believe we should remain friends,” Weston goes on, picking up his water glass from the coffee table. His words are business-like, without emotion. “We would be more than willing to help you out financially if you were ever in need.”

This is it…

The exact moment.

The moment I absolutely lose it. It is one thing to dump us like we’re nothing, like what we’ve shared was completely insignificant. But it is quite another to treat us like cheap whores.

“You little fuckin’ shit,” I scoff, flinging my briefcase at him—the sleek red one with the brass corner reinforcements and brass buckle.

And damn, if I don’t get him right in the face.

He winces and throws his hand over his face. I think I may have taken out an eye. I hope I have. He’s drenched too—empty glass on his lap.

“Mirella,” he hisses.

Bridget looks absolutely shell-shocked, mouth gaping. Gabe loves it—a wide grin practically splits his face in two.

I tear my briefcase from Weston’s grasp.

“Let’s go,” I tell Gabe, and he follows like an eager puppy.

That’s how we leave off.

A horrible ending to a really fucked-up story.

It’s Wednesday evening, and I’m still so angry.

I can hardly stand it.

Well, that’s the first stage of grief, I think. No…actually that’s the second. I realize I’ve completely skipped “Denial.” I’m not in denial. I know I’ve been dumped. I suppose I still have Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance to look forward to. I’m definitely skipping Bargaining—I’m way too proud to beg.

But, at this moment, it seems the “Anger” stage will
never
go away.

Gabe has taken this a lot better than I would have imagined. I think he’s secretly happy—he wants me all to himself again.

But I do think his ego was slightly bruised. “Fuck ’em,” he scoffed as we neared his truck. “They think they’re too good for us. Fuck ’em.” And that was it. That was all he said. And then, he went to the gym, back to his life, seemingly unaffected.

This makes me happy in a way. I know he didn’t love her.

And that’s my problem—unlike Gabe, I couldn’t remain emotionally distant.

I fell in love.

The anger propels wild, outlandish behavior in me. I flock to my closet and haul the twenty thousand dollar dress off its hanger. Claire is trailing me with wild eyes—I think she can tell I’ve gone completely mad.

I bound down the stairs, sprint across the kitchen, drag the dress outside, and throw it in the steel fire pit sitting in the middle of our backyard.

Claire watches me, her mouth buried in pudgy hands, big brown eyes as large as saucers.

I want to burn it.

I am going to burn it.

“Claire,” I hiss. “Go inside. Go to your room.”

She stands frozen.

“Go now,” I yell at her, and she scurries away, little legs bouncing frantically.

I feel awful. I didn’t mean to yell at her. I
never
yell at her. This isn’t like me. She’s probably wondering why I’m so upset. Poor little thing has no clue what is going on. I want to go to her and explain.

But I’m still mad as hell…and I desperately need a release.

I run to the shed and shuffle through the mess, throwing everything in my wake. Finally, I stumble on lighter fluid and a lighter.

I grab the dress and pour lighter fluid on the charred bits of wood in the pit—just a small amount—I don’t want to burn the neighborhood down.

I walk away from the pit, and hold the dress in my arms, stroking the delicate sheer fabric between my fingers—it is
so
beautiful—it is truly the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Memories of the day he gave it to me flood my mind—our reflection in the mirror, his arms wrapped around my waist, the symphony, the soft stroke of his mouth on my thigh as he took it off.

I hold the flame of the lighter up to the bodice and my eyes linger on the dress as it lights up. The flame grows.

I throw it in quickly.

At first, the flames are small. And as I watch, the flames grow tall, gaining momentum, and I see the dress slowly disappear under my stare.

Tears run down my cheeks.

I
finally
cry.

It’s what I’ve been wanting to do all along.

It’s what I’ve needed to do.

I tuck Claire in, wrapping her tightly into her purple butterfly-covered comforter. She smiles at me—that sweet smile that always me so happy. I stroke the golden ringlets off her face.

I kiss her forehead gently. “Snug as a bug.”

She looks at me, sadness washing over her sweet features. “Did you burn it, Mommy?” she asks. “The dress?”

“I’m sorry about that, Claire,” I apologize, my heart heavy. “You shouldn’t have seen that. It wasn’t about you sweetie. I wasn’t mad at you. I’m sorry I screamed.”

“It’s okay. But did you?” she asks, eager. “Burn it?”

I sigh, not wanting to tell her the truth. “I did,” I finally confess. “I was mad, and I did it, and I shouldn’t have done that. A person should
never ever
burn anything.”