Working It (28 page)

Ben

Afterward, I held her, feeling her body tremble and pulse after her final orgasm. Being intimate with her helped to chase away some of the memories of Bray. That wasn’t something I wanted creeping around the edges of my memory, because I’d meant every word I’d said. She was mine. I’d never needed anyone quite like the way I needed her.

After her heartbeat had recovered, she rolled to face me in bed so we were laying side by side.

“We should talk, Ben.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what more there was to talk about. In my mind things were pretty fucking clear. I had Emmy back. That was all that mattered. “What’s on your mind, baby?”

She brought a hand to my cheek and rested it there. She sighed deeply. “Are you sure you want this . . .” She motioned between us.

“I just came twice, I’m with the most beautiful girl in the world, and I’m about to get the best sleep of my life. I’d be a fuckin’ fool not to want this.”

She swatted my arm, a smile blossoming on her mouth. “I know what I want . . . but you’re not the relationship type,” she reminded me sternly.

“I told you, it’s not a choice. I need you.” I didn’t know the right words to make her understand. But she watched my eyes and seemed to take it all in.

“Relationships that start with sex don’t work, Ben.”

I tilted her chin up to meet my eyes. “Nothing about my life has been conventional. Let me do this my way.”

Unwilling to even allow her the time to answer, my mouth captured hers in a hungry kiss. I couldn’t wait a second longer to feel her lips on mine. She was so soft, so sweet. I didn’t know what it was about this girl, but I wanted her. Needed her.

After our third round of sex in as many hours, we were both worn out. Emmy showered and changed into little sleep shorts and a tank top while I got two fresh beers for us and the muffins we’d forgotten about earlier. Neither of us had eaten dinner, but they would do the trick. When Emmy emerged, with damp hair combed straight down her back and freshly scrubbed pink cheeks, she smiled at the little picnic I had set out on the bed.

I fed her bites of muffin—she liked only the tops—and we sipped our beers, made small talk, and snuggled together in the bed. I navigated the conversation around any mention of Fiona, happy that my peace offering seemed to work. My little beer-drinking, blueberry-muffin girl.

• • •

I continued to give Fiona her injections but worked hard to keep things purely professional between us. I was expecting her in the next few minutes and made sure I turned my phone to vibrate. Emmy would probably call now that she was done with work for the day. I wanted to talk to her, but I needed to help out Fiona first. And since Fiona and Emmy mixed about as well as oil and water, I didn’t want to upset either of them right now.

Emmy wouldn’t understand me helping Fiona like this, and Fiona was in a delicate enough state of mind with all these damn fertility drugs. Her first two attempts at getting pregnant hadn’t worked, and I began to wonder if putting her body through all this was really worth it. But I wouldn’t question her. I could see the determination blazing in her eyes when she handed me the syringe. Fiona lifted her shirt and I swabbed the area clean, watching her inhale sharply at the cold alcohol.

“Sorry,” I murmured. The goose bumps faded and I flicked the vial, pushing up the plunger until a bead of liquid formed at the head of the needle.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her eyes solemnly regarding mine. “Thank you for doing this. There’s no way I could inject myself.”

“It’s no trouble, Fiona. I just hope for your sake this is the last time we have to do this.”

She nodded, her eyes going misty.

Using the distraction, I pinched her skin and stuck the needle in, trying to be as gentle as I possibly could, burying the tip in her flesh. Fiona always jumped a little, but other than that we had this little routine down to a practiced science. Securing the small bandage in place, I discarded the needle in the Sharps Container.

“Doing okay?”

She nodded. “What would I do without you?”

A thousand times, I’d wanted to tell her about Emmy, but something inside me kept putting it off.

Emmy

During the day, I dreaded my time with Fiona. I still couldn’t look her directly in the eye. Every time I saw her, I thought about her and Ben. It was torture. He wanted to tell her that we were together, but I kept dragging it out. I knew she’d flip out, and since she already treated me like crap, I didn’t want to see what would happen once he told her. She’d probably end up firing me.

In the following weeks, Ben and I became nearly inseparable. During the week, each of us worked, but we spent every night together in Ben’s bed. We ordered room service, fed each other, talked about books, music, movies, our childhoods, and future dreams. And we had a lot of sex. The closer we got, the more we seemed to crave each other. Once or even twice a night wasn’t enough.

Oftentimes after sex, I felt like I’d run a marathon. My muscles trembled and became woozy, and I was drenched in sweat and come. I hadn’t known I was capable of multiple orgasms, and I never thought men were, either. Well, perhaps
men
weren’t, but Ben Shaw, a god in bed, was, and even he came two or three times during our crazy hours-long sex bouts. We leapt past any and all physical boundaries, making love constantly. We showered together, soaked together in the bathtub, and slept nude in his big bed. He refused to let me feel self-conscious, constantly petting me, kissing me, and telling me I was beautiful. It was perfection. A dream come true, really.

I realized with absolute clarity that I was falling in love with him. It was impossible. But I was. He was sweet and caring and made me laugh. I wanted to share his bed every night, sleep wrapped up in his arms, chase away his demons, and make sure he was well fed. I wanted to be the one to take care of him. The last person he saw before bed and the first person he saw when he woke. He was mine. Totally and completely. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

When I looked at him, I didn’t see the model in the magazines. I saw a man with basic needs and desires I wanted to fulfill. I wanted to be the one he called out for in the night, the one who caressed and soothed him back to sleep. The one who fed him, who cared enough to get him off those shit pills. It pissed me off that no one had cared enough to do these things before me.

At the same time, I was entirely grateful that I got to be the one.

He was mine. And I knew then that I loved him. Not the idea of him, not the model, or the prestige or luxurious lifestyle. I loved this man, this broken, sensitive, dirty-talking man.

I wanted to give him everything: all of me, my family, and everything he never had. But it still wasn’t enough because he deserved all that and more.

Loving Ben Shaw was the most terrifying feeling. It was like being on a roller coaster with no lap bar, freefalling without a parachute, and dying of heart-squeezing breathlessness all at once. I had no idea if he was even capable of a committed, traditional relationship. But it didn’t dampen my feelings. I loved him with my whole being, whether or not it was returned. It wasn’t a choice. And that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.

With the TV humming low in the background and providing the only light, Ben spooned his big, firm body around me. We’d dined on some of the best fresh ravioli I’d ever had and were full, sleepy from sex, and drifting off to sleep. Ben pressed a sweet kiss against my neck and murmured about how good I felt in his arms when three dumb little words tumbled from my lips: “I love you.”

I held my breath after I said it. It was entirely true, but crap, I hadn’t meant to just drop it on him like that. Now, or maybe ever.

Ben remained silent but I knew he’d heard me. I’d felt him stiffen just slightly when I’d uttered those three little words. After a few heartbeats’ time, he pressed another kiss to my head and said good night again, his tone final.

My heart thumped wildly in my chest. I didn’t plan to just blurt it out like that, but when I did say it, I certainly didn’t expect to be met with utter silence. My stomach cramped with nerves, and I was wired and nowhere near sleep. But I had to lie there, acting like nothing was wrong. . . . Shit! I wanted to cry. Instead, I bit my lip and stayed quiet, focusing on keeping my breathing deep and even.

All too soon, Ben’s body shifted closer and his arm around me became dead weight. He groaned softly in his sleep. I envied that he could fall into a peaceful sleep right now. My mind churned with unanswered questions as I tried to relax. It was going to be a long damn night.

21

Emmy

Ben had promised that this evening’s afterparty would be much tamer than the crazy Fashion Week parties. Tonight was a private affair celebrating designers on the rooftop of the La Manufacture hotel, located in the textile district of Paris. Many of the major clothing brands would be there. Ben mentioned that Braydon was back in town for a shoot, but apparently I wasn’t supposed to get excited about the possibility of seeing him tonight. I assured Ben it had nothing to do with our night together; I was just relieved that I’d know someone there besides him and Fiona.

Ben, Fiona, Gunnar, and I rode together in a limo to the event. A smug little grin curled on Gunnar’s lips as he watched the way Ben pressed a hand into my lower back; anyone could see that his eyes and hands seemed to know me intimately.

Fiona silently pouted the entire ride there.

It was awkward, to say the least.

The chilly night air enveloped the rooftop. Strands of little twinkling white lights adorned the terrace, and the view to the city beyond was breathtaking. Tuxedo-clad waiters circled the crowd, holding silver trays of peach-colored cocktails. I didn’t know what they were, but Ben and I each took one.

He took a sip and shook his head. “You can have mine.”

I tried the drink. It was fruity and sweet. Delicious. “Happily.”

Gunnar and Fiona each headed off across the party and mingled. Fiona annoyingly air-kissed the cheeks of the industry people she greeted.

I spotted Braydon across the rooftop, leaning against the railing as he took in the views. I tugged on Ben’s sleeve and nodded toward him.

Ben chuckled. “Go on and say hi. I’m going to grab a real drink and then I’ll come join you.”

Braydon happened to turn just as I approached, like he could somehow sense me coming.

“Jellybean!” He carefully lifted me from my feet. And although I was double-fisting the two peach cocktails, I didn’t spill a drop.

I chuckled at the silly nickname. “Hi, Braydon.”

“Where’s your man?”

I nodded to the bar. Ben was on his way toward us, holding a glass of amber-colored liquor for himself and a bottle of beer I presumed was for Bray.

“Hey, buddy.” Braydon clapped him loudly on the back and took the beer from him. “Got her back, huh?”

“Yep. Thanks for your advice, man.” Ben smiled and pulled me to his side to kiss my temple.

I was a little self-conscious of him touching me in public. Fiona still didn’t know about us, and I was worried what she’d do when she found out. Ben and I had discussed it and decided to keep things quiet for a little while longer.

I noticed a glass of champagne marked with lipstick sitting beside Braydon’s empty bottle. “Is someone here with you?” I asked, nodding toward the glass.

His eyes went to Ben’s, and his expression looked pinched. “Yeah. London’s here. She just went to the restroom.”

Ben tensed beside me. Before I could ask who London was, Gunnar came to retrieve Ben. “There’s a designer from Gucci here, and he wants to meet you.”

“Sure.” Ben looked directly at me. “Is that okay if I leave you with Bray?”

I nodded. “Of course. Go.”

I eyed the champagne flute again. The lipstick was a pretty shade—blood red. I could never pull off that bold of a color. I’d look like Bozo the Clown. I tended to stick to sheer glosses mostly. “So, who’s London?”

“London Burke. Victoria’s Secret supermodel.”

“Are you two dating?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Did she and Ben . . . date?”

“Something like that.” Ben’s ex was a Victoria’s Secret supermodel. Translation: Fuck my life. He didn’t offer any further explanation, and I didn’t press. There was something about the situation he didn’t want me to know.

London never returned for her glass of champagne, and Braydon did his best to distract me. He asked about where I lived in New York and talked about his drunken adventures over the past couple of weeks, but my eyes continually watched for Ben’s return. An hour later, with still no sign of him, I excused myself from Braydon. After consuming three of the little peach cocktails, I was in desperate need of a restroom. And I wanted to find Ben.

I ventured inside, used the restroom, and reapplied my lip gloss, studying myself in the mirror. I was wearing a little cream-colored dress with a scoop neck and the black pumps Ben has gotten me. I felt cute but a little unsure. I hated how working around models caused me to constantly need reassurance from Ben that I was enough. I turned away from the mirror, frustrated. I just wanted to find him.

Reemerging into the night air, I scanned the rooftop for Ben. It should have been easy to spot him in the large, open, rectangular area. I saw Fiona talking to Braydon where I’d left him but no sign of Ben anywhere. Where had he gone? I noticed two girls exit the rooftop through a door I assumed was a stairwell into the hotel, so I decided to follow them.

The girls headed down the flight of stairs, gripping the banister as they navigated the steps, wobbling on their stiletto heels. I followed them inside one of the hotel’s top-floor suites. It seemed the party had slipped into this space, too. Club music thumped in the background, and the kitchen counter was littered with liquor bottles, lime wedges, and mixers.

People stood talking in the living room, mostly girls in too-short cocktail dresses that were no doubt freezing outside. I crossed through the room, still not finding Ben. Blood pumped erratically in my veins as I realized a hotel suite also meant bedrooms . . . and if Ben wasn’t on the roof, and he wasn’t in the living room . . . Oh God . . . I felt weak, but I pushed my legs into action, heading down the hallway.