Beautiful Secret

by Christina Lauren

  I felt myself frown. “There wasn’t really a chance. Or maybe, more accurately, we’d both grown so weary by that point, that it was easier to just walk away.”

  Ruby’s question pricked at some thought I’d long since buried. Why hadn’t we ever spoken of these things? Surely if I was unhappy, Portia had been as well. I could only imagine how self-aware Ruby—with her psychologist parents and need to always express herself—would view the way I’d reacted after the divorce. There was no attempt at reconciliation, no attempts to fix what was wrong, no search for closure. I’d packed up my things and gone. The decision to end our marriage had been filled with as much passion as we’d had during it.

  Always able to read my expressions, Ruby tipped my chin back in her direction. “Hey, I’m not saying you should have, everyone deals with things differently. I saw your face before the divorce, and after. I know you’re happy with me. I didn’t ask that because I’m jealous. I hate to think you didn’t get the sort of adoration you deserve, but—and as horrible as it sounds to say it out loud—it turns me on to think about how much I can give you.” Her hand ran down my stomach and wrapped around where my body seemed to return to life. “You were so different just now. Like”—she closed her eyes, thinking as she absently stroked me—“kind of dominating and rough.”

  Just as I opened my mouth to apologize on instinct, she stilled me with a look, then said, “I liked it.”

  Without any words, I returned to her, pressing my chest to hers as we kissed.

  I felt her reach for me, guide me into her again, and just like that we were moving together frantically, vocal, grasping. I tried to restrain myself, tried to remain gentle, but the tightness in my chest over her admission made me feel demanding, possessive, and desperate to deserve her.

  Fifteen

  Ruby

  I opened my eyes and blinked in confusion at the walls and ceiling, at the soft dark sheets wrapped around me. Everything looked completely foreign. For a moment I was wildly disoriented. I wasn’t in the hotel room in New York. I wasn’t in my own flat.

  Oh.

  I was with Niall, in his bed, naked, with his heavy arm slung over my hip.

  A glance at the clock told me it was one minute before seven, and in the time it took for the numbers to turn over, I remembered: Niall Stella fucked my brains out last night.

  I nearly rolled into my pillow to scream.

  I closed my eyes and relished every memory: Niall beneath me, thick and rigid inside me, his hips arching and desperate to get deeper. And after I came: Niall flipping me over, laying me down on the rug, Niall growing so rough and wild with his hands holding my hips off the floor as he drove and drove and drove . . .

  My eyes opened wide as I was punched with the memory of the rest of it—what had happened before the perfect, obliterating sex. More specifically, the way I’d managed to blurt that I loved him, and the way he’d blinked a thousand times, long lashes fluttering, lips awkwardly forming a hundred different evasions before he kissed my forehead and declared: “You’re lovely.”

  You’re. Lovely.

  That was easily the most mortifying event of my life. Followed closely by him bringing up Portia mere seconds after being inside me.

  Number of Times I Told Niall Stella I Loved Him and He Had Sex with Me to Distract Me from the Fact That He Hadn’t Said It Back: one.

  Number of Times Niall Stella Ruined Post-Coital Bliss by Bringing Up Sex with His Ex-Wife: also one.

  Well, technically, he had sex with me twice.

  Carefully, I slipped out from under the weight of his arm. My body was worn-out, limbs and joints stretched, breasts tender in the most amazing way. With each step toward the bathroom, the ache in my muscles and between my legs reminded me exactly how good all that pent-up lust and frustration felt when he unleashed it. Max was right, New York should definitely consider hooking Niall up to the grid.

  But the feelings after? Not so good. In fact, when he’d initially brought her up—my first instinct had been to knee him in the balls. Niall’s marriage had seriously skewed his idea of what relationships could be, and it seemed he was only beginning to realize it. What worked for one couple didn’t always work for another, and thankfully, he appeared to be letting those ideas go.

  My body . . . my body was exhausted and still humming from what was easily the most mind-blowing, intense sex I’d ever had. My body knew it had been good for both of us.

  But my heart had its own hesitations. I hated the gnawing sense that if I hadn’t declared my feelings last night, we would have kissed, cuddled, gotten each other off, and then happily fallen asleep. Niall was my cautious, courteous giant and I knew that his desire to treat sex with reverence was eclipsed only by his new desire to show me he could try to be what I needed.

  It took me only a few minutes to use the bathroom and wash my hands and face. The soap, the towels, the entire room smelled like Niall. I’m sure if I were to press my nose to my skin I’d find that I smelled like him, too.

  I tiptoed out of the bathroom and down the hall, where our clothes were scattered all over the floor. The chair sat empty in the middle—a reminder that he hadn’t taken me to his bed, but had me right there in the living room. Twice. I tried not to read too much into that. Maybe he simply needed me right then. Or, maybe sex in his bed felt like a new, scary frontier.

  My bra hung off one arm, my skirt was a few feet away on the rug. I gathered everything up, a flash of memory replaying with each item I found.

  His eyes as he’d slipped off my shirt.

  The sight of him sucking my breasts.

  The shape of his mouth when I’d pulled off his belt.

  The way it felt when he finally, finally pushed inside me.

  The flash of fear on his face when I’d told him I loved him.

  I could hear Niall beginning to stir as I pulled on my clothes, and I wished I’d managed to slip out before he’d woken. I was embarrassed. But I knew he would never bring up the fact that we had sex last night way before either of us expected to, so of course I would have to.

  But not even I, compulsive discusser of all things, wanted to have the conversation we needed to have.

  So, about last night . . . did I unintentionally manipulate you into having sex with me? Or are you just so unwilling to trust your own instincts that you gave in to what you thought I wanted?

  “Ruby?” he called out, voice gravelly with sleep.

  I walked down the hall in bare feet, my steps muted on the wood floors. He sat up when I entered, the sheet falling to his waist as he took in my clothes, the shoes in my hands.

  “Hey,” he said, but it was more like a question. His expression still carried the weight of drowsiness but in his eyes was a clear note of confusion. Guilt and irritation wrestled in my stomach and I pressed my hand there, telling them both to knock it off.

  “I forgot something,” I said. It was a lie, and I could tell by the way his face fell slightly that we both knew it. “I need to run home before work.”

  “Now?” He sat up at the side of the bed, his hair an adorable mess and miles and miles of bare leg stretching to the floor. Wow. “I can drive you.”

  “No, it’s okay, I—”

  “Ruby, stop,” he said, voice deep and firm. “Let me just get some clothes on.”

  He stood, completely naked, and out of some spontaneously polite instinct I looked away—very obviously—instead staring at the far corner of his room.

  He noticed, and of course he did. I was acting like a twitchy lunatic.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, stepping into a pair of track pants. “It’s not like you to avert your gaze when I’m nude. In fact, you’re usually quite the leering pervert. ”

  He was teasing me. He was trying.

  I shrugged, looking back at him but only able to really look at his face. “Just mildly panicking.”

  Just realizing that I told you I loved you after only a few weeks together and the craziest part is it was
n’t a lie.

  Just realizing I think you had pity sex with me last night.

  Just realizing I’m probably freaking out for no reason and really should just leave right now and get some coffee and food before I do something stupid like overshare all of this.

  “Do you want to sit on my bed and tell me what has you ‘mildly panicking’ after I shagged you roundly until only a couple of hours ago? I would think you’d be too worn-out for conscious thought before seven thirty in the morning. I certainly am.”

  I looked up at him, at his teasing tone, and smiled weakly. “Maybe over dinner tonight?”

  He nodded, eyes narrowed as he studied me. And like that, I’d flipped the switch in him. The overthinking switch. The holy-shit-what-happened-last-night switch. “Okay.”

  Fuck.

  I slipped into my flats and ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame it just as his phone rang on the bedside table.

  He bent, looking at the screen and then at the clock. Hesitating, he murmured, “I’d better take this. If you’d just . . . ?”

  He held up one finger, asking me to wait, and then stepped into the bathroom off his bedroom, closing the door.

  Well, that’s awkward. If it was a work call he’d have taken it in front of me.

  All I needed to hear was his gentle voice saying, “Portia? It’s seven in the morning. What is it, love?” before I grabbed my bag and headed out of the flat.

  One of the amazing things about London is that you don’t have to drive anywhere. Want coffee? There are a dozen shops lining the street. Need to pop into Selfridges at lunch? Oxford Street Tube is across the street. Iconic red buses stop at virtually every corner and there’s even the River Bus to take you down the Thames. Need to avoid an awkward taxi ride with someone you may or may not have manipulated into sleeping with you? Thankfully, a short trip on the Tube and the Southwark stop is just a few doors down from my office!

  It was still raining when I stepped out onto the street, because of course it was. I’d showered quickly at home but needn’t have bothered. My little flats were immediately drenched by the puddles and the constant downpour, and made soppy squishing noises with every step. Cars splashed water up onto the narrow sidewalk and even my umbrella was no match for the storm. Luckily, if I moved close enough to the storefronts, the various awnings offered me some small measure of cover.

  By the time I stepped into Richardson-Corbett, I was drenched. I squeezed the excess water from my skirt and jacket, reminding myself that my hair would dry the same as it probably did every day. And besides, the shower at home, the walk to work—it had given me time to talk myself down.

  The I-love-you-You’re-lovely tic was nothing. It was us. This is what we did: I dove straight in; he dipped a toe in and then pulled it out to give himself time to consider whether the water was too cold. It’s why we worked, and there was no point questioning it.

  I also needed to calm down about the way he’d brought up Portia, and then slinked off into the other room to take her call. To be honest, my brain actually stuttered more on that last one and I searched wildly in my thoughts to explain it away. He’d only been with one person, and married to her for over a decade. Of course it would be weird, right?

  Pippa met me in the hall with wide eyes that scanned me from head to toe before saying, “Here,” and handing me her cup of coffee.

  “That bad?” I asked.

  “Have you seen yourself?”

  “Well, that answers that,” I said, continuing on to our shared desk and setting down the coffee. “Thanks for this.”

  Pippa nodded and took the chair opposite me. “Everything going okay?”

  I nodded as I slipped out of my coat. “Yeah everything’s fine.” I looked up to see the message indicator light blinking on my phone. Picking it up, I punched in my pin and then covered the speaker, telling her, “It’s not even nine and today has done a lot. I just had a mental meltdown so epic it was like something out of a bad sitcom . . .” I paused, listening to the message and then swearing as I hung up the phone. “Anthony wants to see me as soon as I get in. Shit. Why is he here so early?”

  “It can’t be that bad. I saw the email congratulating the New York team. And that bridge redesign you worked up went off without a hitch. He probably just realized it’s still raining and hasn’t seen you in that top before.” She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Hoping for a little wet T-shirt action, if you know what I mean.”

  “Gross,” I said, dropping down into my chair. I reached into my bottom drawer for my cosmetics bag and emergency cardigan. “Okay, I’m going to clean up a little and then get this over with.”

  “Go get ’em,” she said.

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked, peering in through Anthony’s door.

  He’d been arranging something near the bookcase, and turned to look at me. “Miss Miller, yes. Come in.”

  Miss Miller?

  I stepped inside the office and he added, “Close the door, please.”

  My stomach dropped.

  I did as he said and crossed the room to stand in front of his desk, stopping just on the other side of the extra chair. “Yes, sir?” I asked, the sentiment setting off a shudder down my spine.

  “I need to talk to you about something very serious, I’m afraid.” He pushed a heavy, leather-bound volume back onto the shelf and crossed to the desk. “You have a bit of a choice to make here.”

  I’d seen Anthony like this before: serious in an oddly coy way, trying to get me to draw the answer out of him.

  I stood across from him, smiling. “What is it, Anthony?”

  He looked up at me, eyes narrowed. “ ‘Mr. Smith’ is probably best.”

  I choked on the words I wanted to say, On my first day here you stared at my tits and told me to call you Anthony, but instead said, “Sorry. Um, Mr. Smith.”

  Anthony unfastened the buttons of his suit jacket and took his seat, pulling a stack of papers toward him, contracts that had been flagged with red and yellow tabs where he should sign. “Given your rather unprofessional behavior in New York and since . . .” he began and my stomach evaporated. “Rather, given your long-term fascination with a vice president of the firm and your recent pursuit of him—”

  “My pursuit?”

  He flipped through some files, not even bothering to look up at me as he spoke. “I am required to ask you to either keep your relationship with Mr. Stella purely professional, or leave your internship with Richardson-Corbett.”

  “What?” I gasped, lowering my shaking body into the chair across from him. “Why?”

  “It is clear to several of us in management that you’ve behaved unprofessionally,” he said, reaching for a pen. “You’ve been distracted, and your efforts have been mediocre at best. Beyond that, I needn’t elaborate.”

  “But that’s not f—”

  Fair, I almost said it, but snapped my mouth shut tight. I wouldn’t add behaving like an adolescent to my growing list of transgressions.

  Trying again, I said, “Would you please explain why on earth this has been a topic of discussion beyond just between myself and Mr. Stella? We haven’t broken any rules!”

  “Miss Miller, please do not presume you have the right to question any decision I make regarding this firm, and whom I choose to employ.” He scribbled a signature across a page and the sound was enough to put my nerves on edge. “As an intern, you qualify as a temporary worker in the UK, and therefore I am not obligated to explain anything to you. But seeing as you’re young”—and there was that thing he did, where he packed a gut punch worth of insult into a single word—“I hope this might be an opportunity for growth. Your conduct of late, though not necessarily qualifying as gross misconduct, has been lacking. Having had this latest . . . distraction with a vice president of the firm brought to my attention—”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I repeated. “Not smart, I’ll admit. But not outright against the rules. I do not report to Niall.”
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  “Niall,” he repeated, smiling down at his papers. “Yes. Well, regardless, this is the type of situation that has a tendency to run away from all of us, and we in management think it best if you end your relationship, or forfeit your internship.”

  I could feel my face heat with angry tears. Young girls cry; I didn’t want him to feel justified in his insult. I blinked several times, determined that no matter what happened, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing what this was doing to me.

  “Can I speak to Mr. Corbett?” I said as smoothly as possible. “I think I need someone else to explain what’s happening.”

  “Richard has given me the power to make any and all decisions affecting my department.”

  Fire lashed through my blood. I couldn’t hold it back. “So, to be clear, you urged Niall to get a leg over on me, and now you’re firing me because you think he has.”

  Anthony’s head whipped up, eyes full of blazing authority. “I dare you to say that again.”

  “Clearly,” I said, seething, “I choose to leave the internship. This has been one of the most unreal conversations of my life.”

  “In that case,” he said absently, scribbling another signature, “I’ll put a letter in your file. I’ll see that you have a copy before you leave.”

  The rain had stopped and I took a walk to clear my head, far enough away that I could hear the chimes of Big Ben in the distance. Out of instinct I reached into my pocket to find my phone, only to realize it wasn’t there. I’d left it on my desk before talking to Anthony, thinking I was just going down the hall but then rushing out before I could get it. I wondered if Niall had made it in yet, if he’d come looking for me, if he’d called.

  And that’s when I realized how far this had gone, and that maybe there was a kernel of truth to what Anthony said. My first thought wasn’t about my job or the fact that I was five thousand miles away from home. It wasn’t where would I live? How would I buy food or pay the electricity bill? It wasn’t about my fucking spot at Oxford, either, or how long and hard I’d worked, or how much I’d sacrificed to get there.