BLISS: A Wedding Enemies to Lovers Alpha Bad-Boy Billionaire Romance

by Marr, Maggie

  Dad’s eyes lock on me.

  I see him.

  He sees me.

  Shit.

  “We never talked about it. That day.” I shove my hands into my pockets. I lift a shoulder. “What the fuck? I lied. He lied. I . . . I should’ve told Mom.” The guilt. Maybe truth isn’t a possibility with my DNA.

  “You should’ve told Mom?” Rachel screws up her face. “What the fuck? You were twelve. He should’ve told Mom.”

  The knot in my chest loosens. If my Dudley Do-Right of a big sis doesn’t think I should’ve raced home to tell Mom what I saw, maybe my moral compass isn’t as damaged as I’ve always thought.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “No, not maybe. You were a kid. He was the grown-up. Not fair to expect your twelve-year-old self to make that kind of choice. Shit, there’re adults who can’t make that kind of choice. I know them. You know them.” Rachel leans closer. “How many of my friends knew Dalton was fucking his secretary? Come on. So many of them have crawled out of the woodwork since we split.” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “And I’m like, fuck you. What good does it do me now that you knew my husband was fucking around on me? Could’ve told me sooner. Saved me a shit ton of pain.”

  Is she right? For more than two decades, I assumed there’s something fundamentally wrong with me because I didn’t rush home and tell Mom about Dad. Something on the Y chromosome that prohibited me from being honest. Faithful. Truthful.

  Then after what happened with Susie . . .

  I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

  “Hey.” Rachel stares into my eyes. “Not your fault. Okay?”

  “Why do you think she let him come back?” I ask.

  “For us.” Rachel glances at Lily. “Once you have a kid, you totally get it.”

  “Would you—?” I nod toward Lily.

  “Not now. It’s been too long. It’d be confusing. But before? If he’d asked? Maybe. Probably.” She nods, and her eyes grow sad. “Yeah. I would’ve. I’m not saying we would’ve worked, but I would’ve at least tried. Just to know. Because I want that for her. I want two parents and a ‘normal’ home and—”

  “There are no normal homes.”

  “Okay, well normal-ish, or whatever passes as normal. I’d like for her to have a home with two parents in it.”

  “You can give that to her.”

  Rachel’s cheeks flame red and her eyes inform me I’ve stepped onto an explosive path. What the heck. I just told her one of my biggest secrets and survived. I’m feeling reckless. “I mean there’s Alan. He’d love to be a dad and—”

  Rachel shoots her hand up. “Stop. Stop now. Not an option.”

  “But—”

  “Mommy, do you like it?” Lily interrupts. Rachel steps closer to have a look and plasters a happy-mommy smile onto her face.

  “I love it, sweetie. It’s gorgeous.”

  Lily grabs a pink crayon and continues. Rachel grasps my arm and pulls me further away.

  “I told you about Alan in confidence, and in a very weak moment, okay? No. Just no. I am not putting Lily through that again. Not now. Not ever. Alan and I . . . we . . . we just take care of each other’s needs.”

  I put my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes. “You’re my sister. Don’t want to hear about needs.”

  “Whatever. We all have them. Even you.” She jerks her chin towards me. “You’re not Mr. Celibate. I know you’re not. I’m certain in the past five years you’ve had needs as well.” Rachel leans in. “Or at least that’s what I hear.” She lifts an eyebrow.

  What the fuck does she hear? And how does she hear it?

  I’m not taking her bait. Not now. Not today. Kendall? An assumption about Tara? Wonderfuck? I can’t imagine by-the-book Rachel knowing about Wonderfuck and not raising holy hell about the idea of me having sex with strangers, even if it’s an unpaid volunteer position.

  “Mommy, look!” Lily jumps up, runs toward us, and reaches out her hand to Rachel. I look over her shoulder. Hmm. Yeah. My niece, the next Picasso.

  Chapter 25

  The alert on my phone beeps. Tara’s published a new story. I open my laptop and click on the bookmark for the LA Post, the site she writes for. I programmed the alerts after the first time we slept together. Not when I slept with her as Wonderfuck, but when I slept with her as Jake.

  I scroll to her byline. I read. She’s a good writer. Solid. They have her doing investigative stuff, but they also have her doing one piece a week called “Unseen Los Angeles.” This week it’s the artists around town. The work that goes unseen, on the periphery of the mainstream.

  It clicks. The gallery. The other night. Was research. For this article. I continue to read. Tara references the showing at The Legend Gallery and talks about the redemptive nature of societal credibility.

  My heart beats faster.

  I keep reading.

  Nope. Nothing. No mention of me, of Ingrid, of Andrew. Nada. Just her and the gallery and the artist and the opening.

  I close my eyes.

  I hear her voice.

  I see her face.

  I feel her touch.

  I want to feel her touch again.

  It’s eleven at night. Easy. Convenient. I could get up out of this chair. Walk across the hall. Knock on her door.

  Who knows if she’s home?

  I don’t.

  I know less about Tara’s life now that I’m wonderfucking her than I did before, when we were neighbors who rarely spoke.

  What’s my problem? Why can’t I accept that I care for her? I care for her as Jake. I care for her as Wonderfuck. I want more from her than I’ve wanted from a woman since Susie.

  Because the idea of being attached to a woman scares the fuck out of me.

  I push back my chair and walk into my half-empty closet. A testament to me living alone. Susie’s clothes hung there for twenty-four months after she died, until one day I came home from wonderfucking and they were gone. Disappeared. Rachel packed up Susie’s things. We never spoke of it, but I know she did it. I know because the sad look on her face the next Sunday at Mom’s told me that she had.

  Rachel left a few of Susie’s things behind. Very few. But a few. I reach up to the top shelf in my closet and shove my hand to the back, where I find a rectangular box, bigger than a shoebox, but not much bigger. I pull down the box and turn toward the dressing table in the center of the closet.

  Deep breath.

  When was the last time I opened this box? I can’t even fucking remember. I pull off the lid and look inside.

  Like a steak knife into my heart.

  The detritus of a life I was meant to lead. A life torn from me when Susie died. On the top of the pile, a testament to our joy, our love, our future, is our engagement picture. We did two days of shoots. This photo, at Echo Park, was Susie’s favorite. I’m leaning against a tree and Susie is leaning against me. Her head beneath the angle of my chin. Behind us the lake and the bright blue sky.

  We’re happy.

  I’m happy.

  Susie smiles.

  The sun shines.

  Her diamond gleams.

  I tilt the box to the side and metal rattles against cardboard. The diamond ring slides to the corner. I pick it up.

  She took it off before she dove off the balcony.

  Otherwise . . . thirty-two stories.

  I retch.

  I rush from the closet and into the bathroom. I heave.

  Nothing.

  Been here before.

  Tons of fucking times.

  There’s a reason I don’t get the box out very often. A reason I don’t return to the memories of what was meant to be my perfect life. I sit on the floor and rest my elbow on the toilet. I open my left hand. The ring lays in my palm. Glittering with the promise of a future that will forever go unfulfilled.

  Love will do that to you. That bitch.

  Chapter 26

  My Wonderfuck phone beeps.

  I’ve been waiti
ng weeks for this beep. I flip open my phone.

  Ready? her text reads.

  Always.

  Three’s the charm.

  I don’t respond.

  This won’t be our last time, will it?

  Everything is different where Tara is concerned. My entire life is flipped with her. I do things . . . I say things . . . I think things I never thought possible again, or even before.

  It’s the last time, I finally type.

  Her response is immediate. Friday at 5. She types in an address. It’s not a hotel, but a private residence on the ocean in Malibu.

  Normally I’d say no. I’d text right back and tell her impossible, it’s not happening, but I don’t because this is Tara, and this is the final time I’ll hold her in my arms, kiss her, be with her. Pretend that she’s mine. This is the last time, because for my sanity it has to be.

  I don’t even try to fool myself with the idea that we’re simply wonderfucking. I know she makes me feel as good as I make her feel. This isn’t just wonderfucking, this is more and that scares the fuck out of me, and only proves that this needs to end. The climb back from losing Susie was bloody and brutal, and I can’t survive that crawl again.

  I can’t continue seeing Tara, because if I’m with her eventually I’ll fall in love and this time, if something bad happens, I might lose not only my mind but also my soul. And I won’t, not even to be with Tara.

  * * *

  “Hey, so did you want to come to dinner tonight?” Rachel asks. I’m on the PCH, headed to Malibu and trying to beat the Friday traffic.

  “I have some plans for the weekend.”

  “Plans?” Rachel doesn’t even try to hide the surprise in her voice. “For the entire weekend? As in, laying-on-your-couch-eating-Chinese-food-and-having-a-marathon-session-watching-baseball plans or like real-plans-with-human-type-people plans?”

  “Ha! You’re so funny,” I say, but don’t answer her question. She hates that. She’s a judge and I’m her little brother. Those two things mean that not only am I always supposed to answer Rachel’s questions, so is everyone else in the world. I know she hates when I don’t answer her questions, and even though we’re grown-ups I still like jerking her chain, or at least letting her know that I can jerk her chain. I remain silent. I glance out the window toward the bright blue Pacific.

  “Seriously? You’re not going to answer me?”

  I smile. “Oh? You wanted an answer?”

  “Ha, ha. Of course I want an answer. I’m worried about you.” Her voice is softer. “In the past this has been a rough weekend.”

  The realization hits me like a baseball bat to the head. This weekend. Tomorrow. Would’ve been my wedding anniversary. My six-year anniversary . . . with Susie.

  Fuck.

  I clear my throat.

  “I forgot.”

  “Shit,” Rachel says. “Wish I hadn’t said anything.”

  But in the last six years, I’ve never forgotten the day that I was meant to marry Susie. The date is etched into my brain like a scar seared into flesh. The days leading up to it, I’m always morose, not very communicative. The past five years I’ve wonderfucked my brains out on this date. Endorphins help to minimize pain. I don’t have to feel sadness, loss, desperation—or at least I don’t feel them as deeply. It’s hard to feel sad while you come.

  “I think it’s good. That you didn’t remember,” Rachel says.

  Is it? I’m uncertain. Remembering Susie is kind of my thing. Trying to help women so they won’t ever feel like Susie did is kind of my thing too.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Malibu.”

  “Ohhhh.” The way she draws out the word makes her tone an unspoken question about my weekend plans.

  I’m absolutely not responding to this inquiry. “I might not make it to Mom’s on Sunday.”

  “Got it,” Rachel says. “Can you do next Wednesday?”

  “What’s Wednesday?”

  “Doctor’s appointment. Assessment. Remember?”

  I don’t want to remember. I’m in complete denial about how poorly Mom is doing with the Alzheimer’s. Her doctor is pushing for us to move her into an assisted care facility. The idea makes me sick. I pay for nurses and caregivers. Why put her in a facility?

  “Mom loves being at home.”

  “It’s not about her loving being at home, it’s about safety and her not getting enough stimulation.”

  “There has to be a way that doesn’t include shuffling her off to a facility.”

  I grudgingly agree to the doctor’s appointment because Rachel is my big sister and she’ll simply hammer away at me until I capitulate. She’s good like that. I might not answer all her questions, but she can totally make me cave on doing things I don’t want to do.

  I turn into the Malibu Colony and pull to a stop at the guard gate. The guy opens his window.

  What name? I squint. What name did Tara give him?

  I roll down my window.

  “Tara Jennings,” I say.

  “And your name?”

  My name . . . what is my name . . .

  “Mr. W,” I say, hoping Tara knew that’s what I’d use.

  The guard scans his computer screen. Taps two keys. Smiles. “Thank you, sir. Sixth house on the left.”

  I nod, pull into the Colony, and realize that this is going to be a spectacular final time.

  Chapter 27

  The sky is blissfully blue and waves caress the sand. Six steps lead from the lower deck to the beach. I stand and watch the infinity of the waves. The never-ending love affair between water and land. The constant give and take. I take a sip of my whiskey. I’m early.

  The house is perfection.

  Just exactly the type of home I’d want.

  The perfect place to entertain. To have kids. To bring family. Lily would love this place. I imagine Jango would too.

  Woof.

  About to find out.

  “Hello?”

  A tremor rushes through my body. I smile. How can I not? Tara makes me happy. I love her voice, her words, her thoughts.

  “You’re here.” She walks out onto the deck. Her arms open to me and I wrap mine around her. Standing with Tara in my arms feels like home.

  A jolt rips through my belly

  I don’t fucking care. I pretend that my emotions don’t alarm me. I lean into her, into the happiness and contentment that come from holding her in my arms. She smells of lemon and lavender and sunshine. Jango barks and wags her tail. Jango loves Jake and to Jango, that’s who I am, no matter how I might try to explain that I’m Wonderfuck.

  Reality hits me.

  I’m a fool.

  A complete and utter fool.

  I’m not Wonderfuck. Have never been Wonderfuck. I’m Jake. Forever and always—Jake. I’m not my persona, my persona is me. I look into Tara’s eyes. Her smile captures me. I shake the thoughts of identity from my head and press my lips to Tara’s.

  Heat zips through my cells. I’m hard, and I want her.

  Tara pulls back from my hungry kiss. “That’s better than nice.”

  Fuck. She’s perfection. Beautiful and smart and lovely. Inspiring physical want but also the emotional contentment that hasn’t been in my life for a very long time.

  “I thought we’d eat in tonight,” she says.

  “Let me cook.”

  “You cook?”

  “Of course I cook.” I smile at her. “I have to eat.”

  “I guess . . . I just assumed that you had takeout most nights.”

  “I make a mean garlic cream sauce.”

  I pull her toward me and head into the kitchen, a big, open, chef’s type of affair. There’s a six-burner chef’s stove and two sinks, plus a Sub-Zero refrigerator already fully stocked for the weekend.

  “This has everything I need.” I shut the refrigerator door. “Want to start now?”

  She walks up behind me and slides her arms around my waist. “I kind of hoped we could eat a li
ttle bit later . . .”

  I’m gone. Done. We can eat later, we can eat next week, we can eat never, as long as I now get to do to Tara all the fabulously sexy things I’ve been thinking about doing to her for the last two weeks. “I missed you,” I whisper.

  She tilts her face toward me. A hint of a question followed by sadness lurks in her eyes. The irony of my statement hits me. Yes, I’ve missed Tara and yet, according to me, we can’t be together again after this weekend.

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  I press my lips to hers.

  The ocean roars. I pull her close.

  Her body fits with mine.

  I cup my hand around the back of her neck.

  I want her.

  I need her.

  We will wonderfuck the questions away.

  She grasps my hip with her hand and holds on to me. She lifts my shirt over my head, and I know that she is fucking me and we’re fucking each other. Her hands rub my chest. Desire pulses through her fingertips. She traces the curve of my pec and down my arm. She touches her lips to my nipple and pulls it into her mouth.

  Fuck, yes.

  My fingertips drift over the smooth skin of her thigh, up and under her skirt, where I pull her panties over her hips and ass and the cloth drops to the floor. Her sex is naked beneath her skirt. I turn her toward the wall of windows, and she flattens both palms against the glass. I pull the skirt up over the curve of her beautiful ass. So lush and full. Her ass arches back to me. Her head turns and her gaze locks onto me. Yes. Oh yes. I stroke my hands over the curve of her ass and the rhythm of her hips grows more impatient.

  “Fuck me,” she says. “Fuck me now.”

  I pull a foil package from my wallet and unbutton my jeans. They drop to the floor. I’m naked behind her. She turns to me and takes the condom wrapper. Rips it open and unrolls the condom onto my cock.

  “Now,” she says, turning back to the glass. The ocean is before us both, but the better sight is her ass in front of me. I reach my fingers beneath her and stroke her clit. I slide one finger deep inside her.

  She is wet.