Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  He seems like a good man, but even good men have weaknesses.

  Even good men cheat.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew says, “but I thought we were on the same page. I was pretty clear earlier.”

  I frown. “About what?”

  “The fact that I don’t date. I didn’t mean it to come out so harsh. I mean, I’m having a good time, and I like you, I just—”

  “Ohh,” I say when I understand what he means. “No, it’s not that.”

  “You sighed, then got quiet. I believe in woman-speak, that means you didn’t like my answer.”

  “I was thinking about something else entirely.”

  “What?”

  I’m reluctant to go down this path with Andrew, but I’ve backed myself into a corner. I try to think of a polite way to put it. “It’s just that I don’t know if I believe you. About Denise. I would never, ever want to hurt another woman the way I was . . .”

  “Did your ex cheat on you?” he asks.

  I look down into the bubbles. Reggie’s infidelity is no secret, but there’s no room for it in this tub. It’s too heavy, too much, for a fling. For a vanilla bubble bath. For Andrew to take on when it isn’t his problem. I shake my head. I mean that I don’t want to talk about it, but if he misunderstands, I won’t correct him.

  “You said you’re getting a divorce, but you didn’t say why. If that’s not the reason, what is?”

  “Andrew, please. We’re having a nice time.”

  “What kind of husband was he?”

  I sigh, frustrated. Normally, I’ll take any chance to bash Reggie, but this feels less like a defense mechanism and more like opening up. I’m already naked at his mercy as it is. “The distracted kind.”

  Finally, Andrew shuts up. I don’t know what I expected him to say, just that I expected him to say something. When I tell women about Reggie’s affair, they react different ways. Some apologize, as if we’ve done something wrong just by being women. Some launch into their personal experiences with cheating—that usually comes with anger. I’m the second type—I launch and rage.

  Men, though, are different. They usually gloss over it when I bring it up, an anecdote they didn’t ask for.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  “Distracted,” Andrew says after a few seconds, as if he’s still registering the word. “Meaning . . .?”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Maybe it is okay, maybe it’s not. When you say distracted,” he presses, “you mean by other women?”

  I bend my knees, breaching the scalding water in an attempt to cool off a little. It doesn’t help. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, but everything so far tonight has been just right. I don’t want Reggie to ruin it. I don’t want Andrew’s reaction to ruin it by disappointing me. “He cheated on me,” I say. “With one woman that I know of. But it went on for almost a year.”

  “A year?” Andrew raises his voice, startling me. “Are you kidding?”

  “Kidding . . .?” I ask, unsure what he means. “It was an affair.”

  He tightens his hold, tension cording his forearms. “An affair. For a year. Asshole.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Coward.”

  I try to look back at him, confused, but I can’t see his expression. His reaction isn’t just unexpected; it’s intense. His body changes under mine, curling around me like a shield. Is he telling me what I want to hear? If so, why bother? “Reggie’s insecure, yes. It makes him weak, and it’s the source of his mistakes.” In business, in relationships, in life, Reggie always takes the shortcut, never puts all his cards on the table. He doesn’t give if he doesn’t think he can get. “How’d you know?”

  “What other explanation is there?” Andrew asks. “He was scared. On some level, he knew he didn’t deserve you. Right?”

  “I’m not sure if it runs as deep as that for him.”

  “He hurt you before you could hurt him. It’s the only explanation,” he says again.

  “It is?” I wrinkle my nose. In a way, it makes sense. Reggie doesn’t like to lose. He once secretly slandered a colleague who’d been up for the same promotion as him—and had never been caught. It is possible, whether he knew it or not, Reggie was threatened by the distance that’d been growing between us before he’d strayed. “Have you been cheated on?” I ask. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “No, but what other reason is there? Clearly he didn’t find anyone better.”

  I allow myself a small smile. “That’s sweet of you to say. Really.”

  “It pisses me off,” he says, as if he didn’t hear me. “I don’t have personal experience with cheating, but people close to me do.”

  Most likely, Andrew thinks because I’m Sadie’s boss, I don’t know her situation. Sadie continues to insist her husband never cheated on her, but I’ve heard that same thing from friends who later came crying back to me when they finally saw the truth. “You mean Sadie,” I say.

  “You know about that?”

  “Yes. Well, not the details, but I know a woman who’s been broken by a man when I see one, and that’s what Sadie was six months ago. She was a wreck. I don’t know how they got through his infidelity.” I shake my head. “How do you stay civil with him? Don’t you want to wring his neck?”

  Andrew snorts. “You’ve got it all wrong, babe.”

  “I don’t think so.” Is Nathan really such a good liar that he has Andrew convinced as well? When Sadie announced her pregnancy, I nearly keeled over. She seems happy, but can it last after how Nathan betrayed her? “Cheating often comes with a degree of brainwashing, although I don’t typically see it carry over to family members—”

  “Wrong,” Andrew repeats. “It’s not my story to tell, but sometimes, things aren’t what they seem, Amelia.”

  I let his words settle in. Up until now, I was confident I had Sadie’s situation nailed. That I knew all the details of all my friends’ relationships, whether or not they’d been divulged to me. Jennifer’s boyfriend went to Vegas for a weekend to attend a bachelor party? Cheater. Suzanne found an ink-smudged napkin in her husband’s briefcase? Adulterer. That’s just how it is. That’s life, especially in this city. The fact that I might be wrong makes me curious about the truth behind Nathan and Sadie.

  “So that’s why you don’t date,” Andrew states. “Ex-husband was a cheater.”

  It sounds like a limerick:

  Amelia’s husband was a cheater,

  A dirty, dirty pussy eater.

  Between someone else’s legs he fell,

  And several lies he did tell,

  Then came home to his wife, and without telling her why, apologized with a bag from Chanel.

  “When someone cheats on you, it—it puts all these ideas in your head, you know?”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “We really don’t have to talk about this.”

  “I want to. What ideas does it put in your head?”

  I could ask why he cares or, if I really wanted, shut down the conversation. Andrew actually seems interested in what I have to say, though. When I talk about this with friends, it sometimes becomes a pissing contest. Who was hurt worst? Which of our ex-husband’s girlfriends is the youngest, prettiest, thinnest? How many times did we just miss catching them together? We’re making ourselves feel worse by pretending to help each other. I don’t know if they know it, but I do, and yet, I still participate.

  Andrew’s concern might not be genuine, but it’s nice to talk to a man who doesn’t seem to blame me for Reggie’s affair. “Why wasn’t I enough?” I ask. “That’s the one my therapist, Dianne, likes to focus on, but what I can’t stop wondering is . . . if he was able to cheat on me for that long, what else did I miss? What am I still missing that’s right in front of me? He made me feel crazy for my suspicions, and now I . . .”

  “And now?” he prompts.

  “I don’t trust myself
anymore.” It’s the first time I admit it outside of Dianne’s office. “I don’t trust my judgment. That’s what he took away. My faith in others and in myself.”

  Andrew rakes some hair back from my face. “I get it,” he says against my temple. “I think it’s a shame, but I get it.”

  “Did you have a similar experience when your ex left?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

  “Is he with her now?” he asks.

  My answering laugh is forced. “I don’t know. He came crawling back two weeks after I kicked him out, claiming he’d made a mistake. Slamming the door in his face was almost worth all the suffering.”

  “And that was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Unfortunately not. He stops by sometimes. Says they’re not together, but I can’t believe a word he says about anything. Most of our interaction lately is through our lawyers.”

  “He comes by here?”

  “It’s his apartment, but I don’t let him in.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?” I ask, sensing his hmm is more than just a hmm.

  “Have you thought about moving out?”

  “And give him the satisfaction?” I shake my head. “He loves this place—it was his first seven-figure purchase. But he claimed to love me too.”

  “Don’t you want to be free of him?”

  “Of course. It’s more complicated than that, though. He’s an investor in avec. My PR firm. He dumped a large sum into it. I thought it was a blessing at the time, but now I know it was a power play to control me.”

  “Control you how?”

  “He owns a larger share than I do.”

  “Shit,” Andrew mutters. “That’s not good.”

  “I was financially able to buy him out a while ago, but he always made up excuses to deny me. Then came the divorce, and he continues to fight me on it. Until he agrees to give up avec, I won’t leave.”

  “Why do you like it here so much?”

  “I don’t,” I say. “This isn’t the neighborhood I’d choose, and this place has a lot of bad memories. But I don’t want him to have it, either.”

  “You’re angry,” he says, “and you have every right to be.”

  “Of course I do,” I say.

  “Anger is a strong emotion. It stems from love. Like hate.”

  “I don’t love him,” I say. “I don’t even feel sad about the divorce. For me, our relationship ended a while ago. Why does that mean I can’t be angry?”

  “It doesn’t. I don’t even completely understand anger, and I’ve been dealing with it for almost four years. You assume it’s there, that it’ll never go away, until the day you stop to wonder if you still feel it. At some point, it starts to fade. Whether or not you want it to.” He shrugs beneath me. “Some people can’t accept that, so they convince themselves it still exists.”

  I hesitate, not sure if I’m offended by the insinuation. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

  “No. You’re early in the process. I think you’re still entitled to be mad. I’m mad for you.”

  “Don’t be,” I say. “I’m mad enough for two people.”

  “First you were telling me what not to talk about. Now you’re telling me how to feel?”

  “Is that a problem?” I tease.

  “Ah, I see how it is,” he says. “The boss is back. Trying to tell me what to do,” he slips his hand down my stomach, between my thighs, “again.”

  I inhale sharply as he slides a fingertip along me, grazing my clit. I close my legs around him, capturing his hand, then move against it.

  He pushes my thighs apart. “Keep them open.”

  “It feels too good.” I struggle against his strength. “Let go.”

  “No. You’re not in charge.”

  “I should be,” I say. “I’m a good boss. Give me a chance to prove it.”

  “Why should I?”

  I inch back just enough to move my ass against his groin, and he rumbles. “I’m used to being the woman on top,” I say. “I like to give orders.”

  Without warning, he pushes a finger inside me. I bite down on my lip. “What kind of orders?”

  I have to concentrate harder than I should as he begins to fuck me with his finger. “Get me coffee. Deliver this contract. Make me come.”

  His cock twitches against my lower back. He drops his mouth to my ear, nipping the shell. “That shouldn’t be a problem, boss. Consider me for the position?”

  “Which position?”

  “Any. But I’d love to learn more about ‘woman on top.’”

  I turn my head sideways to give him my mouth for a kiss. He adds another finger as I meet his thrusts, grinding against his palm. It’s a heady feeling, him hardening against my back when I’ve barely even touched him. I want to make him feel good too, so I reach back between us.

  He catches my forearm. He slows but doesn’t stop pleasuring me as he places one of my hands along the edge of the tub, then the other. “You told me to make you come,” he whispers in my ear. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “What about you?”

  “It’s enough for me to watch you.” He pulls his fingers out and circles them over me. I buck my hips and moan louder than I mean to. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Just let me touch you.”

  I’m not used to this kind of attention, to sitting still. I like to act. To touch and feel and return the favor. But spread open and positioned how he wants me, Andrew has complete control over my orgasm. I curl my hands into fists, frustrated at being both trapped and aroused, but Andrew’s too good to fight against. He fucks me with his fingers while gyrating his hips against my backside. I’m all his, and the only thing he asks is that I let myself feel it. It’s harder than it looks, but each time I get the urge to take control, Andrew brings me back to the moment with a kiss on my neck, under my ear.

  He keeps a steady pace as my orgasm builds slower than before. Reaching along the lip of the tub, he locks his other hand over mine, interlacing our fingers.

  “You’re doing great,” he says. “Relax. Let me make you feel good.”

  I don’t know how he senses my unrest. In an attempt to give him what he wants, what I want, I place my head against his chest and shut my eyes. Still, behind my lids, the visual of our intertwined hands remains. I’m warm, inside and out, and Andrew’s breath on my skin tickles. He flicks his fingers in just the right spot as he palms me.

  “That’s it,” he says when I gasp, ramping up his assault on my clit. “Come on, babe.”

  I climb and climb, trying to mount my orgasm. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and with a small nip, I reach the top, bracing myself against the tub as pleasure churns through me. I hold on and make love to his hand for the seconds it takes my climax to work through me, and then I release my muscles, breathlessly falling back against Andrew’s chest.

  When I open my eyes again, we’re still holding hands, my fingers the only tense part of me. I loosen my grip.

  “Bubble bath doesn’t seem so girly now, does it?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over mine

  “I’m glad I thought of it,” I say on an exhale.

  He laughs, leaning his head into the crook of my neck. Some of his black hair, glossy from the water, falls over his forehead. I push it off, running my hand backward through his hair.

  He nearly moans, his long lashes brushing my cheek as he closes his eyes. “It’s too long,” he murmurs. “Cut it for me?”

  I twist my neck to try to look at him. “What?”

  “Cut my hair. I took care of you, now take care of me.”

  I raise one corner of my mouth. I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I’m not a hairdresser.”

  “So? It’s not hard.”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t just start snipping away. It’s an art.”

  “Who am I trying to impress? No one. I need it cut. You have scissors, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t the r
ight kind.”

  “What the fuck does that mean? Do they have blades?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Can they cut things?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then they’re the right kind. Come on. You’ll save me twenty bucks.”

  I lurch forward, turn back, and gape at him. “Twenty dollars? That’s how much you spend to cut your hair?”

  “Unless I can get someone to do it free, yeah.”

  “Oh my God.” I slap a hand over my eyes. “Andrew.”

  “Amelia.”

  “I run a fashion and beauty PR firm in arguably the chicest city in the world. I cannot be hearing this right now.”

  He chuckles, but I’m dead serious. I don’t lower my hand to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll give in to his adorable but misguided idea. “Let me make an appointment for you at my favorite barber tomorrow. If they know you’re with me, they’ll hook you up. You can even get a shave. It’ll look and feel amazing.”

  He takes my wrist and removes my hand from my face. In the dim light of the bathroom, dimples shadow his cheeks as he smiles. “I am not a prissy city girl,” he states. “Therefore, I will not be caught dead at a salon while I’m alive and conscious. Have you ever cut a piece of paper?”

  I give him an incredulous look. “Of course.”

  “Then you’re qualified to give me a trim. I cut Bell’s hair all the time.”

  “That poor child. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Laughing, he stands, pulling me up with him. “You’re all sudsy,” he says, plucking a towel off a rack and scrubbing it through my damp hair. He wraps it around me and climbs out to dry himself.

  “We could skip the haircut,” I say, nodding at his hard-on.

  “What, this?” He tucks the towel around his waist. “We’ll get to it.”

  I shake my head. Everyday scissors will give you split ends, but he doesn’t seem to care. I suppose he shouldn’t if he spends his days getting greasy under the hoods of cars. Still. This feels like a betrayal to my industry.

  I find a pair in a desk drawer and return to the bathroom. As I set the scissors on the counter, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. My normally straight hair is wavy from the water and frizzy from the steam. Black makeup has smeared under my eyes.