by Stella Gray
“Nah,” he said with a shrug. “I was never that into Claudia’s style. Too flashy.”
Well. That was confusing. Especially since, just a few weeks ago, he had fought so hard to keep everything the way it had been. I didn’t understand. What the hell did it all mean? Was he finally getting over Claudia? Or had he simply argued with me before because he was stubborn and hated the idea of change? Which…if that was the case, why redecorate now?
I opened my mouth to ask Ford what had gotten into him, but then closed it again. I didn’t want to question things too much—I was happy enough that the changes were happening. And that I wouldn’t hate my surroundings anymore.
“You’re welcome to add your own touch,” he told me. “This is just a start. I know you like soothing colors and less…man stuff.”
Although I wanted to jump right on that, I refrained.
“Honestly,” I told him, “I really appreciate the changes, but I’m only here for a year, you know? This is really nice, though. Thank you.”
Was it just my imagination, or did Ford seem to visibly deflate at the reminder of our expiration date? But no. Couldn’t be. The one year time limit had always been his idea.
“No problem,” he said, and whatever it was that I thought I’d seen in his eyes, it was now gone. Looking down at his fancy watch, he added, “You do need to hurry up and get changed—we have reservations.”
“Umm, for what?” I asked, my anxiety kicking into high gear.
Had I forgotten about another of Ford’s obligatory work events, or worse—a dinner with his parents?
“Dinner,” Ford said. “I thought it would be nice to take you out on a date. That’s what newlyweds do, right?”
“What kind of dinner?” I asked slyly, though behind my teasing tone, I had a case of the warm fuzzies. Ford was taking me on a date—a real date.
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “Can we be out the door in thirty minutes or less?”
“Depends,” I said. “Is it a fancy surprise? Or a jeans-and-T-shirt surprise?”
“Probably not jeans. But not so fancy that you need to wear a ball gown either.”
I laughed. “This tells me nothing, and yes, I can swing it.”
“Here.” Ford held out his arms. “I’ll take Munch for a walk while you get ready.”
I practically swooned. This was the Ford Malone I’d crushed on for so many years.
While the boys were gone, I excitedly got ready. I scrunched a little product in my hair to give myself voluminous, beachy waves, touched up my eyeliner, powdered my nose, and then turned the glam up to eleven with my favorite (but rarely-called-for) red lipstick. Vavoom.
When it came to my dress, I wanted something appropriately date-worthy, so I slipped into a vintage cocktail dress I’d been saving for a special occasion. It had sheer fabric along the neckline, a short tiered skirt, and looked perfect with my siren red kitten heels.
I still had no idea what had gotten into Ford.
Maybe he’d realized how ridiculous he’d been about the Andrew Apellido thing. Or how much it sucked for me to be living in an apartment that was a shrine to his ex-girlfriend. No matter the reason, I was just grateful that things seemed to be changing. For the better.
The date was much sweeter than I expected. Ford took me to an upscale fondue restaurant where we started our evening dipping various breads and veggies into various bowls of melty, artisanal cheeses. Raclette, Emmenthaler, mascarpone, Gruyère—I was practically moaning with every bite. It was heavenly. Also fun and a little messy, and I couldn’t stop giggling as Ford kept losing his forkfuls of food in the bubbling bowls of cheese.
We were also served a salad course and a round of delectable small plates including crispy brussels sprouts, potstickers, and Castelvetrano olives. It was all delicious and the restaurant itself was cozy and romantic, giving off almost an English library vibe with its candlelight and dark patterned wallpaper.
I was ready to burst by the time dessert came, but I couldn’t say no to the melted chocolate fountain and the plump, red strawberries that accompanied it. And I especially couldn’t say no when Ford dipped the largest berry in the chocolate and held it out for me to eat.
After dinner, we walked to a nearby gallery that Ford had chosen. It was a new venue, one I hadn’t even heard about yet.
When we walked through the doors, I blurted out an, “Oh my God.”
The images on the walls were by a photographer I loved—a lesser known Ghanaian artist who hadn’t gotten the acclaim I was certain they deserved. I had both of their photography books but had never seen their work in person.
“How did you know?” I asked Ford.
After all, he had planned the whole evening. There was no way this was a coincidence.
“I pay attention,” he said with a pleased smirk.
I had no idea what had come over him, why this night felt so different, but damn, I liked it. The whole date felt like something out of a dream.
We wandered around the gallery for over an hour. Ford was tuned in to the eclectic variety of artists on display but still completely attentive to me, asking questions about what I saw in a particular photograph or what I thought about the abstract mixed media sculptures. He was interested in both the art and my opinions, and with each passing minute, I found myself wanting him more and more. When he casually took my hand in his, brushing his fingers softly along my knuckles, I became even more wet for him. And I wasn’t wearing any underwear, which only served to turn me on even more.
Reaching the last room in the gallery, I started to move back the way we had come, but Ford stopped me.
“This way,” he said, leading me out a door in the far wall.
I thought we were simply going home, but instead, Ford nodded his head at a roof access staircase along the side of the building. He started his upward ascent and I followed, feeling the evening breeze tickling the bare skin of my legs, the swirl of cool air moving upward, another reminder of my lack of undergarments. My need for Ford tugged at my lower belly, making my knees weaken on the climb.
Once we got up on the roof, I was delighted at the view of the city. All the buildings felt so close, like I could almost reach out and touch the glitter and glass, the golden light spilling from the windows. It was incredible. Chicago’s angular urban beauty spread out all around us, a blanket of stars overhead, the rooftop bathed in the glow of neon.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.
“You’re beautiful,” Ford said, coming from behind to wrap his arms around me.
Even though his body was warm against mine, I shivered.
Turning in his arms, I tilted my face up to meet his kiss. It was harsh, demanding, and urgent. Apparently I hadn’t been the only one thinking naughty thoughts during our gallery tour.
I slid my hand down his chest, his abs, down the front of his pants, where I could feel how much he wanted me. When I wrapped my hand around his cock, he moaned in my mouth.
Still kissing me, his hands slipped under the hem of my dress, stroking the soft skin of my inner thighs. When he reached my pussy, soaked and aching for him, I felt his body go still.
He lifted his head, his eyes brimming with lust.
“No panties tonight?”
I shook my head. He pushed a finger inside me and I let out a whimper.
“You’re wet,” he said.
“I’ve been wet all night,” I told him, grabbing his hand to steady it as I started to slowly ride his finger, keeping my eyes on his the whole time.
“That’s so fucking sexy,” he groaned, sliding another finger inside me.
“Yes,” I gasped, my head falling back. I widened my legs and leaned against the brick half-wall as Ford began to fuck me with his fingers, his lips hot on my neck, his teeth teasing and nipping at me. “More,” I moaned, my fingers digging into his biceps as I bucked on his hand.Without hesitating, Ford turned me around so I could grab the lip of the brick wall, and I did, staring out at the gorgeous view of the city
at night. He tugged the skirt of my dress up, exposing my ass to the cool air, and then I heard the rasp of his zipper being undone.
“Fuck me, Ford—”
But before I could get any more dirty talk out, he was inside me, pumping hard and fast, like he couldn’t wait even one more second to fuck me.
I cried out, my moans lost on the wind as Ford fucked me against the wall. Both of us were gasping for breath, and he was whispering my name, squeezing my tits through my dress with one rough hand and slapping my ass with the other. I felt like a goddess. Knowing we could get caught at any moment only made me hotter. Wetter. Louder.
There was no buildup, no crest. Out of nowhere I just shattered, coming so hard and deep I was shaking all over with the force of my orgasm. With his hand clutching my ass, Ford let out a groan and finished at the same time, cursing as he spilled into me. We stayed there, gazing out at the city, letting our hearts slow, until Ford carefully pulled out and turned me around.
“Mrs. Malone,” he said formally, tugging my skirt back down. “Shall we head home?”
I nodded, and he arranged his jacket over my shoulders before taking my hand.
As we made our way back to the car, I realized that I didn’t know what was happening between us. All I knew was that it felt dangerous.
I was going to end up with a broken heart.
Emzee
Chapter 16
Yet another dinner with Ford’s parents was getting ready to start.
Oh, joy.
If I could have come up with a good enough excuse to get out of it, I would have, but the bigger problem was that these Malone family dinners were something that Ford did on a regular basis—there was no way I could avoid them forever. So it was time to face the music.
I just needed to figure out how to coexist with the Malones peacefully. Or at least, coexist with them peacefully for the duration of a meal. How hard could it be?
At least for round two, I had a better idea of what to expect…and what was expected of me as the hostess. Thus I’d gone into this enterprise tonight with a careful eye toward doing things more like the Malones wanted. Not exactly like they’d been done in the past, but a compromise that I hoped we all could live with.
No creative tablescapes, no exotic takeout food. They wanted china dishes and a personal chef? Fine. I’d give it to them. The best wine, chosen by a sommelier. The best menu, put together by a professional. The best everything. Eat your heart out, snobs.
Despite myself, I had to admit that I felt a bit of grudging respect for Claudia. No matter what I thought of her, she’d put up with these family dinners for years and somehow managed to hold on to her sanity through all of it.
I knew Mrs. Malone (and to a lesser extent, her husband) would never accept me the way they’d accepted Claudia, that no matter how nice dinner was, they’d still never allow me to stay married to Ford. But I was going to try to please them anyway. I didn’t really have a choice.
And I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let their comments get under my skin again. I would be prepared for whatever insults they threw at me. I’d stay strong. Not that a drink wouldn’t help, which was why I had all the martini fixings ready to go. Ford had said his parents liked them, and I knew I’d need more than wine to fortify me for the long evening ahead.
The doorbell rang, and I straightened my cardigan, put Munchkin in his kennel, and headed for the door. Ford had his hand on the knob as I came up behind him.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmured.
“You’ll be fine,” Ford said, as if he’d somehow forgotten what a complete disaster our last family dinner night had been.
“There’s my boy!” Mrs. Malone screeched the second she walked in. “And…Mara.”
“Hello,” I managed to say politely as she smothered Ford in a hug and an accompanying perfume cloud. As Ford helped her out of her coat, I turned to Ford’s dad. “And how are you, Mr. Malone?”
“I’ve been better,” he answered noncommittally.
“I saw that the Dow closed at three points up today,” I said, grateful I’d checked the stock market report earlier so I’d have something to say to him. “So there’s some good news.”
Mr. Malone’s face immediately brightened. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Shall we?” Ford said, gesturing toward the dining room.
As we shuffled along, I leaned closer to Ford’s dad and whispered, “There’s more good news. I may have arranged a double helping of dessert for you as well.”
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it hadn’t escaped me that Mr. Malone had devoured his coconut sorbet after our last dinner—as well as my portion—so I’d taken a gamble and decided to feed his sweet tooth this time. Judging by his bright eyes, the gamble had paid off. I may have secured myself a Malone ally after all.
I made cocktails for the Malones once they were seated at the table. A very dry martini with two pimento stuffed olives for Father Malone, and a dirty martini with a plain olive for Mother Malone. Ford had coached me in advance on how to prepare the drinks, but I couldn’t tell if I’d impressed the Malones judging by their post-sip faces. But hey, at least neither of them had spit their drink across the room.
Meanwhile, Ford made gin and tonics for the two of us, and when the chef popped his head into the dining room to tell us the food was ready, the heavenly smells coming from the kitchen hit us full force.
“Mmm,” I sighed.
“And what, precisely, are we having?” Mrs. Malone asked, brow raised.
“French,” I said. I wasn’t being coy, exactly—I just couldn’t even begin to pronounce half the dishes we were about to be served. I wasn’t worried, though.
Pierre was the most highly awarded chef in the greater Chicago area, and I’d been lucky to book him for a four-person meal when he was accustomed to larger private parties and events for the very wealthy. Luckily, the Malone family name carried a lot of weight around town. Once I’d explained who the dinner was for, Pierre had been more than happy to cater.
“We love French,” Mr. Malone said, still looking perky and obviously attempting to be diplomatic. “Don’t we, dear?”
Mrs. Malone ignored him, turning instead to Ford. “You look tired,” she said. “Long day?” Then she cut her eyes at me, as if Ford’s exhaustion was clearly my fault alone.
“Uh, I feel fine, actually,” Ford said, taking a healthy swig of his gin.
In my humble opinion, he looked damn fine. He was wearing a charcoal shirt and matching pants, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his drool-worthy forearms. As for me, under my pale pink cardigan (a shade purchased specifically to please Mrs. Malone), I had on a modest black dress and flats. I thought we made a rather decent-looking pair.
“I’m a bit tired myself,” Mr. Malone said.
“I didn’t ask you,” Mrs. Malone told her husband with a scowl.
Before they could devolve into full-blown bickering, we were rescued by Pierre’s assistant, Jacques, who was bringing out the first course.
I’d specified that the meal be served on the infamous china that Ford and Claudia had bought, but this time we weren’t having steak. We were having the best French food in Chicago. Take that, Claudia.
“Bon appétit,” Jacques said with a flourish, ducking back into the kitchen.
We started with the most delicate escargot I’d ever had, the snails perfectly cooked in butter and herbs. I’d never cared much for them, to be honest, but they practically melted in my mouth. I sopped up the rest of the dipping sauce with a fresh, crusty slice of hot bread.
The next course was a petite salad garnished with watermelon radishes, followed by mussels marinières steamed in a lemony broth made with leeks, shallots, and garlic.
“These mussels are fantastic,” Mr. Malone said dreamily. “Straight from the market this morning, I’d wager.”
“That’s exactly right,” I said. “I told Pierre to prepare whatever he pick
ed up fresh today, and I’d say he hasn’t disappointed.”
While the ingredients were insanely expensive enough for Ford’s dad to appreciate, the portions seemed tiny and fancy enough for Mrs. Malone to enjoy, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
The main course was confit de canard. The duck was meltingly tender, the skin golden and crisp. It was served over a pile of buttery fried new potatoes and fresh greens fanned out along the edge of the plate. Everybody dug in, too busy eating to keep up with the small talk.
The Malones hadn’t complimented me once during the meal, but they hadn’t insulted me either, and frankly, that was a win. As far as I was concerned, Pierre was worth every penny.
It wasn’t until dessert was brought out that the conversation started back up. Over bittersweet chocolate soufflé, I started to notice something—despite all of Mama Malone’s fawning, Ford’s parents actually seemed to criticize him just as much as they had criticized me at the last dinner. As if they didn’t think he was good enough either.
And without my tablescape or menu to fuss over, they were going at him full force.
“Your father has some thoughts about your latest deal,” Mrs. Malone said.
“What’s the issue? The deal was fine,” Ford said, looking to his dad.
“Now, now, what I said was that—” Mr. Malone started.
“It was disappointing,” Ford’s mother interrupted. “You could have gotten at least another quarter million if you had just pushed harder.”
“They would’ve walked,” Ford said. “They were skittish to begin with.”
“No one walks away from Malone Real Estate Holdings,” his mother said. “They would have caved. They always do. And we really need to discuss your latest hire.”
She wasn’t eating her soufflé at all, but she was on her fourth martini.
“My latest hire is also fine,” Ford said.
“That’s the problem,” Ford’s mother said. “You seem to think ‘fine’ is good enough. It’s not. You have a family reputation to uphold. Your actions affect all of us.”
Ford didn’t say anything, but I noticed that he was getting less and less responsive with every criticism his mother heaped on top of him.