Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

  ___________________

  Turning over in bed, Robyn glanced at the clock and for a few moments, she forgot that it was the Sunday and that she didn’t need to get up and think about preparing for work the next morning. Though it was only six a.m., she knew without trying that she would not be able to get back to sleep. Instead she went downstairs and was surprised to find her mother already awake, flipping through a magazine, holding a cup of coffee.

  She looked surprised and smiled, patting the space on the sofa next to her. Robyn went to sit next to her, then after a moment rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  “I’m thinking I’m going out to buy some shoes today,” she said, idly.

  “Shoes? Do you need them?”

  “No. But I feel like crap and I need something to cheer me up.”

  Her mother laughed. “Whatever it takes, I guess.”

  “What do you do? To cheer you up.”

  Her mother indicated the romance novel face down on the coffee table in front of them.

  “Yeah, I guess I knew that,” Robyn said. “But I think that’d get depressing after a while. If you don’t have real romance in your life, I mean.”

  “Who said I don’t?”

  Robyn lifted her head. “You have some secret boyfriend I don’t know about?”

  “Not at the moment. But through the years, there have been some men. Here and there.”

  Robyn smiled and turned, folding her legs beneath her. “You never introduced me to any of them.”

  “No one was important enough to meet my daughter,” her mother said. “Just a few casual flings.”

  “Carolyn!”

  Her mother laughed again. “What?”

  “And all this time, I thought you were living like a nun.”

  “Oh, I’ve definitely not been a nun,” her mother said. “Except . . .”

  “Except what?” Robyn pressed.

  “For my heart,” her mother said. “I let men near my body, but not near my heart. After your father and I split up, I had this thing in my head, that he was still my husband. No matter that we weren’t married in the eyes of the law anymore, in my spirit, I felt like he was my husband and so . . .”

  Robyn put a hand over her mother’s so she would stop talking.

  It was eerie, hearing her own feelings echoed in her mother’s words. That was how she felt about Curtis. Even after everything, there was part of her that was almost afraid to let go of that identity as Curtis’ wife.

  If she wasn’t that, then who, and what was she?

  “It was a cop-out,” her mother said after a minute of silence. “In retrospect, I know that. At the time, it felt like it made sense.”

  “You aren’t dead yet,” Robyn said. “You can have love in your life, Mom.”

  Her mother looked at her. “Yes, I know that. And so can you.”

  Robyn looked away. “If you’re talking about Chris, it’s not that kind of relationship.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t give me the impression he’s accessible in that way,” Robyn said shrugging. “You read all those gossip rags. Don’t you see him in them with models ten feet tall? That’s the other side to him. The side you don’t see when he comes in here all polite and . . .”

  “He’s a man.” Her mother shrugged. “And a lonely one at that.”

  “I don’t see him as lonely. He’s a workaholic.”

  “And yet there doesn’t seem to be anything else for him to work for. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  “He’s driven. Lots of really successful men are.”

  “I’d say he’s already crossed the finish line.”

  “Some people never think they have. And Chris is one of those people. It doesn’t make him lonely, or some kind of head-case.”

  The urge to defend him surprised her. What her mother was saying sounded like criticism and for some reason, she didn’t like hearing it. Not directed to Chris. Even though there was a kernel of truth to it.

  “I never said he was a head-case, Robyn.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” she added, to temper her earlier defensiveness. “He’s going to make some woman very miserable one day with that work ethic.”

  “Well you spend a fair amount of time with him. Does he make you miserable?”

  At that, Robyn looked down at her lap. “No,” she said, smiling to herself. “He doesn’t.”

  Chris’ work habits didn’t bother her much because she understood them. She understood having a fire in your belly to be the best at whatever you did; the irrepressible urge to rework a problem, a project, a task just one more time, because the next time you might get it perfectly right. She understood it, but she no longer had it. Not like she used to.

  Why was that? Somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, she knew the answer. It was there, waiting for her to take if off that dusty shelf in her mind, look at it and examine it. But she wasn’t quite ready to do that, so she turned away from it.

  “I notice you didn’t get dressed for your motorcycle riding lesson yesterday,” her mother remarked. “Are you done with those?”

  “Not quite yet. But Jon thinks I can go out for my license in a few weeks. Yesterday was Shawn and Riley’s cook-out, so that’s why I skipped.”

  “Was Chris there?”

  Robyn hesitated, remembering that the last social event she’d been to—Brendan and Tracy’s wedding—her mother had asked after Curtis.

  “Mom,” she said. “I’m going out for a little while.”

  Her mother looked up, brows furrowed, confused at the abrupt decision. “At this hour?”

  “Yeah.”

  Robyn showered and dressed in jeans and a light long-sleeved t-shirt, with the boots she customarily used for riding. Then she brushed her hair back and secured it with a headband. Within a half hour of making her decision, she was on the road, on her way to Chris’ house. She made one stop on the way, at a popular bagel bakery.

  ___________________

  Pulling her car up to his gate, Robyn confronted the first flaw in her plan. There was actually no way to pay Chris Scaife a “surprise visit” if that had been her intent. Apart from the fact that you needed a code to open the gate—a code she did not have—there were also cameras on the gate-posts. He didn’t have a guard, which was surprising since he had no shortage of staff inside the house. But for all she knew, these ivy-covered gates were electrified, making guards superfluous.

  Giving up, Robyn pulled out her phone, planning to call him when she spotted the phone, discreetly affixed to one corner of the left gate. She’d never noticed it before because whenever she came over it was generally with Chris, and the gates just seemed to magically swing open at his approach.

  Getting out of her car, she went for the gate phone and lifted the receiver. It rang immediately. Mrs. Lawson’s soft, precise voice answered. Robyn relaxed. If it had been Chris, she would have had somewhat of a difficult time explaining why she was there at all.

  “Mrs. Lawson. Hello. It’s Robyn Crandall. I’m out at the . . .”

  “Oh, of course, Miss Crandall.”

  The gates began their slow parting of the way and Robyn jumped back into her Honda, driving in along the now-familiar flagstone driveway.

  When she came to a stop, she kept both hands on the steering wheel like a teenage driver, waiting to begin their driving test and heaved a deep sigh. Finally plucking up her courage, she reached for the box of bagels next to her and exited the car. It was only then that she wondered at the fact that Mrs. Lawson hadn’t asked whether Chris was expecting her. Hadn’t asked her anything at all, but just let her in as though she had every right to be there, kind of like Lisa, the receptionist on his floor telling her she was on the ‘pre-approved visitor’ list.

  Was she nervous for nothing?

  She couldn’t say that Chris thought of her the way she . . . She didn’t know how he thought of her. But she had this much information—he didn’t mind her showing up unannou
nced, whether it was at his office or his home. And right now that was plenty enough to calm her nerves.

  Robyn stepped a little more briskly as she made her way up the steps to the house, and it was with confidence that she pressed the bell. No sooner had she released it that the doors opened and a smiling Mrs. Lawson let her in.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I see you’re all dressed to ride?”

  Robyn looked down at her attire, only then remembering that if something went wrong, she intended to rely on that as her subterfuge—that she needed to practice on the motorcycle. The ‘something’ that might have gone wrong would have been if he had one of his models over for the evening and they were still there when she arrived.

  “He’s in his office,” Mrs. Lawson said, taking the box of bagels. “I was about to bring him breakfast. Will you be eating as well?”

  “Yes. But I wonder whether you could set up out on the terrace instead,” Robyn said, wondering whether she was overstepping a boundary. Well, she knew she was.

  “That would be nice,” Mrs. Lawson said. “I’ll do that.”

  As they headed in opposite directions—Mrs. Lawson toward the kitchen, and Robyn toward Chris’ office—her confidence surged once again. His housekeeper hadn’t even hesitated to carry out her instructions and even seemed to approve that there was someone to take things in hand. Taking things in hand. It used to be another of her admirable traits. And another she had let go.

  But that was over with. Starting today; starting right now.

  14

  Chris looked up when Robyn entered his office, momentarily startled because he’d been thinking about her on and off all morning while he pored over the numbers for the Pouvoir Noir acquisition. He’d decided to go to Paris, and thought he might call to tell her. But protocol dictated that he should call Frank Casey first as her superior and the lead on the project. He was looking for excuses. Him. Looking for excuses to call a woman. He even had his hand on the phone as he debated the pros and cons and dialing her number.

  Then he looked up and there she was.

  Dressed casually, like she was on Saturday mornings, she stood at the door of his office for a moment and seemed to be reading his expression before deciding whether to make an incursion past the threshold. When he opened his mouth to speak Robyn held up a hand, stopping him.

  “Thank you for the motorcycle lessons, for the beautiful purse, for looking out for me with Curtis even though I never asked you to and think you handled that inappropriately . . .”

  He tried to respond but she held up a finger, silencing him once again.

  “And thank you for being so nice to my mother, and for bringing over those amazing bottles of wine. And for my job, which I know you say you had nothing to do with me getting but I don’t believe you. Thank you for all of that.” She took a breath. “But I want you to know . . .” she moved closer, walking around his desk so she was standing directly in front of him, “. . . that this has nothing to do with any of that. This is because I like you. And I know you like me too, though you’re never going to admit it.”

  She was nervous. He saw it in the flare of her nostrils, the rise and fall of her chest and slight trembling in her shoulders.

  “Why wouldn’t I admit it?” He spoke for the first time.

  “I don’t know. Will you?”

  “I like you,” he said. Chris stood, so she was face-to-face with his pecs. He wanted to touch her, and on her face were all the signs of a woman who wanted to be touched. “But whether I like you isn’t the point.”

  “So what is?”

  “Robyn, I’m not . . .” He struggled to find the right words.

  “Not what?” she reached out, touching his chest. “Prince Charming?”

  Chris laughed and then after a moment sobered up and nodded, thinking about Sheryl, thinking about Karen, thinking about his complete lack of an urge to do any of the things that a woman like Robyn clearly deserved.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “And you’re not going to sweep me away and make everything better, heal all my wounds?”

  She was teasing, but Chris hoped she understood that he was deathly serious. If they went where she wanted to go—where they both wanted to go—it would only be because they were grown, and liked each other and because it would feel good. It already felt good, just having the gentle weight of her hand on his chest, sliding upward. Robyn was lowering her hand now, sliding it south, toward the waist of his jeans, and then north again, but this time under his shirt, against bare skin.

  Chris tugged the hem of her shirt free of her jeans, watching as she clenched her abdomen.

  And then Robyn let her head fall back. He leaned in. And they kissed.

  Finally.

  ___________________

  From the moment Robyn undressed—and even before—Chris knew that the destination would be of secondary importance, and it was the journey that would be matter most. Her skin tone was like honey, and its surface just as luminescent, just as smooth. When he pulled her shirt over her head, she was trembling just a little, not as though scared like she seemed to be when they were in his office, but instead, with eagerness. So he kissed her to quell her impatience and because he wanted his mouth on her, all over her, as much as possible.

  Her bra was lacy and lavender in color. Chris wanted to rip it off. He would buy her another bra. But she saw his eyes fall to her breasts and immediately unfastened it so he could look at her.

  For a woman so slender, she had impressive breasts, the size of small cantaloupes. Released from their covering, her exposed nipples were the size of Hershey’s kisses and almost exactly the same shade. He took them in his mouth, pressing his tongue against each one until Robyn exhaled and arched her back, pushing forward. Chris lifted her from the edge of his large bed and toward the center, where she loosened her jeans, beginning to shimmy out of them. Her panties matched the bra, lacy boy-shorts high on her hips until she began to pull them down.

  Her chest heaved as she did. Chris looked down again and saw that there was a little tattoo on her hip, a black butterfly in flight, its wings raised. He smiled and looked up at her face. Robyn’s eyes were hooded, her lips parted slightly. She stopped with her panties and jeans only partway removed.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Youthful indiscretion,” she said, obviously wanting to move on.

  “Yeah. It’s a shame,” he said, running the tips of two fingers over it.

  “Oh right,” Robyn laughed. “Have you noticed that both your forearms are covered in tattoos?”

  “Forearms and beyond,” Chris said. He removed his shirt, showing her the ink that ran up both arms, over his biceps, across his chest.

  “So . . . pot, kettle, black,” Robyn said, smiling at him.

  “My skin’s not as beautiful as yours,” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t get any more.”

  “Well,” Robyn turned over onto her stomach, “sorry to disappoint you.”

  Chris knew he was supposed to be looking at the tattoo low on her back but it was a feat, taking his eyes off the area he would rather focus on. Still, he just about managed it, and looked toward the spot just a fraction of an inch above the crack of her ass. It said, in lowercase lettering: woman. Damn right.

  There was no part of him that was anything approaching disappointed.

  He leaned in to kiss her across her ink, his palms grasping the edges of her underwear, pulling it and her jeans the remainder of the way down. Each time his lips made contact with her skin, Robyn squirmed and made a soft noise, a cross between oh and ah, arching her back so her sternum pressed into the mattress and her ass raised off the bed. It took everything he had in him not to plunge himself into her right then. Her pubic hair was trimmed low, just the barest shadow on the surface of her skin.

  “Any more?” he asked.

  “Any more what?” She sounded impatient with conversation.

  “Tattoos.”

  “No.”
r />   “Good. Because your skin is perfect.”

  At that Robyn turned over so she could look at him, curiosity in her eyes.

  “Sometimes, you . . .”

  “I . . . what?” he asked.

  “Surprise me.”

  “I do?”

  Chris moved up her body, kissing along her stomach, watching as her abdomen trembled and rippled at the sensation. He paused, putting a hand between them, sliding it south against her, waiting until she raised herself off the bed yet again, trying to get him to touch her.

  “You say the sweetest things,” she said. “Do the sweetest things, unexpectedly.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being sweet. And if they did, I’d beat them up.”

  Robyn laughed, still arching upward to meet his fingers, groaning in frustration when he refused to touch her where she most wanted him to.

  “Touch me,” she breathed. And then she bit him on the bicep, hard enough to hurt and feel good at the same time. “You’re such a tease.”

  Chris felt a sudden surge of heat in his groin, blood rushing from just about every other extremity in his body, to feed the beast. He turned his head to kiss her again, but Robyn moved so he instead was forced to kiss her neck.

  Ah, so it was like that. He bared his teeth, biting her lightly, sucking her skin between his lips.

  “You don’t want my mother to see a hickey, do you?” But she made no attempt to move away.

  “I couldn’t give a damn,” he said. “You’re the one who’d have to explain it.”

  Robyn grabbed his hand, sliding it all the way down so that it was between her legs, and pressing it there.

  Damn.

  Yeah, he did want to tease her, make her beg for it, even. But that was only part of his hesitation. Things between them had been frustrating, but if he didn’t sleep with her he didn’t have to worry about the afterwards, the after-words, the explaining that inevitably came when a woman assumed too much, just because they were fucking. He hesitated, though it was clear that turning back was no longer an option.