by Roya Carmen
She crosses her arms. “Tell me what?”
I give her a tight-lipped smile. “About Weston.”
Her jaw drops. She stares up at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me he’s back,” she snaps.
I jump up from my chair. “Shush,” I whisper, finger over mouth. “I don’t want Gabe to hear.”
Her eyes grow wide. “He doesn’t know? Are you cheating on him?”
“No, of course not. He knows. I’ve told him everything. No more secrets.”
She lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” she says as she plops her plump rear on the club chair in the corner, looking completely spent. You’d swear it was her life, her marriage, we were talking about. “What do you mean everything?”
I lean against the mahogany desk. “He left a Christmas gift in my mailbox; a beautiful butterfly brooch.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
“What?”
She sits up. “Men like him…it’s what they do. They buy you things. You weren’t impressed I hope,” she says, all-knowing.
I think back to that day—the tree, the hot cocoa, Claire and Chloe’s smiling faces. “No, I was angry. I didn’t even acknowledge it.”
She smiles. She approves. “Why, I’m impressed. You’re learning.”
I know I should really listen to her, she has way more experience with men than I do. I peel my gaze away from her, realizing I’m not done with my confession. “And then he called and told me he missed me. He told me he loved me.”
She lets out the loudest sigh in the history of pent-up frustration. “Well, men like him wine and dine you, compliment you, make you feel like a modern-day princess, but they don’t really see you.” She closes the distance between us and gently grabs hold of my wrist. “What he feels for you is lust, Mirella. Not love. You need to be able to tell the difference.”
Her words hurt. He does see me. He sees me like no one else has ever seen me. I bite my lip, not quite looking at her. “Okay, Dear Abby, you think you know everything.”
She grabs my wrist harder. “Look at me, Mirella,” she snaps, the sound echoes off the walls and coffered ceilings. “I’m trying to help you.”
I jerk away. “Well, you’ll be glad to know I’ve told him to leave me the hell alone.”
“Fantastic,” she trills with a pat on my back. “I’m proud of you.”
I stare at her with a sheepish smile.
She considers me for a second, brow cocked. “Did he really tell you he loved you?”
I smile and look down at my feet. “Uh…actually, he texted it.”
“No way. He did not,” she says way too loudly. “You’re not for real.”
Yes, he texted it.
Gabe rounds the corner, beer in hand. “What’s up, ladies? Catfight?”
Gwen straightens and adopts the elegant stance she is known for; all class. In an all black get-up, she looks like a graceful Siamese cat. “We were just having a little disagreement,” she tells him as she makes her way back to the kitchen, her heels clicking against the hard wood floors.
Gabe follows like a little duckling. “About what?”
I panic for a second. But only for a second. I know Gwen would never betray my confidence.
She turns to him, an impish expression on her face. “We were just arguing about Twilight again. I’m on team Jacob. And the silly girl is still on team Edward.”
My fingers are covered with glue as I sit at a too-small table, my rear plopped on a too-small chair. I’m helping one of my kids stick sparkly gold pompoms onto his construction paper clown when Sylvia, our receptionist, walks into my classroom, all smiles.
She’s wearing adult onesie pajamas—cartoon kitties plastered all over her body, which she manages to make look sexy. I suppose that’s not too hard to do when you’ve been blessed with a Sports Illustrated worthy body.
I, on the other hand, am comfy in loose blue flannel pajamas covered with monkey faces. I look positively boyish, not sexy at all. It’s pajama day. We have it every year in January. It always brings a little fun to the dreary month.
Sylvia stands at the doorway and waves me over. I swivel, peel myself out of the tiny chair and make my way to her. My slippers drag softly against the floor.
“There’s a fine specimen of a man asking for you at reception,” she whispers. For some reason, this is a secret. “He’s slick, all dressed in black. Who is he?” She wants the dirt. Sylvia always wants the dirt.
My heart skips a beat and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. “I really don’t know,” I tell her. But I have a pretty good idea. I’m pretty sure it’s Weston. Who else could it be?
Suddenly, my flannel pajamas feel heavy and hot. I sense the familiar loss of rhythm in my breathing. I suck in a deep breath to calm myself. I can’t believe he’s here. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m angry but I’m also excited to see him. All I know is I need to face him.
“You go. I’ll keep an eye on the kids. Rachel is replacing me at the desk right now,” she says.
“Thanks,” I tell her as I sprint off.
“I want the details later,” she calls out as I’m practically running down the hall.
My heart hammers in my chest as I make the short trek to the receptionist desk. What am I going to say to him? And God, I look like hell. I’m wearing stupid pajamas covered with monkeys. Monkeys! And I’m wearing a scrunchie! My hands are covered in glue—I’ve completely forgotten to wash them off. This isn’t how I ever imagined us meeting again.
My heart drops when I see him. Or is it my stomach? I’m not sure, but one of my major organs has taken a nosedive. I felt it. God, why does he have this effect on me?
He’s still so beautiful. Standing there, all in black, in a gorgeous slim jacket, hair perfect, save for that delightful rebel lock sticking up just a little, refusing to behave.
Damn him.
He smiles at me as soon as he catches my eye; that irresistible devilish smile. He seems amused. “Nice pajamas,” he says sweetly as his gaze sweeps over me from head to toe.
I stare down at my matching monkey slippers. “Um…thanks,” I say nervously. “It’s pajama day.” I feel so utterly ridiculous.
He smiles. “Yes. I’ve gathered,” he says as he looks over at the ladies at reception who are both wearing pajamas. Rachel and Lydia turn their heads so fast when he catches their eye, I’m surprised their necks don’t snap. But I see where they’re coming from, he’s the kind of man who turns heads when he walks into a room. We don’t get too many of those around here. Well, except for Gabe. Gabe always turns heads.
“You look adorable,” he teases. He’s getting to me. He’s bringing those emotions out in me again, and he’s barely uttered five words.
God, help me.
I need to consciously remind myself of the fact that I’m very angry with him still. He can’t just show up like this. Who does the crazy arrogant jerk think he is?
“I’m sorry, Weston. How can I help you?” I ask matter-of-factly, for the benefit of all those around me, and for his too, and mine. I can’t let myself be led astray.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he says, his eyes filled with emotion.
I know I really shouldn’t talk to him, but there are a few things I want to say.
He looks over at Rachel and Lydia who seem busy with work, but who are so obviously spying on us. “Why don’t you come to my car? We can talk there.”
I stare down at my slippers again. I don’t have my boots on. I’m not really dressed for outside.
“Rachel, could you hand me a wipe?” If there’s one thing we always have on hand at the school, it’s wipes and Band-Aids. She scurries to the infirmary desk, and comes back with a wipe. I clean my hands and head toward the door without a word.
Weston follows me.
We need to do this.
The air is cool and the sky is overcast. Weston opens the car door for me. I offer a quick hello to Edward who seems happy to see me. I know Weston hasn�
�t brought me here to seduce me. If he had, he wouldn’t have dragged his driver along. He clearly just wants to talk.
Sitting at the back of the town car, all the memories rush back. Sensual memories fill my head. When I was first driven to his office, filled with anticipation. When he buried his nose in my panties, the day we first had sex. The night of the symphony, him in his gorgeous tux, and me in my beautiful dress. As the memories cloud my judgment and make me feel a little dizzy, I feel something stir within me, and a small part of me wishes Edward would just disappear so I could climb all over Weston. He looks so delicious, tucked into his dark wool jacket, brilliant green eyes, five-o’clock shadow. I still crave him so much.
And I despise myself for that.
“How are you?” he asks. Apparently, we’re starting with small talk.
“Well,” I say, not bothering to ask him how he is. Why put up pretenses? I’m mad at him and he damn well knows it.
“How are Chloe and Claire? They’re sweet girls.”
I’m taken aback. I’m surprised he remembers their names. “They’re good. Busy,” I tell him. “Thank you,” I add with a smile.
“I enjoyed meeting them. They’re cute girls. They look a lot like you.”
I smile. “Well, Claire, more so. Chloe is the spitting image of her dad.”
“I see both of you in her.”
I’m not sure where we’re going with this conversation. “How are your kids?”
“Great,” he says without elaboration.
After a beat, I finally ask him, “What do you want, Weston?”
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me; at my eyes, at my mouth.
“Why now?” I ask, looking down at my hands, still buried in a wet wipe. “Why are you here? You know you did the right thing by ending the arrangement, right?”
He turns away and can’t seem to look at me, but I want him to. “Because I’ve spent the last three months trying to forget you,” he says, staring straight ahead. “I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to stay away. I’ve tried all the distractions you can think of.”
I wonder about the distractions. I want to ask about the distractions. But then, I remind myself I don’t care.
“You need to understand,” he says, turning to look at me. “I’m not like you. I’m rather compulsive…obsessive even.”
He doesn’t realize we’re more alike than he thinks.
“I remember everything about you. Everything. You’re not fading. I’m afraid you’ll never fade. You’re all I can think about. You’re still all I can see.”
Don’t.
He certainly hasn’t faded for me either. “This is crazy, Weston,” I start, not wanting to say the words. “This is so wrong. What are we doing? We can’t start this over again.”
He seems so intense. “It was May nineteenth, approximately six o’clock, when I first laid eyes on you.”
I remembered the date too, but not the time so specifically.
“I remember exactly what you wore, what you ate.”
“What did I have?” I ask, curious.
“You had a martini, then a soda water and cranberry with your meal. You had the grilled chicken pasta and salad, but barely touched it. You asked for dressing on the side; the house’s special vinaigrette.”
“You have an excellent memory,” I say, for lack of other words. I’m stunned.
“Hence lies my problem,” he says simply.
“What happened on our fourth date?” I ask, not really knowing the answer myself.
“It was June thirtieth. We met up at the Lake Point Tower at approximately eight o’clock. You were wearing that amazing red dress with the strappy heels, a chunky silver necklace and matching bracelet and these ridiculously large earrings which were way too big for your delicate face.”
I smirk. “Oh really? Is that so?”
He smiles. “You had the lobster bisque, a watercress salad and the scallops which I had suggested. You seemed to love your meal. I enjoyed watching you eat. And then we shared the crème brûlée which you absolutely devoured.”
Wow.
He looks off into the distance. “I undressed you that night. I tried to take my time because I wanted to take you in slowly, but it was impossibly excruciating because you were just so beautiful and I just wanted to ravish you.”
I catch my breath.
Fuck.
Although I’m not feeling very sexy in my flannel monkey jammies at the moment, I can’t help but think this conversation is really hot. I can feel his words deep in the tingles of my skin, at the pit of my stomach, deep in my sex. How am I supposed to think straight when he talks like this?
I shake my head, trying to dislocate the words from my brain. “What about…uh…our eighth date?” I ask. “You can’t possibly remember that. I would have no clue.”
He ponders my question for a second, staring out the window. “It was August twenty-fifth. That’s the night we had dinner at that little Italian place. I wanted to speak with you but you didn’t want to talk. You climbed all over me, trying to seduce me into having sex with you, when all I wanted to do was talk. You were wearing a silky black dress. It had twelve pearl buttons at the back.”
“Twelve?” I ask, completely floored.
“Yes, twelve.”
Holy hell.
I can see why he’s having a problem with this breakup. God, I thought I had it bad. I’m not sure what to say to him. He’s completely caught me off guard.
“Do you have a photographic memory? How can you remember all those things?”
“I have an eye for visuals and a memory for dates and numbers,” he says plainly. “But my point is when I say I can’t forget you, I really mean it.”
“You’re officially stalking me, you know,” I point out. “I should have a restraining order against you.”
He smiles. “Do I look like someone who would ever hurt you?”
No, he doesn’t. The man doesn’t have a single evil bone in his body. He couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s probably one of those people who catches bugs in cups and frees them at the front door.
“What do you do when you spot a bug in your house?” I ask him, out of the blue.
He eyes me with a perplexed expression, clearly confused by my question, but the look on his face tells me he’s intrigued.
“Do you free it, or do you squash it with your foot?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a second. “Well, it depends. If it’s large, I’m more inclined to save it because it’s too big to squash and I’d feel horrible drowning it in the toilet. But if it’s small, it doesn’t stand a chance. Unless it’s a ladybug.”
“So its fate lies in its size and cuteness?” I tease.
“Essentially,” he says with a smile. And after a beat, he adds, “You, you’re on the smallish side, but you are pretty cute. It could go either way with you,” he says with that devilish grin.
I. Am. Toast.
I could just jump him right now.
He’s throwing me off course. I’ve got to get it together.
“Well, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, but you have no qualms about hurting a woman,” I snap. “In the emotional sense anyway.”
He puts his hand softly on my knee. “I know I’ve hurt you. I was trying to do the right thing.” His touch sends sparks through me. Thank goodness there’s monkey covered flannel separating his skin from mine.
“But doing the right thing is impossible,” he adds, his eyes so intense I can barely look at them.
I turn away and close my eyes for a second. I can’t do this.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. And I can tell he means it. “I’m afraid I’ve handled the situation poorly. You scared me. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been in this situation before. Breaking things off with you was the smart thing to do, I know,” he carries on, looking completely spent, “but it was also the stupidest move I ever made.”
I know what he wants.
I can’t do this.
I’ve worked too hard.
To forget him.
To not love him.
“We can’t do this again,” I tell him, the words requiring all the resolve I have.
“Why not?”
“Because it didn’t work the last time,” I point out, slightly catty. “Because I’ll fall in love with you again.”
His hand reaches for my face, his eyes fixed on mine. “Because I’m already in love?”
I want to reach out to him. I want to grab his face and kiss him. But I remain still as a statue.
“When I told you I was falling in love with you, I lied,” he tells me, his voice soft. “I wasn’t falling. I had already fallen. It’s a done deal, Mirella. I’m splattered on the pavement. I’m a mess.”
His words get to me. I don’t want him to get to me.
“Don’t tell me you love me, Weston. Don’t tell me you want to start this again. You’re infatuated with me,” I press, desperately trying to knock some sense into him. “You don’t love me.”
“I know it’s wrong, but—”
“Tell me you don’t love me,” I plead. “Tell me…”
He turns from me without a word, his mouth a hard line.
“Someone like you could have any woman he wants. Just forget about me and move on.”
“I can’t move on. You’re the only one I want.”
I don’t think I’m equipped to deal with this hot-cold game he seems to be playing. He can’t just dump me one minute, and then profess his undying love the next.
“This relationship we had,” I say, feeling the tears coming on, “we’ve tainted it. We’ve sullied it. It could never be the same, and it’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be the same. It doesn’t need to be over.”
“And what about Gabe and Bridget? What about the rules?”
“I’ve already spoken to Bridget. And the rules…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to my lips, “we can bend them.”
My heart beats so fast, I can barely keep up with it. I want him to kiss me. I know I shouldn’t want this, but I want it…so badly.
His gaze still lingers on my mouth. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your eyes, your smile.” His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip. “I’ve missed your lips. I’ve missed kissing you.”