“Something is going on with you and Chelsea, and if you don’t see it—then you need to be a helluva lot more careful with my best friend, because she is falling for you and I’m watching it happen.”
“Chelsea doesn’t fall for anyone. You’re talking about a heart of fucking steel over there.” He pointed toward the pool and his forearms flexed in a way that—a month ago, I might have noticed.
“Yeah, well, Chelsea also doesn’t swear off sex. Or lose weight. Or stay home at night and play fucking Scrabble.”
“It was one game of Scrabble, and it was my idea,” he argued. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that she was terrible at it?”
“Not particularly,” I said. My stomach let out a low groan of indigestion. “Did you see her reaction to that news about my clients? She’s going to freak out if she finds out what happened between us.”
He stepped closer, so close I could smell the faint scent of grass and chlorine that rose off his clothes. He lowered his voice. “If she finds out what happened. Do you think we should tell her?”
I stumbled. “I—I don’t know. What do you think?”
He put one hand on the counter, shielding me from the back door, and studied the floor, thinking. “I don’t know. I would have thought that she’d be cool about it—but that reaction…” He lifted his chin and met my eyes. “I don’t know.”
Something clattered behind us. I jumped, he spun and we both gawked at the maid who stood at the entrance to the washroom, a basket of laundry in hand. She hesitated. “Mr. Aaron, do you have any dirty clothes for me?”
“No, thank you.” He eased another step away from me and I realized how bad this must look. “Thanks though.” He tossed a look in my direction. “I’m headed out. See ya, Elle.”
“See ya,” I said dully. Turning away from the woman’s judgmental eyes, I cupped my aching midsection and ran up the back stairs to Chelsea’s bedroom.
18
“I’m just worried that…” I stuffed a celery stick in my mouth and spoke around the crispy stalk. “I don’t know. That they’ll be able to tell.”
Easton’s voice crackled through my BMW’s speakers, the noise of a crowd in his background. “That they’ll be able to tell what?”
“You know.” I swallowed the bite. “That I’ve done stuff too.”
He chuckled. “It’s not a stamp that gets branded on your forehead. They’ve already met you. Did it seem like they could tell?”
“No,” I said dully.
“And could you tell that they were swingers? Or were you too busy shoveling pancakes into your mouth?”
“Very funny, asshole.” I made a face. “I paid for every one of those later. But pancakes aside—I was too busy trying to keep myself together to notice anything like that.” But now that I’d had ample time to look back… no. There hadn’t been anything in my meeting with the De Lucas that would have made me think that they were anything other than a normal couple. Well, as normal as a wealthy, painfully good-looking couple with reluctant ties to organized crime could be.
“Are they both going to be at the house tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. The photographer will be there, so at least we won’t be staring at each other the entire time. I can fluff pillows and hide picture frames and stuff.” My phone chimed and a reminder about my appointment flashed across the BMW’s navigation screen. “Crap. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a showing appointment at three and I’m still in the parking lot at work.”
We said our goodbyes and I told him to call me when he finished for the day. Stuffing another stalk of celery in my mouth, I shifted my car into reverse.
The following afternoon, at three p.m. sharp, I pull down the De Luca’s well-kept street. Floyd was already in front of their house, his van emblazoned with the logo of his real estate photography business. I parked behind his car and walked up to the window, knocking gently on it to catch his attention. He rolled down the window and a grin broke through his thick red beard. “Big house.”
“I know. I’m moving up in the world. Let’s pretend like it’s normal for me.”
“I’m good at pretending.” He reached in the passenger seat and patted his bag. “You ready to roll?”
“Yeah. Let me buzz in through the gate, then I’ll help you carry in your stuff.”
Floyd’s stuff included three tripods and four bags worth of gear. I lugged the lighter of the two tote bags and struggled up the drive behind him. Julia met us at the door with a friendly smile. I waved, unsure if a handshake or hug was in order. I decided on neither and gestured to Floyd, introducing him. She shook his hand and I wondered if she was comparing him to the driver’s license that he’d been required to send over, prior to his arrival.
Floyd hadn’t flinched at the request, shrugging it off without asking why it was needed. “I’m poking around their house,” he’d said. “I get it.”
I followed the pair of them inside, surprised to see that the house had been wiped clean of all personal items. No more photos hanging in the hall. No bag hung on the hook by the door, or keys in the basket, or dog toy by the—even the dog bed was gone.
Julia followed my gaze and stepped forward. “We had everything but the bare essentials moved into storage.”
“Wow.” I folded my arms across my chest, just to have something to do. “You’ve been busy.”
“Well, our house manager has.” She grinned, and I tried to picture her at an orgy. It didn’t fit. She was casually classy. Nude lips, a dimple in one cheek, with glossy dark hair and a mischievous smile. No tattoos, small natural breasts… she barely looked old enough to drink. I would have assumed that she spent her weekends with a good book, not elbow deep in sexcapades. “We’d like the main living and exterior areas photographed, and the master suite. None of the other rooms.”
Floyd glanced at me for approval and I nodded, the details lined out in the listing agreement. “All right,” he drawled. “Let’s go look at the light.”
“Looking at the light” entailed him walking around and opening blinds, peering at the position of the sun and weighing his options on what to photograph first and from which direction. Julia soon grew bored of the process and opened a bottle of wine, which I quickly agreed to and then immediately regretted. What if she got the wrong idea? What if she propositioned me?
“Let’s go into my office so we’re out of his hair.” She glanced at their house manager, who gave a wary nod of disapproval.
“I’ll stay here and watch him.” Martha sniffed. I’d offered my hand in an attempt to re-introduce myself earlier, but she’d marched off, yelling at Floyd for his tripod placement on a certain rug.
Julia led the way down the main hall of the home, the wine bottle swinging from one hand, and I fought to calm the anxiety that crawled up my chest. I could sip a glass of wine with another woman while photos of her house were taken. It was something I had done countless times before. No big deal.
“I brought the seller’s disclosure form with me. If you could go ahead and fill it out, that’d be great.” I tried to pull the form out of my new Betsy Johnson purse—a TJ Maxx special. The zipper snagged on the edge, and I almost ripped the pages before getting them clear. Letting out a ragged breath, I passed it to her.
Julia perched at one end of a sleek leather couch and twisted her long dark hair into a messy bun. Picking up the wine bottle, she poured us each a glass, then got down to business. Pulling a pair of glasses off the bookshelf beside her, she placed them on and peered at the form.
“Here’s a pen.” I held out a cheap orange pen emblazoned with the Johnny’s Filling Station logo on it. She probably already had pens. Monogrammed gold Cross ones that wrote beautifully and didn’t have an indent in the top half that looked suspiciously like a tooth mark.
“Thanks.” She placed it and the form to the side, picking up her glass of wine. Like a well-trained monkey, I followed suit, tilting back my glass and taking a generous sip.
“If i
t sucks, I’m sorry.” She grinned at me over her glass. “I’m a wine idiot. This is literally the only label I enjoy. And Brad’s more of a champagne guy. We’re useless at society events.”
“You’re in good company, then.” I smiled. “I like cheap moscato. It’s sweet like this. If you had pulled out a bottle of red, I would have declined. Actually…” I tilted my head to one side. “I probably would have taken you up on the offer, but secretly hated every sip of it.”
This seemed to please her, and I felt a warm blush move over me at her resulting laugh. “Okay, so we’re both lost at wine tastings.” She nodded in approval. “What else? How long have you lived in Miami?”
“About four years. I met my husband at Florida State and we moved down here after we graduated. He was playing for the Marlins.” I don’t know why I added that in, except that I always felt the need to add that in. We had been someone. We had been something. Really, honestly. Admire us even though you are so much better.
“What position?”
“Pitcher.”
“You said he was playing for the Marlins. What does he do now?”
“Financial advising. Wealth management, mostly for professional and ex-athletes, but his clients come from everywhere.”
“Wow.” She nodded, impressed. “Good for him.”
“Well, it’s okay for him. He’s still building a business. It’s been…” I faltered, not sure of why I felt the need to dent her approval with the truth. “Hard. Not hard, just…” Hard. Hard was the right word.
I took another sip of wine.
“Hard isn’t a bad thing,” she said quietly. “Marriage, in itself, is hard. Figuring out our lives is hard.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you seem to have it all figured out.”
She coughed mid-sip, her hand clamping over her mouth as she struggled to contain her wine. I watched in concern as she gasped for air, then coughed, the glass trembling in her free hand.
“I’m sorry,” I said as soon as she stopped hacking, her eyes watering from the effort. “I didn’t mean—”
“No.” She let out a final small cough. “It’s just funny. For anyone to think that I have things figured out. Oh my God, Elle. If you only knew the things that Brad and I have been through.” She cleared her throat and swallowed, wiping at her eyes. “But you know. Things you wouldn’t think, even bad things—they can bring you closer as a couple.” She stared off into the corner of the office and I wondered if she was talking about something with Brad’s family or their sex life.
Probably Brad’s family. In fact, the longer I sat there, the more I was questioning Chelsea’s intel. Had it been legitimate? In my alarm at my misunderstanding her excitement for accusation, I had barely gotten any details before making an excuse and running away. It’d barely been twenty-four hours since that revelation, not enough time for us to properly follow that conversation up.
My phone hummed in my purse and I reached down and hit the side button, silencing it. It immediately hummed again, and I glanced at the screen. Speaking of the devil… Chelsea. Why was she power calling me? I hit the button again, then dropped it into my purse, the now-familiar sense of paranoia sneaking back up on me. She knew about Aaron and us. Or suspected. Maybe her maid had told her what she’d overheard. Or, worse, she was calling to tell me that she and Aaron were hooking up. Was that worse? Probably not. I went to take another sip of wine and realized that my glass was already empty.
“Here.” She held out the bottle. I lifted my glass and watched the rim of it tremble. I tightened my grip but it only became worse. What was wrong with me?
“Let me take that from you.” She carefully tugged it away and set it on the low coffee table before the couch. Lifting the bottle of wine, she glanced at me with concern. I knotted my hands into fists as my phone hummed again in my purse. Fucking Chelsea. I felt the insane urge to drop-kick my new purse into the open hall.
“If you have to get that—”
“No.”
“I know you have other properties,” she offered. “It’s fine if you—”
“It’s not work. It’s my best friend. I’m not sure why she’s power calling me.”
“Maybe something is wrong.”
“No, I think it’s probably about a guy. A friend of ours. My husband’s best friend. I’m worried she likes him.” Oh my God, I needed to seriously SHUT THE HELL UP.
She gave me a curious look. “He’s a bad guy?”
“Oh, no. He’s a great guy. A really great guy. And I used to want them to get together. They had years to get together in college and it never happened and so I thought it was safe…” My voice trailed off. Not that I’d been thinking of Chelsea at all during that decision process. Why would I have? But should I have?
“What was safe?”
I lifted my gaze to find her watching me, her expression calm and open. What if Chelsea was right and they were swingers? She might be the only woman in Miami who could give me confidential and judgment-free advice. I made a split-second decision that could prove fatal. “My… uh… husband and I. We got drunk one night. Things happened with him. Him and me.”
“The guy best friend and you?”
“Yeah. My husband was there. It wasn’t… cheating.” I took a deep breath and stared into my lap, barely noticing when she held out my glass of wine. I closed my hands around it numbly.
“And you haven’t told her.”
I shook my head.
“Elle.” She tapped my leg and I looked up. “Listen to me. Stop feeling guilty.”
“I—”
“Stop feeling guilty,” she repeated, her eyes clear and understanding. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You are three consenting adults who had some fun one night.” She lifted one tan shoulder. “Forget it.”
“Three consenting adults who are now keeping that secret from her,” I pointed out. “We’re all close. It’s like this giant thing in the room with us when we hang out.”
“Was it a one-time thing, what happened?”
“With him, yes.” I hesitated, unsure if I should jump off this cliff. “But I liked it. A lot.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Yeah, I get it.” Then, as suddenly as her grin came, it left. “But here’s the thing, Elle. You can’t put this secret back in the box once it’s out. Right now, it’s only between the three of you, right?”
I nodded.
“Once you tell one person, just one… it’s a loose thread. A delicious bit of gossip that someone has to share. They just can’t help themselves. And it’s not something that a ‘normal’ woman or wife or couple understand. And when they don’t understand, they judge. They judge and make decisions and tell more people and it becomes a wildfire that you are trying to put out with a damp washcloth.” She leaned back and took her own sip of wine. “And at that point, you have to decide if you are going to say fuck it to society’s expectations or if you’re going to hide behind lies and denial.” She lifted her arms and gestured to the house around her. “Maybe you’re in a position of power and wealth where you can say fuck it.” Her face softened and I knew she was thinking of earlier and my emotional stumble over Easton’s job. “Or maybe you’re not.”
“And all of that”—she circled her fingers around an imaginary pile of gossip—“doesn’t take into account how this information will affect your friendship with her, or her future relationship with him. And then there is the moral question of if it’s even your secret to share. This is a secret that involves all three of you.”
She sat back on the couch. “If you tell her, it will, at some point come out. And then it will follow you and your husband. You’ll have complete strangers judging you before they meet you and people you’ve known forever who suddenly go out of their way to avoid you.” Her eyes met mine and she cocked one brow. “Think about it. How did you find out about us?”
I hadn’t expected the question, my mind too full of what-if scenarios and this horrific future that she was spelling out i
n such clear and devastating detail. “I—what?”
“How did you find out about Brad and me?”
I could pretend that I didn’t know what she was talking about, but that would be a little weak given the honesty that she was displaying. “Umm… a friend. The one who’s calling me, actually. Her stepmother knows someone who used to work at your husband’s law firm.”
And in that one moment, it all clicked into place. Julia De Luca was right. The zigzag of gossip about her that had jumped through four people to get to me. Chelsea’s sprint out to the pool, pure glee on her face about sharing the news. My own holier-than-thou judgment and irrational sexual opinions of the De Lucas. I was a baby version of them, and I was judging them. What would five-months-ago Elle have thought?
“Shit.” I leaned back against the cushion and cupped the wine glass as if it were a security blanket. “What was I thinking?
“You were thinking that it was hot and you wanted it. There’s nothing wrong with that. But here’s a tip. Don’t do it with any close friends. Especially virgins to that sort of thing. Emotions can get involved, and things can get complicated.”
“Ugh.” I let out a low groan.
“It’s okay.”
No, it really wasn’t okay. I was hyper-paranoid, drinking as if I had a problem, and talking off the rails about my sex life with the first big client I’d ever had. “I swear this is not how a home photo session normally goes.”
She burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but join in. Maybe it was the wine or the relief of finally having someone to talk to, but suddenly—in that big house on Olive Line Trail—it all didn’t seem so bad.
19
Brad De Luca found us in the media room, stretched out on dark leather Restoration Hardware sofas that I was already plotting to steal. I’d ignored six more calls from Chelsea, drank two bottles of wine with Julia, and had been chewed out by her house manager for putting my shoes on the ottoman. Floyd had left at some point, giving me a wry smile as I gave him an over-enthusiastic and fairly sloppy hug.
Twisted Marriage (Filthy Vows Book 2) Page 11