by Julia Kent
“You’re dating? Dating that nice, sweet woman Tessa’s always telling me about?”
I’m going to kill my sister. Or let Carlos die from blue ball explosions by withholding babysitting services for the next six months. That’s effective.
“We’re just here as friends.”
“How long are you there?”
“What?”
“This wedding — is it a day wedding?”
“We’re here for the weekend.”
Mom lets out a sound of jubilation. “You’re at a hotel! You’re sleeping with her!”
“Mom!” I sound like a choked fourteen year old. “I’m not talking about this with you!”
“Not talking about what?”
“Sex!”
“Ryan Gabriel Donovan, you are twenty-seven years old. If you can’t tell me you’re seeing someone and it’s serious enough to sleep with her, then when can you?”
“I am convinced that you and dad had sex exactly five times and did it with your eyes closed via telepathy, Mom. I’m not talking about this with you.” I’m forced to say that last sentence through her laughter.
“I’d like to meet my grandkids, you know,” she finally says. “You’re my baby. We’ll never be spry with yours if you don’t start having them soon.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
“Is it serious? With this Carrie?”
“What? No. We’re friends. Nothing more than friends, Mom. I’m just helping her out here by being her date for the wedding.” As I finish explaining, I hear a shuffling sound behind me and turn to find Carrie standing there, holding a plate with donuts on it, wearing a grimace she quickly changes to a bright smile.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she gushes, bending down to place the plate next to me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t. It’s okay. I’m just talking to — ”
Too late. Carrie gives me a huge smile and waves me off. “It’s fine! I have a million things to do to help out. Go back to whoever you’re talking to.” She disappears around a corner, out of sight.
I hear footsteps gain speed, then the unmistakable sound of running.
“Ryan? Dear? Who was that?”
“Oh,” I say, watching the last spot where I saw Carrie’s back. “No one. Just a friend.”
Chapter 9
CARRIE
“I think Jenny’s mother is a little drunk,” I whisper in Ryan’s ear. The casual dinner for the wedding party and any early guests is over, dessert plates and coffee cups littering the tables. This is the last chance anyone has to relax. Starting tomorrow, we go into full-throttle wedding mode.
No one’s listening to us, so we can talk the way we always do. Normal. Relaxed.
Like he said to that person on the phone earlier, we’re nothing more than friends.
Right? Right.
“What was your first clue?” he whispers back. “Was it when she stood on her chair and sang “I Will Always Love You”?”
“Actually, I think it was when she sat on your lap and showed you Jenny’s first grade picture.” I’m giggling helplessly. “She is going to have a wicked headache tomorrow morning.”
“Aiden’s mom isn’t too far behind. I just saw her leaving with an entire platter of chocolate tarts.”
“We should follow her. This can’t be good.”
“It’ll be fun to watch her try to press the elevator buttons, though.”
I gather my bag and my wrap and we hurry to the lobby. Sure enough, there’s Aiden’s mom, Annette, standing in front of the elevator with a huge tray in both hands, looking helplessly at the button on the wall. Her cheeks are very pink and she has a zinnia from the centerpiece in her hair. She looks like a tipsy elf.
“Can I give you a hand with that, Annette?” Ryan takes the tray from her as I press the button. “It looks heavy.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” She smiles up at him crookedly. “Sometimes I get hungry in the night. You should take a few, you never know when you’re going to need a little snack at four a.m.”
“That’s so true. Take a few, Carrie,” Ryan says, looking at me with an expression I can’t interpret. “We might need a snack. At four a.m.”
What could he mean? We’ll be asleep at four a.m. But I take two plates from the tray.
When the doors slide open, Ryan winks at me and says, “I’ll help Annette to her room. Meet you back at ours.”
“Okay,” I answer faintly. Off they go, Ryan bearing the tray, Annette chattering away beside him.
It’s not easy to work the cardkey while juggling two dessert plates and my clutch, but I manage to get in the door without dropping anything. As I head to the desk to set everything down, my fingers start to shake. I lose my thumb-grip on one plate and — of course — it tips toward me. I should have seen this coming. Of course the tart hits my dress chocolate side first. Of course it slides all the way down before landing on the beige carpet. Of course.
For a long minute, I stare down at the mess on me and the floor. Then I get a towel from the bathroom and start scooping up chocolate filling and smashed pastry. The inn will probably charge me for new carpet.
Perfect.
At least my dress is dark brown silk - chocolate brown, as a matter of fact.
See? Things can always be worse. Almost always.
The door lock clicks and Ryan comes in. He registers me on my knees, scraping at the mess, mutters “Damn,” and goes straight for another towel.
Kneeling down beside me gingerly, he studies the situation. Then, without saying a word, he reaches over and dips two fingers into the whipped cream on my skirt. He licks one finger experimentally and smiles. He holds the other to my lips.
Well, what would you do? Refuse? I open my mouth and take his finger in gently, sucking the delicious sweet cream from his skin.
And at that intense and unpredictable moment, a piece of heavy furniture falls over in the next room, shaking the floor. We both jump a mile.
“Oh my God, what was that? That’s Jamey’s room!”
“Jamey’s room? He’s next door to us?”
Just then, a man’s deep moan comes through the wall.
“He’s hurt! What should we do? I think you should go check.” I imagine Jamey trapped under the armoire, bleeding to death internally, while I am wantonly licking cream from Ryan’s body not twelve feet away. I can see the front page of the Boston Herald now: “Guy Kicks While Girl Licks” ... “She Was Coming While Her Ex Was Going”...
Another moan follows, this one louder and longer. It goes up oddly at the end.
Ryan and I look at each other.
“Yes! Kevin! Give it to me! Harder!” The voice is muffled, but the words are clear. There’s a smaller crash, like a lamp hitting the floor.
Ryan’s mouth twitches on one side as he tries not to laugh. “Are you sure you want me to go knock on the door?”
“Maybe not.” Despite myself, I feel a giggle bubbling up. “Or maybe yes!”
Ryan walks up close to the wall.
“Oh, Carrie, oh baby,” he says loudly. “Oh, baby, you are the best!”
I stare at him, speechless — what is he doing? — but then I get it. I scurry over next to him and join in. “Ryan! Ryan! I want more of you, now! Oh, God, that spot — yes! Right there! Right now!”
He starts smacking the wall rhythmically with the heel of his hand, faster and faster. Tears of laughter are streaming down my face.
“Carrie! Oh God! You’re so pink and wet and luscious!”
I clap my hand over my mouth at his words, holding back giggles.
“Ryan! Extend the spreader bar!” I pant and moan.
Ryan freezes and gives me an arched eyebrow, then slowly crosses his thick arms over his chest. His expression says, How in the hell do you know what a spreader bar is?
What? I’ve seen Fifty Shades Darker. Read it, too. It’s a requirement when you work at O.
Suddenly BANGBANGBANG at the door.
“Hey!” Kevin’s outraged voice shouts from the hall. “Keep it down in there! People are trying to sleep!”
For a moment, we are too amazed to make a sound. Then we fall onto the bed, laughing so hard we can’t breathe. Every time one of us subsides, the other one snorts with a giggle and we’re off again.
Finally I prop myself up on one elbow, and that’s when I notice the pastry dotting the bedcover.
“Oh no!” I jump up from the bed. “My dress is getting the bed dirty!”
Ryan stands up too, and surveys the damage. “It’s not too bad, mostly crumbs.” He folds the bedcover down. “But you should probably get out of that dress.”
Not meeting my eye, he adds, “Here, I’ll unzip you.”
Turning my back to him, I gather my hair and pull it forward. I wait. Nothing happens.
“Ryan?”
Then he’s behind me, his hands finding the zipper tab. He pulls it slowly, achingly slowly, his fingers brushing the skin of my back as they travel down. He’s standing so close, I can feel his body heat, his breath on my exposed neck making me shiver.
“Okay then, thanks!” I say a little too brightly, failing miserably at ignoring the flush of heat that just rushed across every inch of skin I possess. I grab my nightgown and robe from the closet and dash into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
What was that? Just a little friendly help with a hard-to-reach zipper? Like you would do for a roommate, or a sister? It didn’t feel very brotherly.
It felt wonderful.
This is ridiculous. Ryan’s not interested in me, not that way. We’re pretending, that’s all. We’re friends. He’s doing me a favor, like he said to that person on the phone.
Anyway, Ryan’s straight. Straight guys aren’t attracted to me. It’s a proven fact. I brush my teeth.
Finally, I tie the belt of my robe tightly, take a deep breath, and reach forb the door handle. Wait — just a little spray of perfume behind my neck. Just to be considerate. It’s close quarters here.
Very close quarters, actually. One king-size bed. The bed that Jamey and I were supposed to be sharing.
When I emerge from the bathroom, all the lights are turned off except the soft glow of the desk lamp. Ryan’s standing at the window, his back to the room, looking out at the moon shining on the ocean. He’s wearing a t-shirt and soccer shorts, loose and comfortable.
I wonder if that’s what he wears to bed every night.
Or does he sleep naked?
My mouth goes dry.
“So,” I start. “Which side of the bed do you want?”
He doesn’t move. “Either one. You choose.”
His shoulders are so broad. One of his hands is on his hip, the other pressed flat against the window, like he’s trying to touch the sea. I watch his steady breathing and find myself matching his rhythm. The air changes. We’re in the dark. In a hotel room. I’m wearing just a light robe and a nightgown. It’s not a very short nightgown, but it’s sheer and lightweight. Every time it brushes against my smooth thighs I feel sexy. Sensual.
I look at Ryan’s back.
And now I’m throbbing.
What is he thinking about?
Slipping off my robe, I slide under the covers on the right side. “Big day tomorrow,” I offer. “It’s late. We should get some sleep. Thanks for doing this, Ryan. I know it’s not easy pretending. Thank you for everything.” I turn off the nightstand light. I stare at the ceiling, willing my throbbing blood to stop crashing against the tidal wall of my body.
He’s magnetic. How else can I be so drawn to him? It’s Ryan. Good old Ryan. This is idiotic. I just need an orgasm or nineteen and I’ll be fine.
With Ryan, a voice inside me whispers.
I roll on my side and punch my pillow. Impulse and need flood my skin and my heartbeat migrates south, between my legs. Suddenly, the sheets feel too well starched, brushing against my nipples through the nightgown, making me squirm. And when I change position, my calf brushes against my other calf just so, until I swallow hard, curling my hands into fists, grabbing the bedsheets.
So I don’t stand up and walk over to Ryan.
So I don’t offer myself to him and make a fool of myself.
He’s being nice. We’re friends. I can’t ruin that just because I misread a few signals from him. I mean, how embarrassing would that be?
“Sure.” He’s still at the window, staring out. “No problem, C-Shel.”
RYAN
I can’t turn around or she’ll see the tent.
You know the tent. Every guy gets the tent. Sometimes the tent is a Boy Scout pup tent. Sometimes it’s circus-tent size.
And then once in awhile, you get full-blown state university graduation tent size.
Yep. If I lean an inch forward I’ll poke my own eye out.
I can see her in the glass’s reflection, her face turned just enough toward me to watch as she stares, wide-eyed, at the window. Watching her like this — when she doesn’t know I’m doing it — is a guilty pleasure. The moon seems to treasure her as much as I do, stroking a line like an artist, the glow of the moon’s edge marking a trail along her profile.
If I close my eyes, I can feel her behind me. I’m fifteen feet away, but damned if she isn’t in the air we’re both exchanging right now. Damned if her breath isn’t touching the back of my hands like a soft caress from a lover’s soothing palm.
Damned if she isn’t in my arms, seeking a kiss, a stroke, a tight clasp, and so much more.
Damned if I’m not getting harder than ever.
It takes more control than you think to breathe evenly, to hold back emotion, to hide how you truly feel about someone you love.
Love.
There. I thought it.
Too bad I’m too much of a coward to say it.
I can be in a room with people I loathe and they’ll never guess how I really feel. Managing expressions, respirations, tone of voice — that’s child’s play compared to this.
Because when you dislike someone, all you have to do is cover up the negative.
When you love someone, you have to cover up your heart. And unlike anger or disgust or irritation, the feelings the heart emits don’t cover easily. They bleed through, pumped in an unremitting, steady stream that pushes through every defense and reveals itself in every action.
My throat won’t stop tightening, as if my heart is crawling up my chest, seeking Carrie. I let go of the glass and let the words come into my mouth, feeling them there like her lips, her tongue, the soft sweetness of her neck against my cheek as we played earlier.
This isn’t pretend, my tongue wants to say. This is anything but pretend.
“Ryan?” Her voice makes me jump, and now my heart is in my cheek, tucked there as it pounds mercilessly against my jaw. I do the best I can to make myself able to speak.
“Yeah?” I grunt out, the sound bizarre to my ears.
That was about as far from This isn’t pretend as you can get.
That’s it. I square my shoulders and taking in a long, deep breath. I ignore the flurry of rejections past. I push away the images of bullies who told me I was lesser. Weak. Not worthy.
The man I am needs to connect with the woman she is. It’s time.
It’s past time.
She yawns, rolling over onto her back just as a strand of moonlight makes her gown translucent, one breast hollowed out from the fabric, ripe and lush. It’s a work of art. I can’t help myself.
I stare. The words disappear in the distance between my eyes and her fine skin.
“Thanks for doing this, Ryan. I know it’s not easy pretending. Thank you for everything.”
And with that, she rolls over, her breathing slowing.
“I — ” Choking out a sound that isn’t connected to anything but my own desperation, I grab the window for support. What the hell is wrong with me? No other woman makes me feel like this. Not one. Why can’t I just say this?
Because Carrie isn’t
just any other woman.
Slowly, with great purpose, I make my way to my side of the bed. Her back is to me now, the raised curve of her shoulder cutting through the view of the sea outside. As the waves start to match the rhythm of her breathing, I pull back the covers, sliding one leg in, then the other, until I’m on my back next to her, fingers threaded behind my head, staring straight at the ceiling.
Touch her. Touch her. Touch her. My heartbeat suddenly has a mantra, a voice.
It sounds like hers.
“Carrie?” I whisper, ready to try.
Silence.
I fall asleep to the sound of my coward’s heart beating like a drum of warning, off in the distance, muted but carrying a message of the inevitable.
* * *
I wake up to the intoxicating aroma of faint perfume, silk, and sweat, with Carrie pushed up against me, spooning. She’s curled into my arms and her ass presses against my front in a way that makes me suddenly hold my breath and tense, like I’m a wax statue.
With a sword between my legs.
I don’t want to wake her up. Actually, I do want to wake her up. My arm is wrapped around her and the gentle weight of one of her breasts against the bones of my hand is killing me. Electricity shoots through me, from the root of my cock into the top of my head as I close my eyes and nuzzle her neck, breathing in the scent of the possible.
The scent of now.
And then I remember.
I know it’s not easy pretending.
My gut curls in, away from her body. She moves backward instinctively, seeking me out, her hand finding my hand and pulling me in.
If I go by her words, we’re just friends.
If I go by her body, she wants more.
Tap tap tap.
I startle, half flying off the bed as someone knocks on the door. Racing to answer, I open it a crack and find a big grin on the other side.
“Slacker. It’s seven. Get your ass out here for a run and some lifting. Unless you already worked those arms with some pushups over Carrie last night?”
Zeke.
“Shut the hell up,” I snap, closing the door in his face. But I grab my water bottle and socks and shoes, then slip my cardkey in my pocket. I know how this works.