by Roya Carmen
I smile up at him and shake his hand. “You can call me Mirella…or Miss, if you prefer,” I add with a playful smile. “I like the sound of that. It makes me feel young.”
“Miss Mirella, it is,” he says with a mischievous smile, his cheeks a deeper shade of crimson.
Hanson & Hersch Developments, Inc. is an impressive structure—about twenty stories high, slick and all glass. I shield my eyes with my hand, stretching my gaze to the top—the glass reflects the rays of the sun, and the effect is blinding.
I’m a little intimidated when I enter the lobby and make my way to the receptionist. I have the sensation of having traveled in time, and it seems I find myself in 2050—modern, curvaceous shapes surround me—futuristic chrome lighting fixtures hang from the ceiling, and everything is white. The walls are white. The curvy plastic chairs, which look extremely uncomfortable, are also white. The weird bean-shaped front desk is…yes…white.
I hate white…it is so sterile. I want color. I want warmth.
The receptionist, an ultra-skinny hipster type, greets me with a smile. I introduce myself and inform him Mr. Hanson is expecting me. The receptionist speaks into a mouthpiece as he taps away at a computer. “A Mrs. Keates is here to see you. Can I send her up?”
“Yes, Mr. Hanson,” he says. “Yes, that’s great.”
“Mr. Hanson would like to come down and greet you,” he informs me, and directs me to take a seat on one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs.
I sit down, surprised to find the chair to be extremely comfortable. I look around. This is not what I had envisioned. I’ve pictured Weston in his office before, dressed in his sleek suit, surrounded by colleagues, making important business decisions. I’ve always pictured the walls mahogany, the furniture stuffy, the lamps Tiffany, and the lighting dark. But yes, this fits Weston better.
This is very “Weston.”
I spot Weston right as he rounds the corner. He’s all smiles and gorgeous as usual. I jump to my feet, giddy as a school girl.
Settle down.
Right…not likely.
“Hello, Mirella,” he says as he offers me his hand. I shake it, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I can’t quite keep eye contact—my eyes drift to his sleek, black suit vest and fitted checkered button shirt, open at the collar. No jacket. No tie today. I like this casual look.
His gaze sweeps over me. “How was the ride here?” So he’s checking me out too.
“Wonderful,” I answer as we enter the elevator—all mirrors.
What a job it must be to clean this thing.
He presses a button and turns to look at me again. Our reflections stare back at us from every angle. Weston’s presence is so much more imposing than mine—I look like a little church mouse, standing next to his tall frame.
He doesn’t seem distracted by the mirrored walls—he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we’ve entered the elevator. “I like your glasses,” he says, a slight curve to his lips.
I don’t think he’s purposely trying to be seductive…but he is. And I want to tell him to stop it. This instant.
The elevator chimes, and he motions me out. He leads the way to a receptionist desk.
“Please hold all my calls for the moment, Kathryn, if you could.”
“Not a problem,” Kathryn says, smiling at me. She seems like a jovial woman, and well put-together—hair in a bun, slightly graying at the temples, a classy red suit perfectly hugging her slim figure.
Weston promptly introduces us. “This is Mirella Keates.”
I stand a little straighter and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“This is my assistant, Kathryn,” Weston explains. I remember he’s mentioned her before, although he probably doesn’t remember the conversation at all. Unlike me, he most likely doesn’t have every single word I’ve ever said, catalogued in his memory, retrievable at any time.
His office is similar to the lobby—very bright, contemporary, and highly organized. Books and publications, contemporary sculptures and models are wonderfully displayed on glass shelves. His desk is all glass. All glass! And the items resting on it are aligned in perfect symmetry. The pens in his glass pencil holder are all black and identical, tops pointing up—no ugly plastic white pens from Don’s Supersaver Drycleaner.
He rubs the back of his neck as his gaze travels to the two retro, white tufted leather chairs by the large window. “Please take a seat.”
I’ve seen those kinds of chairs in fancy decor magazines, and I’ve always wanted to sit on one. As I make my way there, I walk past his glass desk and slide my fingers along its edge, itching to grab something and mess with it. I reach for one of the black pens and flip it upside down.
He smiles at me. “I see you’ve come to make trouble.”
God, he is beautiful.
I smile back at him as I head to the sitting area and plop my rear on one of the fancy chairs.
Comfy.
I take in the Chicago skyline as I gingerly set my briefcase on the floor and cross one leg over the other, trying to appear sophisticated.
“You look very charming today.”
Well, “charming” wasn’t quite what I was going for, but I’ll take it. “You too,” I say with a sly smile.
Okay, this is definitely not a business meeting. At least, it doesn’t feel like one.
He paces back and forth across the room and finally stops at the well-stocked bar and coffee station. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
I’m not thirsty. I’m not hungry. I’m simply dying of curiosity—I can’t wait to find out what this mysterious meeting is all about.
Finally, he takes a seat—not on the sofa, but rather on the coffee table, right in front of me. He rubs his hands on his fitted charcoal pants, and his right knee bounces up and down—I can’t help but notice. His leg stills when he catches my wide-eyed stare. Whatever this meeting is about…it has turned him into a bundle of nerves.
He’s so close…I can see the gold speckles in his eyes.
Yes, this is so definitely not a business meeting.
I have a tiny momentary lapse of judgment and itch to kiss him. But still having my wits about me, I tilt my head away.
He closes his eyes for a second and clears his throat. “First, I feel I must warn you…” he starts as he rests his hand lightly on my knee. My heart unexpectedly hammers in my chest, and I stop breathing for a second. His touch feels wonderful. I don’t think he’s ever touched me before. He jolts his hand away, as quickly as he’s put it there. “You’ll probably be shocked,” he starts, the pitch of his voice uncharacteristically high, “by what I’m about to say.”
Shocked?
I’m insane with curiosity, and my stomach is completely tied up in knots.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Feel free to ask me any questions. I’ll try to answer as efficiently as I can.”
“Yes,” I say, completely attentive. Heck, if I had been this attentive in school, I could have become a doctor.
He bites his bottom lip. “First, I want to tell you how much Bridget and I enjoyed meeting you and your husband.”
“Us too.”
You have no idea.
“The truth is,” he carries on, not quite making eye contact, “we were truly amazed,” he adds, pausing for a second, perhaps searching for the right words, “by this connection we seem to all have.”
He’s felt it too. It wasn’t just me.
My heart beats at rocket speed, and I wonder, for a fraction of a second, if a heart can beat too fast. “Yes…I agree. We just clicked, didn’t we?”
“Very much so.”
I find myself staring at his mouth, aching to run my fingers along his five o’clock shadow. I could never. And I shouldn’t.
I definitely shouldn’t.
“First…first off,” he says, scratching his brow. I can sense whatever he’s about to tell me is not easy. “As you know, Bridget and I have been in a committed relations
hip for many years. And we love each other.”
My heart sinks.
He’s brought me here to let me down gently, to tell me to back off—complete with car service. How classy.
“I feel I must tell you before I go on,” he says, looking out the window. I wish he could just settle his eyes on me and say whatever it is he wants to say. He stares down at a copy of Architectural Digest on the table and presses a finger against the cover.
Seriously?
There is no way in hell he’s looking at pictures of crown molding and marble floors right now.
Thankfully, he isn’t—he just can’t seem to make eye contact.
“Look at me,” I whisper. “Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”
He gazes up at me and smiles. There’s such vulnerability about him, I just want to reach out and hug him.
“Well actually, this might be hard for you to understand,” he finally manages. “I know from our conversations that you were raised in a Catholic family.”
I have absolutely no idea where he’s going with this.
He stares off into the distance, yet again. “Well, the truth is,” he trails off, his knee still bouncing up and down frantically. “Hell, I’ll simply get right to it. No sense in beating around the bush…”
He takes a long breath and doesn’t utter a word for the longest time, and I sit on the edge of my seat, barely able to contain myself, waiting for him to tell me.
Tell me what, I’m not sure.
But I want to know.
“Bridget and I…” he starts. “Bridget…she and I…are in an open marriage,” he finally confesses.
I think my eyes actually bulge out of my head for a second, like that guy in the Guinness Book of World Records. And I still don’t quite understand what he’s telling me.
It seems he senses my confusion because he goes on. “I like you very much, Mirella,” he tells me, his gaze soft. The nervous energy seems to have faded. “I’m very attracted to you.”
My heart hammers in my chest.
He wants to sleep with me. But I thought we’d covered that already. I’ve already told him I could never cheat on Gabe.
He rubs the back of his neck—he seems almost pained. He wants me to understand what he’s telling me. But I still don’t. I’m so confused.
“And Bridget is also strongly attracted to Gabe,” he adds, his gaze not leaving mine.
Suddenly, it all falls together.
My heart drops, just like it does on one of those roller coasters at the amusement park. I feel nauseous.
I’m no idiot—I’ve put two and two together.
Two and two together.
That’s exactly what we’re talking about here.
I can’t hide the shock from my face. “You want us all to—”
His leg starts to fidget again. “I realize you and Gabe most likely don’t have the same arrangement Bridget and I have.”
Of course we don’t. Most normal couples don’t.
I have no words. He’s taken them all.
“We simply want you to discuss it, consider it.” His tone pleading. “Even if it’s just for five seconds.”
A hundred questions come to mind, like a tidal wave.
“A foursome?” I ask, my eyes wide. I am definitely not into that, if that’s what they have in mind.
“No,” he says with a smile. “More like…uh…an exchange.”
“Couple swapping?” I ask, knowing this is exactly what he’s talking about.
He smiles again. I swear, that smile of his might just completely do me in one day.
“Bridget and I don’t like the term ‘swapping.’ We prefer to think of it as a ‘couple exchange.’”
Of course, Bridget and Weston don’t swap—they’re much too classy for that.
“But how does that work?” I ask, another million questions working their way into my mind. Where? When? Why?
“Well, I won’t lie. It’s a little complex.”
I wonder if they’ve done this before, if we’re just another notch on their fancy, expensive bed post.
“You’ve done this before? You do this a lot?”
His smile is warm, and he puts his hand on my knee again. “No…not a lot, but yes…we’ve done this before…twice.”
I feel his hand on me. And I almost forget this might be the most horrible idea ever conceived.
“And what happened with those couples?” I ask him. The whole thing suddenly seems very sordid.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ve scared you.”
“Yes…I’m a little scared,” I admit. “Honestly, Weston…I don’t know what to think.”
“I understand. The concept is completely unfamiliar to you.”
I sit motionless, speechless and stare into his striking eyes. I truly don’t know what to think.
“We don’t take these arrangements lightly, Mirella.” His gaze soft—finally, he’s making eye contact. “They must be approached with caution, and rules and agreements must be in place. Thorough discussion is absolutely necessary.”
My eyes are a little lazy as I listen to his smooth voice. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on by a conversation. In fact, I’m positive of it. It seems my whole body is throbbing, hanging on to his every word.
Gabe was right. He wants to fuck me. Most men would stick their hands under my skirt and whisper a few dirty words in my ear. But Weston Hanson is not “most men.” He’s a strange one.
And unfortunately…sexy as hell.
I start to think about the logistics of this whole thing, and suddenly, my questions become more concrete. “Where would we do this? Do we all go out together and split up? At your house?”
He smiles. He seems slightly amused by my questions. His smile irks me—these are legitimate, serious questions.
He scratches his brow. “Well, first, we would schedule individual dates. You would contact my assistant Kathryn, coordinate and schedule a convenient time. She knows Bridget’s and my schedule inside out.”
What?
“Are you kidding me? This is not a dentist appointment, Weston,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“I’m very well aware of that, Mirella,” he says, his eyes downcast. It seems I’m making this harder than he anticipated.
“Kathryn is quite efficient at what she does. She’ll coordinate and schedule our dates. The meetings will take place in the city…if we…uh…go ahead with the exchange,” he adds quickly, flustered.
Why does he call them “meetings”? Call them what they are, I want to scream—hook-ups, booty calls…whatever.
“Both Bridget and I keep suites in the city.”
How convenient. They both have their own private little shag pads…how quaint. I’m not sure if my disdain is obvious, but I kind of hope it is.
“When scheduling our meetings, Kathryn will take into account our individual schedules, our respective family plans, as well as your menstrual cycle.”
My jaw drops. I want to scream.
He did not just say that.
I take a breath and reach for my briefcase. I get up to leave but he stills me with his hand.
“Mirella,” he says softly. “Please let me finish. Let me go through this with you. And then you can decide.”
His eyes. His beautiful eyes do me in every time. I don’t think he realizes the power he has over me.
I stay seated. “Well, I bet that part wasn’t in the job description when Kathryn first applied for the position,” I joke, the sarcasm evident in my voice.
“No, it wasn’t. But she’s great at it. She’s very discreet.”
“Don’t you think it would be less weird if we just all went out and let the chips fall where they may? Play it by ear?”
He sighs. He doesn’t seem to agree. “I know it may seem a little strange to you,” he admits. “We could very well go the traditional route…all go to a club together, get drunk, seduce each other, and we’d probably all end up in
each other’s beds,” he adds, a smile curving at the edge of his mouth. “I think that’s how most people do it.”
Yes, that’s how normal people do it.
“But that’s not my style,” he says plainly, he eyes fixed on me. “I don’t like chaos, I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like the unexpected. I feel in control when I can foresee the course of circumstances and specific regulations are in place.”
Are we still talking about sex?
Part of me hopes so.
And part of me is absolutely horrified.
“Don’t you get jealous?” I ask. This question has been on my mind since he uttered the words “open marriage.”
He shakes his head, his mouth a hard line. “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “We don’t.”
I stare at him, speechless.
“If you think you might be jealous, this kind of arrangement is completely unsuited to you,” he adds, his words clipped.
“I see,” I say, looking down at my pencil skirt, and wondering if I could do that…not be jealous.
“This is about sex, Mirella. There’s no room for emotional attachment in these arrangements.”
I lift my gaze to his and study him for a few seconds. Yes, I can see how this would be easy for him—he’s so rigid, pragmatic, distant and cold…almost inhuman.
“The sole purpose of this agreement is mutual sexual gratification,” he says plainly.
His words are so business-like, like he’s in a board meeting, going over the yearly profit predictions.
My heart sinks.
Well…if he’s trying to sell me on this, this is definitely not the right approach.
“Please remember, I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to have any illusions, or come into this unprepared for the reality of such a situation,” he explains. “I want you to know exactly what to expect. If you do this, I don’t want you to regret it.”
“How very considerate of you,” I offer, not hiding the sarcasm in my voice.
Yes, it’s decided…I’m definitely not doing this.
We sit in silence for what seems like eternity. His gaze studies mine, and I think he understands I don’t want to do this. His hand reaches for my face and cups my cheek. The warmth of his hand on my skin sends shivers through my spine.