“Miserable in paradise, and paying for overpriced drinks.” I laugh, because really if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.
“Touché.”
Brittany finally comes back with our drinks, batting her lashes coquettishly at Dermot. He pays her no mind; it seems Mr. Carter only has eyes for his Jameson, and … me? “Well, I’ve grown awfully fond of overpriced drinks.”
He raises his glass to mine in a toast. “To unrequited love, then.”
I stop with the drink halfway to my mouth. “I didn’t say I was in love with him.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Touché, indeed.
***
Dermot is a man who likes to take charge. I learned this when he took the liberty of ordering dinner for me. I also gave him hell about it, and so ensued a drinking challenge like no other. I ordered him one hideously fruity cocktail after another, and he in turn ordered me every type of whiskey the restaurant served. This was a lot of alcohol. I drank, probably more than most women my age, and a lot more than was good for me, but this was something else.
Bossy or not, I had a good time with Dermot. He’s charming and funny, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes. Under different circumstances—namely him not being married and me not being in love with my best friend—Dermot Carter is the sort of man I could fall hard for. He’s a gentleman, sweet, successful, and so charismatic that he has me snared completely in his web. There’s an undercurrent of danger with him too, as if those big brown eyes know your every move before you make it and you aren’t sure if you’ll love or hate the punishment he doles out if you put a foot wrong. I’m betting I’d love it. Not that this is something I’ll ever get to experience, but a girl can fantasize, and no one ever got hurt from my fantasies, except for perhaps my vibrator, which is why I bought a new top-of-the line Lelo Olga in sterling silver. No more melted rubber for me.
It’s late when we finally get up to leave, and I’ve had far more than I can handle. I stumble a little as I stand and give Brittany a fake-ass smile. Dermot rests his hand at the small of my back as he ushers me out of the restaurant. It feels nice, and I’m glad he has no qualms about touching his florist.
When it comes to walking through the dimly lit bar just off the restaurant, I decide this looks like a fantastic place to curl up on one of the couches and drift off to sleep, and I find myself gravitating towards them but Dermot gently steers me away and closer to the stairs. I don’t know how he’s any better off; he drank just as much as I did, though I suppose he has to have at least 40lbs on me. Still, no fair.
When we come to the marble staircase, Dermot takes my elbow, and that kind of automatic chivalrous gesture causes my vagina to go on red alert. Seriously, if I was wearing a shorter skirt, I bet you could see a flashing red light coming from my whoo-ha with a little siren wailing about how we’d found a keeper. I take another step and almost fall off my sensible little kitten heels.
Dermot’s fingers sink into my flesh as he steadies me, and our eyes lock. And this may just be the copious amounts of rocket-fuel in my system but … goddamn, he’s pretty. Not in a Harley, rough-and-ready-to-take-you-anywhere kind of way, but in the handsome, successful CEO I-have-my-shit-completely-together way, which is hot. Really, really …
The ground goes out from under me as I take my next step and falter. My shoe flies off, and lands with a plop in one of the various ponds surrounding the resort. I’m flying, freefalling to the ground as Dermot tries to catch me, only I bring him down with me. On top of me. My head smacks off the pavement and spins as my gaze slowly comes back into focus. Dermot’s warm breath and strong aftershave engulf me. I let out a whimpering laugh. “Ow.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, chuckling. It’s then that I realize he’s drunk, too. Ha! My fruity drinks did get to him. He’s just way better at hiding it than I am.
“Uh-huh,” I say while shaking my head. Dermot grins, and his gaze drops to my mouth. My hands have somehow entangled themselves in Dermot’s luscious salt-and-pepper hair. I play with the strands at the nape of his neck, he leans in and … “Oh god! You’re married!”
“I am,” he agrees, as if this is a fact he’s only just remembered. Pushing up on his elbows, he lifts his weight off of me at the same time that I attempt to wiggle free, but this only serves in thrusting our bodies closer together. He’s hard. Not just like semi-hard, but hard hard. Like steel, or diamonds. Just how hard are diamonds? I mean obviously they’re hard, but can you really compare them to flesh, no matter how impressive the boner?
Dermot wets his lips, those full, beautiful lips, and stares down at me with regret. As if I’m the last morsel of chocolate cake and someone got there before him.
Oh this is bad. This is really, really bad.
“You’re married,” I say again, though this time my voice is a whisper, and god help me it’s chock full of disappointment. I am a horrible person. There is no coming back from this moment. There’s only forward into a life of taking my clothes off for money, prostitution, and possible B-grade porn. I wonder if I could work with Danny Mountain? No, no, no. He’s married too. I’m so going to hell.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” he says, but he doesn’t lift his weight off of me. Instead, he glances down to where our bodies are joined at the hip. “Er … I may have a small problem.”
“I’m not sure I’d call that small.” And I wouldn’t, because the man feels huge pressed against me.
“You’re awfully good for my ego, Rose, but you’re terrible for my self-control.” He kisses my cheek and stands. And though I try to tell myself not to look, it’s all I can do. My eyes zero in on the bulge in his pants. My mother taught me to show appreciation for pretty things when you see them. Somehow I don’t think she was talking about my client’s junk—though she does get a little swoony when Dermot comes in for his morning coffee.
The man in question offers his hand, and I take it and let him pull me up. Well, this is awkward.
“I should get back.” I point to the Rainbow Tower above us. If I glanced up I’d no doubt be able to see our room, but my head is far too swimmy for that, so I just stare awkwardly at Dermot. I hope he doesn’t decide to go to another florist now.
“Yes, you should.” His eyes stay locked on mine. “I would offer to walk you up, but I’m not sure that would go over too well with your roommate.”
“Probably not.” I smile and remove the one shoe I have on. I can’t take the risk of stumbling again because who knows? This time I might just fall onto some random penis. “So … thanks for dinner, and the trip.”
He grins, and it has a chemical reaction with my insides. “You’re so welcome. If only we’d seen more.”
“Good one.” I begin walking backwards and only narrowly miss falling into the koi pond. I really need to be far, far away from handsome men … and fish … apparently, because I’m sure at least one of them got hit in its big bulbous head by my wayward heel. “Well good night.”
“Good night, Rose.”
I hurriedly disappear before I can make even more of an ass of myself, or you know, dry-hump my client on his wedding anniversary in the middle of an expensive resort.
Chapter Nine
Rose
Clutching my one shoe tightly to my chest, I slide the key in the lock and quietly enter the suite. The bathroom light is on, and the bed is rumpled but empty. Harley sits out on the balcony in the dark with a bottle of whiskey on the small table beside him, his legs propped up on the empty chair. I don’t think he heard me come in, because there’s a plate glass door between us. I watch him for a bit as he swirls the remaining whiskey in his glass, and then he sets it down on the table untouched. He bows his head. It’s hard to see clearly from here, but his shoulders tremble slightly as he buries his face in his hands. That’s all it takes for me to be across the room. I pull open the door and I’m hit with the scent of ocean and alcohol. Harley doesn’t turn—he just takes a ragged breath as I wrap my arms around him from b
ehind. And then his shoulders tremor uncontrollably as I hold him. Before long, he’s howling.
I’ve never seen him this way and I’m ashamed to say that it breaks something inside of me, because I love him. Drunken interludes with charming CEOs aside, I love him, and witnessing him fall apart over a woman who doesn’t deserve him? Well, it hurts like a motherfucker.
When it becomes apparent he still isn’t going to talk, I grab his hand and lead him back inside the room. I shove him down on the mattress, expecting to go to the bathroom and change out of this stupid dress, but I don’t get that far because Harley tugs on my hand with his vise grip and I fall onto the bed beside him.
He doesn’t say a word, just turns my body over as easily as he might move a ragdoll and pulls me close. Laying his head on my boobs, his whiskey-warm breath mingles with my own as I stroke his hair. It’s strange to see him so vulnerable, this huge man that dwarfs me, my Harley who’s always been so solid, so strong. Guilt slices through me. I should have been here; I should have pushed for answers; I should have forced him to talk to me. Instead, I had dinner with a married man, a man I almost kissed.
Before long, Harley’s breathing slows and becomes deeper and then, when I know he’s asleep, I softly trace the lines of his beautiful face. How long have I wanted this? How long have I dreamed of touching him the way I have this week, of cuddling in bed, of stolen glances, and the clever way he teases me that simultaneously makes me want to both hurt him and kiss him all at once? I’ve wanted him for so long, but all of those touches mean nothing right now because even though his arms are wrapped tightly around me, I don’t have him. Someone else does. And right now, she’s the luckiest bitch alive because I would give anything to have him feel that way about me again, and I’d give anything for him to look at me the way Dermot looked at me tonight.
Chapter Ten
Rose
Age seventeen
I spend the morning crying. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. That kiss had meant everything, hearing him say that Riley wasn’t important had meant everything, and still the douchenozzle spent prom night with her … in a hotel. Having sex.
Bored and alone, I drown my sorrows in chocolate and indulge in a Buffy marathon—the second season where Buffy sleeps with Angel and he loses his soul, thank you very much. Stupid sex. If Angel had kept it in his pants, we wouldn’t have had to sit through a soul destroying season finale with his bumpy vampire face. I stuff a handful of candy in my mouth and throw another at Angel’s handsomely annoying face.
“Stupid, sexy jerk!” I shout at the TV, just as Harley climbs in my window and flops down on the bed beside me. I move over an inch and he takes another, and then he shoves his big meaty hand—which is covered in bruises and broken skin—into my M&M’s.
“Hey,” he says, stuffing a handful of candy in his mouth.
Hey? Hey? Really? He beats up my boyfriend, kisses me on prom night and then goes back to the ice princess to spend the night with her, and all I get is a freaking hey? “Hey yourself.”
“Okay, you’re mad.”
I glare at him.
“Where’s your dad?” Harley glances at the door. “He’s not going to beat the shit out of me, is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s golfing, or saving children or something.” He leans over and nuzzles my neck with his nose. I jerk away. “What are you doing?”
“Come on, get up.”
“No. I’m watching,” I say, because it’s true. Out of all seven seasons of Buffy, this episode is still my favorite—even with Angel being a sexy, evil douche. I’m also pretty sure I have chocolate on my face and mega death breath from hell, so I don’t plan on going anywhere right now.
“You’re not watching, you’re wallowing, and you’ve seen this episode already.” He shuts off the TV and the room grows dark.
Dusk falls, the sun sets over the city in one of its beautiful burnt orange sunsets, and for once there’s no fog to mask it.
“I do not wallow,” I tell him matter-of-factly, stuffing more candy into my mouth in order to hide my death breath.
“We gonna talk about this? Or are you just gonna keep stuffing chocolate in your face so you don’t have to speak to me?”
Goddamn him.
“I taught you that trick, remember?” Harley grins, and then he pulls me into him so my body is flush with his as he traces his fingers up my arm and back down again. I close my eyes, because even though I’m hurt and heartbroken, I never felt butterflies explode inside my belly when Alex touched me. Not even when he slipped a hand inside my panties and attempted to get me off. I’d felt nervous, and uncertain, sure, but I didn’t feel as if my breath depended on his next caress.
“Wendy?” Harley prompts, and my eyes snap open. I attempt to wriggle free. It doesn’t work.
“Don’t call me that. We’re not kids anymore,” I hiss. He just grins.
“I’ll never grow up, and you shouldn’t either. Now come on.” He slides off the bed and rises, grabbing my forearms and pulling me to my feet as the bowl of candy falls to the floor and M&M’s spill out across my room.
“I really don’t want to go anywhere, Harley.”
He brings my hand to his lips, kissing it softly and hiding that impish grin against my flesh. “What if I told you it would be an awfully big adventure?”
“Then I’d ask you to stop fucking quoting Peter Pan. What are you, six?”
He frowns and then appears to study my body for the first time. “You can’t wear this outfit.”
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, looking down at my bold, printed tights and oversized T-shirt.
“You look like a hobo.” He stalks across the room to my chest of drawers, pulling out a pair of jeans and a black Goonies T-shirt that I wore to death as a kid and should have thrown out before now. It’s threadbare and fits so snugly that I don’t have to wear a bra with it so … winning.
I scowl, because even though I love this shirt, it’s not as comfortable as my hobo outfit, and I meant what I said—I really don’t want to go anywhere. With a resigned sigh, I walk into the closet in order to change, because I know he won’t turn away. When I’m done, I exit and twist my hair into a braid over my shoulder, and then I grab a cardigan because no matter what time of year it is, SF weather can be a temperamental bitch, and it’s a pretty good way to hide my over-excited nipples in this top.
I follow him and shake my head as he climbs through the window and onto the wooden plank wedged across the space between our sills. “You know my dad’s not home; you can walk through the front door.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Oh I don’t know; it must be nice to be regular kids who use the freaking stairs.”
“Are you coming or not?” He extends his arm out to me, and I sigh because we both know I will. I’d follow him anywhere, and he knows it as well as I do.
***
Harley isn’t exactly forthcoming with where we’re going. I ask, of course, but he just gives me that infuriating grin and ignores my questions by turning up the radio in his truck. I’m still mad at him, so I angle my body toward my door and pretend he isn’t there, which is kind of difficult to do with his off-key singing.
Ten minutes later, as we turn south onto Highway 1, I know exactly where we are heading. I just don’t know why.
“We’re going to the cottage?”
When Harley and I were eight and seven-and-three-quarters respectively, our families vacationed together in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a small beach town on California's Monterey Peninsula. Our parents fell in love with the place that summer and decided they’d buy a beach cottage together for summers away from the city. At 1577-square feet, the single-story cottage is small, and when they made the investment, I don’t think they all planned to stay there at once, but that’s how it’s always worked out—one family doesn’t stay in Carmel without the other, and we’ve certainly never been there without the parentals.
Harley shrugs. “I
thought we could play hooky and hang out there, like old times.”
“Right,” I say with a nod, and I feel stupid because why would we do anything but hang out … like old times? “Only our parents were with us then. And I didn’t tell my mom where I was going; I don’t have any clothes.”
“So? Wear mine.”
I make a face and tuck my hair behind my ear. I know he won’t go back for any of my things and I didn’t bring any money, which means I’m stuck wearing this outfit or clothing that’s miles too big for me.
I’ve always loved Harley’s spontaneity. I’ve often wished a little of it would rub off on me, and he’s great with surprises, but as a very organized planner bordering on OCD, it’s a struggle sometimes not to strangle him. “Gimme your phone. I need to call my mom.”
He grins at me across the cab. “I didn’t bring it.”
I whack his arm, probably not the best course of action because Harley’s as bad a driver as he is a planner, and he swerves into the lane beside us, ticking off some random commuter. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I forgot it. We can find a phone when we get there.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, and we spend the rest of the two-hour drive listening to the classics like Soundgarden’s Superunknown and The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Californiacation, which are only the best road-trip albums in the history of ever. I have a very uneasy feeling, and I don’t know what it is. I’ve never felt this way with Harley before, but he’s acting weird … weirder, than usual, and it’s unsettling.
We stop at a gas station, and I grab snacks and stretch my legs while Harley fills the tank. I attempt to use their pay phone, but it’s broken and the cashier turns a murderous glare on me when I ask to borrow his, so I take my things and go. When we finally drive through town it’s close to nine p.m, and before we’ve even pulled up to the cottage and opened the privacy gate, I can see something’s amiss. The parentals hire a gardener to come through once every two weeks to maintain the grounds that aren’t much bigger than the house, but they’re spectacular, and part of the reason I love this place so much. With sculpted hedges, moss-covered stones, and wisteria, it looks like a real-life fairy garden. The light flickering through the brier privacy fence draws me like a moth to flame and I’m out of the car and opening the gate before he even has a chance to switch the engine off.
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