by Kate Meader
Penny chimes in and addresses Charlie. “Every time I see that scene where—”
“He walks into her bedroom and spots the portrait—”
“And knows she can’t walk because the woman who bought the painting—”
“Was in a wheelchair?” Charlie finishes.
“I lose it!” they both say in unison, then laugh in recognition.
“She’s in a wheelchair?” Lucas is staring at them like they’ve lost their minds. “Christ, that sounds depressing.”
“It’s not,” I say. It kind of is, but it’s movie-depressing, meant to wring us dry and make us feel better about ourselves. “They had to go through all this pain before they could find each other. Love’s not supposed to be easy.”
Now Lucas is regarding me like I’ve lost the plot, and maybe I have. Charlie’s cheeks are tagged with color, and she takes a sip of her champagne to get over the now-awkward silence that’s descended on our merry little group.
I can’t stand this a moment longer.
“I need a word with you, Charles.” I pull her aside, out of earshot of the rest, which requires walking her out to the patio.
“Oh, this is lovely,” she says with a wave over the perfectly manicured lawns that we really should pay someone to landscape but which Susanne insists on doing herself like it’s her full-time job. My parents are the worst rich people ever.
“Yes, it is. Thanks. My mom’s a gardening freak. Come over to my place tonight.” The words leave my brain and throat in a staccato burst, as smooth as the gravel under our feet.
She wrinkles her nose and, of course, it’s as adorable as it is annoying. Adorable because look at her. Annoying because it heralds resistance.
“Max, this can’t go on.”
“What?”
“The hooking up, the booty calls. I need to get serious about my dating life.”
I’m trying not to take offense. Sully thinks we’d be good together. My co-workers are giving me shit. My parents, dammit, are already picking out the wedding china. Why can everyone see this but Charlie Love? I thought the woman was a believer.
Jesus, am I the romantic here?
Placing a hand on her hip, I lean in and try to work my magic. “Go on a date with me. I promise not to break your heart.”
Her eyes flash with the hurt I haven’t delivered yet. “You can’t promise that. No one can.”
She’s right. But I can give it the old college try, can’t I?
Chapter 17
“In every marriage more than a week old, there are grounds for divorce. The trick is to find, and continue to find, grounds for marriage.”
—Robert Anderson
Charlie
“So. That was interesting,” Penny says as soon as we clear the drive at Casa Henderson on our way back to the city.
“Yeah, Gina seemed to really hold her own. I’m so glad for her.”
“Right. Thrilled. And you know I’m talking about you and Max Henderson. The man is clearly smitten with you.”
“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound? It’s just a flirtation.”
“With hot sex as your reward.”
“Well, I have to get something for putting up with all that slick.”
She chuckles, and I feel guilty at dismissing him for a quick laugh. I know there’s more to him than that, and that’s really my insecurity at play.
“And I thought you didn’t like each other. Where were all the zingers and jabs about marriage, etc.? It was all so…affectionate. Like you guys recognize each other.”
My heart is thundering. That’s exactly how I felt when we were in his kitchen and he told me about his broken engagement. So, the details were sketchy but Max cracking open like that made something inside me—surely, not my heart—soar in acknowledgment. When he kissed me, it felt important.
I felt important.
I don’t want to be played. I don’t want to get hurt. And I’m realizing that Max has the potential to do both.
“He’s very charming,” is all I can say, not wanting to let on that I caved like a cheap suitcase at his request and am heading over to his place later. Thankfully, my phone rings before Penny can probe further. “See who that is, would you?”
Penny fishes my phone from my purse. “It’s Donna.”
“Put her on speaker. Hi, Donna!” I say, relieved to have the Max conversation behind me. “I’m driving and Penny’s with me.”
“Hello, Penny,” Donna says. “How’s that gorgeous husband of yours?”
“Still gorgeous!”
“Oh, good. Charlie, your father’s having an affair.”
I should get a gold medal for my eye-roll restraint. “He’s not having an affair. I mean, who’d have him? Other than you.”
“He’s been out of the house every morning for the last two weeks.”
“Prime affair time,” I say. “Probably hooking up with some hussy at the bodega on the corner.”
Donna remains silent.
I slide an uncomfortable glance at Penny, who shrugs. “C’mon, you can’t be serious. Where does he say he goes?”
“For a walk, but he takes the truck. He had blond hairs on his jacket when he came home today. Blond-whitish hairs. I think she’s older.”
I think she doesn’t exist. “Maybe you should offer to go for walks with him.”
“Why would I do that?”
I sigh, giving up. I know all relationships have their ups and downs but I hope when I get to that point, I’ll feel comfortable asking my guy if he’s having an affair. Though, I’m more likely to smother him in his sleep first.
“Do you want me to stop by? I’m on my way back into the city.”
“Oh, no. I just thought that maybe you could talk to him the next time you see him.”
“Or you could, y’know, just ask.”
“That’s not how marriages work, Charlie. One day, you’ll know.”
At this rate, not likely.
* * *
—
I am dressed for war.
Fuck-me heels, my best lingerie, a short ’n’ sexy trench—and that’s about it. Max Henderson might be calling this a date, but I’ll show him how a strong, kick-ass, fun-seeking woman does casual sex.
Only on approaching the Gloucester’s doorman and being told to “go right on up, Ms. Love” do I feel as if I might have misjudged the situation. The point is to get in, get off, and get out in record time. I don’t need Max Henderson wowing me with his particular brand of rich playboy as he shows me around his penthouse with a casual wave to the priceless art here and a nod to the wine cellar there. Not that I’m capable of being seduced by such things. I have principles.
The penthouse has its own elevator because of course it does, and with each floor I ascend, my plan for sexy distance slowly disintegrates. By the time I reach the top, I’m feeling a little silly in my seduction duds. Like I’m playing dress-up. The elevator opens into a foyer, and pinned to the door directly in my sight line is a note in Sharpie ink.
Come in and take the stairs to the right. Don’t let the monster out. Caution: He may try to lick you even though I’ve already told him that’s my job.
My tummy flutters as my lips tug into a grin.
I push open the door tentatively, ready to be attacked. The cutie-pie cockapoo I saw in the park sits obediently inside the door. I hunker down and rub behind his ears.
“Hey, fella, how are you doing?”
He pops up on all four legs and wags his tail. Love!
I stand and do a quick scan. The place is in darkness except for a muzzy, city-lit glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s as big as I expected yet manages to feel intimate, which might just as easily be credited to the nig
ht wrapping it up in a sensual blanket.
A single spotlight illuminates the stairway to the right. I’m intrigued, but then Max Henderson manages to surprise me at every turn. He’s always a step ahead of me, which keeps things interesting but regularly throws me off-kilter.
Another sign is taped to the wall near the first stair rung: Ten steps to MAX-imum pleasure with an arrow pointing up. It’s cheesy but it still places a big smile on my face.
I consider taking off my heels but figure I’m heading to his bedroom anyway, so I keep them on. “Wish me luck,” I whisper to Cujo.
The stairway is lit with what looks like Christmas lights along the side rails. A soft-hearted me would say it was romantic but I dismiss this idea because Max doesn’t do romance. Except in the movies. Still, my heart pulses dangerously as I head up the stairs.
At the top is not what I expect—I thought it’d open out to a loft bedroom, but no. There’s another door, this time with the note:
Enter only if you are ready to have your body worshipped, your socks knocked off, and deep conversations about the meaning of it all.
Does this guy know how to push a few lady buttons or what? I palm the door ajar, surprised to find a concrete floor on the other side.
I’m on the roof.
Complete with what looks like a grill, a bar, a sofa, and one of those retractable screens for projecting images. Max stands at the bar, sleeves of his open-neck shirt rolled up, board shorts keeping things interesting below the waist, looking like an ad straight out of GQ.
“Welcome to our date,” he says.
Heart in confusion, I look around. “This is the roof.”
“Excellent powers of observation, Charles.”
“I thought I was heading to your bedroom.”
“I have high hopes we’ll get there eventually. This is the detour.” He gives me an up-down look. “Expecting rain?”
“Um, no.”
“Then how about you give me your coat.” He makes a move for the belt. I swat him away.
“That’s not such a good idea.” God, I feel ridiculous. There’s a candlelit table set near the grill, with what looks like a yummy salad. I spot avocados and slices of kiwi, which is surprisingly forward thinking. “I’m not really dressed for dinner. I thought I’d just—”
“Wham-bam the hell out of me, then leave me a boneless mess curled up in a fetal ball on my floor?”
“On your bed,” I clarify. “I’m not completely heartless.”
His hands cup my waist. “Are you telling me that beneath this trench you’re wearing an outfit designed to have me inside you in ten seconds?”
“More like five.”
On a groan, he gathers me in and kisses me stupid. His taste is divine, and so, so addictive.
He draws back, slides a finger to the V of the trench, and pulls an inch forward for a sneak peek. His fingertip is light yet it triggers a riot of sensation throughout my sensitive body. “You’re killin’ me, Charles.”
No one makes me feel as sexy as Max does. Every second with him sucks the balance right out of me. Feeling discombobulated, I’m acutely aware that I can’t take off the trench and sit and eat in my underwear.
“Just a moment,” he murmurs against my lips, then slips behind me out the door I just came through.
In thirty seconds, he’s back with a button-down blue shirt, the one he wore today at the bridal shower if I’m not mistaken. He hands it off. “Wear this, but don’t do up all the buttons, you tease.”
He even turns his back. There’s something very old-fashioned and chivalrous about it, and before he faces me again, I inhale the scent of his shirt, loving that he gave me something that was recently next to his skin. While slipping off the trench, I feel incredibly exposed yet excited on the roof with buildings all around, unseen eyes possibly watching me in my underwear. But, I’m not enjoying it that much. Quickly, I re-dress.
“Okay in heels?” he asks, perusing my legs, which look great with his shirt skimming the tops of my thighs. His tone says he’s more than okay with it, but he holds up thick socks in offering. How sweet is that?
“I’ll manage.” Casting a glance around, I’m newly taken aback by our location about fifteen stories above the ground. I putter a few steps toward the edge of the roof, which is handily protected by a waist-high wall. All the same, I’m careful, especially in my heels. “This is spectacular.”
The roof overlooks Lincoln Park on one side with the lake in the distance where I can make out sailboats drifting their way across the calm water under a darkening dusk. A few steps to the other side takes me opposite a building, its windows like eyes reflecting a far-off civilization. I spy figures going about their business: a cute (at least, from a distance) guy working out, a flicker of blue light from a TV, a cat viewing the world beneath his window.
“Who else can access this roof?”
“No one,” Max says, handing me a glass of champagne. “It’s all mine.”
Mine. A delicious shiver thrills through me at the rightness of that word on his lips.
Penthouses with exclusive roof access in Lincoln Park do not come cheap, but then I know all this. I know that Max comes from money, so much that he can give it away to charity and still have pots to spare.
Something buzzes and Max checks his phone.
“Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll just be a second.”
“Sure.”
He moves away, so I can only hear snatches of the conversation from his side. It sounds like he’s trying to calm the caller down.
“I know, but we’re almost there…the report will be in on Monday.”
“Slapping him might make you feel better, but it’s not good for our case. I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised at what my guy has to say.”
And finally, a more stern: “Get in a cab now, sweetheart…”
I’m trying not to eavesdrop—okay, I’m not trying at all. Cabs, reports, slaps, and Max has a “guy”?
A good five minutes later, Max hangs up. “Sorry about that. A client.”
“Is she okay?”
“She will be. Especially when I show her just how much cash her soon-to-be ex has been hiding in an offshore account.” He rakes his hair, and I can see him trying to switch his mind off from work, obviously still concerned about what he heard. “She ran across him at a restaurant just now and wanted to show him how much she despises him open-palm style. Luckily she took my advice and checked in with me first.”
“Are you usually on call like this?”
“All part of the service.”
Flustered, I sip my wine. “But what do they want at nine on a Saturday evening, Max?”
He cocks his head, a wicked smile creasing his handsome features. “So cynical.”
“Come on, Max. Are you really telling me that none of your clients have ever come on to you?”
“No, I’m not saying that, but I’m gentle with my rejections. And I always reject clients. These women—and yes, most of my clients are women, usually older, usually twenty to thirty years into a marriage—are incredibly vulnerable. A lot of them gave up careers to nurture their husband and children. They feel lost, degraded, beaten down. Nothing pisses me off more than seeing a woman tossed aside like garbage. My job is to ensure they come out of this process with the biggest settlement I can get them, a plan for what comes next, and renewed self-respect.”
I’m stunned, not because of what Max said, but at how blasé I’ve been about what he does. Maybe even about who he is.
“So who looks out for the poor husbands?”
He laughs. “Believe me, there are plenty enough lawyers to go around. At our firm, Lucas has a mostly male client base. He’s a strong advocate for fathers’ rights. Grant is equal opportunity. If
you’re miserable, he’ll take your case regardless of gender.”
“But it must be hard to witness all that negativity. Especially when there are kids involved.”
He considers this for a moment. “Most of my clients have grown children but the few I deal with where the kids are used to score points? Those are heartbreaking. But I look at it as trying to re-settle these people, parents and kids, who are living fractured, volatile lives. Instability can really take a toll.”
I know exactly what he means. The year after my mom’s death was like living in a hurricane-ravaged city with quicksand beneath my feet.
Because he’s thrown me, I pivot away from him to take in the view. Every moment with Max chips away at my preconceptions, and the stubborn part of me wants to hold on to them for a little longer. I’m not ready for this. For him.
He wraps his arms around me from behind and I allow myself to sink into him—purely so I won’t topple off the roof, of course.
“Do you ever imagine what’s going on in those apartments?” I whisper. “The sad stories. The happy endings.”
“The crimes being plotted. The lives being destroyed.”
“So cynical.”
“That’s me.”
I turn in his arms. “Not about everything. In fact, I think it’s largely an act.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“No one who enjoys classic movies and creates trivia games with romance movie quotes could be that detached from the potential of falling in love.”
And no one who defends broken women with such ferocity, who soothes their fears and takes their panicked calls, could be nearly as bad as I’ve painted him.
Max
Maybe knowing what Charlie is wearing underneath my shirt is driving me insane throughout dinner, but I don’t think so. It’s that she looks like an angel in disguise. I know how she begs when she wants, how she looks when she’s turned on, how she sounds when she comes. She might project aloofness, but I’ve seen her heat. It’s like I’m the Predator alien with that special vision. Without it, I’d only see cool blue and white. With it—with what I know about this woman—I see red and pink and orange blotches of passion.