While they stood at the bar, she’d counted how many times he glanced at himself in the mirror. And once they sat for dinner, she could’ve swore that he held up his knife, searching for his reflection in the metal.
She’d gone out with Cabot a couple of times, and after him there had been others. She’d dated all kinds: athletes and artists, policemen and politicians—an eclectic mix of men who’d been willing to spend lots of money wining and dining her. Some made her laugh. Others made her think. All helped her to put Brian behind her.
At least that’s what she’d thought.
It was the gorgeous Wesley Brown who’d told her that wasn’t true. About six months ago, Wesley, a top gun at the LAPD, had driven her home, and as they had sat in the driveway of her town house, he’d asked, “Have you ever thought about getting back with Brian?”
There were a couple of things about that question that had shocked her, but the most important was, how did he know her ex-husband’s name?
She had twisted in her seat to face him when she said, “Of course not. Why would you even ask that?”
“Because,” he began with a smirk, “you can’t stop talking about him.”
Her eyes were wide when she said, “That’s not true.”
Wesley had chuckled. “Ms. Alexis, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got it bad.” Then he’d jumped out of the car, walked to the passenger side, and helped her out. At her front door he said, “Look, if you decide to do it again with Brian, I know a couple of judges who might be able to hook you two up and speed up the process.” Then he’d kissed her forehead, trotted down the driveway, and got back into his car, not even looking back.
She hadn’t been on a date since.
It was because of Wesley that she’d stopped. He’d made her wonder if what he’d said was true. She couldn’t imagine that—she was clearly moving on, having fun, living her life.
So why was Brian always in her head?
Because he still has your heart!
There it was again—the voice that came from deep inside. The one that prodded her in the midst of her hectic days and reared its head in the middle of her quiet nights. It was probably that voice that had made her drive to Brian’s tonight.
“Don’t listen,” she told herself, as if she could really block out the voice of God.
She had to set up some kind of barricade. Because even though she was grateful that God had answered her prayers, had healed her pain, and had given her peace, she was shocked to discover that once the ice had melted from her heart, there was still a little bit of love there. It was only a remnant, but she was grown enough to know that sometimes leftovers made the best meals.
And that’s what made her mad: at herself for even thinking she could love Brian again, and at God for telling her that she did. Her heart and God obviously didn’t know what she knew—that time didn’t heal all wounds.
Her tires screeched as she made a sharp turn into her driveway. But even though she was home, she didn’t gather her things. Instead, she reached for her cell, scrolled through her contact list, found the name Cabot Adams, then pressed Call. She was pretty sure he was still single, since he’d left a message on her voice mail about six weeks ago.
“This is Cabot,” the deep voice rang out.
Just hearing him made her want to hang up, but she pressed the phone to her ear. “Cabot,” she said in a singsong voice she didn’t even recognize, “it’s Alexis Lewis.”
“Alexis, sweetheart. It’s been a long time. How are you?”
She exhaled. At least he was glad to hear from her. “Fine. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t return any of your calls . . .”
“You should be. A beautiful woman like you could give a man like me a complex.” He laughed.
Alexis rolled her eyes. There wasn’t a woman alive who could give the mirror-loving Cabot Adams any kind of complex. But she half laughed with him.
She said, “I’ve just been busy. But I was wondering if you’d let me make it up to you.”
“So you’re saying you want to hook up?”
No! “Yes,” she squeezed the word through her throat. If anyone could make her forget Brian, it was the bigger-than-life Cabot Adams. “How about tomorrow?” she asked, knowing she had to do this quickly or she would change her mind.
“How about tonight? You can come over here, we can share a bottle of champagne, and . . .” He stopped as if she could fill in the blanks.
Was it her imagination, or had his already sonorous voice become deeper? She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. It wasn’t all that late, but it was late enough for someone like Cabot to think it was a booty call.
“Tomorrow would be better,” she responded in a tone that said she would shut this whole thing down if he didn’t step correctly.
“Well,” he sighed, as if her suggestion was painful, “I guess I can wait.”
She forced herself to stay on the phone a bit longer and listen as Cabot talked about a new teen group he’d just signed—the Divine Divas. She said “Uh-huh” where she was supposed to, half chuckled when she was supposed to, and rolled her eyes the entire time.
What am I doing?
After almost twenty minutes, she hung up and leaned back against the headrest. Did she really want to go out with Cabot Adams again?
No!
Yes!
Because she had to. Of all the men she knew, Cabot Adams was the only one who could set a bomb and blow Brian right out of her mind . . . and out of her heart, too.
She just prayed that this time it would work.
Twenty
“I’M TELLING YOU, DOCTOR PERKINS,” Brian said, “I’m the man.” He leaned back on the leather couch, crossed his legs, and grinned at his therapist.
But although Brian was smiling so wide that the doctor could see all thirty-two of his pearly whites, her face was as stiff as her white-blond bouffant hair.
Shaking her head, the thin-lipped, Cinderella-looking therapist warned, “Be careful. I told you before, don’t make Alexis your new addiction.”
Brian had to resist jumping up and marching right out of there. But even though he glared, letting her see his disapproval, the doctor continued, “You know the danger of replacing one addiction with another,” she said.
“I don’t get it.” Moving to the edge of the couch, he cupped his hands together. “That’s what this therapy has been about. Making sure I didn’t use sex as a stress reliever—and finding something else to replace that urge.”
She pointed her pen at him. “The key word is something, not someone. Your relationship with Alexis—or anyone else—has to be based on love, not on the chase.”
He bowed his head, shook it from side to side. “You just don’t know, Doctor. You don’t know how much I love my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” she corrected.
He was a second away from cursing her out. Then, “The courts might say that she’s my ex, but I told you, that’s not what’s in my heart.”
She was not impressed with his declaration of love. “I’m just saying, Brian, that you’ve made so much progress. I’m concerned about where this obsession will lead. If you and Alexis were to get back together, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be real.”
“I don’t know how you could say that.”
“It’s my professional opinion.”
“And my personal opinion is that I’m fine. The fact is, Doctor, I never give up. And I have never given up on Alexis and me.”
There was triumph in her eyes—as if he’d just proven her point. “Those words alone are indicative of your addictive behavior.”
He stared her down.
She stared right back.
He looked away first. Since she wasn’t hearing him, there was nothing else to say.
He’d been in enough of these sessions to know that there was about ten minutes left, but he glanced at his watch anyway. “Doctor Perkins,” he began as he rose from the sofa, “I forgot to tell you that I couldn’t stay for the whol
e session today.” He paused. “Ah . . . I have . . . a surgery.”
Her eyes thinned, and her lips did the same. He could tell that she knew he was lying. But what was she going to do—tell a grown man who was paying the bill that he had to stay?
“All right.” Glancing down at her calendar, she asked, “So I’ll see you next week, same time?” Their appointment had been a standing one for more than three years. Yet every week, she said those same words. Only today, there was no certainty in her tone.
He nodded, but that was all he gave her. Usually, he spoke aloud, told her that he would definitely be here. But as they looked at each other, both of them knew that this was probably the end.
By the time Brian walked out the door, he knew he wouldn’t be back. There was no need; his time in therapy had done what it was supposed to do. All those years and he’d never fallen off. He had stayed the course of a faithful husband.
It was true that he wasn’t married, so he couldn’t really be called any kind of husband. But that was such a small, soon-to-be-changed technicality. All that mattered was that he was cured.
Trotting down the steps, he aimed his remote toward his car, and the engine revved. Jumping inside, he paused for a moment to savor the glove-soft leather of his Lamborghini.
A Lamborghini. He still couldn’t believe that he’d spent this much money on a machine that didn’t fly. But this had been his consolation prize on the day the divorce papers had arrived. He hadn’t planned to buy a new car, but as he had sat behind his desk and stared at the papers that severed his marriage, he’d needed something to put his heart back together.
He’d driven aimlessly home that night, not paying any attention to the passing streets, until he was on Wilshire. And he passed all those Beverly Hills dealerships. Before he could think about it, he was signing on a dotted line for the shiny red car.
Though he enjoyed the car and it certainly was a chick magnet, it had never served its purpose. It did nothing to mend his heart.
He glanced one last time at Dr. Taylor Perkins’s gray stucco home. The Hancock Park house was such a small structure, so nondescript that the first time he’d driven right by.
Today, Brian saluted as he eased his car from the curb. He would take control of his addiction from here. Now that he knew what he was up against, he had no doubt that he would never fall again.
By the time he rounded the corner, he’d left thoughts of his sex therapist behind. All that was on his mind was his ex-wife and how he could finally push her over the edge and right back into his arms.
Twenty-one
THERE WAS NO CHANCE THAT Brian was going to come up in any conversation, no chance at all, since Alexis had barely had a chance to say more than two words after hello.
They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in Chantilly’s, the chic French restaurant that was so exclusive, reservations had to be made three weeks in advance. Unless you were Cabot Adams, who had scored a spot at one of the twelve white-clothed tables for tonight. With its brick walls, dim lighting, and fresh-cut lilies, Chantilly’s was as elegant as it was intimate. Romantic, really, which was why Alexis wondered why she hadn’t suggested another place when Cabot had called her this morning.
Sitting so close that she could feel the gentle press of his knee against hers, Alexis marveled at the way Cabot’s lips never stopped moving. Wearing a blue suit (that was, no doubt, designer) and a white tailored shirt (that was so starch stiff it could have stood on its own), and with a face that was made for the movies, Cabot looked like a man who had a role in every woman’s dreams.
Except he never stopped talking.
Cabot’s head tilted back and he laughed, but Alexis wasn’t sure what he was laughing about. He’d said so much, it was hard to keep up. So instead of laughing with him, she took a final sip of her wine. Before she could place the wineglass down on the table, the waiter was right there, refilling it.
Vive la France!
Cabot picked up his knife and sliced away a small piece of his duck à l’orange. “So enough about me . . . tell me what’s been going on in your life, Alexis.”
It startled her, at first. He actually expected a response. Taking a moment, she glanced down at the braised lamb that sat practically untouched on her plate. “Not much has been happening,” she said. She inhaled, and the fragrance of the lilies took her away for a moment—to her living room. There had been lilies in the last bouquet from Brian, and that memory made her smile.
But then she cleared her throat and expunged that thought. Turned back to Cabot, and said, “I’m just working hard, keeping my agency afloat.”
With the tip of his napkin, he wiped the corner of his lips and leaned in closer, though the way the chairs were situated at each table—side by side—he couldn’t get too much closer without sitting in her lap.
“Oh, come on,” he whispered. His eyes were intense, as if he was truly interested. “You’re doing more than that; I’ve been reading up on you. Read that Ward and Associates acquired the Addicts Anonymous and then the Hunter Transportation accounts. That’s big-league stuff.” He paused as if he wanted her to be impressed that he’d probably Googled her. “So you’ve been doing more than just working. You’ve been making it happen, Ms. Ward.” And then, under the table, she could feel him pressing his knee just a bit harder against hers.
Without turning her head too much, Alexis peeked at the couples around them, heads close, conversation hushed. Smiles on the women’s faces, lust in the men’s eyes.
Then she glanced at Cabot and had to take another sip of wine.
“That’s one of the things I love about you,” he said. “You’re successful.” As he sliced away another piece of duck, she noticed the shine of his fingertips, his manicure far better than hers. He chewed for a moment, then chuckled as if he suddenly had a thought. “You’re the kind of woman who would make a wonderful wife.”
Another sip.
Then he frowned and looked down at her plate. “You’re not hungry?”
She nodded, but held up her glass. “Yes, but the wine is so good.”
“Ah, yes.” He lifted his own glass and clicked it against hers. “There’s nothing like the French!” Then, lowering his glass and his voice, he whispered, “So, Ms. Ward, would you be a wonderful wife?”
She leaned away, trying to get back her personal space. “I wasn’t good at it the first time,” she said, shaking her head.
“You just had the wrong husband. See, if you had been with me . . .” He stopped, as if she was supposed to know what he had been going to say.
Alexis couldn’t remember how many times she’d gone out with Cabot. It was more than five, fewer than ten. But every single time he brought up marriage. At least the man was consistent—he never stopped talking about himself, and he made it clear that he wanted a wife.
But what woman would be able to stand him? Even at the altar, he probably wouldn’t stop talking long enough for his wife to say “I do.”
“I want to walk in the destiny God has for me,” he’d told her about fifteen minutes after they’d first met. Standing at the edge of the bar in Commotions, surrounded by the beautiful people, he’d added, “I’m supposed to be married.”
He’d gone on to say that his first marriage, straight out of college, had ended before their first wedding anniversary.
“She wasn’t ready for me,” he had told Alexis, even though she hadn’t asked. It wasn’t like she was trying to get into this man’s business—she certainly didn’t want him in hers.
But he had kept on anyway, “The end of my marriage was not my fault. I was moving up; she wasn’t.” He had gazed straight into her eyes when he’d said, “I need a woman who’s winning her own game.”
On that first date, Alexis had just stared back at him, saying nothing—just like she was doing now.
Not that Cabot wasn’t a great catch—from the entertainment agency he’d built to his home in Bel Air, from his debonair aura to the fact that he attended
Sunday services at West Angeles, one of the largest churches in the city.
Women should have been falling at his feet.
As if reading her mind, Cabot said, “I know that I’m the perfect man, and the woman I choose has to be bringing it, too.”
Alexis had that thought again: no matter who he was or how much money he made, who could stand him?
He paused, as if she was supposed to say something—maybe he expected her to agree. But when all she did was sip more wine, he put his fork down and took her hand. “I brought you here because I want us to really get to know each other. So,” he gently squeezed her hand, “I wanna know what you’ve been doing since the last time I saw you.”
His gray eyes were suddenly filled with a sincerity that she hadn’t seen before. Now she put down her glass. “Well, I have been kind of busy . . .”
She paused to see if he was going to start talking. But he only smiled, like he was eager to hear.
For the first time, she smiled back. “I worked quite a bit on the Obama campaign.”
“Really?”
His eyes were wide and clear. Focused, as if he cared. So she rested her arms on the table, tilted her head. “Yeah, I’d never really gotten involved in a campaign before. I mean, I gave a little bit of money to Jesse when he ran the second time in eighty-eight, but this was the first time that I really got in there and worked to make a difference.” She told him about the thousands of phone calls she’d made, the hundreds of doors she’d knocked on, the scheduling she’d done to keep the local office organized.
He listened. He nodded. He laughed.
“So, you’re an Obama gal?”
“Is there anything else?”
He chuckled. “I guess not. Why didn’t I know this?” Before she could respond, he said, “Because I’m an Obama guy! I was on his National Finance Committee.” He stuffed his mouth with more of his duck before he added, “I knew I wouldn’t have time to work in one of those little neighborhood offices like you did.” He waved his hand as if those volunteers—like Alexis—didn’t count. Then his head rose a bit more when he said, “I joined his team as a bundler.”
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