Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  He reaches a hand toward me, brushing a strand of hair over my ear. I’m beginning to wonder if I have so many loose strands or if this is his signature excuse to touch me. I hope it’s the latter. “Mermaids are sexy, and I met you on the water. Ergo, you’re my little mermaid.”

  “It’s not a Disney kink you have?”

  “More like a you kink, I’m beginning to realize.” He loops an arm over my shoulder and angles in to kiss me. He brushes his lips against my neck, but I change it up on him, turning so he meets my lips.

  He groans against my mouth. Closing my eyes, I let myself slide into the feeling and enjoy the dizzying sensation of his lips brushing over mine. I savor it for what it is—a feeling, not a new way of life that cocoons me.

  When he pulls back, his eyes have turned to fiery sapphires. The ice in them is gone. “So much for tea salons being un-sexy.”

  “And to think I was going to tell you a story of the last time I went to one,” I say.

  “Do tell. I like your stories.”

  This is a safe one for sharing, a smart one. “The last time I was here was with my grandmother and my nieces. This was a few years ago, before she passed. We brought her here, and she dressed in tweed like Coco Chanel, the height of French elegance. You did well in choosing a location that seems completely platonic.”

  “Interesting,” he says, as if he’s musing on the tale. “This place reminds you of your grandmother?”

  “A little bit, yes. I suppose this un-date strategy is working.”

  “Is it?”

  “Don’t you think?”

  His eyes appraise me, as if he’s cataloging me. “Were you thinking of your grandmother when you walked in looking fit as fuck in this red skirt?” His gaze lingers on my legs, as if he’s taking snapshots of where the bare skin of my thigh meets the hem of my skirt. His eyes stray down to my heels, then back up to the soft gray sleeveless top that reveals enough décolletage to hopefully drive him batty.

  “No.”

  “Were you thinking of her once you saw me?”

  My voice wobbles as I answer, “I wasn’t.”

  His fingers drift from my arm down to my skirt. “Are you sure?”

  I gulp and nod. “I’m sure.”

  “What were you thinking when you saw me here, waiting for you?” His eyes hold mine, his stare leveling me.

  My pulse quickens. “How you looked.”

  “How did I look? Elegant? Stuffy? Unromantic?”

  I swallow thickly, past the dryness in my throat. “No. The opposite.”

  A confident grin seems to tug at the corners of his lips, as his hand travels south. “You wore the red skirt,” he says as he fingers the hem.

  “I did. Do you think it’s so short it should be illegal?”

  “So illegal I want to be convicted.”

  “I suppose you could try being very, very bad,” I whisper, leaning closer, buzzed on how our flirtation has climbed the heat meter tonight.

  We’re on the cusp of slipping into the realm of permanent arousal when the waiter arrives—perhaps oblivious to the eye-fucking we’re giving each other—and asks crisply if he can get us some tea.

  “Is Earl Grey suitably unromantic?” Christian asks me, laughter sparkling in his eyes.

  “Yes, as well as the lime tea. Grandmother’s favorite,” I add.

  He turns to the waiter. “Clearly, we need Earl Grey and lime tea, and that ought to save me from wanting to do inappropriate things here.”

  The waiter smiles with his mouth closed. “Very well, sir.”

  As he leaves, I nearly double over in laughter. “You scared him off.”

  “I have that effect,” he says, then squeezes my bare thigh. It’s more playful than sexual, and it’s a little bit friendly too. He glances at my neck and runs a fingertip over the apple charm. “From your brother?”

  “Last time he was here. We’d both laughed when he found it, since no true New Yorker calls that city the Big Apple.”

  “What’s your favorite place in all of New York?”

  “Central Park. Conservatory Garden.”

  “Flowers? Of course. I noticed you were quite taken with some we passed by the other day.”

  I smile, impressed he remembers. “The Conservatory Garden isn’t just any flower garden. There are no cyclists or runners allowed there, so it’s peaceful. I went there all the time as a little girl. It was my favorite spot in all of Manhattan.”

  “Do you have a necklace for the gardens?”

  I shake my head. He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat where the metal apple rests. “Maybe someday you’ll find that to replace the taxicab.”

  I shudder and murmur maybe.

  He raises his face and squeezes my hand, shifting gears. “How was your day?”

  And that’s not sexual at all. He asks curiously, his eyes locked with mine, never straying.

  “It was . . . a day. How was yours?” I say, eager to segue away from mine. “Did you translate for the Danish king or something?”

  He laughs. “A group of stockbrokers. It was great, and a wonderful reminder that, though I miss the highs of business, I like the freedom of my lifestyle more.”

  “In what way?”

  “I can’t seem to stay away from business for long, but I like doing it on my own terms. Translating for them gave me a fun peek into what they’re working on but also allowed me to not get caught up in it.”

  “Did you feel caught up in it before?”

  He nods. “I did. It’s addictive. The rush and thrill of profits, of bigger and bigger returns on investment.”

  “Is that why you retired so young?”

  He nods. “Partly, I think. I’d earned enough and wanted to live life on my own terms, but I also didn’t want to be consumed by the constant pressure of the deal, and the next one, and the next one.”

  That word resonates with me. Consumed. “I think we’re both trying to find more balance in our lives.”

  He arches a brow in curiosity. “Are you as well?”

  “Yes, but not so much in business. I don’t mind if business consumes me for a bit.”

  “Did it consume you today?”

  The waiter arrives with a full tea service, a steaming pot, fine china, and teacups. We thank him after he pours.

  Christian raises his teacup. “To red skirts I want to peel off.”

  I grin. “To blue button-downs I want to unbutton.”

  His eyes brim with mischief as he drinks. When he sets down his cup, he returns to the topic. “What consumed you at work?”

  I sigh, remembering Dominic. “I met with a former contractor for lunch, and he behaved like a complete jerk.”

  “What happened?”

  Part of me wants to cordon off my business life from him, but I remind myself that telling him about my day, like I did on our first date, is not akin to letting him distract me from my focus. I give him a few details about the project I’m pursuing, mentioning it’s in the travel sector. “I wanted him to do some analysis, and he basically said no, but thanks for the free lunch, and he’s now working for the competition.”

  “He’s a total fuckwit.”

  “Precisely.” I take a drink of the lime tea.

  “Do you have anyone else who can do the work?”

  “I’ll find someone.” But that could be hard. Dominic has a particular skill, and as far as I’m aware, it is unmatched. I’ll have to look harder.

  Christian raises his cup to drink. “Let me know if I can help.”

  The comment is so offhand and casual that it throws me off for a few seconds. “How could you help?”

  “You said the job was in the travel sector.”

  “I did.”

  “A lot of my holdings were in travel, finance, and the green sector.”

  “Interesting mix.”

  “They were my favorites so that’s what I pursued. I’d be happy to offer any market guidance if that’s what you need.”

  It�
��s exactly what I need. “Really?”

  “I’d love to.”

  I’m eager to toss out details right now, but I don’t know that I should accept, because accepting would create more obligations, and obligations have a way of confusing matters of the heart and libido. I also don’t want to entwine him in my business life.

  “I can’t take advantage of you like that,” I say, though admittedly I’m intrigued by his offer.

  We chat more about his background, and I’m fascinated to learn of the work he did, the deals he engineered, and the investments he made.

  “Think about it. I’m not claiming to be the expert Domi-dick was,” he says, and I laugh.

  “I do appreciate the offer, but I don’t think we should mix business and pleasure. Do you?” I ask, since it’s not that I don’t want his help—it’s that I don’t want us to confuse what we are.

  “If pleasure’s on the table, I like to mix it straight up with more pleasure.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But keep it in mind, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, though I know it’s best if we don’t commingle the two worlds. If one person is getting more from an arrangement, it becomes uneven, and starts to teeter under the weight.

  “I’d be getting something out of it too. I enjoy that kind of work. You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me—unless you wanted to in the bedroom. In which case, you have an open invitation to take advantage of me in any way.”

  I laugh. “Your business services and your bedroom services are up for grabs?”

  “It’s all up for grabs. But for the record, I would help you because I like you. Not because of any tit for tat arrangement. Though I like your tits.”

  “I like your tats . . .” I say, trailing off, then staring quizzically, moving away from the business offer. “Do you have any?”

  “Don’t you know the answer to that? You took my photo, little mermaid.”

  I quirk up my lips, feeling emboldened, my resolve turning into sexy strength. “I looked at your photos the other night, as a matter of fact.”

  “My full monty?” He raises an eyebrow playfully, as the background music shifts to Ravel, reminding me again of the belle epoque feel of this salon.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you like what you saw?”

  “I did.”

  “Did it make you want to see more?” He shifts closer, runs his finger along my shoulder, over my collarbone.

  I shiver, and my bones warm. “Perhaps it did make me want to see more.”

  He drops his mouth to my neck, kisses me lightly, then nips my jaw. “I like that you’re starting to see the light about getting under me and climbing over me. But I don’t want to just fuck your body.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to know who you are, Elise.”

  “Why?” I tense. I don’t want closeness. I’m not keen on emotional intimacy.

  “Because then I can give you even more pleasure.”

  “Don’t ask for my heart. It’s not for sale.” I cross my hands over my chest, as if protecting that precious organ.

  He brushes his mouth against my neck again, his tongue flicking against my skin, licking me. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t even try to rent your heart.” He nips my earlobe, and I drop my hands. “But I want to know your mind. I have no interest in sex being only physical. I want to know who you are and why you’re here.” He pulls back, his cool eyes locked with mine. “Why is it that you like this little Friday-night arrangement?”

  I draw a deep breath and resolve to be honest with him. To clearly delineate the boundaries of my heart. They are uncrossable, and they are guarded with a wall so high he ought to at least know why he can’t scale it.

  15

  Christian

  I wait for her answer. I’m as curious about her mind and her heart as I am about what’s beneath her clothes. You can’t just make love to a woman with your body. You need to understand what’s inside her head. Give her pleasure by knowing what she needs, where she’s been, and what will bring her the bliss she deserves.

  Already, I can sense Elise has had her heart broken.

  She lifts her chin, a little sign of her toughness. “I like our arrangement because I don’t believe everything needs to be over-the-top and all-consuming. I think sometimes things should be planned out and scheduled. Less heartbreak that way.”

  “Did someone break your heart?”

  She looks away, and that’s my answer. “Doesn’t someone always break our hearts?” She turns back, her brown eyes searing into me. “What are the chances you can skate through life and not have any sort of heartbreak? Except you probably don’t have any. There’s no way anyone can be as happy as you are and have had heartbreak.”

  I scoff. “You really think I haven’t had my heart broken?”

  “Have you?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Who hurt you? I’ll kill her.” She holds up her hands, fashioning them into fists. I laugh, loving her fiercely protective side, and I’m not the least bit surprised she has one. It suits her.

  “I think we broke each other’s hearts, mostly because we drifted apart. That’s a kind of heartbreak, isn’t it?”

  She nods. “I don’t really think we should judge heartbreak. One isn’t necessarily worse or harder than another. What happened?”

  “I was married.”

  Her eyes widen. “You were?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “It does. You seem the consummate single man.”

  “I do enjoy my single life, but I also loved Emma. I met her my last year at university. She was in London on an exchange program, and we fell for each other. The way you can only be in love when you’re twenty-one.”

  “The stupid, foolish kind.”

  “Exactly. But it felt like the real thing. She moved back to the United States, and I had a job on Wall Street, so it all felt like . . .”

  Amused, she quirks her lips. “Like fate?”

  I laugh at how easily she calls me on it. “I suppose it did.”

  “What happened? What cratered?”

  “That’s the thing. Nothing and everything. We didn’t work out. We were married for about a year, and I think we both realized we were too young. We didn’t really know what we wanted. I was getting started in the finance business, and she wanted to be a ski instructor and live in Colorado. That’s not to say you have to want the same things to last, but we wanted opposites. She wanted an easy life. I wanted a challenging one. I’m not sure you can truly be with somebody unless you have similar ambitions, or a complete understanding of each other’s hopes and dreams. Neither one of us possessed that.”

  “You didn’t understand her, and she didn’t understand you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Elise lifts her cup and takes a drink, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Ambition is a strange bedfellow. I want it in a partner, I think.”

  “Me too.” Sighing, I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “So, it ended. We didn’t crater so much as peter out. We were like embers in the fireplace, then we turned to ash.”

  She inhales deeply, her eyes shining. “Sometimes it’s all so sad. We try and try to come together, but so much gets in the way.” She wipes at her cheek and seems to fix on a smile. “I still can’t believe you were married.”

  “Bit of a shocker. But see? I’m not a total cad.”

  “I don’t actually think you’re a cad,” she says softly, reaching for my hand under the table.

  “Good, because I’m not. I’ve been straight with you from the start. I’m not one of those I’ll-never-get-involved guys. I think I’m more of a what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy.”

  “Are you? Because I could use that.”

  “Why? What cratered for you?”

  She swallows hard and draws what seems to be a fortifying breath. “I was married too.”

  I offer a sympathetic smile. “Welcome to the divorce club
.” But when I see her stricken expression, I sigh heavily. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “The widow club, actually. And I wasn’t the only widow he left behind.”

  “Are you kidding me?” My jaw hangs open.

  “I wish. It was a whirlwind courtship. Four months, and he hid it the whole time. He traveled a ton, and he romanced me to the ends of the earth, and I had absolutely no clue. We were married for only six months after a short and very intimate ceremony, and he was gone half the time. I thought, silly me, that he was away on business. He probably was, but that business involved his other wife.”

  “Was she in Paris? Another country?” I ask, still shocked that her ex pulled off such an act. I’ve heard stories of double lives, known they existed, but haven’t met anyone who’s encountered them.

  “She’s Spanish, like he was. She’d been married to him longer. About two years. They lived in Barcelona. I found out at the funeral when I met the other grieving widow. She’d had no idea either. We actually wound up having coffee a few months later when she was in Paris for business.”

  “You did? What was that like?”

  “It was . . .” She stares at the corner of the salon, as if she’s conjuring up that moment. “Weird, but it was also necessary. We were both trying to move on, and I think we were both ready to ask each other questions. ‘Where were you when he went to this conference?’ ‘Oh, when he said he was going to Madrid, he must have been heading to see you.’ ‘That time he said he was stuck in a storm, he must have had to go back to your home.’ And so on. We sort of filled in these puzzle pieces that we hadn’t realized at the time were missing. But they were.”

  “Did you blame her? Did she blame you?”

  She shakes her head. “Neither. We both were in the dark. I felt strangely bonded to her for that hour we spent at a café.”

  I barely know what to say, but at the same time, a million questions zip around in my head. “So he lived in two places. Does that mean he was married in two countries?”

  She nods. “And he used a different last name when he was in Spain. He had two passports for two countries, so I presume that’s how he pulled it off. His ‘brother,’” she says, stopping to draw air quotes, “called me after the funeral, trying to reassure me that Eduardo had married both of us because he truly loved both of us, and couldn’t choose. ‘Don’t doubt his love for you,’ he’d said, as if that was going to make any of it better.”