Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  Love is a terrifying choice. That’s why I’ve built walls. He wasn’t supposed to tear them down. I wasn’t supposed to let him knock them to rubble with all his kisses, and his tender touches, and his sweet and dirty and thoughtful ways with me.

  My shoulders tense and curl inward, and I want to simultaneously run to him and run the other way.

  Most of all, I want a new road map, one that’ll lead me through this unknown terrain where I’ll have to fake my feelings for him for the next few months.

  * * *

  That night nothing is fake.

  There’s nothing false about the way he looks at me as I undress. Or how he climbs over me and sinks inside.

  There’s not a single fictional moment between us as I wrap my arms and legs around him and draw him in deep.

  He swivels his hips and moves in languid, lingering strokes that drive me to the edge of pleasure, to the edge of the world.

  “God. This,” he whispers roughly in my ear.

  “I know.”

  We fall into silence again because it’s too hard to talk, too hard to give words to all these emotions whipping through me like a storm. But as he sweeps his lips against my neck, down my throat, I shudder. It feels like we’re making love. Like we’re saying new phrases with our bodies. Talking in a bold new language. One that says I love this, and you’re mine, and let’s not stop, let’s never stop.

  Soon, I’m seeing stars and saying his name, and this feels like surrendering to love.

  It’s terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

  31

  Elise

  The bell above the door chimes as I walk into the air-conditioned sugary paradise. Candy welcomes me, and I need it.

  Falling in love is the worst. It’s total agony, and as far as I can tell, sugar and wine are the only potential antidotes.

  It’s too early today to hit the bottle. Ergo, I’m here, three miserable days after the realization that I’m stupid for Christian.

  Veronica finishes with a customer, and when the gray-haired lady leaves with her bag of red sugar lips, my friend calls me over. She flinches as she studies my face. “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh what?”

  She dips her hand into the candy case and grabs a gummy bear. “I can tell by the furrow in your brow that you need this desperately.”

  “Wouldn’t a furrow in the brow suggest I need Botox instead?”

  She shakes her head, her ponytail whipping side to side. “These are infused with champagne.”

  “By all means, then, give me a bottle’s worth of gummy bears.” I take the squishy candy and pop it into my mouth. A tiny burst of bubbly spills on my tongue.

  “Tell me. What brings you to my office? Want to lie down, put up your feet, and tell me all your woes as I feed you candy?”

  “Yes, Dr. Candy Freud. That sounds like exactly what I need.” I stare at her from across the display. “Also, is it obvious I’m out of sorts?”

  She makes a square near my forehead with her hands. “Like a big neon sign that says ‘forlorn.’”

  I sigh, wishing that it were easier to fall in love. I wish too that I could serve up the truth without feeling like I’m a traitor to myself. But since the night at the club, since the soccer game, since later that same night at my house, I am guilty of treason.

  My heart skipped out sometime after midnight and ran away from me, flinging itself at Christian. Now here I am, popping champagne gummy bears into my mouth.

  I don’t even like gummy bears. I like cinnamon sticks and clarity. I like walls and safety.

  And I like Christian. More than all those other things. I like him more than buying gifts. My shoulders sag. “I might, possibly, just a little bit, have fallen for the man I married,” I say in a low confession, waiting for the reprimand.

  Veronica squeals and punches the air, up, down, over and over, like it’s a new workout routine.

  I scoff. “Why are you excited? It’s awful. My chest aches. I feel like I have a stomach bug all the time. And my brain is operating at hazy levels, like the weather report inside my head says smog for miles.”

  She smiles wickedly. “Because I was right. Being right is such a wonderful moment that it must be celebrated.”

  “Fine, you were right. I’m not a cinnamon stick,” I grumble.

  She points at me, so pleased with herself, as she speaks in a sing-song voice. “You’re a lemon gumdrop, Elise.”

  I shove another champagne bear in my mouth. “I’m going to turn into a drunk gummy bear.”

  She rubs her hands together. “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep faking it?” I offer.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what this is. Now I have to fake things in a whole new way. I have to pretend I don’t want to throw myself at him and wrap my arms around him every time I see him. I have to act like I don’t want to smother him in kisses and tell him he’s the one.” I cringe at the words tumbling from my lips. “What’s wrong with me? Falling in love is awful. It turns your brain to mush.”

  She grabs a large silver bowl and stirs the sugar mix in it with a wooden spoon. “Or you could say, ‘I want to make hot Viking babies with you.’”

  “You know he’s only half Viking, right?”

  She waves her free hand dismissively. “The babies would be one quarter Viking, one quarter Brit, one quarter French, one quarter American, and one hundred percent awesome.” She squeals as she stirs. “And you’d be so cute pregnant. An adorable little creature waddling around in your cute glasses and hot skirts.”

  I shoot her an admonishing stare. “You’re not helping.”

  “Oh, sorry. Did you want me to say ‘I told you so’ again? Would that help?” She adopts a too-perfect smile.

  “No.”

  Setting down the spoon, she gives me a stern stare, but softens her voice. “Then what do you need? Elise, you married him. You were and are attracted to him. You learned he’s brilliant and wonderful, and you have feelings for him. Do you think he reciprocates?”

  An image of Christian over me, his crystal-blue eyes gazing into mine, blasts before me. An involuntary fleet of tingles spreads down my body. Then, as I think about how he talks to me, how he treats me, my heart turns warm, like it’s radiating in my chest. “Just because he makes me feel all soft inside, and just because he likes to spend time with me, doesn’t mean there’s anything deeper.”

  “Or does it? Maybe it means you can date your husband.”

  I furrow my brow. “Date my husband?”

  “Yes. Date him. Keep going. Screw the expiration date. Just keep on keeping on with him even when the deal expires.”

  I suppose that’s a possibility. We could always finish the job, so to speak, but keep working overtime. Of course, that assumes he wants to, and I’ve no idea if he does.

  My phone rings, and I grab it from my purse. Nate called earlier, asking me to move my flight up to tomorrow, so I did. Maybe it’s him again. But I don’t recognize the number. In case it’s a prospective new client, I answer quickly. “Hello, this is Elise.”

  “Elise, this is Diana. I’m in town, and I have something that I believe is yours.”

  The other wife’s voice shoots me to another time, as my past shoves itself into my present.

  32

  Christian

  “And that’s why there are so many sundials in Paris. Thank you for joining me today.”

  Griffin says farewell to the tour group he’s led around the city, showing them some of the curiosities of Paris, from the oldest clock in France to a handful of sundials.

  I sneaked onto the tail end. As the crowd disperses, I thrust a hand in the air. “But can you show me another one, please?”

  Griffin huffs and gives me an annoyed look. “Did you come here to heckle me?”

  “Always. You need hecklers. It makes me happy.”

  “You need a job.”

  “I have a job. I’m busy constantly,” I say, since tom
orrow I’m working for a Danish investor who’s in Paris to meet with some potential French business partners.

  “Yet, you found time to heckle me. Or did you come to ask me for advice?” he asks as we walk toward the river.

  “Impressive how you’d assume I need your advice rather than your company for a drink, you wanker. We’re supposed to be getting a beer.”

  He laughs. “I never forget beer.”

  But as we head to the pub, I soldier myself for the true reason I wanted to meet for a pint. “What would you say if I told you that you were right about mixing business with pleasure?”

  He laughs as we turn the corner. “Of course I’m right. I’m an excellent judge of everything.”

  “So, this woman I’m married to . . .”

  “Wait, wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He stops in his tracks, flings his hand over his forehead, and closes his eyes. “You fell for her.”

  When he opens them, I shake my head. “Thanks for taking my punchline, tosser. Want to remind me that you warned me about this?”

  “If memory serves, you said, and I quote, ‘We aren’t mixing business with pleasure. We’re uniting for two mutual goals.’”

  “That sounds like something I’d say.”

  Griffin claps me on the back. “I like keeping you around because you’re so incredibly entertaining. But listen, you’re not going to crush her heart, are you?”

  “No. Remember when I said she’d break mine?”

  He stops once more. His voice drops lower, etched with concern. “Yeah? Has she?”

  “Seems destined to happen. She doesn’t want anything serious. She’s made that clear.”

  He frowns. “She has?”

  “Crystal clear from the start.”

  “And you do? Want something more?”

  I nod. “I want so much more.”

  “Then I clearly owe you a pint because that’s a sad story.”

  We walk in silence for a bit till we reach our favorite pub. As he pulls open the door, Griffin says, “On the other hand, you could lay it out there for her.”

  I knit my brow.

  He grabs at his chest as if reaching inside. “Take your heart and serve it up on a platter—and hope to hell she doesn’t chop it into mincemeat.”

  I laugh, but it’s a sullen sound. Knowing Elise, that’d send her scurrying over her fortified walls into a whole new kind of retreat.

  But as Griffin heads inside, I stop at the door, thinking of the other night, the things we said.

  What if she feels the same? What if she’s starting to figure out that this marriage of convenience has turned, unexpectedly, into something more?

  I need to give her time. I need to give her the chance to figure out what I’ve already learned: we could be more than a deal.

  That’s what I need to do for the rest of the arrangement. Treat her like a queen and listen for any sign that she might be on the same page as I am.

  Then, seize the chance.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I’m working late at my home. Erik and I have finished a new deal, and it’s coming together beautifully. But it requires a fine attention to detail, and I’m this close to exhausted from reading contracts most of the day.

  Erik jumps up from the table where we’re working. He paces the living room, muttering.

  I glance up from the screen on his fifth lap across the carpet. “You okay?”

  “I can’t believe she tracked you down at the game the other day,” he says, disgust thick in his voice. I’d told him what happened at the match. “I can’t believe she’s inserting herself into everything.”

  “Don’t let it get to you,” I say gently, as I tap the screen. “Let’s try to finish this off.”

  He shoves his hands into his hair. “I can’t focus. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. I’m so bloody ticked off.”

  His jaw is tight, and his eyes are fiery. It’s a look I hardly ever see on my brother. “Erik, come on. Let’s focus on this, order some takeaway, and watch a stupid show.”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “I can’t. I need to go for a run.” He darts into the guest room where he’s been staying and emerges a minute later with running shorts and trainers on. He heads to the door in a flurry. “I’ll work when I come back. I need to clear my head. See Elise, or whatever you want to do.”

  He leaves, and I hunker down, finishing the read-through. When I’m done, I decide seeing Elise sounds brilliant, especially since she’s leaving for New York soon.

  I text her, but she writes back and tells me she’s busy tonight.

  Somehow, this bothers me more than it should.

  33

  Elise

  What does one wear to have a drink with her former sister-wife?

  That’s a question you won’t find in most etiquette guides.

  As I peruse my closet, I opt for a skirt and a sleeveless top. It’s July, and it’s hot in this city.

  I stare at my reflection. Should I wear my hair up or down? What’s the proper hairstyle for having drinks with the woman who shared the same man with you, unbeknownst to each other?

  But it doesn’t matter how I wear my hair. Tonight isn’t about the odd connection we share. Tonight isn’t about him.

  It’s about what she found of mine, and I can’t wait.

  * * *

  I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.

  “Oh God, stop. You have to stop,” I say between breaths at the café. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  My one-time sister-wife runs a hand through her thick brown hair as she tells me a story about a book she just acquired at the publishing house she oversees in Barcelona. It’s a collection of essays about men who love cats. It’s absurd and the sheer absurdity is cracking us up. “And the best thing about men who love cats is they have learned to respect your moods. What could be better training for moods than a feline?”

  I chuckle as I lift my glass of red, returning to the last time I had drinks with her. It was like discovering I had a long-lost twin. We’d compared notes about all the strange things we’d had in common our whole lives. Now, we’re talking about cats, and work, and life. Diana feels like she could be a friend, if she lived in town. “So, how are you doing? Are you well?”

  A smile spreads on her face as she takes a drink of iced tea. “Yes, and I’m getting married again.”

  My jaw drops. “Seriously?”

  She pats her belly. “The reason I ordered no wine tonight? I’m three months pregnant.”

  I reach across the tiny table and give her a hug. “Congratulations! I'm so happy for you. What’s he like?”

  With a wry smile, Diana lifts a brow and whispers sardonically, “He’s honest.”

  We both crack up.

  “He also likes cats, but not so much he’d write an essay about them.”

  “That’s excellent. That’s all you really need.”

  She raises her index finger. “Honesty, chemistry, and a loyalty to felines that’s in line with my own. We have all those in spades.”

  “I’ll drink double for both of us, then.”

  “What about you? Have you met anyone? I see you have a ring,” she says, as if it’s a secret I’m waiting to spill.

  And it kind of is.

  I stare at my wedding band, and on the surface, the story is too crazy to tell. But those details aren’t what matter most. It’s what’s behind them. “I met someone, and he’s wonderful. He makes me happy in a way I didn’t think I could be happy again. But sometimes I’m scared to fully surrender to the way I feel for him,” I admit, taking a deep breath. “How did you let go of the fear?”

  She brings her hands together and imitates diving. “You jump off the cliff.”

  “That’s it?” I ask. She makes it sound so simple.

  “You let go of it by letting go of it. It’s hard, and it’s easy at the same time.” She dips her hand into her purse. “And here is this little item. I’m glad it’s returning
to its rightful owner.”

  I rub my palms eagerly. I never thought it would find its way to me again. I still won’t believe it till I verify it with my own two eyes. “Yes, come to mama.”

  Diana laughs. “I was sorting through my old boxes, and I came across it in one of his jackets. I remembered you had worn one that was similar last time I saw you, and that’s why I reached out. I thought you might want it.”

  She opens her palm, and I gasp. My heart cartwheels as I reach for the cheap, faux-silver chain with a taxicab charm on it. “I can’t believe you found it.” I stare at the necklace in wonder. It means nothing, and it means everything. It’s just a thing, but it’s a thing that’s come home. “My brother gave this to me years ago. I had it for most of my life, and I never knew what happened to it.”

  Diana shrugs happily. “Maybe fate wanted you to have it again.”

  There’s that word again. Fate. Does fate have anything to do with the whereabouts of a necklace my brother gave me when I was six? Does fate have any role in anything?

  When I put it on, I don’t think of my brother. I think of Christian, and I want to tell him that maybe I do believe in fate. Just a little bit. Maybe I do believe we were meant to meet again. Maybe this necklace was meant to come back to me. Maybe everything in my life has led me to this moment. To the realization that all I have to do to find happiness is step off the cliff.

  When we’re done and it’s time to say goodbye, I hug her tightly. “I’m glad you found this, and I’m thrilled to have it again.” I tug her closer. “Good luck, Diana. I want you to have a beautiful life.”

  “I want the same for you.”

  A lump rises in my throat. I never thought I’d be here today, on the other side. The side of letting go, of being free. But as I walk away, touching my taxicab charm, I’m sure that’s exactly where I am.

  I’m heading to New York tomorrow, and tonight I want to see Christian. I call him.