by Leigh, Tara
“You’re going to send me sightseeing—all by myself?” My eyelids flutter as I blink back tears.
“Of course not. I’ll get you a tour guide.”
I don’t want a tour guide. I want to wallow in paradise with my new husband. An hour ago, we were snorkeling in the water swirling in the lagoon below our villa. Pushing my back against one of the columns, Tucker had untied my bikini bottom and hiked my legs around his hips. We made love to the rhythm of the tide. “You’re handing me off to a stranger. Great, thanks.”
He shifts in his chair, expelling a disgruntled huff. “Do you have any friends there? Maybe someone from school?”
Tucker’s question isn’t an unreasonable one. Worthington University attracts students from all over the globe. “No one I’ve kept in touch with.” Besides Tucker and, not by choice, Wren, I’ve purposely put my years at WU behind me. Except for my work with TeenCharter, of course.
In the distance, kayakers row across the sea, their oars streaking in a graceful arc before disappearing back into the water again. Behind them, Mount Otemanu rises majestically from the mainland, green and lush against the setting sun.
“Do you want another drink?”
I’ve barely touched the one I have. “No,” I answer, the word sharp and quick.
Tucker takes another sip of his. “This is my chance, Poppy. My chance to meet people without…”
I wait for him to continue, finally prompting, “Without…”
“Without anyone from the office looking over my shoulder.”
Why is Tucker meeting people he doesn’t want anyone else to know about? I wonder, although that’s not what I ask. “Who looks over your shoulder?”
A sound rumbles from his throat, like a strangled grunt. “Who doesn’t? My father. Everyone else who wants to take his place, but knows they’ll have to get rid of me first. It’s like walking a goddamn tightrope every day.”
I feel myself softening. It can’t be easy for Tucker, always having to be perfect. It’s why he wants me to be perfect, too. Image means everything to his parents and their friends. Maybe most of all to their rivals in the moneyed world of the Manhattan elite. The least I can do is be supportive. If he wants to go to Indonesia, I’ll go too. With a smile.
I try one out now, turning to my new husband once it is steady on my face. “I guess I can manage a day or two without you.”
But Tucker isn’t looking at me. His phone is back in his hand. “I have a great idea.” He taps the screen a few times and brings it to his ear. “Your sister is in-between jobs again, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Sadie is always in-between something. Jobs, boyfriends, apartments.
“Sadie, hey. Did I wake you?” He pauses, chuckles. “This won’t take long. What would you think about joining Poppy in Indonesia for a couple of days?”
I hear an answering screech, which I assume is a yes, and wait for her to ask the obvious question—why is she being invited to join her sister and her new brother-in-law on their honeymoon? But Sadie doesn’t ask. “Great. My assistant will call you with the details.”
He sets down the phone, a satisfied grin stretching across his lips. “Problem solved. She can fly down with Wren—”
“Wren needs to make her introductions personally?”
“I want her to. And Wren’s closest friend from boarding school is the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Indonesia. It looks good for her to be here with me.”
My eyes slide back to his phone, wishing I had the nerve to toss it into the Pacific Ocean. “Fine.”
Something else occurs to me. “I didn’t realize you had Sadie’s contact info.”
“You’re my wife,” Tucker says with a nonchalant shrug. “I have all of your contacts.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “You do?”
He rattles his glass, slivers of ice clinking against the sides. I stare at him, wondering if he’s doing it so that I’ll get up and refresh his drink. I remain motionless, waiting for an answer.
The sun dips lower, the shadow of the mountain falling over the kayakers. I know they are there, but I can barely see them anymore.
“Of course. I downloaded all of your information after we got engaged. I didn’t tell you?” Tucker’s handsome face shows not the slightest trace of remorse.
Is this normal? Do all husbands disregard their wife’s privacy?
I have no idea. I’ve only been a wife for a few days. I don’t even have any married friends to ask. My closest friend is my sister. Beyond that, I only have a few casual acquaintances through work. And it’s not like I can reach out to Gavin. “No, you didn’t,” I say.
As if he knows where my thoughts have headed, a frown settles below Tucker’s sunglasses. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from me, Poppy?”
A thought scurries along the edges of my brain, making my palms damp. Did that information include the messages from Gavin I could never bring myself to erase?
I grip the edges of my chair, forcing myself to stand up. “No, Tucker. Nothing.”
It’s the truth. If he’s accessed them, so be it. I cut ties with Gavin before our wedding even though it nearly killed me to hurt him. Tucker has no right to expect more from me than that.
Though I’m sure Tucker would disagree. Since the day we met, he’s taken over so much of my world that practically everything else has been edged out.
Even me.
Chapter 36
Bali, Indonesia
Honeymoon
Bali, Indonesia, is just as beautiful as Bora Bora. For two days, while Tucker and Wren work, Sadie and I swim and snorkel and scuba, then retreat to the spa to be pampered like concubines. My skin is tan and glowing, and as smooth as a newborn.
Tonight, though, we are together for a business dinner. There are twelve of us around the table. Wren, Tucker, Sadie, and me, of course. There are also four Indonesian men and their wives, or maybe their mistresses. The men wear dark suits with flashy gold Rolexes peeking out from immaculately tailored sleeves. The women are in elaborate outfits of brightly colored, but monochromatic, silks and sequins. Pink, purple, yellow, red. They sit quietly, their faces frozen somewhere between surprise and adoration, picking at their food without actually eating any of it.
A translator hovers nearby, although the men speak nearly perfect English. The women don’t say anything at all. They are here purely as decorative ornaments, just as I am. We are merely pawns, used to blunt the hard edges of a high-stakes business negotiation.
No alcohol is offered or served. And so far all talk at the table has been about burdensome government regulations, currency rates, and international trade. It’s boring as hell.
I’ve attended dinners like this with Tucker before and have learned to keep my mind occupied while listening with half an ear in case anyone directs a question or comment my way. Sadie, though, isn’t used to being ignored. I glance her way, and nearly laugh at the daggers she is shooting at Wren.
Sadie is at a disadvantage tonight. She left community college after a few semesters and has spent the years since jumping from one dead-end job to another. Meanwhile, Wren is sophisticated and cultured, comfortable discussing issues Sadie has never heard of. She is a party to this negotiation and when Wren speaks, Tucker and the other men at the table listen. Sadie is paying attention too, looking for an opening. Every so often, her lips part as if she’s about to take the leap. But the moment passes, and she is left gulping down papaya juice as if it’s wine.
Knowing she’s attempting to fight a losing battle, I feel sorry for my sister. She is accustomed to men, including my husband, fawning all over her, all the time.
Tonight, however, Tucker is all business. Sadie and I, and the four beautiful, silent women seated across from us, are just window dressing. The only one who doesn’t realize this, is Sadie.
She scoots her chair closer to me now, leaning into my ear. “How much longer, Pops? If I have to listen to Wren another minu
te, I’m going to scratch her eyes out.”
I clamp my mouth shut before a giggle can escape. As if he heard it anyway, Tucker glares a warning at me. Get your sister under control. Now.
“Be good, Sadie,” I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand below the table. “This is important to Tucker.”
Wren looks our way, raising her voice like a teacher addressing a misbehaving student without actually addressing him at all. “Before our evening comes to a close, I’m sure Tucker’s wife and her sister would love the opportunity to view your recent acquisitions.”
One of the men inclines his head, says something to the woman in yellow.
She nods her head in understanding and stands. “You will come with us,” she says, addressing Sadie and me in perfect, unaccented English before taking diminutive steps away from the table. The rest of the rainbow jumps to their feet and scurries after her.
I look at Tucker for confirmation that we’re expected to do the same, but he is looking at Wren, mouthing the words, thank you. I flush, hating that Wren is handling me for my own husband. And that he appreciates it. Appreciates her.
And then I hate myself. Because I merely grab Sadie’s hand and follow.
Some battles aren’t worth fighting.
Chapter 37
New York City
three Years Later
“Where should we go for our anniversary next week?” Tucker asks as he comes back from the gym.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up against our upholstered headboard. “Is that a trick question?”
For our first anniversary, Tucker surprised me with a trip to Iceland, to see the northern lights. It had been magical, standing beneath the otherworldly aurora borealis blazing across the sky like the most exquisite laser light show.
For our second, Tucker booked us a suite at an exclusive resort in Belize. We did nothing but lay by the ocean, visit the spa, and eat room service from our private terrace. It was heavenly.
And now, with our third anniversary coming up, I’d assumed Tucker would take the reins again.
He sits down at the edge of the mattress, his hair still damp from a shower, and grins at me. “Gotcha.”
I laugh. “Can you at least tell me if I’m packing for warm weather or cold?”
My favorite version of Tucker is the one I’m treated to on most weekend mornings. Not that he sleeps in, ever, but he at least moves a little slower. After a 6:00 a.m. session with his personal trainer, Tucker swings by Starbucks to pick up my drink of choice, a Skinny Mocha—iced in the summer, hot in the winter.
He places it on my nightstand now, and I give an appreciative sniff. It’s basically sugar-free hot chocolate with a few shots of espresso.
“No. One bag for cold, one for hot. You’ll find out when we get there.”
Arguing is pointless. Besides, I love that Tucker still enjoys planning special trips for me. And unlike our honeymoon, neither Wren nor Sadie have joined us on an anniversary trip. Yet.
“Okay, boss,” I say teasingly, reaching for my paper cup. Once it’s in my hand, I notice the scrawl of black sharpie on the side. Decaf. I groan. “Is the barista punishing me for something?”
“It’s better if you give it up now, before the baby.”
My breath catches in the back of my throat as I realize that Tucker specifically requested my drink without caffeine, and his reasoning for it. I scoot over so he can sit beside me. “Baby?”
I’ve never been the type to ooh and aah over infants, and the sight of one within the confined dimensions of a plane has me on pins and needles.
But lately, something has changed. Everywhere I look, women in cute maternity clothes are advertising their round bellies. Strollers surround me, bearing cherubic looking babies with apple cheeks and dimpled thighs. Just hearing a toddler’s nasally I wuv you to their harried-looking mother sends a pang through my ovaries.
I’ve been hinting at starting a family to Tucker. Suggesting that our guest bedroom would make a perfect nursery, and mentioning every time someone in our building comes home from the hospital with a baby. But until now, I didn’t think he’d noticed.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Tucker places a hand on the flat plane of my stomach and gives me a gentle smile.
“More than anything.”
In the past, I’d rolled my eyes at the term biological clock.
Until mine started ticking. All of a sudden, there was this noise, as even and regular as if it had been there forever. A sound from somewhere deep inside my body, or maybe buried within my brain. Like a heartbeat, but sharper. I hear it in my ears, feel it in the pit of my stomach.
We are young, but not too young, I think. And I want to bridge the gap between us that seems to defy definition. We are a couple, but not yet a family. A baby would make us a family.
My coffee forgotten, I throw my arms around Tucker’s neck and pepper his face with kisses.
A baby! A little girl with my eyes and Tucker’s smile. A little boy with my love of daydreaming and Tucker’s athletic prowess. One, or maybe both. Do I remember something about twins running in Tucker’s family?
One baby or two, I’m ready to become a mother. And Tucker will be a great father. A baby is just the thing to soften his hard edges.
My initial exuberance melts into languorous, loving tenderness. Tucker’s palms find purchase in the curve of my hips and slide upward. A moan leaves my lips as his touch trails along the side of my breast, my nipples crying out for attention. But no, his hands are still moving, calloused fingertips dragging over my shoulders and along my neck until they side into my hair, his thumbs gently sweeping over my cheekbones.
Holding my face as if it’s a precious thing, the most precious thing, Tucker pulls away from me. Just a couple of inches, far enough that I am staring into eyes that look like chocolate and cognac were swirled together in front of a fire. Delicious and intoxicating. A combination you’re not quite sure you’ll enjoy but quickly become addicted to.
“Are you ready to make the next generation of Stocktons?” Tucker is an acquired taste, and there are those who would say that he’s acquired me. Maybe they’re right.
But right now, I don’t care about anything else but the liquid heat unraveling deep in my belly. I am warm and wanton, putty in my husband’s hands.
“Yes, Tucker.” My pelvis instinctively rocks forward.
He dips his head, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, below my ear, then soothing the sting with gentle kisses. “Promise me one thing, Poppy.”
“Anything.”
“Promise I’ll never lose you. Not to anyone, even our kids.” He stops kissing me long enough to look deep into my eyes. “I couldn’t bear it.”
I remember that long ago New Year’s Eve, our exchange in the lobby of the Plaza.
“When you came out of the elevator just now, you looked for me. And from the moment our eyes met, you never once looked away.”
A half-laugh makes it up my throat. “Well, I don’t— I don’t know anyone here.”
“True. But you’re different than other girls who seem to travel in packs. Always surrounded by other girls. It’s the first thing I noticed about you. Your… comfort at being alone.”
Taking my silence as agreement, Tucker shakes his head, his lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re very focused, Poppy. And I like when you focus on me.”
Tucker needs to be reassured that he’s still my priority. “You and me, Tucker. You and me against the world, okay?”
“I come first.” It is both a demand and a question.
“You come first,” I agree. My tone is firm, leaving no room for doubt.
His hands fall to my thighs, one wrapping around my waist, the other sliding toward the damp triangle of silk between my legs. The material is so thin; I shiver from his touch. “Fall apart for me,” Tucker coaxes, increasing the pressure of his caress. Ribbons of pleasure unspool as I throw my head back, my eyes fluttering shut
.
“Don’t. Open your eyes. Look at me. Let me in, baby.”
“Tucker,” I groan, focusing on the adoration shining from his heavy-lidded gaze, letting it burrow deep inside my skin.
The sensual storm Tucker has created finally breaks, my body shaking and trembling as my release rolls through me. For Tucker, I fall apart. And then he gathers me gently in his arms, lays me out on our bed like a broken doll, and puts me back together again.
One kiss, one touch, one thrust at a time.
Later, after he’s gone into the office, I take my birth control pills from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I have seven pills left for the month. One by one, I push them through the thin silver foil and let them drop into the toilet, each one so tiny, it doesn’t even make a sound.
Returning to my bedroom, I open my laptop and order a year’s supply of the best-selling pre-natal vitamins, shipping them overnight. And then I order a dozen baby books. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, The Pregnancy Journal, Belly Laughs, What to Eat When You’re Expecting, books on breastfeeding, on sleep-training (whatever that is), and several baby name books. And, at the last minute, just before checking out with my electronic shopping cart, I go back to get a few books on fertility. Just so I won’t jinx myself by being overconfident.
But I’m sure I won’t need them.
I’ve spent years trying not to get pregnant.
How hard can it be?
Chapter 38
New York City
Eleven months later
I step out of the shower and wipe the foggy mirror with my towel. Lifting my hands to my breasts, I eye their reflection critically. Are my nipples darker, even just slightly? Do they look bigger?
I think so… yes?
Shuttering my stare, I weigh them within my palms like fruit at a farmers market. Do they feel heavy? Sore? “Please,” I whisper into the steamy, but otherwise empty, room. “Please let this be real.”