Wife for the Weekend

by Ophelia London

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away, throwing the SkyMall magazine and two barf bags over that seat.

  Seat belt sign is off. Time to get busy. He opened his laptop and settled in for the ninety-minute flight to JFK. Being on a plane, no distractions, was when he did his best work. The first slide was still bothersome. Was it something aesthetic? The logo? What was it about the color that bugged him? Or was it the placement in the corner of the slide?

  Jules would say it was boring. Not enough flair or chi or too Virgo-y or one of her other phrases. She’d probably want to add a big sun to it, or flowers…with polka-dot rainbows. Something to make it beautiful and unique.

  When a corner of his mouth twitched to smile, Dexter held his breath and made it stop. He shut his eyes, trying to drum up the cold, panicked feeling from this morning when he’d straight-up chosen work over her. Not from turbulence, his stomach lurched and he eyed a barf bag on the next seat.

  When he closed his eyes again, what he saw was wavy orange lines, tall blue waves, brilliant red roses. All of Jules’s painting were bright and alive, not jarring, though they sure the hell stimulated something in him. They came alive in his head like living things. Vivid and vibrant, full of energy, reaching out and wrapping around his mind, his heart.

  Just like their creator.

  Time had flown again, and the plane was taxiing to the gate. He hadn’t gotten one thing done. He shut everything down and left the plane, jaw locked as he headed for the exit. Angela had texted that a car would be waiting at the curb.

  Angela. Why had he made those comments about her to Jules? He knew exactly what she’d infer. Giant ass. Pain and heat punished his every moment; he was a total tool bag for doing that to her, making her feel like she was just another woman.

  That she wasn’t special.

  The most special woman who had ever danced barefoot into his cold, colorless, pathetic, robot-like life.

  If he was choosing not to be with her, it should’ve been for a real reason, not another lie. Yes, he’d never been in a healthy relationship. Neither had Jules. It would be the blind leading the blind. But was there anyone else on the planet Dexter would do a blind leap with?

  Hell no.

  He was almost to the security exit when he walked past a restaurant, the same chain he’d sat at with Jules when their flight was canceled in Vegas. One week ago tomorrow. They’d shared a pitcher of Vegas Sunrise, she’d made him laugh. She was different. So different—in all the best ways. She was exciting and sweet with long hair and a loud mouth that told him her moon was in his Saturn, or something. She’d made him feel warm and alive in ways he still didn’t comprehend.

  That stormy Vegas night, he’d wanted that feeling to last, he remembered that now. In a flood of memories, he was remembering everything about that night—the bet, the stakes, what exactly he would lose…and win. He’d wanted that feeling to last so badly that he’d summoned all his willpower to not kiss her a second time in the limo.

  Because there’d been another bet. Between him and Jules.

  Not kissing her would win that bet.

  And he’d wanted to win the bet.

  Not because of the money or the pride of beating his brothers. But because those ridiculously high, drunkenly irrational stakes created from too much Vegas Sunrise and zero inhibitions were if Jules couldn’t get him to kiss her again, if she lost the bet, then she’d have to do the worst thing she could think of.

  Get married.

  Dexter stopped moving as full memories opened like petals of a flower after a long, dark night. It was me. I started it—everything. Never once had he wanted to get married, yet somehow—after an hour with Juliet Bloom—he knew he wanted to keep her with him for the rest of their lives.

  One screwed-up bet had sealed the deal. Then Dexter had managed to screw that all up.

  A passerby bumped him, causing his laptop case strap to slide off his shoulder. Something broke inside. Probably the screen, or the whole damn thing. For a moment, all he could do was stare straight ahead, a black hole in his chest growing larger and larger. A black hole that needed color and swirls, bright flowers and a great big pink sun.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t standing still anymore, but running through the airport, back to the gate he’d just come from. It was a commuter flight. Unless it was full, he’d be back in Hershey in a few hours.

  If it wasn’t already too late.

  The shortest line at the ticket desk was five people deep. Dammit. Dammit! He pulled out his phone, ready to make a reservation online. No. Before that, he needed to talk to her. Right now. He touched a finger to his cell, but then froze.

  Jules—beautiful, free-spirited, he-loved-her-so-much-he-could-strangle-her Jules—had never given him her number. He thought fast. Who was she most likely to be with if she was pissed to high heaven at him?

  His fingers moved to speed dial. It rang so long, he was expecting voicemail.

  “Hey, jerkface.”

  “Rox.” Dexter panted, moving one person closer in line. “Is she with you?”

  There was a heavy, long, meaningful pause. “Who?”

  “Dammit, Rox. I need to talk to her.”

  Another pause, muffled voices in the background. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Please get on the phone. Please get on the phone.

  “She’s not here. I don’t know where she is, or who you’re talking about. Even if I did—shh, wait, hold on— Even if I did, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Roxanne.” He pounded the phone against his forehead. “I know she’s with you.” He wanted to add that he could “feel it,” but, even though it was dead true, it was too woo-woo to admit to anyone but Jules.

  She’d get it. Because she got him.

  He’d told her they barely knew each other. Ha! That might’ve been the biggest lie of all. Jules Bloom knew him better than anyone. She wanted better things for him, bigger things that he hadn’t understood before he knew her. Balance, genuine stability, friendship, love… Love with your best friend.

  In his heart, he knew…he hoped…that she loved him, too.

  “Please hand her the phone,” he said. “I need to talk—”

  “Sorry, Dex, I gotta go. I’m…low on minutes.”

  “You’ve had an unlimited plan forever.”

  “Huh? Sorry, you’re breaking up. I think I’m driving into a tunnel. See ya.”

  “Rox? Roxanne!”

  But she’d disconnected. He swore under his breath and was about to hit her number again, but knew she wouldn’t take his call.

  Someone else would, though. Someone who was pissed at him for being a colossal douche bag, but would answer the phone anyway. Dexter swallowed, nodded a few times, then hit the number.

  It rang once before the ringing sound was trumped by a calendar event popping up, reminding him of the meeting with Three Jacker Media tomorrow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You did what?”

  Jules nodded, sitting across from Roxy at the Elliotts’ kitchen table. She couldn’t stay at the lake cottage with Dexter’s stuff everywhere. It made her want to burn the place down.

  “The whole thing, all of it since the elopement, was an act?”

  Jules nodded again, feeling miserable. And then mad. And then miserable again. She had to tell someone the truth, though. Otherwise she was liable to jump in the lake and freeze just so her thoughts would stop festering.

  It was a big risk telling Roxy, but it was a bigger risk to lose faith in all humanity.

  “Girl, you’re like a Drew Barrymore movie. Which one am I thinking of?”

  Jules sighed. “I have no idea, and you’re not helping.”

  “Should I be helping?” Roxy crossed her arms. “Honestly, if I’d known the whole story when he called, I would’ve made you talk to him.”

  “Rox.” Jules pushed her mug away. “Please don’t make this harder. It’s bad enough.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad—your bad. He was
trying to apologize.”

  “No. He was trying to clear his conscience. He’s got this big, all-important meeting tomorrow that his life depends on.” She stared down at the table. “I shouldn’t say that. His meeting is important. It’s for an amazing idea.” An idea I wish I was helping him with. “Bottom line, he doesn’t want any guilt hanging over his head. That’s what his phone call was about.”

  Her heart sank deeper. She didn’t want those words to be true. Dexter didn’t suddenly want her back. It was all about work—like it always was. No matter how she’d tried to bring something sunnier and brighter to his life, she’d failed.

  She hadn’t realized until right then, how much seeing him happy and cut loose had meant to her. Even though it had been for only a few days, she’d seen the subtle changes in him, the softening of his sharp edges, the way he slept better, ate better, held a downward-facing dog pose like a damn boss, punched out a creepy creeper one minute, then carried her to the bedroom the next.

  Yes, she’d seen him change, but she’d changed, too. Because of Dexter, she learned how to be calmer, to take care of someone and allow them to take care of her, because that came naturally when you really, truly cared. And she was painting again—he’d brought that back to her, too. Even if she never saw him again, his words of support about living her dream were cemented in her mind.

  Most of all, though, for the first time in years, he made her want to commit to a man so entirely that she’d gladly entwine herself with him, with no fear that she’d lose anything. She would gain.

  Because workaholic, non-dating machine Dexter Elliott would’ve never let her lose.

  Jules didn’t know elation and wretchedness could live in her brain at the same time. But they were. Judging by their final conversation, she was in love with a man who didn’t have the capacity to love her back.

  “Apparently,” Jules said, talking so she wouldn’t break out in primal sobs, “he’ll be just fine—going back to his old ways.” She propped her elbows on the table, holding her head in her hands. “He had a million calls from some hottie named Angela. He told me he’s seeing her when he gets back to the city. Whatever. I don’t care.”

  Saying it was like sand pouring down her throat from a dark and gloomy cloud overhead.

  “Angela’s his personal assistant. She’s, like, fifty.”

  Jules looked up. “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He knew I assumed she was someone he non-dated. So he was just being a jerk?”

  Roxy nodded. “He does that because he’s a child.”

  “He is a child.” Jules pursed her lips, furious. But that didn’t hang on long enough to help when the woe returned.

  Only he’s not a child. He’s a big strong man with a beautiful spirit full of passion and kindness, and with eyes so blue that my bones melt when he looks at me.

  “Why do you care?” Roxy asked. “If you’re not right for each other and he’s a big-time player and a child, why do you care?”

  She shrugged. “Who said I care?”

  “Aw. So you do care?”

  “Stop.” Jules pounded a fist on the table. “I know you really want us to be together, but you don’t know everything. He said things to me.” She pressed her lips together so the gloomy gray cloud wouldn’t take her over completely. “Hurtful things. He meant them. He…he said he doesn’t know me.”

  “Those are just words.”

  “Words are all he has. When I thought we had more, I was playacting, daydreaming us into something we’re not. I was painting the picture I wanted to see. It wasn’t real.”

  “I’m sorry, Jules. What can I do?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Jules felt overwhelming skeeviness when she walked through the office door. Why didn’t she sense it the first time she’d been here?

  Quent Sanders had a swollen nose and a black eye. It was way immature, but she couldn’t help smiling when she saw him. “Ouch,” she said with an exaggerated cringe. “Are you okay?”

  “What? Oh—yeah, I don’t feel it anymore.”

  Liar. Skeevy creeper.

  She wasn’t there to chitchat, and wouldn’t be there at all if she’d had the guts to ask the Elliotts the same question she was going to ask him. They’d only try to talk her out of it. The decision was hard enough, and it was probably a bad idea to be there, but her decision-making synapses weren’t firing efficiently.

  She hadn’t slept at all last night. First, the bed still smelled like Dexter, even after she’d washed the bedding at midnight. The couch smelled like him, too. It was probably her imagination, but even when she’d wrapped up in a blanket and sat on the deck, she could smell him in the air.

  The damn man was everywhere. Haunting her once-happy place with painful memories of what could’ve been. What almost was. What was so close to being hers but gone forever. Because she’d allowed herself to believe the make-believe.

  The next morning, she’d sat at her favorite spot by the window, facing the deck and the lake. The blank page of her sketch pad remained blank. She hauled out her easel but had no idea what to paint. Her mind had become that dark cloud, stifling everything out of her. After her mother died, she’d felt the same, and couldn’t do anything artistic until she was safe at Grams’s cottage.

  Where was she supposed to go now?

  The third time she’d tripped over Dexter’s stupid carry-on bag that he’d left behind, she knew she had to take steps to protect herself. Despite how he’d helped her finally break through her wall of fear, she knew her limits. If her heart was broken now, how much worse would it feel the next time he came into town?

  Seeing him would shatter her into a million pieces.

  No way would she let herself shatter again. This next move was all about self-preservation, no matter the cost.

  “I’m wondering if you can put me in contact with a good real estate agent in Mount Gretna,” she said to Quent, inwardly disgusted at being anywhere near him.

  “I have a lot of contacts, sure. May I ask why?”

  She took a beat, squelching the pain in her stomach at what she was about to say. “I want to sell my house.”

  …

  Dexter slammed the car door shut and pounded the dashboard. “Come on, come on. Let’s move.”

  “You don’t have anything to say to me first?”

  He looked at Luke impatiently. “Yes, sorry, I was a dickhead to you, now drive.” He ignored his brother’s chuckle as they sped from the airport, the Jeep’s headlights cutting the darkness. Dexter bounced his knees and drummed his fingers on the sides of his seat.

  “Dude, chill. It’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t know that. I really screwed up—can’t you pass this car? You’re driving like a geezer.”

  Luke shifted gears and floored it, but it still wasn’t fast enough. Nothing was fast enough to send Dexter back in time and undo what he’d done to Jules. His damn heart felt like it was caving in whenever he thought about it. Which was every two seconds.

  Though Roxy still wouldn’t talk to him, Dexter ascertained enough from Luke about what was going on. Jules wasn’t staying at the lake house. The fact that she was too upset to be there was tragically his only bright spot of hope. If she was sad—maybe he had a chance. Even if he didn’t deserve it, he’d damn well take it.

  “Say something normal,” Luke urged. “Your heavy breathing and twitching is wigging me out, man.”

  “Um.” Dexter rubbed his palms together. “Who won tonight’s game?”

  “What game?”

  “I don’t know, dude. I’m trying to make conversation. But since we’re on the subject, we should hook up for more sporting events.”

  Luke glanced at him. “Yeah?”

  “Definitely. I’ll fly out for the 76ers, and you should come for a Yankees game. Let’s meet at a couple of bowl games next season. I really miss that.”

  “Me, too. But I follow the Mets now.”

  “Dud
e.” Dexter laughed. “Since when?”

  “Since all the A-Rod crap. Who needs that?”

  They chatted for a while, Luke catching him up on sports news that Dexter hadn’t had time to read about. It was like old times, and Dexter knew full well it was because of Jules. Her words when she’d first seen his childhood bedroom hadn’t left him. Why had he given up something that had made him so happy?

  No more of that. Family, love, relationships. He’d never again sacrifice what was truly important.

  “Did you pick up everything I asked for?” he said.

  “No.” Luke looked at Dexter. “Pops did.”

  “Dad?” He couldn’t wrap his brain around that. After all the disappointment and strain, his father was actually…helping. “Did he tell you about my job?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Everything?”

  “Yyyyep.”

  Luke put a hand on Dexter’s shoulder and shook it, steering one-handed. Maybe he should’ve kept both hands on the wheel while driving like a bat out of hell. After all, this would all be for nothing if they didn’t make it to their destination.

  “You need to trust a little more, bro. Give people credit.”

  “Yeah,” Dexter said, allowing that caved-in feeling to overcome him again. “In that case, I have something else to tell you.”

  …

  It took a lot of groveling, especially when she’d given her notice so triumphantly, but Jules was able to get her job back at the spa. As non–dream jobs went, it wasn’t a terrible gig, though it definitely wasn’t how she’d expected the end of this week to go.

  “Are you sure about this?” Roxy asked. “I think you’re being rash.”

  “Maybe,” Jules said, tossing her bag in the backseat of the BMW. “But rash is how I roll.” She leaned on the car and pushed out an exhale. “I just can’t stay.”

  “I get that. You won’t wait to say good-bye to Mom?”

  Tears stung behind her eyes. She’d gone two days without crying and wasn’t about to start now. Though what would Grams say about holding in emotions? Leaving probably wasn’t the best way to deal with this. But she didn’t know what else to do.