“You didn’t ask.” He rinsed his cup out and picked up the sponge, suddenly progressive enough to wash his own dishes.
“Okay dokey, I’m going to take my carb- and sugar-loaded donuts and skedaddle before it starts to rain.” Chelsea scooped the box up against her chest and edged toward the door. “Great chatting with you both. Once you exit the war zone, call me and we can grab lunch.”
I stared at E’s back, noting the rigid line of his shoulders as he scrubbed the coffee mug hard enough to remove the paint. “Congratulations,” I managed. “That’s huge. Does Don know?”
“Yeah. I forwarded the deal memo to him last night.”
“And she already wired the money?”
He paused. “I said she did.”
“Okay.” I tapped my fingers slowly along the counter and waited for him to turn. This was stupid. We shouldn’t be fighting. We should be celebrating. Fucking. Flipping open the Frontgate catalog stuffed in my office trash and ordering a new patio set.
I set my mug down and stood, moving to stand behind him. Leaning my chest against his back, I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m proud of you,” I whispered.
“I’m not getting paid on it.” He set the coffee cup down on the counter and I watched as water drops splattered onto the granite. “I referred her to Don. She’ll be working with him now, unless she decides to return to Morgan Stanley.”
“What?” My relief evaporated and I stepped back, stunned. “Why?”
He turned to face me. “On the flight back, she hit on me. I took a Xanax and fell asleep. I woke up with a blanket across my lap, my pants unzipped and her hand on me. I was hard and she was jacking me off. I pushed her away and she said…” He shrugged, pulling the dishtowel off the counter and wiping his hands dry. “A lot of things. Things she wanted to do to me. To us.”
“But—but she’s gay.”
“Apparently, she’s bisexual. I told her I couldn’t continue advising her, that it would be inappropriate. She got pissed. But the investment is still a good one for her. I told her to take it, and I waived the commission so she’d understand that I wasn’t motivated by that. It is a good opportunity for her. She should take it.”
I didn’t know why he was even talking about the investment, or trying to convince me of its validity. “She touched you? Pulled out your dick in the middle of the plane?”
“Under a blanket, but yes.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand. “I swear, when I woke up, it was already hard. I don’t know how the fuck that happened, but—”
“Is this why you got mad last night?” This was too much. The rollercoaster of emotions. The financial highs and lows. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that he’d just gotten paid. I would sell Olive Line. I’d get the selling bonus that Brad and Julia had offered and we’d be flush for at least six months. Long enough for him to find another client, or another deal, or convince his current portfolio to make fresh deposits. We didn’t need this, but I was also struggling to wrap my head around the fact that Easton had just walked away from a six-figure paycheck. “And it’s done? You’re definitely not getting paid? She was okay with that?”
His chin lifted stubbornly, his eyes arrestingly blue. “Is that what you care about?”
“I care about everything. I care that you’re mad at me, for a reason that I can’t figure out. I care about putting us back together, in a way that gets us past whatever has gotten us off track. I care about the fact that you got assaulted on a plane last night. And YES, I care about the fact that the woman who hand-raped you saved a hundred thousand dollars in the process.”
“You’re being overdramatic.”
“No, I’M NOT. If that was a guy who fingered a sleeping girl on a plane, he’d be in jail right now. She sexually assaulted you. That’s what she did, and you could sue her or threaten her but what you shouldn’t have done was do her any favors. And she got pissed? What the fuck was SHE PISSED ABOUT?” I inhaled sharply, trying to catch my breath.
“I’m not talking to you when you’re like this. I’m going to work.” He tried to move past me and I grabbed him, clawing at his arms and chest when he tried to shove me away.
“TALK TO ME,” I screamed as he got away and stomped toward the front door. I picked up his wet coffee cup and flung it at him, the heavy mug hitting the door just as he slammed it closed.
I ran through the entry and out the door, pausing for a moment at the rain, which was starting to fall, the drops dotting across the white driveway. I ran forward, my bare feet scraping on the stepping stones, and I caught him halfway down the walkway. He came to a stop, his white dress shirt already dotted with rain, the drops staining my Ann Taylor sheath.
“I was mad last night because I felt like I fucked up.” He spoke quietly but the words carried over the rain, the sound of defeat heavy in the tones. “I fucked up by not getting the commission. I fucked up by putting myself in a situation with another woman where that happened. And I felt the weight of all that when I saw you last night, in that big fucking house, coming alive under his hands. I’m not good enough for you, and it scares the ever-living shit out of me.”
“You are good enough for me. You are made for me.” He had to know that. He had to know that my life would be nothing without him, without our love. I circled him carefully, worried he would move, and wrapped my arms around his waist, hugging my cheek against his damp back, shielding my face against the increasing downpour. “Listen to me. Things are crazy right now, but I need you here beside me. I can’t have us cracked. I need you.”
He turned and I stayed in place, retightening my grip and burying my cheek against the wet front of his shirt. He lifted his hand, almost hesitantly, and gently brushed the sodden strands back off my forehead. “I know how much we needed that money.”
“No. Not that badly. What we need is us. What she did to you...” I knotted my fists in the bottom of his shirt and moved in closer to him, almost yelling to be heard over the rain. “It was criminal. But you chose us when you walked away from that deal. And that’s one of the reasons why I love you so much.” He dipped his head and our wet lips met, just a brush of cold contact, then a pause.
“I love you, Elle. I’m so—”
“I know.” I lifted on my toes and met his mouth, my hand stealing up his shirt, my kiss greedy for more. He pulled me closer, his hands roughly moving down and gripping my ass, pulling me tight as he kissed along the open neck of my dress.
When he lifted me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist. When he carried me into the house, I deepened our kiss. When he laid me down on our bed, I peeled the wet shirt over his head and struggled out of my soaked dress.
When he tenderly made love, I inhaled each touch, each thrust, each kiss. And afterward, I didn’t talk, or ask questions, or bring up anything. I curled into his arms and stayed silent and weathered this swell of the storm.
But inside, I burned with anger over that bitch.
22
Hey Rachel. How’s everything going so far? Don’t be shy—if you have any questions or need any advice, I’m here for you both. If your husband needs to talk through the shitstorm of emotions that this stuff brings, have him call me. 407-214-2001.
I took a screenshot of the message and texted it to E.
Any questions for him?
Exiting from the messages, I locked my phone and placed it on the desk, returning my attention to my laptop. One email from my mom. I scanned it quickly.
Cruise to Jamaica…
Don’t forget your sister’s anniversary next week…
Pet food from China is contaminated…
I clicked on the next email and scrolled through the sales stats for last week, pleased to see the De Luca listing in the top tier of new listings.
“So…tell me everything.” Tim swung into my office in a cloud of Aqua De Gio and pastel colors. He perched on my desk and picked up the listing flyer for Olive Line. “And don’t leave any of the good stuff out.”
> “Tell you everything about what?” I deleted a mortgage rates email, then a Pottery Barn promo about linens.
“The De Luca photoshoot! It was Thursday, right? Did you see Brad De Luca there? The photos look gorgeous, by the way. Love this.” He held up the rough draft of my flyer, the page pinched between two recently buffed nails.
I minimized my email and leaned back in my desk chair, considering and quickly discarding the possibility of telling Tim everything. “Brad was there and it went fine. Floyd sent me the reel over the weekend, and I emailed them a link to the photos and the flyer this morning. I’m waiting for their approval before I send it out.”
I had spent the better part of the weekend working on the listing description and flyer, grateful for the distraction from Easton’s quiet brooding. We hadn’t really discussed Nicole—or Brad and Julia—and between the two hot topics, I hadn’t really known what to say. I needed Chelsea’s advice, but had gotten her voicemail all weekend. Apparently, her urgent desire to chat had faded, along with her ability to return a phone call.
“You’re smart to get their approval.” He nodded. “Especially given their, you know, privacy issues.” He glanced out into the hall, then toed my door closed with the tip of one brown and black saddle shoe. “So, Fred says he’s gorgeous. Is it true?”
“Gorgeous?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s not exactly the adjective I’d use.” Manly. Devastatingly intimidating. Pure fucking temptation. “He’s very muscular.” That was a safe term—one no one could argue about, given Brad’s large frame, but also one that wouldn’t raise any red flags.
“Maybe it’s just the danger element Fred liked. He’s into all that stuff. Action movies. Kick-ass guys.” He shrugged. “You know. The exact opposite of all of this.” He pointed to his reed-thin torso which was wrapped in a skintight pink polo shirt.
“Well, he’s married. And straight,” I offered. “So I don’t think you have to worry about Fred.”
“Oh, sweetie.” He laughed. “I don’t ever worry about Fred. Plus, I’ve heard De Luca doesn’t mind adding more to the party, if you know what I mean.”
I frowned in confusion, as if I didn’t know what he meant. Did everyone know about their sex life? Was that the potential future for E and me? Casual innuendos tossed out like party favors whenever either one of us was discussed? I thought of what Julia had said. That if I told Chelsea, that it would, at some point, come out. And that it would follow Easton and me.
“Also… I heard you have seven showings set up. Which I’m really happy about.” He smiled thinly, and I could see, in the rigid way he set down the flyer, how unhappy he really was.
“It’s a hot street, you know that.”
“Oh, I know. Like I said, I’m happy for you. I didn’t have time for this listing anyway, with everything else I have going on. That’s why I gave it to you.”
Right. Funny how quickly his story was changing. A week ago, when I’d found out about the Magiano connection and confronted him over his avocado and blueberry salad, he’d all but begged me to stay on the listing. He’d blamed Fred, said that he’d wanted to tell me about the Magianos but Fred was worried I wouldn’t take it. Now, he was suddenly doing me a favor? I spun back in the chair toward my computer. “I’ve got to get this email drafted before the contracts workshop. Save me a seat in it?”
“Of course.” He rose and placed the flyer on the edge of my desk. “I’ll see you there. Don’t forget, Tahoma is the new eblast font choice according to Tracy.”
“Right.” I double-clicked on our lead management software, aware of his gaze lingering on my screen. “Thanks for the reminder.”
As soon as he left, I pulled the door closed and flipped the cheap lock. Opening my email back up, I refreshed the inbox, flinching as a new arrival from Julia De Luca appeared.
Photos look great! Please go ahead with the flyer distribution. The house can be ready for a showing as early as Wednesday. I’m assuming this means you guys got home safely on Thursday night? We are flying back to the Bahamas right now, but will be back on Sunday—if you’re free for lunch next week, let me know. I’m dying to try that new sushi place on Lincoln.
Julia
I reread it twice, surprised to find that it was so… normal. No mention of my husband’s dick, or our same-backyard sex, or of the taste of Easton’s dick or… any of it. Had that been a normal Thursday night for them? Or was this the appropriate response? To act as if nothing had happened?
I leaned back in my chair, stretching out the tight knot in my back and staring up at the dingy popcorn ceiling. I knew the restaurant she was talking about. Chelsea had sent me a link to it, along with a long line of gagging emoticons, because it was rumored that Charlie Sheen owned it. Which was highly unlikely, but enough of a reason for her to cross it off with a hot-pink Sharpie.
I loved sushi. And she was my biggest ever listing client. I wasn’t even sure I could turn a lunch invite down. If there wasn’t any awkwardness now, there would be if I got all stiff and distant from her. I scrolled down the page to my prior email, which had been addressed to both of them.
Mr. and Mrs. De Luca,
Here is a link to view the photos of your home, along with a draft flyer I would like to distribute to prospective buyers. Please let me know if you approve of the flyers, and if you’d like any of the photos to be omitted from the listing.
Thank you,
Elle R. North, Licensed Real Estate Agent
It was so stiff it smelled of starch. Why had I used my middle initial? I stifled a wince and tried to read it again, in a better light. I’d been trying to set a professional tone, something to make up for the fact that I’d drunk all their wine, blabbed about my threesome, then stripped down in their backyard and moaned loud enough to wake up the neighbors.
My phone dinged and I jumped on the distraction, opening a text from Chelsea.
Everything okay with you and E? I’m catching up on voicemails, yours sound stressed.
Of course she’d wait until now, when I was ten minutes away from a workshop. And texting me? Why had she still not returned my calls? Things are fine. I’m about to walk into something, but I want to catch up with you.
She texted back before I even had a chance to set down the phone.
Wahoo on E’s new deal! Don’t forget—I’m the one who referred Nicole to him. You guys can thank me with cupcakes or fudge-covered Oreos. Your pick.
—Don’t pat your back too hard. I’ll tell you why later.
I didn’t have the energy to discuss the Nicole debacle through text. Plus, Chelsea was an expressive reactor. The only upside of this entire situation would be seeing the volcano of emotion that would spew out of her at the news. I hit reply on Julia’s email, then was distracted by another Chelsea text.
Lunch? I’m on day 12 of No Dick and literally no one has congratulated me yet. I can buy you tacos and protest that it’s no big deal as you heap me with well-earned praise.
I smiled, realizing how much I missed her. Ever since Aaron moved out of our place and in with her, we’d barely seen each other. In part, because I’d been avoiding her, heavy with guilt over what happened with Aaron and terrified of the new (and probably completely imagined) possibility that she was into him. But I hadn’t been the only MIA member of our friendship. She’d been notably absent these last three weeks, and leaving me out of the funeral party preparations was just one example of that.
We had to get back to normal. I needed my best friend back, and I had to assume that she was missing some of me as well.
—I’d love lunch. I’ve got a workshop, so can it be late? Taco Taquito at two?
Works for me. I have a wax appointment at one.
Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Page 14