“I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.” I cover her hand with mine, forcing her to stop her distracted charade. “I want to keep seeing you.”
She seems hesitant for a beat, and then she dons an expression that I quickly dislike—the one where business-like, suit-wearing Vicky appears. “I don’t see an issue with that. See, in general, I don’t date exclusively.”
“I absolve you from your past sins.” I smile at her.
She narrows her eyes at me, a thin smile playing at her lips. “You can’t do that, absolve me of my sins, when you are my sin.”
We stare at each other for a heated moment, gravitating toward one another. Her lips part as her stare at me turns heated. I grab her face and show her just how sinful I can be. Three breaths later, she’s on her back under me, and we’re at it again.
So much for conversing.
She’s a drug.
Zero control.
Madness.
As we both come down from the high, suspended on my forearm, I bring my hand to her face, gently brushing away stray tendrils from her cheek. I tenderly caress her skin with my thumb, holding her stare. I lean in to kiss her but with a different quality this time. More intimate, more sentimental. Her eyes soften with an equal measure of emotions. And just as the moment becomes . . . more, she breaks it.
Once again.
Goddammit.
Vicky gets up from under me. “So, this is how it’s going to work, we’ll scratch those itches occasionally, you’re going to date others, and I’ll keep seeing my guys,” she says casually, looking around for her discarded clothes as if this thing between us is nothing out of the ordinary.
I watch her till realization hits me with a fucking wallop. So many questions barrel into my mind, but the one to jump off my lips is, “Babe, the hell are you talking about? What other guys?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes when she coolly says, “I told you. I don’t see people exclusively.”
“You’re serious?”
Stone-faced, she turns to me. “Very much.”
I see red. “I’m not doing this,” I mutter to myself, standing up.
Just the thought of her with others makes me want to punch my fist into something. I can’t think straight. I grab my clothes and pull them on with brisk, anger-tinted tugs.
Vicky pauses, watching me. “Poor clothes. I’ve never seen anyone get dressed so aggressively.” She tries to joke.
I don’t appreciate the humor.
I pocket my wallet and my phone, grab my keys, and step toward the door for the jacket and helmet. If my mind was buzzing before, now my entire body is thundering but with an entirely different energy. I’m fuming.
Vicky watches me, clearly startled. She pauses, her shirt in one hand, pressed to her chest. “Ricky?”
“Mm?” I shrug my jacket on, briskly zipping it up.
“Ricky, wait.”
“What?” I say a little too loudly over my shoulder, stepping toward the door.
“Ricky, wait! Don’t be like that. Please! I don’t want you to—”
“Why do you care?” I interrupt. “We’re just sleeping together, no?” I walk out the door without another word.
It’s All About Who Has the Upper Hand. Always
Pandora to CHICKENS: Hensgiving is in two weeks! I nominate Anna and Liam’s crib for the festivities.
Victoria to CHICKENS: I second the motion. Our group is getting bigger; we need a larger space.
Anna to CHICKENS: At ours then. Who’s turn to decide on a new tradition?
Kayla to CHICKENS: What are you guys talking about?
My phone rings, distracting me from the chat. I finish typing a sentence and glance at the device. Seeing my sister’s name on the screen, I take the call. “Hey, Bean.”
“Busy?” Anna asks. “Can I add the girls to the call?”
“Mm-hmm, sure,” I say, rereading the sentence I just wrote.
“Guys, let’s make it quick. I start a lesson in five,” Anna begins the call.
Smiling at my PC screen, I say, “Why did you start the call, then?”
“People, keep on track. Thanksgiving thing. What tradition are you talking about.” Gotta love Kayla and her no-nonsense attitude.
“Hey, drummer girl, love it when you get all bossy on us.” That contribution belongs to me.
“Hey, Barbie, always here to woo you,” Kayla answers dryly.
“Oh, you two again,” Panda scoffs teasingly. “So, dinner on the thirtieth at Anna and Liam’s. Since we’re already a large group, I say if you want to bring anyone along, go ahead.” She then adds, “Vicky, maybe not your entire Stud Platoon, though, keep it to . . . how about a representative?”
“The laugh will arrive in one to three business days,” I deadpan.
For an illogical moment, I think about Ricky and then bat the thought out to where all ridiculous, spur-of-the-moment, thoughtless thoughts should reside. In the you’ll-thank-yourself-later trash bin.
“Guys?” It’s Kayla. “Can I bring Ricky along? You all know him already, so—”
“Sure! Of course!” Anna and Panda answer in stereo.
I, on the other hand, voice not a word. Keeping quiet, healthy disliking the jolt of jealousy that just zipped through me. This is ridiculous. They’re good friends.
“I feel like he thinks that we resent him now, given everything that happened,” Kayla explains.
“Hey, Kayla, you don’t have to justify anything to us. He’s your friend, so if you want to bring him along, he’s more than welcome to come,” my sister says.
I try to push away whatever is happening in me. I don’t know what’s going on between Ricky and me now. It’s been two days since he stormed out of my place, and we haven’t communicated since. I don’t want to unpack it right now, but I didn’t appreciate how he left, nor how I acted to begin with. It’s a bit of a mess. Or maybe it just ended before it even began, and it’s for the best.
“I think that Anna should choose the new tradition as she’s the host this year,” I say, forcing myself to take part in the conversation and stop delving into something I shouldn’t have ever started.
“I agree,” Panda jumps in.
“Would someone please explain what the heck you’re talking about?” Kayla asks. She’s new to the group and unaware of our traditions.
“We have a few things we do without fail each year,” I explain to Kayla. “Someone has to come up with a new tradition to add to our Hensgiving celebration. The whole evening is an odd potluck sort of dinner, food not even related to Thanksgiving. Everyone just brings their specialty. It’s always fun; you’ll see.”
“Okay then,” Anna declares. “New tradition, everyone needs to bring a book they read recently and your favorite chocolate. We’ll choose a name out of a hat, and whoever you choose gets your book and chocolate of choice.”
“Oh, wow, wild times await us. Always the riot, sis,” I say, making my friends laugh.
We end the call, and I get back to work, having a more challenging time concentrating now that Kayla brought up Ricky.
In the deepest recesses of my heart, I don’t entirely hate it that he got upset about the fact I see other people. I don’t usually find jealousy attractive, or at least I didn’t until the other night. Maybe because I never felt like I belonged to someone or considered anyone belonging to me. My logic jumps in, raising a brow, demanding what nonsense I am conjuring in my head, urging me to go back to what I do best—work.
“Knock, knock.” Adrian materializes in my room. He releases a cup of coffee from a cup carrier, offering me the drink.
I take it with a smile. “Marry me.” I express my gratitude.
“Yeah, like I need all your crazy twenty-four seven. Appreciate the well-thought-out, sentimental proposal, but I’ll pass.” Adrian takes a seat facing me.
Taking a sip from his beverage, he fires up his tablet. “Okay, let’s see what’s on the docket for today.”
I indulg
e in the warm, frothy beverage, listening to the hectic day ahead.
When Adrian tells me that I have an early dinner with Felipo at Copine, an unfamiliar emotion passes through me. One that’s hard to make sense of. A heaviness that suddenly inhabits my stomach, one that tastes of culpability. I close my eyes, wishing it away.
“The rest of the week looks quite the same. Umm . . .” Adrian skims the screen. “Oh, looks like someone is going to indulge in fine dining all week.” I frown at him. “You have dinner plans for tomorrow as well.”
“Are we taking a client out for dinner?”
“You have dinner reservations at Altura with a Jack Howard.” Adrian frowns. “He’s a client?”
I gape at him, that heaviness in my stomach morphing into something much less comfortable.
“What? No, he’s a . . . ” My thoughts scatter every which way, and I don’t finish my explanation. And thus starts the greatest inner battle in history. Plight at hand, what do I do with Jacky boy? Or is it more than that? Maybe it’s about my dating life as a whole?
A part of me wants to cancel the entire thing; I refrain from going deeper as to why. The other part of me, the part that got me places in life, the stubborn, goal-oriented, take-no-prisoners one, exclaims, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. You got a thing that works for you, so why change it.
Long ago, I accepted that I’m different, a little damaged, and that’s okay. I found the system to self-protect and never build castles in the wind. It worked well. Very well, till—
“Victoria?” Adrian’s voice probes in a softer tone. The fact that he called me by my actual name shakes me out of my contemplation.
Concern mars his features. “Everything okay? Do you want me to reschedule, cancel?”
“Try to see if you can change it to breakfast rather than dinner, somewhere near the office.”
“Sure,” he says, typing on the device.
Adrian turns his head to the sound of heavy footfalls heading our way. Turning to me, he twists his mouth. “Just what we needed first thing in the morning.” He shakes his head, muttering, “It’s going to ruin my first coffee!” I raise my brows in question. “Brace yourself, Louis-ifer is waltzing over here.”
Not two beats later, Louis Dylan, my trusted nemesis and our VP of marketing, shows his face in the doorway. The guy’s whole existence is bent on putting a spoke in my wheels. He’d never step a foot in my office unless he had to; for all he cares, I shouldn’t even have one. He doesn’t think I belong here. I’m a woman, after all.
The thing about Louis, I liked him when we first met, right up to the moment he tried to kiss me, and I slapped him. My dislike for him grew when I learned not much later that he’s “happily married,” and they’re expecting their first child.
The difference between Louis and me is that while we maintain a civil-enmity status quo, I respect his contribution to the firm. He, on the other hand, thinks I slept my way to the top. Yeah, why would someone with an MBA from Stanford and vast experience from the biggest companies in the sector be in such a position if not for her talent of seduction?
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask placidly, ever the professional.
“You’ve been summoned; Peters wants to see you,” he says with a sly smirk.
I nod. “I’m coming.”
“Oh, boss, so should I reschedule the meeting with Ben Carter from Forex then?” Adrian asks out of nowhere, and I shoot him a what-the-hell glance while Louis’s jaw goes slack and his eyes brim with fury right before he storms away.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask Adrian, having a hard time hiding my grin.
It was an utterly bogus question about one of the biggest clients we’ve been courting forever, aka Louis’s Achilles’ heel.
Adrian chuckles to himself. “My guess is if his Botox would allow him, he’d be wearing a deep frown.”
I shake my head and can’t help but let out a snort of amusement before heading to see what the boss wants.
“Victoria, take a seat.” My boss, Gregory Peters, gestures to one of the empty chairs; my colleagues occupy the other two. Louis, of course, occupies the seat closest to our boss, the ultimate workplace privileged frat boy that he is.
In the other chair, the one that’s not in lip reach of the boss’s ass, sits Joe Bello, our VP of customer relations.
We all listen as the boss tells us he decided to turn our outsourced customer support in-house and contemplates adding the new group under one of our respective departments—a new group of over two hundred people.
“When do you expect the transition to start?” I ask.
“Right after the holidays,” Peters says, shifting a silver pen between his fingers.
“Will we recruit new people to replace the outsourced employees?” That one comes from Joe.
“It’ll be the decision of whoever ends up managing the group. But I would suggest keeping most while hiring some new people based on productivity.” Peters turns to Louis to see if he has anything to add.
“If you ask me,” Louis says, “marketing would be the best fit for customer support.”
No one asked.
He then goes on and on with a list of unfound, off-the-cuff reasons the new addition should be under him.
Joe and I trade a scoffing look that tells me we agree—he’s so full of himself.
Mr. Peters nods but says, “I want each of you to prepare a proposal for the transition by the end of the month. Help me decide on the best fit.”
The moment I get back in my office, Adrian joins me, looking at me expectantly. I tell him the gist of things and ask him to run a few reports and get in touch with the outsourcing company for additional data.
“Wait a minute, Louis-ifer didn’t try to convince Peters that he’s the right man for the job?” Adrian raises his brows in question.
I smile at him. I never told Adrian why Louis and I don’t get along, but Adrian has a very sharp asshole radar. He sniffs them a mile away.
I recount Louis’s reasons for why he should manage the new group as I sign a few documents Adrian left on my desk.
“That was a three-course meal of bullshit, with a little crap petit four for dessert.”
I chuckle. “Here are the signed documents. Now go away and let me work.”
It feels like I blink my eyes, and it’s dark outside. I still have a mountain of work to tackle and the dinner with Felipo in twenty. I’ll never get there on time. I shoot him a text telling him I’ll be a little late, grab my things, and make haste to my car.
Felipo is a friend who is extremely important to me and that I simply adore. We’ve known each other for a few years. It was because of him that I started my unique way of dating. From the start, we knew things between us wouldn’t lead anywhere, nor did we ever feel anything but amicability with a little attraction toward one another. It was a mutual decision to keep seeing other people while occasionally spending a few days together. We meet whenever he visits the States and the one time I visited him in Italy. Even the numerous times that we slept together were never monumental; they were pleasant and satisfactory. The kind of sex you have after a nice dinner when you drank a little too much and a round in bed seems like an excellent idea—as is the friendly, light, and pleasant conversation that follows. The fact that we don’t take anything seriously is the only reason we have lasted this long.
Felipo stands up to greet me when I finally join him. We hug warmly, and I take a seat at the table with the candle in the center and two glasses of wine. He compliments me, telling me how beautiful he finds me; he always does. Always the charismatic Italian gentleman. With the charming accent, best compliments, best wine, best food—always making you feel like your company is the most luxurious gift.
We don’t always end up in bed, but just the undercurrent of possibility leaves me a little restless this time. Something that has never happened before. Felipo would never force himself or even try to convince me, it was always my choice, but the fact that
it’s even a prospect troubles me. If it comes up, I’ll have to talk to him and try to explain things that I’m not sure I can even explain to myself.
Felipo covers my hand with his. “Amore, there is something I need to tell you.” I smile at him, waiting for him to go on.
I hold the glass of wine near my lips, listening to him as he tells me he is dating someone, and it’s getting serious. He mentions that they already discussed the possibility of moving in together.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say, feeling both genuine happiness for my friend and . . . relief. My smile widens when he tells me that he told Beatrice all about his dear American friend.
“She has such a beautiful name. I bet she is wonderful,” I say.
He smiles, his eyes taking a new quality that I’ve never witnessed before. Something much more than contentment colors his features as he says, “Lei è tutto per me.” His eyes lift to mine. “She is everything to me.”
It tugs on my heart, but not out of jealousy for him, not at all. It’s more of a wishful ache.
As ever, my time with Felipo is delightful. We consume a bottle of wine, share a dessert, and make each other laugh over espresso.
I drop him off at his hotel after midnight. We hug for a stretched moment—transitioning our connection into new platonic waters.
In bed, by myself, thoughts poke at me, reflections on the era that came to an end tonight. They say that everyone deserves a happy ending or at least the promise of a beautiful future. But what about those who were never destined to have it all?
I turn to my side, hugging the extra pillow in my bed, close my eyes, and go back to the moment when Felipo told me that he met someone. How I almost told him I met someone too. I snuggle deeper under the cover, images of Ricky lulling me to sleep. I don’t cling to the images that make my blood rush. Rather, it’s all the other softer, more sweetly intimate moments. The ones that make my heart ache a little. Him making me dinner, the way he sometimes looks at me like he finds me precious, how his thin, plain necklace accentuates his beautiful, masculine neck, where a dark cross tattoo peeks out around his collar, the way he looks on stage when he’s caught up in a song. And mostly, this almost obsession-like buildup at the anticipation of what might happen between us each time he is near.
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 7
