by Jordyn White
We grasp each other in shuddering tenderness.
He is my future.
It goes on and on, then when we finally start to come down from the high, my body turns to uncooperative mush. Both trying to catch our breath, Rayce lifts off me and settles to my side, pulling me next to him, back to front. I’m cocooned in his arms, my head on his bicep, our hearts pounding thickly and slowly settling down. The mirror is in front of us, so I have a complete view of us.
There was a time when I would’ve been mortified by these extra curves, worried about what that could mean for my career. But now I don’t see a problem. I see a healthy body. And it doesn’t feel like something that’s trying to work against me anymore. I’ve always been the master of my body, but I wasn’t always comfortable with all its bits and pieces. But now my contentedness seeps down into my bones.
I watch Rayce’s hand as his fingertips lightly brush up my outer thigh, my hips, and down to the curve of my stomach. He pulls me more snugly against him, and his nose nestles into the hairline behind my ear. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Holding my eyes, he gently kisses below my ear. His hand softly cups my stomach, and I rest my hand on his. We lie there, eyes on one another, our naked bodies still and close. The mirror shows me all of it. I have no desire to look away. I love what I see. Him. Me. Us.
I slowly roll over, staying wrapped in his arms. Our faces are close and I brush my fingertips along his jaw, and look into his eyes. His arms are around my bare back, and his hand in my hair, fingers gently caressing the back of my neck. I am awash with him, buoyant with the love I see on his face and the love I feel in return.
His nearness is even more exhilarating than executing the perfect grand jeté in front of two thousand breathless people. It’s astonishing.
Then it occurs to me.
He props himself up on his elbows, smiling down at me. “If I hadn’t left dance,” I say, still astonished, “I never would have met you.”
He smiles and hmmms, all warm and rumbly. “Yes, that’s true. But sweetheart...” he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead, “you didn’t leave dance. You only left the stage.”
Chapter 40
Rayce
It’s time.
It’s past time.
I have to tell her, before this goes any further. This is getting so much deeper than I knew was possible. She has to know.
But we go to sleep that night, and I don’t tell her.
We go through the entire next day, and I don’t tell her then either.
We fly home on Wednesday and put in our obligatory late hours at work and I verbally tuck her in on her phone after her shift before she goes to bed—in her own apartment because she works so early tomorrow morning—and I still don’t tell her.
I’m in my office, staring at my phone, dozens of emails vying for my attention as I attempt to clear out my inbox. I know I can’t let this go on.
And I’m terrified.
There are other notable times in my life when I’ve been terrified: when my twelve-year-old brother jumped from the cliff’s edge, seemingly heading for disaster on the rocks in the ocean below.
When I had to lift a cool, white sheet off of two bodies in the Swan Pointe morgue, praying, praying, praying I wouldn’t discover my parents’ faces underneath.
When the realization sank in that I’d have to face the rest of my life without them.
Confessing my past to Emma measures up against all those times in my life. Selfishly, if I could hide this from her forever I would. But she deserves to know, and I can’t let her continue down this path with me until she does.
I know I will chicken out again the next time I see her. I have to do this right now.
I pick up the phone and press her number.
My pulse pounds in my throat as I try to think how I’m going to tell her this. Maybe I’ll just spit it out, the way she did.
But it goes to voice mail. She must be asleep.
The tone beeps. I open my mouth, wishing I were just there with her.
“Hi. I just... wanted to say goodnight one last time.”
When I hang up, I make a promise to myself that this time I know I’ll keep. I’m going to tell her.
Tomorrow.
Less than twelve hours later, I know I’ve made a grave error. If I’d just manned up and told her before, I wouldn’t be wondering how in the hell I’m going to untangle the mess I’m in now.
It’s a quarter after noon. I’m standing at the counter of Guido’s, waiting for my slice of veggie pizza and Coke. The latest copy of The Voice is crinkling in my grasp.
Rita Becker is at it again.
Mr. Rayce Rivers, who co-owns Swan Pointe’s internationally-known Rivers Paradise Resort with his two siblings, is the defendant of a lawsuit citing wrongful termination. Plaintiff Taylor Norrell worked for the resort for less than six months before abruptly losing her livelihood in June of last year. The claim is that she and the illustrious Rayce Rivers had been involved in an illicit affair, and when things went sideways, she lost not only the relationship but her job as well.
As previously reported in this column, Mr. Rivers (the elder) is known to have had more than one relationship with resort employees, a serious no-no according to their own handbook. Apparently the rules don’t apply to the boss.
While Mr. Rivers has apparently denied these rumors to those who know him, there is little doubt Miss Norrell was one of many of Mr. Rivers’ inappropriate conquests on his own property.
Though the charges are for wrongful termination, an anonymous source suggests it could be more than that. Will there be more lawsuits forthcoming? Or charges added to this one? Time will tell. But this columnist anticipates plenty to discuss in the coming weeks and will, as always, keep you informed.
So this is what Taylor Norrell has been hinting at this entire time? Taking a story to that damned Rita Becker so she can smear my reputation all over town? Why they went so far as to invent a sham lawsuit is beyond me. Neither one of them are my concern.
My concern is Emma. I was already dreading her reaction. This makes things far, far worse.
“I don’t know why you read that drivel,” Guido says, setting a paper plate with my slice of pizza on the counter, followed by my Coke. “The stuff they make up about you isn’t going to upset you if you don’t know about it to start with.”
This is the other part that kills me. For the most part, people assume these sorts of rumors about me are lies. What kind of charlatan does that make me?
But Guido’s question reminds me where I am. I’ve been gripping this paper like I want to strangle it, in a public place where anyone can see my reaction. That won’t help matters any.
I force myself to take on a more collected composure. Before I get a chance to make a dismissive comment, blowing it off, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn toward the person standing behind me, an older gentleman in a worn San Francisco Giants cap and a T-shirt that reads ‘Duke’s Waikiki’.
“Oh, wow,” he says with a wide grin. “You’re Rayce Rivers, aren’t you? Owner of that resort?”
Impatient to get out of here so I can call Emma, but not wanting to be rude, I nod. “Yes, I am. Are you staying with us?”
Nodding and grinning, he offers his hand to shake mine, but when I reach for it, he slips a large manila envelope I hadn’t noticed he was holding into my hand. I grab it instinctively. He drops both his hand and his smile.
“Congratulations. You’ve just been served.”
Then that crafty bastard laughs and heads for the door. The long-dormant adolescent in me wants to bolt after him, knock his fucking Giants hat off his head, and plant my fist into that cheeky smile. Instead I remember who I am— always, always remembering who I am—and tear open the envelope, trying to ignore Guido watching me curiously.
I pull the papers out and curse under my breath.
Turns out the lawsuit wasn’t a sham after all.
Chapter 41
Rayce
> I call Emma, but it goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message but I send a text.
We need to talk. Come to my office.
There’s no response. I tell myself that her phone is probably just put away because she’s on shift, or it’s off, or her battery is dead. None of this is helpful. She’s at work, and if this has hit the grapevine on property, she’ll hear about it.
I get into my car and head up the hill to the resort. A million scenarios run through my head—all of which can be summed up with one general idea: she knows and she’s never speaking to me again.
I’m panicked. I can’t lose her.
I pull up her number to dial again when I’m interrupted by an incoming call.
It’s our lawyer, George Hollister.
“Hi George.”
He gets right to the point. “Is there something you should be telling me or is this just Rita Becker flapping her gums again?”
“No. I was just served. Can I come by later this afternoon?”
“I’ll have my secretary clear a slot and give you a call.” He’s always so calm, no matter what’s happening.
“Thank you.”
“Rayce, this is just wrongful termination, right? Nothing else?”
I sigh. “Let’s just talk about it when I get there.”
There’s silence on the other end as I reach the top of the hill, our parents’ magnificent resort up ahead. What the fuck have I done? How much is this going to cost us? Why the fuck didn’t I just handle this before?
Even George has been knocked into uncharacteristic silence by my stupidity.
I’m glad I don’t have to face him right in this moment. I’m embarrassed enough. It’s made worse by the fact that I like George. He and Dad were friends long before we kids were born, and handles not just any legal questions we have on behalf of the resort but is the trustee for Mom and Dad’s estate.
I trust him implicitly and like him and he’s just the first in what’s probably going to be a long line of people I’m letting down.
He’s never going to think of me the same way again.
“I see,” he says. “Well, we’ll handle whatever it is.”
I rub my forehead with my fingers. “Thanks, George.”
As soon as we get off the phone I try Emma again. Again no answer. Is she busy with work, or purposely avoiding me?
In the time it takes to park and head up to the executive offices, I try two more times. I know I’m losing it. It’s taking a lot of fucking willpower not to go looking for her.
I enter the executive offices with the same purposeful steps I always have, and I don’t look around at the faces in the center cluster of cubicles or at the ones behind the desks in the offices I pass. I act normal. Because if this hasn’t hit the rumor mill, I’m certainly not going to do anything to help it along. And if it has, well then my demeanor matters now more than ever.
I pass Connor’s office and see him sitting at his desk out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t slow.
I enter my office, close the door behind me, and pull up Emma’s number on my phone.
Before I hit dial, my door opens. Without anyone knocking. I stop just short of my chair and turn to see Connor coming in and closing the door behind him. He’s got that look on his face. It’s the same look he had when he asked me about an affair before and immediately understood my answer for the lie it was.
Fuck. I can’t do this right now. I need to talk to Emma.
“Have you seen the paper?” he asks.
I grunt and head around to my chair. I plop into my seat and set my briefcase on my desk. “Yes.”
His jaw tightens and his eyes flash with irritation. “And?”
I pull out the papers and hold them up to him.
His eyes dart to the papers, then back to me, then back to the papers. He steps forward and grabs them.
While he’s reading, I lean back and stare at my briefcase.
After a minute, he holds the stack up and our eyes meet. He spits out, “Is this the only one or not?”
“The only lawsuit or the only girl?”
He slams the papers on my desk. “Fuck, Rayce. Are there two different answers?”
I rub my forehead with my fingertips, pinching my eyes shut. All right, I need to come all the way clean, but we’re not doing it like this. “Sit down, Connor.”
It takes a minute of him standing there while my blood thumps through my veins, but he sits. Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at my door. Not that I’m answering it. Whoever it is can just go away.
Then we hear, “It’s Lizzy.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. She must’ve seen Connor come in and knows we’re the only two in here, or she wouldn’t have called like that. “May as well tell you both at once.”
Connor just glares at me and answers Lizzy himself. “Come in.”
My sister slips in, a guileless smile on her pretty face, and pushes the door closed behind her. With a lightness in her walk, she heads for the chair next to Connor.
“Hey, I just had to see if you guys—” Her steps slow as she notices our expressions. She stops. “What is it?”
“Have a seat,” Connor says, eyes still on me. “Rayce has something to tell us.”
She slowly comes over and sinks to the edge of her chair, examining Connor. It’s not too often he gets his feathers ruffled like this, so she has to be wondering what’s up.
“You didn’t happen to see Rita’s column today, did you?” I ask.
Her green eyes come to mine. God, this is almost as bad as having to tell Emma. Almost. But at least with Emma, I sort of had a chance to mentally prepare. I never, ever thought I’d have to tell my sister what I’m going to tell her now.
She notices the papers on my desk and picks them up. I watch her silently reading them, watch as her face starts to relax.
“So that is all it is, then.” She tosses the papers back onto my desk dismissively. “She’s got nothing on us. We have a paper trail on her a mile long.” She leans back in her chair. “She was lucky we didn’t fire her sooner.”
Connor and I exchange glances. Of course, Lizzy is giving me the benefit of the doubt. Does it even occur to her to wonder if the rest of Rita’s column is true?
Well, if it didn’t, she must see it on my face now. Her expression slowly starts to change. My chest tightens and my stomach drops. Connor was bad enough. This is so much worse.
I look between the two of them and steel myself. “We had an affair.”
Lizzy shakes her head just slightly and blinks her eyes several times, as if trying to undo the words I just said.
“And there were two others.”
Her mouth drops into a mortified ‘O’. She takes me in without blinking. It happens right in front of my eyes: my downfall in the eyes of my little sister.
Connor, meanwhile, is still glaring at me.
I keep going. “That’s not including Emma. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, but she’s—”
“Emma?” Lizzy repeats, like she still can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Emma Swanson. Our employee in banquet?”
“Goddammit, Rayce. You promised you would stop that shit.”
“I did. It’s not like that with her.”
Lizzy throws both hands in the air, palms toward each of us. She turns to Connor, her eyes dark slits. “You knew?”
“I knew about one.”
Lizzy leaps to her feet and we instinctively follow. “What the hell! Are you kidding me?”
“Keep your voice down,” Connor says.
But Lizzy’s found a safer target for her anger. “Don’t tell me what to do! You knew and what? Figured you’d just go along with it?”
“Don’t take this out on him,” I say flatly. “It’s me you’re angry with.”
She spins on me, her anger wavering and hurt welling up in its place. “You don’t get to tell me what I am right now. God,” she turns away, her hands in the air. �
�I can’t even look at you.”
“Lizzy, please sit down. I’m sorry. Let me explain this to both of you. It was after Mom and Dad died and—”
“This has nothing to do with them,” she spits out, “you...” But she stops before she says what I am.
She’s marching to the door.
“Lizzy.”
She grabs the knob.
“I love her.”
She freezes, her back to me and her hand on the handle. Connor’s mouth falls open. For the first time since he walked in here, he doesn’t look ready to pound me.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in love with her.”
Lizzy doesn’t turn around or respond. She quietly leaves, closing the door behind her.
I turn and brace my hands on my desk, my head falling between my arms. My entire life is blowing up around me. And I still haven’t heard back from Emma. Does she even know yet?
“Rayce,” I hear Connor say. There’s no anger in his voice anymore. If anything, there’s a tinge of the distress I’m overwhelmed by. “What’s going on?”
I take a resolute breath, drop into the seat next to him, and tell him everything.
Chapter 42
Emma
My shift is dragging today. The six hours I’ve been here feels like six days. Alice wants an inventory of our dishes so I’m going through cupboard after cupboard, tallying dinner plates, dessert plates, saucers, cups, water glasses, red wine glasses, white wine glasses, and on and on. I’m not opposed to menial tasks, but this one is driving me batty. I’m beyond ready to go home.
But, actually, that might be because of the message I got from Rayce last night. Mostly, it was crazy sweet. He wanted to say goodnight one more time, as if we hadn’t just spent all that time on the phone saying goodnight, over and over before we finally found it within ourselves to hang up.
God, the way that man melts my heart.
I texted him this morning, no doubt while he was still asleep, and told him how much I loved waking up to the sound of his voice and that I couldn’t wait to see him tonight.
I really can’t, for all the normal reasons, but something in the tone of his voice has been nagging at me. He sounded... worried, which makes me worry every time I think about it. I’m trying not to, but counting salad plates isn’t the most engaging task in the world so it’s hard not to dwell on it.
