by Stella Gray
Even though it felt pointless, I unpacked my books anyway. It was like having old friends around, displaying my favorite photography hardcovers depicting the work of Man Ray or detailing the world’s ancient ruins or Polaroids of colorful NYC nightlife in the 1970s, or—because playful images were just as valuable as serious ones—dogs swimming underwater. I had just finished arranging them on my dresser and nightstand, the moving boxes already broken down and stacked in the corner, when Ford came into the bedroom.
“My parents are coming to dinner,” he said.
“What?” I stared at him. “When? Tonight?”
“Seven-thirty.”
That was barely two hours away. There was so much to do. Shit.
I immediately leapt up and ran to the kitchen. A quick inspection of the fridge and bare cupboards confirmed my worst nightmare. We had nothing.
“I could have used a little warning,” I told Ford, scrambling for my keys and shoes.
He shrugged. “They didn’t ask,” he said. “They just called and said they were coming over. They do that sometimes. Claudia never minded.”
Ah. Of course the senior Malones had just gone ahead and invited themselves to dinner. Because our marriage was apparently under their purview, as was our apartment. Even in what was now my own “home,” it was clear I had absolutely no control over anything.
Clenching my jaw, I left the apartment to go shopping. Half to keep myself from throttling Ford and half because I needed to prepare for the arrival of my in-laws.
If I couldn’t change the way the apartment was decorated and I couldn’t control when Ford’s parents came over for dinner, I could at least control what we ate and how I served it.
On my drive over to the mall, I used the hands-free in my car to call in a delivery order at a local Caribbean restaurant for fresh seafood, a few different salads, and grilled veggies. I missed St. Barts, and wanted to bring the taste of the Caribbean back. Not being the best cook, I figured that rushing around in an attempt to throw something together for my in-laws would be ill advised. And I really didn’t want our apartment to smell like fish when they arrived.
Relieved that a delicious dinner would soon be on the way, I dashed into Williams Sonoma and switched my focus to shopping for items that would create an unforgettable table setting to impress the Malones—what I’d seen referred to in lifestyle magazines as a “tablescape.” With the cuisine I’d chosen, I thought it would be fun to go with a beachy theme to recreate some of the magic of the honeymoon. I was actually kind of excited.
Back at Ford’s, loaded down with shopping bags, I let the inspiration take me. I put a fishing net on the table instead of a cloth, circled the pillar candles in the center with assorted seashells, and then set out some new ocean-blue plates, terra-cotta colored napkins, and wooden utensils. With a flash of genius, I realized I could tie little bows around the napkins with pieces of twine, hinting at nautical rope.
The whole color scheme reminded me so much of St. Barts, I couldn’t help wishing Ford and I were still there.
Sure, things had been getting more complicated emotionally the longer we’d stayed. But it had also been nice to get away from all the stress (and secrets) his family had fomented in our lives. When it was just me and Ford, all we had to worry about was whether or not we wanted to go out windsurfing or stay in and fuck each other’s brains out all over our villa.
Feeling a distracting tug in my lower belly, I shook the sexy memories away and stepped back to admire my handiwork. The table looked even better than I had expected. Seconds later the doorbell rang. My adrenaline surged.
It was our food delivery, not the Malones. Thank God. I was relieved to find the order was not only on time, but also correct and smelling amazing. Ford had just finished helping me plate everything in the kitchen and pick out a bottle of wine when we heard a knock.
“That’s them,” he said, walking past me to get the door. Munchkin followed after him, tail wagging like crazy.
Even though I was still annoyed at Ford for springing his parents on me like this, I couldn’t help admiring how sexy he was. He’d changed into a black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a pair of jeans that fit him perfectly. I confess my knees went a little weak when he glanced back to give me a grin before opening the door.
My happiness faded the moment his parents walked in.
Mrs. Malone immediately put a hand to her chest, pressing her back to the wall. “Ford, dear, you know I can’t stand dogs!” she scolded as Munchkin sniffed politely at Mr. Malone’s outstretched hand.
“Sorry about that—I’ll put him in his kennel,” I said, rushing to scoop up my apparently offensive, eighteen-pound dog. “Be right back.”
When I returned, they were chatting warmly with Ford in the living room. Seeing me, the Malones’ smiles grew visibly tighter.
Neither of them actually greeted me.
“Welcome!” I said as brightly as possible. “Please, won’t you come sit down?”
“We’re so glad to have you back,” Mrs. Malone said, ignoring me as she looked back at Ford. “You were gone for much too long.”
“We were on our honeymoon,” Ford reminded her as he ushered his parents toward the dining room. “I think we were entitled to some vacation time after the wedding.”
Ford’s mother shrugged and then came to a dead halt when she saw the table.
I held my breath, swelling with pride, knowing that it looked incredible.
“It’s a tablescape,” I explained grandly. “I wanted to bring a little bit of St. Barts home to Chicago.”
“It looks…nice,” offered Mr. Malone, pulling out a chair for his wife.
“Hmm,” Mrs. Malone said, sitting down gingerly. “A little ostentatious, truth be told.”
I wilted.
“And this…” She touched the edge of the fishing net we were using as a tablecloth. “Did this come out of the garbage?”
“Mother,” Ford warned.
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s brand new.”
She shrugged.
“Well, I’m starving,” Ford’s father said, glancing around.
“I’ll go ahead and get everyone served so we can eat,” I said, inching toward the kitchen.
“Must we?” I heard Ford’s mother ask as I left the room.
“Mother,” Ford said again, sharper this time. “Be nice.”
“You know I’m just teasing,” she responded.
But she wasn’t. And when dinner came out, it only got worse.
“What is this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the food I’d put down in front of her.
“Oxtail stew, conch fritters, and a whole snapper,” I told her.
Her scowl deepened. “This fish is frowning at me. And Ford, you know spicy food doesn’t agree with your father’s digestion. Did you make this, Mara?”
I honestly didn’t know what would be worse—if I had made it, or if I admitted the truth.
“It’s actually from Garifuna Flava,” I said. “This really wonderful Caribbean restaurant here in Chicago.”
“I see,” she sniffed. “Keeping with the whole honeymoon theme. How quaint.”
I sat down, in full-blown panic mode. This was just the start of our meal. I prayed it wouldn’t get worse.
It did.
My efforts to put together a nice meal were all for naught, because apparently nothing I’d done was right. Not only were the decorations tacky, not only was the food too spicy and not “elevated” enough for their refined palates, but Ford’s mother made it a point to continually harp on all the ways that Claudia had done things better.
“I remember the last time we had dinner with the two of you,” she mused, picking at her salad. It was the only thing on her plate that she’d touched.
Of course, she wasn’t talking about me, but about Ford and Claudia.
“We had the most perfect filet mignon and asparagus souffle served on china plates,” she said. “And a private chef to make it
all! Truly one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”
She poked at her fish a couple of times, didn’t bother to try any of it, and eventually pushed the plate away. There was a bottle of wine at the center of the table, and though I’d filled everyone’s glasses when we first sat down, Ford’s mother’s was now empty and she looked at me with expectant eyes, clearing her throat. The bottle, of course, was closer to her.
“Would you like some more wine?” I asked.
“I would,” she said, turning to her husband. “Do you remember how Claudia always made sure our glasses were full? She would never have to ask.”
Ford’s father was busy eating—apparently the spices tasted just fine to him, despite his wife’s criticism. Meanwhile, Ford said nothing.
I poured the wine, but with my hands shaking, some of it spilled on the table.
Ford’s mother looked at me as if I’d spilled it directly on her.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she said, narrowing her eyes at her glass. “This wine isn’t a very good vintage, after all. Claudia always made sure to have my favorite Pinot whenever we came over.”
I was pretty sure that if I heard Claudia’s name again, I would throw something. The message was clear: I wasn’t good enough for Ford, and I never would be.
“Would anyone like dessert?” I asked. “It’s sorbet. Coconut.” The scoops were all ready to go in the freezer, in pretty blue glass bowls, topped with a sprig of mint.
“Sounds great,” Ford said. “I’ll help you clear the dishes.”
I wished he would defend me—and the meal—to his parents, but as usual, his mom was being a total steamroller. It seemed like Ford was just trying to get through the meal in one piece, as was I. But when I finally put dessert down, Mrs. Malone pushed the bowls aside.
“And now the real reason for this visit. We need to speak with you two about something very important,” Ford’s mother said.
His father was looking all around the room—anywhere but at me or Ford. Whatever this was about, I doubted he would say anything. Mrs. Malone was steering the ship. Per usual.
I braced myself, not knowing what to expect, but still expecting the worst.
“I know that you’re newlyweds,” Ford’s mother said. “And that you’re…having fun.”
Ford gagged. “Mother,” he said. “We don’t need to discuss this.”
“Oh, please.” Ford’s mother waved her hand. “All I’m saying is that you two need to be careful. It’s far too soon for children. You’re both so young.”
Ah. Right. So even though I’d agreed to divorce Ford within the year, she wasn’t content with my promise. She wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any new Malone offspring that would keep Ford tied to me—legally, financially, emotionally, or otherwise—in the future.
“We’re not even thinking about it,” Ford said. “Though honestly, this isn’t your business. It’s ours.”
“Ford’s right,” I agreed, noticing that Mr. Malone had somehow managed to make his entire bowl of sorbet disappear while the rest of us had been distracted.
I discreetly slid my bowl over to him, having thoroughly lost my appetite.
“You should both be focusing on your careers at this stage of your lives,” Ford’s mother went on. “And I’m certain Mara wouldn’t want to sacrifice her photography—not while she’s already struggling to make a name for herself in such a competitive field. Which, honestly…”
It wouldn’t be Mother Malone if she couldn’t find a way to compliment and insult me at the same time. With every word, every sentence, I felt smaller and smaller.
It was clear that this lecture wasn’t actually directed at Ford. It was Mrs. Malone’s way of not-so-subtly reminding me of our agreement, and the fact that I was expendable. That she’d do everything in her power to make sure that after the year was up, I’d be gone as planned. The threat of not paying off the Bratva was underneath all of it, of course, right under the surface.
The worst part was listening to Ford bend over backwards to agree with everything his mom was saying, which gave me the sinking feeling—yet again—that there really was no hope for us. It was the same feeling I’d had since this afternoon, when Ford refused to change anything in the apartment. And that was when it dawned on me.
Ford didn’t want to change the apartment because Claudia had lived here with him. I could see it all so clearly now. He liked the way Claudia had done things. Just like his parents did. Because Claudia wasn’t just perfect—she was perfect for him.
Ford must still be in love with her.
And me? I was just a distraction he was having fun banging. Maybe even part of a larger plot Ford had masterminded in order to make Claudia jealous—jealous enough to grovel and beg and bend to his every wish when she inevitably came back around.
And there wasn’t anything I could do about it. All I could do was perform the role I had agreed to play for the rest of the year, to the best of my ability. So that when this was all over, I’d never have to deal with the Malone family again.
Exactly the way they wanted.
Emzee
Chapter 8
By the time the Malones finally said their goodbyes and the leftover food and dirty dishes were all squared away, I wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot, soul-cleansing shower and go directly to bed.
Ideally alone.
I hated that I couldn’t go back to the sanctuary of my own apartment. I hated that I was trapped, living in what felt like a memorial to Ford’s ex-girlfriend.
Before I could make my retreat, though, Ford followed me into the bedroom, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“Oh really?” I snarked. “Do tell.”
I didn’t even try to hide my irritation. Who could blame me? He was the reason I’d gotten into this whole wedding mess in the first place. Specifically because he hadn’t wanted his parents pushing him with Claudia. And now this?
“You think I’m still in love with Claudia,” he said.
“Why would I think that?” I asked, all sarcasm. “Because you didn’t stop your parents from talking about her all night? Or—oh—maybe because you can’t bear to part with anything she touched in this apartment?”
“That’s not what—” Ford started.
“It’s no big deal,” I cut him off, “any girl would be flattered. In fact, what kind of wife wouldn’t be thrilled to live in an apartment where she’s constantly reminded of her husband’s ex? I love it.”
“This is how you want to be?” he said. “Come on, then. Let me give you the proper tour.”
Grabbing me by the arm, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall. In the living room, both of us huffing, I was steered over to the bookcase.
“This vase?” Ford spat, pointing to a beautiful, reddish brown piece of pottery with an intricate pattern carved into it. “We got that in Sri Lanka. We spent the day at Polonnaruwa and a group of women were selling things outside the entrance. She said she wanted something to remember the day by, since I first told her I loved her in front of the Parakrama Samudra.”
My stomach was in knots so tight that I felt sick, but I didn’t walk away. Instead, I let him turn me around and push me to the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room.
Ford flung open the doors, revealing shelves of neatly stacked porcelain dishes with a delicate red pattern visible at the edges.
“That china my mom was talking about? I still have it, right here in the sideboard. Claudia chose the pattern because my grandmother used to have the same one and she wanted to build on tradition together.”
My eyes were stinging, but I refused to let my tears spill over. Ford was hurting me on purpose, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Next up was the den, where I had to look at the obscenely huge, vaguely erotic painting that I hated so much.
“This painting?” Ford growled. “The one you hate?
It’s by an artist Claudia and I once met at a gallery opening that neither of us wanted to be at. We’d fought all day beforehand and the first time we’d spoken in four hours was to agree that we both loved it. It became a symbol of communication for us.”
As we went from room to room, Ford telling me the stories of all his precious fucking belongings, the tension built between us. Ford’s eyes seemed to burn into mine and the way he was looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to throttle me or rip my clothes off. I honestly couldn’t decide which one I wanted either.
Finally, we made it into his office. Both of us stared at the antique desk that stood against the wall.
“This desk?” Ford slapped his hand on it.
The sound made me jump, but I wasn’t scared. I was turned on. The anger I felt had begun to morph into lust and I could tell by the way Ford’s eyes kept raking up and down my body that he was feeling the same way.
“Tell me,” I said.
“You want to know about this desk?” he asked, advancing on me.
I nodded and he grabbed me by the hips to shove me toward it, pressing my ass up against the edge. With one simple lift, Ford could have me sitting on top of it.
“We bought it in Paris,” Ford said, his face close to mine, his voice low in my ear.
His fingers tightened against my hips and I pressed against him. He was hard. I was wet. I wanted him, and he wanted me.
“How nice for you two,” I said, glaring.
“At a famous flea market,” he continued. As he did, he began unbuttoning my shirt. “The seller swore that Hemingway had once written on it.”
My shirt was hanging open now, exposing my lace bra. Ford reached out and gave the front clasp a little flick, and my breasts spilled out.
Breathing hard, he reached out and cupped them, his thumbs dragging over my nipples more roughly than they ever had before. I arched into his touch. I wanted more.
“Tell me,” I ordered.
I spread my legs and his hands dropped to unbutton my pants and yank them off, my thong going with them in one fast, rough movement. In half a second, I was naked and Ford was hoisting me onto the desk. He was grinding against me, cock straining behind the zipper of his jeans. Groaning, I opened my legs wider, wrapping my legs around him.
