by Stella Gray
Pretty soon, my stomach was starting to rumble in earnest. It was getting close to dinner time, and the snacks we’d had on the plane hardly counted as lunch, in my book.
“Should we eat soon?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry,” Ford said, wrapping his arm around me. “Everything’s under control. Speaking of which, we’d better head back to the car.”
As if our trip to Niagara Falls wasn’t romantic enough, Ford told me he’d made us a reservation for dinner at sunset at the Skylon tower, which had a slowly rotating dining room offering 360-degree views, perched almost a thousand feet off the ground. Sitting at our table, it really felt like we were floating directly above the falls. Thrilling and terrifying and wonderful all at once. Ford seemed amused by my inability to tear my gaze from the wall of windows and the spectacular bird’s-eye view.
“Should I order for us?” he teased, refilling my wineglass. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you straight up ignore a restaurant menu.”
“Ha ha,” I shot back. “But seriously, this is just gorgeous. Thank you, Ford.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t make the falls,” he said with a smile.
“I mean it,” I said, turning to look at him. “Thank you for this whole day.”
Before I could say more, our waitress reappeared and—just as promised—Ford ordered for both of us. And he ordered half the menu, it seemed. Seared scallops over spinach, lobster tails with lemon garlic butter, steak, vegetable sides, crème brûlée and amaretto torte for dessert.
“You’re a monster,” I told him afterward. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to eat all of that.”
“You should at least taste it all,” he said. “I want you to have everything good.”
“Do you?” I asked, raising a brow.
“I do.”
He took my hands across the table, and I searched his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. His words seemed like they carried more weight than a casual dinner conversation would imply. Then the waitress came back to drop off a basket of hot bread and a plate of olive oil and herbs.
“Bet you’re glad you brought your camera,” Ford said as we tore the bread apart.
Nodding, I passed it over to him so he could click through some of the digital photos.
Laughing, he tilted the tiny screen toward me. “This one’s great.”
It was. A small Vietnamese boy, not more than four years old I’d guess, was chasing a flapping pigeon that had a French fry hanging from its mouth. I’d gotten that shot purely by luck.
But more than the camera, I realized, I was glad that I had Ford with me.
What was happening between us? It felt like more than friendship. More than sex. I wondered if I could trust it, trust him—if I could believe in us. One day didn’t erase all the problems we’d had, the years of his manipulations and our unbalanced power dynamic. And who could say that Claudia wouldn’t be back with her finger crooked at him?
Could I picture Ford truly standing up to his parents and declaring his love for me? Fighting to keep me, to keep our marriage intact? Honestly, no. I couldn’t.
At the same time, I couldn’t have pictured the sex we’d had last night either. The hand holding, the eye contact. Yet it had happened. Today had happened. Ford’s hands had been on me ever since we woke up this morning, and his affection and warmth had continued all the way up until now. Our relationship had been such a roller-coaster ride, but one thing that seemed consistent was the way it was constantly shifting, deepening, strengthening. Through thick and thin, for better or worse, we were growing closer by the day. It was undeniable.
Still, I couldn’t just abandon reality and jump wholeheartedly into the fantasy version of our marriage. The fact was, I had an agreement with the Malones to divorce Ford in less than a year. And that was after Ford had drawn up a contract with me that essentially said the same thing, though for very different reasons. This…thing between us, whatever it was, and no matter how nice it felt in the moment, was too good to be true in the long run. It wasn’t meant to last.
But for today, I could pretend. Let myself forget the act, have one perfect vacation day, a second honeymoon—one where I could believe we were embarking on a fresh new beginning, rather than stealing a few quiet moments that would eventually have to end.
I was so entranced by the view of the sunset (and my tangled web of thoughts) that I couldn’t make myself turn away from the candy-like splashes of color until I smelled the food being set down on our tablecloth.
“Everything looks so delicious,” I practically moaned, my mouth watering.
“Make sure you save room for dessert,” Ford reminded me with a wink.
The table was practically overflowing with French onion soup, perfectly cooked steak and lobster tails, fresh smoked Canadian salmon, the scallops, roasted zucchini and shiitakes. I didn’t even remember Ford ordering half the dishes spread out before us.
As we ate, the sun dropped into the horizon, leaving trails of bright pink and orange across the sky. By the time our desserts came out, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to eat them.
“I don’t know if I can stand another bite,” I said, sighing as I looked down at the plates.
“Oh, I think you can,” Ford said, picking up a spoon.
I watched as he tapped the crème brûlée, cracking the caramelized layer of burnt sugar on top, and then scooped up a perfect mouthful of custard and topping.
“Open wide,” he said.
Blushing, I obeyed, and he slipped the spoon between my lips, locking eyes with me as I sucked the dessert into my mouth.
“Mmm,” I moaned. Glancing around the dining room, I realized we were at one of the only tables that was still occupied. It was almost like we had the restaurant all to ourselves. “Now the chocolate.”
“As my lady commands,” Ford said, smiling devilishly.
My husband went on feeding me dessert, kissing me between bites, and I reveled in the romance of it all as we sat perched among the stars, with eyes for nothing and no one but each other.
Ford
Chapter 26
We returned to Chicago, and time flew by in a glorious frenzy of sex and cozy companionship as Emzee and I reclaimed the strange little life we had been building. Our arrangement might have been unorthodox, but it worked for us. And for Munchkin.
Our morning breakfasts together had made a comeback, but with more talking and less reading our emails or mindlessly scrolling through our social media accounts. In fact, the apartment had almost become a screen-free zone, unless we were both working at our computers or watching a movie. When we were home, we were together.
Ever since the New York trip, I’d tried my best to be present and pay closer attention to my wife’s wants and needs. When she mentioned that Munch was getting stinky, I took him to the groomer on my lunch break and surprised Emzee by bringing him home at the end of the work day with a fresh scent and a bandana around his neck. If she texted me about her bubble tea craving, I’d have one delivered to her office within the hour. Work stress got her down? I made time to draw her a bath or give her a massage.
Because whatever I had with her, I wanted to keep on having it. Which meant treating her like she mattered just as much as I did. It honestly wasn’t much of a hardship, and it made me regret not giving her more consideration in the past. The truth was, I’d basically had my head up my ass for seven years. The girl of my dreams had been standing in front of me all along—I’d just been too self-absorbed to realize it. Now that I had her, I wasn’t letting her go.
I also earned more brownie points when I taught a second workshop to a handful of the women from See Yourself who had expressed an interest in learning more about real estate. That wasn’t the end of my good deeds, though. A few weeks later, after discussing the matter with Malone Real Estate Holdings’ HR department, I was able to offer paid internships to two of the mentees who seemed to be the most promising prospects. Taking Emzee’s advic
e into account, I even made sure the interns would be answering to a woman supervisor at MREH, to avoid any discomfort or potentially traumatic power dynamics. So far, things were working out great.
As for Emzee, she’d remained guarded in some respects, but beyond that she’d done everything I had asked and more. Hell, it was the more that was giving me so much hope.
She’d switched us back to real bacon after noticing that I was secretly feeding my portion of the turkey kind to Munchkin. She’d been practically taking notes in the bedroom, too. After one particularly hot blowjob, she’d made sure to repeat the move that got me off so hard—using her thumb to stroke the soft skin at the base of my balls while she was sucking—every time she’d given me head since. And when I had to work late, Emzee would hold off on watching our shows until I got home, so we could still watch them together over dinner.
Yet despite the fact that everything was going well, it all felt fragile.
If either of us were to actually acknowledge what was happening between us, try to talk about it or question it in any way, it might shatter everything. The relationship we were building wasn’t a house of cards—it was a house of glass. Beautiful, delicate…and not necessarily built to last. No matter how much either of us might wish otherwise. But now, See Yourself’s fundraiser was upon us, and I couldn’t focus on anything else.
It was all Emzee had been able to think (and stress) about for the last week and a half, so even if I wanted to avoid worrying about the whole thing, it would have been impossible.
As we pulled up in front of my parents’ meticulously kept brownstone mansion, I gave Em’s hand a reassuring squeeze. There were still a few last-minute logistics to deal with.
“I’m so nervous I feel like I’m going to be sick,” she said, huffing out a sigh.
“It’ll be okay,” I told her, putting the car in park and turning off the engine. “I’m sorry it’s so uncomfortable for you. Just try to think about all the good it’ll do for the nonprofit.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s gonna be worth it in the end. I mean, that’s what’s gotten me this far, right? It’s just…ugh.”
“Hard to accept help from snooty rich people?” I suggested.
“Especially snooty rich people who obviously don’t like you. This is going to be the longest night ever.” Her anxiety was so bad, I could see her hands shaking in her lap.
“My parents do like you,” I soothed. “They’re just…slow to warm up. Unlike me.”
Then I pulled her in for a kiss, letting myself get lost in her soft lips and quiet moans for longer than I should have. Wishing more than anything that I could kiss her nerves away.
“Better get rid of that semi, Mr. Malone,” Emzee whispered, dragging her hand over the bulge in my pants. “Though I wouldn’t mind revisiting it later.”
“Or we could just take care of it now…” I grinned suggestively. “We have time.”
“As much as I’d love to have a quickie in the back seat of your car right outside your parents’ house, I’m going to need every spare minute to get ready for this event,” Emzee said.
“Then I’ll take you up on that raincheck when we get home tonight.”
I composed myself as quickly as possible and we headed up the front steps, holding hands as I rang the doorbell. The sound of it echoed from inside the house, and I could hear footsteps rushing down the stairs toward us.
“Here goes nothing,” Emzee said under her breath, seconds before the door opened.
“Ford!” my parents’ housekeeper Vivi exclaimed, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And sweet Mara. Lovely to see you both. Come in, dear hearts. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived. Mara, do you want me to set your dress bag in an upstairs bedroom so you can get ready? Claudia’s changing down the hall to the left, so I’ll just put you in a room to the right.”
“Thank you, that’s perfect,” Emzee said gratefully. “I’ll be up shortly.”
The housekeeper bustled away, and I leaned down to tell Emzee, “Vivi loves you.”
“Vivi loves everybody,” Emzee replied.
“Fair point,” I conceded.
Vivi had always been the brightest, warmest thing in my parents’ mansion. Growing up, the place had felt more like a museum full of rare antiques and expensive furniture and paintings than an actual house for a living, breathing family. Vivi’s peanut butter cookies and kind counsel had made a difference, but even her goodness hadn’t made up for the way my parents had always made me feel like an inconvenience—or a disappointment—to them.
Just then, Emzee’s cell rang. She glanced down at the screen. “Shit. Don’t be bad news.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“The caterer,” she said, picking up. “Hello? …This is she.”
Emzee paced the hall, and from her end of the conversation I gathered that the caterer’s fishmonger had raised the price on salmon but lowered the price of caviar. They were asking if she wanted to tweak the fundraiser’s menu to avoid a several-thousand-dollar upcharge.
“I understand that,” she was saying, visibly losing her cool, “but salmon with orzo is an entrée. Caviar with orzo is not. Do you see the problem?”
“Em—” I said, holding out a hand to take the phone.
Shaking her head, she looked down at her screen and her eyes got wide. “Let me call you right back,” she said, tapping her screen and then holding it to her ear again. “Hello?”
It was the events manager at the Four Seasons. Their sound system was on the fritz and they weren’t sure it would be repaired in time for the fundraiser in a few hours. Were speeches with microphones necessary, or could Emzee get by with offering heartfelt greetings in the venue’s foyer? The hotel was happy to print up any speeches or other informational materials to be set out on the tables, if it would help.
By the time my wife got off her second call from hell, sweat was beading at her temples and I could see her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
“Why don’t you take a break?” I said, my hands on her shoulders. “I’ll call the caterers first and then chew out the manager of the Four Seasons. A non-functional PA system is unacceptable, and if they can’t provide one per your agreement, they’ll have to make some calls and hire outside contractors to come in and set something up. But none of that is your job.”
Nodding, Emzee said, “Maybe not my job, but it is my problem.”
“Not for long. Just give me a few minutes to fix this,” I told her. “I promise I’ll make it better.”
“But—”
“Nope,” I said. “Now get that sexy ass upstairs and into that dress. I’ll be up soon.”
She sighed heavily, handing over her phone. “Thank you.”
After she disappeared upstairs, I called the caterers to argue for a discount on the caviar option and have them swap it out with the scallop appetizer to make the scallops the main entree. This required the order of scallops to triple, but I worked in a discount for that as well.
Claudia was still upstairs, too busy primping (or pouting, more likely) to deal with any of these issues—which frankly should have been her purview, and I didn’t need Emzee to mention it for me to know it. Frankly, it was bad business.
And I didn’t have to think too hard to guess why she had dropped the ball.
Ever since the night out for Roxana’s birthday, I’d managed to avoid Claudia. It had been good for everyone—except Claudia, of course. She kept trying to worm her way back into my life, calling and texting me with questions about the fundraiser that should have been directed toward Emzee, but I just redirected them, refusing to respond to her in any capacity beyond my role as Emzee’s husband who was helping her put the fundraiser together. I’d learned my lesson.
Playing into Claudia’s hands in the past had done nothing but force my wife to flee into the arms of Andrew Apellido. The bruises on my face and the stitches above my eye had healed, but I wasn’t going down that road a second time. I might have won the fi
rst round fight, but I wouldn’t put myself in a position where I could lose Emzee again.
Unfortunately, the side effect of me avoiding Claudia was her using it as an excuse to avoid doing the work she had promised to do for See Yourself.
Mischief managed for the time being, I headed upstairs to check on Em. But she wasn’t in the guest room that Vivi had set up for her, and her dress bag was still draped over the bed. The bathroom was unoccupied, so I surmised that she’d gone to speak with my parents. There was no way Emzee would be fraternizing with Claudia, after all.
Maybe it was a good thing. And if Emzee hadn’t spoken to her about Claudia’s behavior already, maybe I could get my mother to remind Claudia that she was supposed to be handling any and all last-minute SNAFUs for the fundraiser tonight. I’d genuinely thought that my ex would be a consummate professional, but apparently I had been wrong.
As for me, it was my job to make sure Emzee was aware of the time, get her zipped into her dress, and kiss her good luck. I’d hand her phone back over, but with the caveat that she would be fielding no more phone calls.
I started for my parents’ bedroom at the far end of the hall, but as I approached the library, I slowed down, overhearing stern voices coming from within.
The fucking library. I’d hated that room as a kid. Stuffed with impressive books that my parents had never actually read, it was the place where I’d always gotten lectures about how I wasn’t living up to my “potential.” Even in high school, that’s where my parents would scold me about my future and every little thing I was doing wrong. More recently, they’d sat me down in there and tried to convince me to reconsider my breakup with Claudia.
“I have to say,” I heard my mother saying coldly, “I’m extremely disappointed in your recent conduct.”
Recent conduct? What was she talking about?
