by Beth Ciotta
“So tell me about your family. Your childhood,” I say. “Especially the part involving your grandmother.”
Nick pushes aside his plate, savors the wine, then rolls back his shoulders as if gearing up for a dreaded task. “My birth father’s been out of the picture since I was three,” he says. “Marriage and fatherhood wasn’t his thing so he bailed.
“My mom spent the next several years waitressing during the day and looking for love at night. I was,” he shrugs, “a complication. Luckily she had my grandmother to fall back on as a round-the-clock babysitter. Gram was amazing. A free spirit with an infectious laugh and boundless tolerance. Nothing rattled that woman’s chains. I don’t think I ever saw her angry.”
He pauses and I tense, anxious for more.
“Gram was my world. My rock. I thought she’d be a part of my life forever, but everything changed around my tenth birthday. Mom remarried and Gram grew distant.”
“Because your stepdad was in the house?”
“Yeah, Ron’s a bit of a prick. Soon after he moved in, Gram told me she met someone special. ‘Life’s full of surprises and curve balls,’ she said.”
Another pause. More wine. “She moved overseas and…fell out of touch.”
“That seems odd to me,” I say. “Given how close you were.”
“I was devastated at first. How do you so easily cut ties with someone you profess to love?”
“But, wait. Didn’t you say she sent letters?”
“Random greeting and postcards. Although those stopped after the first couple of years.”
“She never phoned?”
“She touched base once in a blue moon. For a while.”
Nick drags a hand down his face and I can tell he’s keen to drop the subject. “Listen, Meg. I admit I felt betrayed and I’ve carried a grudge for years, but life, Gram’s life, is short. Time to bury the hatchet.”
I suspect that’s easier said than done. Also, I can’t help but feel there’s more to the story.
As our meal progresses, Nick shares a few more slivers of his past and, as we’re leaving, I’m thinking about our families, which are completely different.
He lived in several different locations. I grew up in one town.
Most everyone in his small family is a flake or a hard-ass. Everyone in my family is wealthy and stable.
We have one thing in common, though. We’re both artistic outcasts.
Just as we hit the cobblestone lane, torrential rain pours down on us and we run for cover. Soaked to the bone, we laugh. It feels good, given our somber dinner discussion.
Ducking under the overhang of a quirky pottery shop, I pull my dripping hair from my face, smile up at Nick and meet his gaze, and—wham!—there it is.
Desire.
Hyper-aware of our chemistry and desperate for the kiss that eluded me in the cathedral square, I use the physical aspect of our ruse as an excuse to advance my cause.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say. “In order for your grandmother to believe we’re newlyweds we should probably act like newlyweds.”
“Head over heels.”
“Touchy-feely.”
He smooths his hands down my drenched back, cups my ass, and pulls me close. “Like this?”
“Yeah.” I lick rain from my lips. “And, um, you know. A kiss here and there.”
“Like this?” He brushes his lips over mine—brief but electrifying.
“And maybe this.” I tangle my fingers in his hair and drag him down for an open-mouthed kiss. We instantly mesh.
And burn.
In a flash, he takes control of the most torrid kiss of my life.
Overwhelmed, I ease back and catch a glimpse of something in his smoldering gaze. Something that startles me because, if it’s true, I’ve been an insensitive jerk.
Is it possible Nick’s flirtations over the last few months were genuine? Did I write him off as an insincere, immature hound because it made him easier to ignore?
Or…am I simply desperate enough to misinterpret practiced seduction for genuine affection?
My heart’s pounding so hard I can barely hear my thoughts.
There’s still the matter of our age difference and conflicting career drive. Anything deeper than shallow sex is doomed for failure, right?
“So we’re good, then,” I blurt. “We can definitely fool your grandmother into thinking we’re newlyweds. Glad we got that out of the way,” I crack with a nervous laugh while inching away and…tripping ass-backward.
Chapter 18
“SURE YOU’RE OKAY?” Nick calls through the door.
We’re back at the hotel and I’m holed up in the bathroom, rinsing soil out of my beige capris. “Dinged ego is all.”
Unfortunately, I’ve suffered worse than falling into a massive planter of flowers. While filming Epic Adventures I’ve had some pretty epic mishaps. Especially this past year, as Ben so ungraciously pointed out.
Draping my wet pants over a heated towel rack, I hit the shower for a quick rinse then slip into a complimentary fleece robe and towel-dry my hair. Considering I put a damper on the sizzle with my nervous chatter and graceless tumble, I don’t fuss over my appearance.
I exit the bathroom and see Nick sitting in a chair, hunched over his phone.
Again with the texting. But that’s not at the heart of my immediate fluster.
He shucked his soaked clothes. Well, not all his clothes. He’s still wearing his boxer shorts. But as he sets aside his phone and stands I notice those shorts are damp and clingy.
I flutter a hand toward the bathroom, “All yours,” I say as I totally admire his package.
He squeezes my hand as he brushes past. “I won’t be long.”
Before I can give too much thought to the hand squeeze, my cell rings.
Nick shuts himself in the bathroom as I answer. “Hi, Liza.”
“Are you sitting down?”
Chest tight, I plop into the chair Nick just vacated. “What’s up?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
Let’s see…She booked me a gig promoting hiking boots at a tourism trade show. The Shopping Bonanza Show revoked their offer to guest co-host. The studio’s refusing to pay my severance. “Can you narrow it down, Liza? I’m envisioning a half a dozen scenarios.”
“Silverman’s banging Delecorte.”
That’s not one of them.
“They haven’t gone public,” she says, “but I heard about the affair from someone who knows someone.”
“So it’s a rumor. Meaning there’s a chance it’s not true.”
“Megan. Honey.”
I palm my forehead. I can’t, don’t want to believe this. But Ben’s a dog and Missy’s a bombshell. A promiscuous, adventurous bombshell with high aspirations.
“You should prepare for questions from the media regarding ageism in the industry as well as speculation that you yourself might have slept your way into that job.”
“What?”
“I can see the tabloid headlines. Out with the old, in with the new.” Liza swears, then sighs. “Sorry, hon. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” I’m too pissed to be hurt. “I didn’t sleep my way into that hosting job, Liza. I nailed the audition, not Ben.”
“I know that. Listen. This news may or may not break, but if it does…I wanted to give you a heads up.”
“Thanks,” I croak. “I should go.”
“You okay?”
“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll be in touch. Thanks again, Liza.”
I sign off and, since I can still hear the shower running, I dial Ben the betraying bastard.
I half expect his voice mail, so I’m surprised when he answers. “What’s going on with you, Meg? Drew stopped by your apartment to check on you and—”
“Drew. Not you.” I’m trembling now. Like Nick said, how can someone who professes to care cut ties just like that? “I thought you told me you never mix business with pleasure.”
Pause. Big freaking guilty pause.
“I don’t know what you heard—”
“I think you know exactly what I heard.”
“Meg, I—”
“Screw you, Ben.”
“Meg, lis—”
I hang up on him just as the door swings opens and Nick emerges in a shroud of steam, a towel wrapped low around his hips.
I don’t think. I act. Combatting the ultimate rejection, I move swiftly, pinning my pretend husband against the wall intent on the ultimate union.
Chapter 19
WITHIN SECONDS WE’RE rolling around on the bed. He lost that towel in the tussle and my sash loosened so my robe’s open. There’s skin on skin as we kiss and grope.
It’s frenzied and it’s hot.
He wants me and I’m stoked.
Stoked to get all bendy and adventurous. Stoked to prove I’m still desirable.
I’m trailing hot kisses across his chest, down his rock-hard abs, and…
“Wait.” Nick grasps my shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but stop.” He tugs me up his body, catches my chin and holds my gaze. “What’s going on?”
“If you have to ask—”
“Don’t be glib, Meg. A half hour ago you made it pretty clear this wasn’t going to happen. Why the change of heart?”
Tears spring to my eyes. Not because he’s rejecting me, but because I’m angry and embarrassed. I slide off him, off the bed. I close my robe and cinch the sash.
Nick swings his feet to the floor, comfortable in the raw as he leans forward and braces his forearms on his knees. “Talk to me, Meg.”
I pace back and forth, avoiding his gaze as I struggle not to cry, as I battle for calm.
“My agent called. My ex-producer’s having an affair with my replacement.”
“Replacement? I thought they canceled the show.”
“They canceled me. The show’s getting a makeover. Same crew. Same producer. Different title and concept. Different host. And Ben’s sleeping with her.”
“And that upsets you.”
“Of course it upsets me!”
“So you’re in love with him?”
“What? No. I don’t…No.” I jam my hands through my damp curls while sorting my jumbled feelings. “It wasn’t love. More like a crush. A major crush. Nothing ever happened between us, although I wanted it and he flirted like he would if he could. He once told me he never sleeps where he works.”
“But he broke that rule for her. Whoever she is.”
I realize suddenly that I never told Nick the specifics behind my termination. “Ever watch that reality show Vegas Vixens?”
“Too soap opera for me, but I know the cast. Hard not to when those ladies are all over the internet. Are you telling me your replacement is one of them?”
I can’t even look him in the eye. “The flair bartender.”
“Missy Delecorte?”
“You know her name. Of course, you do. Everyone does.”
“I know her name because she’s always in the news for posting controversial comments and selfies on social media. Not to diminish the skills of extreme bartending, but how does flipping and juggling liquor bottles qualify Missy as a travel show host?”
I glance over and my chest tightens because he truly looks perplexed. “I asked Ben that same question when he fired me. He reminded me that the only skills needed to do my job, my former job, a passion for life, an appreciation of travel, and a charismatic personality.
“Missy has all that,” I ramble on, “plus she’s twenty years younger than me and appeals to a broader demographic. Plus she’s able and willing to push the envelope by participating in extreme thrill-seeker adventures. Adventures beyond my ability—according to higher-ups, so says Ben.”
I sigh and say, “I get that she’s young and beautiful. I get that she’s sexually charged and is a kick-ass athlete. I get that she won the fascination of America. I get that my ratings were slipping and competition’s a bitch.
“But what I don’t get,” I say as my angry heart races, “is why Ben, my supposed friend, lied to me. He told me he fought for me, Nick. After calling him and hearing his voice, I know he didn’t. He fought for her. He stabbed me in the back and now I’m not only out of the job I love, I’m battling a severe case of insecurity. I’m sorry I threw myself at you like that, I just needed, I wanted…”
“You wanted to nail me as a ‘screw you’ to Ben and a midlife crisis.”
Before I can address that mortifying truth, Nick moves in and slowly parts my robe.
Flesh to flesh, he kisses my neck, then whispers in my ear, “I’m good with that, Meg.”
Chapter 20
I LIKE SEX. I’ve been a fan for a long time. It’s especially fabulous when you hook up with someone you’re really into, and I am seriously into Nick.
I’m not sure when this happened exactly and I don’t really trust it. But, somewhere in between my second and third orgasm, I decided not to overthink my raging attraction. Instead I shut down my mind and fully enjoyed our extended and enthusiastic lovemaking.
Not surprisingly, Nick is a thoughtful lover. A man who takes his time, ensuring he’s pleasured his partner extensively before indulging in his own release. He’s also playful and adventurous. Then again, so am I.
Sexually, we’re a good match.
I fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and satiated and contemplating a long-term fling.
Then, in the morning, I woke up in his arms, invigorated and randy and jonesing for a quick shag.
I have no problem being the aggressor and since he has morning wood…
I start our day by kissing my way from his neck to his chest to his abs and lower. And this time…he doesn’t stop me.
Chapter 21
IN THE BREATHLESS aftermath of our morning romp, I’m enormously grateful when Nick doesn’t address the new physical aspect of our relationship. I don’t want to explore or analyze my feelings. I don’t want to admit I’m a little, okay, a lot infatuated. I tell myself it’s a temporary affliction. Meanwhile, I enjoy the buzz.
He kisses my shoulder, then rolls out of bed and into the bathroom.
Smiling, I slip into my robe and snatch up my phone. Feeling like a giddy teenager, I’m ridiculously inspired to brag to a girlfriend about Nick’s sexual prowess. Even more so, I itch to drop a gloating text to Ben.
But I resist both urges.
I’m not immature and I’m not petty. Not usually, anyway. Plus I don’t want to objectify Nick. He’s a nice guy. A caring man. Our bed play was balm for my smarting soul.
For the first time in three days, I feel like my old self and I’m ready to kick some new-life ass.
First order of business: Informing my parents I’m no longer the host of Epic Adventures. Considering the time difference, I e-mail instead of call. Plus, I’m not in the mood to listen to a lecture pertaining to my risky career choice. I’m a grown woman who marches to the beat of my own damn drum.
After typing a brief note telling them I’m out of contract, I add a short plea.
Please don’t call. On a vacation overseas with a friend. Exploring options. Will touch base next week when I’m back in the states.
Love you,
Megan
I’ll hear back from them regardless, through e-mail or text. Even though we have our differences, my parents love me.
Just then, Nick emerges from the bathroom. “All yours,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “How about I get us some coffee while you’re in the shower?”
“Sounds good,” I say, sensitive to the same tension I noted yesterday. I don’t take it personally since I know he’s on edge about seeing his grandmother. Once we hit the road, it’ll only take us an hour to get to her farm.
I move into the bathroom, phone still in hand. I think about Nick on the other side of the door, dressing and gearing up for a reunion he’s dreading. I think about his crappy childhood and the self-absorbed family who,
one by one, left him twisting in the wind. At least my family cares.
I’m doubly inspired to do whatever I can to ease the tension between Nick and his grandmother to return the favor and to soothe his wounded soul.
I dial up the shower, then, brimming with purpose, I type another e-mail. This one’s to Liza.
New plan. I’ve decided to direct and host a new travel show of my own design. All I need is an angle. After I help my friend through this weekend, I’ll turn all my energy and focus to rebooting my career. Can you research potential networks?
Thanks!
Meg
I don’t mention Ben. The thought of him mucks up my focus. I don’t want to think about him or Missy or my smarting pride. I don’t want to fret about gossip or the media or the fierce competition in the entertainment industry.
I’m willfully, happily shelving my immediate urge to research and brainstorm a high-concept show.
“From here on out,” I say while soaping the body my husband so generously pleasured, “this weekend’s all about Nick.”
Chapter 22
“WHEN YOU SAID YOUR grandmother lives on a farm in Cetona, I thought you meant just outside of town.”
We are, in fact, several miles southeast of the medieval hilltop city.
We turned off the autostrada a while back, leaving Umbria and crossing over into Tuscany. After traveling two separate roads and being waylaid by a herd of meandering sheep, we’re now navigating a narrow winding lane amid fields of poppies and extensive vineyards.
My nose is full of dust and the conflicting scents of pungent livestock and blooming flora. I’m high on nature and sensitive to Nick’s increasing unease.
“It’s stunning,” I say. “The scenery, I mean. But rather remote, don’t you think?”
Nick doesn’t share his thoughts, but I venture they’re traveling the same route as mine. How is his eighty-two-year-old grandmother, who’s presumably in failing health, getting along all by herself? What if she takes a fall? Neighboring houses are few and far between.
Is someone checking in on her? Who’s tending the property?
