by Julia Kent
My blood starts pumping again. Permission granted. The longer we’re together, the more immune I find myself to the day-to-day anxiousness that comes at the beginning of a relationship. I wouldn’t call it taking Andrew for granted, but it’s close. Little things stay little and don’t take on symbolic meaning. If he forgets to tell me we’re out of milk, I don’t take it as a sign of impending relationship doom.
Normalizing daily life within the context of us is a relief.
I don’t want a big wedding ceremony. The attention, the spotlight, the crazy cacophony that comes with marrying a billionaire CEO? No way. I just want a husband. I just want HIM.
But I can’t say that. When your true love turns out to be rich, driven, and the kind of guy who already graces the covers of business magazines before he turns thirty, you’re in for a very, very public life.
I didn’t fall in love with a CEO. I fell in love with a man. Andrew would be just as appealing if he were an average guy, a software developer or a mechanic, a retail manager or a teacher. The kindness deep inside him, the way he thinks about my reactions, how he listens to my hopes and dreams and then helps me plan how to make them happen – that is who I love.
Not Mr. #1 Executive Under Thirty. Not Mr. Top Ten Young CEOs Taking on the World.
And not one of People Magazine’s nominees for Sexiest Man Alive.
(No, that hasn’t happened...yet).
He rubs my hands together and looks up at me with concerned eyes. “What are you thinking about?”
“The wedding, of course.”
You’d expect a happy smile, right? Because that’s what brides and grooms are supposed to experience when it comes to planning the most important day of their lives.
Happiness.
Instead, I get a half smile and a vacant look. “Oh?” he says. “What about it?”
“I -- ” Can I say it? Can I ask him to run off with me and just elope? Not in some big flashy way, like his brother Declan and my best friend Shannon, who used a company helicopter to flee from a thousand wedding guests in the middle of the ceremony.
But...quietly? Covertly?
A ninja elopement.
“...do?” he jokes, finishing my hanging sentence, kissing the tip of my nose.
His own words echo in my mind. I don’t want a wedding.
Just as I’m about to tell him how I feel, his phone buzzes.
“Gina,” he says apologetically, neck bending to read his screen. “She’s asking me about some cocktail party Dad’s scheduled. Hamish will be in town and Dad wants to drum up some publicity. It’ll be at his house in Weston.”
“The Weston house?” James lives most of the time in the Back Bay, and in all the time we’ve been dating, Andrew’s never taken me there. “I’ll finally get to see it.”
Andrew jerks suddenly, as if I’ve said something offensive. “What? You’ve been there.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“I’ve taken you...oh.” Hard lines form around his eyes, a defensive posture settling into his bones. “It’s not as if I’ve been keeping it from you.”
“I never said you were.”
“You’re implying it.”
“No, I’m not!” How did we get from ninja elopements to fighting about his family home?
“Then why did you point out that I’ve never taken you there?”
“Because it’s a fact. And because your father is having an event there. I was connecting two concepts and putting them together in a sentence. It’s called thinking.”
He won’t look at me, tapping on the screen. “You don’t have to go with me,” he says gruffly. “It’s in two weeks, Friday. Seven.”
A cold chill forms between my shoulder blades. “You don’t want me to go?”
“I never said that.”
“You do want me to go?”
“It’s up to you.”
Touching his arm to break the strange slide into a tense dimension of desperation feels like an act of bravery. He freezes, reacting to my olive branch like a suspicious hostage negotiator.
I’m not quite sure who, or what, is being held captive here, but it might damn well be my sense of well-being.
“I don’t want to fight. I didn’t mean anything by my comment,” I say softly, fighting my own irritation. It’s so easy to snap back, to build a wall bigger than his, to give back as much negativity as I’m getting, but that never solves anything between us.
He lets out a long breath. “I know. I’m sorry.” Reluctantly, he looks at me, a hint of shame in the curl of his mouth. Terror seizes my gut.
“What?”
“What what?”
“Why are you so reactive?”
He looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for help. Finally, he looks down at me, eyes so sad my throat tightens with grief.
“You’re right, Amanda. I have been keeping you from going there. I’ve been avoiding taking you to my parents’ house. And I’m sorry.”
Chapter 4
Too many emotional shifts in a short period of time lead to instability. I can juggle tasks with great ease, but managing multiple complex emotions at the same time requires a dexterity I don’t possess.
“Why?” I’m not offended. From the look on Andrew’s face, the tone of my voice surprises him. My question is explorative. Pure curiosity. No accusations, no incriminations.
I just want to know.
“It’s too hard. Dad preserved it the way it was the day Mom died. I can go any time. I know that. Dad’s barely there anyhow. I’m surprised he wants to entertain at the house.” Andrew’s shrug has a feeling of organized chaos to it. Both shoulders go up, all the way to his ears, a full-body muscular response that is as endearing as it is alarming. For a tightly controlled man in peak shape, with a physique that makes me drool and a body confidence that matches what you’d expect from a high-level CEO, this beats me nonverbal cue is my signal to let go of my injured ego and just be there for him.
Before I can say anything, his eyes widen, the sun catching speckles of rich brown in them. “Oh, God, you don’t think he wants us to have the wedding there, do you?”
“At your house?”
Andrew goes pale. One of the logs in the fireplace makes a horrendous cracking sound, sparks flying up and through the tin mesh screen, a blaze of colorful heat that grabs our attention. As if relieved to have a mission, Andrew stands, legs moving with grace as he bends, one knee touching the thick shag area carpet by the fire where we planned to make love tonight. With forearms bulging and hips outlined by low-slung, faded jeans, he twists to throw two thick pieces of dry maple onto the fire, grabbing a poker and moving everything into just the right position for maximum fire output.
I just watch him and stretch my legs, letting the slight ache from intensive skiing register in my body. Calves like mine (read: thick) aren’t made for ski boots, but I managed. Fitting myself in around the obstacles in life is part of who I am.
Being excluded, though – that’s a completely different story.
“Dad wouldn’t dare try to get us to have the ceremony at the house. Would he?” The tiny uptick in his voice, the vocal tic of uncertainty, makes me sit up and take more notice. Spine tingling, scalp abuzz, I feel the change in the room as his attitude shifts, a keen sense of sharpened observation consuming me.
Relationships coast along on goodwill, love, sex, and reciprocity. We’ve been together just long enough for me to see that a week or two can go by on autopilot, our mutual taking-for-grantedness an implied contract.
Over time, the feeling of marvel at finding the right person fades. It never goes away, but I can feel how we’ve changed already, accepting that we’re there for the long haul. Life is an endless series of confidences and exchanges, agreements and acceptances, with the bedrock certainty that the other is always just there.
No matter what.
But once in awhile, what your partner needs changes on a dime without warning, without plan.
This is
one of those moments.
“Not only am I sure he won’t, he absolutely can’t.” Andrew hasn’t explained why this is important to him, but I can wait. In the meantime, a wordless compact between us says that I’ll defend his position no matter what, even if I’m not quite sure what it is.
Loyalty works like that when you have absolute trust.
“We have as much control as we want over our wedding,” I assure him.
“I know that. Dad’s making it hard, though.”
“Has he always been like this?”
“An overbearing asshole who ignores everyone else’s feelings to get what he wants? Yes.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”
“There is no other way to put it, Amanda. Call it like it is.”
“But he can change. Everyone can.”
“People can soften. Change? Not so sure.”
“Declan invited him to his wedding. They made up.”
“Notice who made the first move? Who extended the olive branch?”
“That was very mature of Declan.”
“Dad views it as weakness.” Done with the fire, he moves to the couch with me, lifting my legs and settling in, pulling me into his lap.
“Then that’s your dad’s problem. Not Declan’s.” Wiggling, moving my bent arm, I find the right fit against his body. Over time it’s gotten easier. I know where the best places are to fit our parts together.
“We’re going to have to fight Dad every step of the way on the wedding.” He’s warning me.
“I thought that’s what we’ve been doing all along.”
“He’s in it for the long game. This is what Dad does. He just exhausts his enemies into submission.”
“Enemies? Now we’re his enemies?”
“Anyone who doesn’t give him what he wants is an enemy.”
“That’s so childish!”
“Welcome to my father.”
“How did he get so far in business?”
“By not caring what other people think.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Growing up with a dad like that sounds worse than growing up without one at all.”
“Sometimes it is.”
I let that sink in. “It’s our wedding. We decide.”
“Yes.”
“And this cocktail party? Will he invite the press to cover it?”
“I’m sure he’ll include key reporters, yes.”
I groan. “Will Jessica be there?”
“Knowing Dad…maybe.”
“We’d better warn Shannon.”
He’s distracted. My words aren’t getting through to him. Before I can say anything, Andrew strokes my hair and whispers, “I want you to see the house.”
“Good.”
“I’ve never had sex with someone in my childhood bedroom.”
“That’s why you want me to see the house?”
“Not the only reason, but it certainly makes going there more compelling.”
“Not if your dad has a camera crew and paparazzi crawling everywhere. A sex tape is the last thing we need.”
“Mmmmm, a sex tape. What if we made a private one?”
“Why would I want to watch myself having sex?”
“Wouldn’t you watch me? If we made a sex tape, every time we watched it I’d be focused on you.”
His lap is suddenly noticeably larger, though there’s far less room to sit.
“This subject is arousing you?” I touch the growing surface area for emphasis.
“It’s a better topic than the one before.”
“We can have sex anywhere you like, and pretty much on demand. What’s so special about your childhood bedroom? And during a cocktail party?”
He hardens even more.
“Andrew!”
“No one ever said turn-ons were meant to be logical.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Maybe you need to experience it to understand.”
“You want me to have sex with you in your childhood bedroom so I can grasp the issue?”
He moves my hand between his legs. “You can grasp the issue right now.”
My laughter makes me fall out of his lap, hand slipping. I roll on the floor, overcome with the giggles. He moves to the floor with me, eyes dark with desire.
“About that ‘sex on demand, anywhere I like’ comment...” Cupping my breast over my sweater, he rubs his thumb over my nipple until it pearls. All of the compartments in my mind, the sections where I store wedding details, work projects, coffee with friends, old internal childhood conflicts – you name it – blur around the edges, as if Andrew holds a camera lens and is adjusting the focus, shifting it from the topic at hand to the topic in his hand.
“Yes?” The fuzzy blur of arousal makes my scalp tingle, heat growing between my legs as conversation turns into a melted mess inside me, all circuits lighting up at once. The carpet beneath us pads my hipbone as I turn to him, arching toward his touch. His spare hand slides under my sweater, the cool air belied by his hot palm as he makes his way up my spine.
I give us space between our bodies so I can look down, finding his belt buckle, watching my own hands move to unloop his belt, mind fully overwhelmed by the increased heat of his attentions while some other set of neurons remembers what my fingers need to do to unleash him. The belt now open, I unbutton his pants, the sound of his zipper a zing of anticipation that feels like a dam being opened, the burst of water careening off the edge almost orgasmic in its intensity.
All that from opening his fly.
Oh, this man.
“Did you know,” he murmurs against my bare ribs as he pulls my sweater up, my hands unable to hold onto him and stretch up, “that you make me see a world that isn’t there for anyone else?”
I give in and let him strip me bare, half naked before him, his nimble fingers unclasping my bra in seconds, leaving me spilling out over myself, the hot and cold of bare skin and his warm body a patchwork of endless arousal.
“Mmm?” Eager to make him match me, I grab the hem of his shirt, pulling up hard, forgetting that one of the buttons on his Henley is buttoned. He laughs, rising up on his knees, straddling me as I get quite the show. The display of hardened abs, my fingers tickling them as his strong arms stretch to the ceiling and peel off the thick wool shirt, is a marvel to behold as the full rise of his chest and shoulders gets a stretch.
Tan and covered with just enough hair to be attractive, Andrew’s shoulders look like a sculpted statue, but one made of live, breathing flesh. Tight arms, the curve of muscle and indentations that show the underlying anatomy, reach for me now, his body a blanket of endless warmth, my nipples rubbing against the light tickling touch of his skin as he comes in for a full-mouthed kiss.
My toes curl, hands unable to stop seeking more of him, finding sanctuary in the freedom to touch and taste. He’s using sex to change the subject. I know this.
And I approve wholeheartedly.
Bzzzzz.
It’s Andrew’s phone. He chooses to make a part of my body vibrate instead. A rolling thunder of fire ripples through my blood, traveling across my skin faster than my breath can catch up as he touches me, eyes intent, body primed for more.
Bzzzzz.
“Damn it,” he mutters softly, hand pausing. Don’t stop! Don’t stop!
I open my mouth to say this, but inarticulate noises are all I can make.
Multi-tasking turns out to be one of his finer skills as his hand resumes its delicious attentions while he quickly checks his phone.
“The glowing screen is such an aphrodisiac,” I whisper, biting his earlobe, unable to stop myself from peeking. “Who is Katie?”
“Our wedding planner. Katie Gallagher.”
“Our what?”
“Remember? Gina resurrected the corporate planner after the mess with Declan’s wedding. We’ll have coordinated help.”
“I don’t want some wedding planner that t
he corporation assigns to me.”
“Think of her as a filter between us and Dad.”
“Who does she report to? You or your father?”
“Me, of course.” He thinks for a minute. “How about I change that? Effective immediately, she reports to you.”
“Nice. Nepotism goes a long way.” But he really just doesn’t want to be bothered with the details.
“So do sexual favors.”
“Really? If I have sex with you, do I get special privileges at work?”
“What do you want? Name it, baby.”
“My own copy machine.”
“Done.”
“A new Swingline stapler. The best one in the office supply catalog.” I lick my lower lip suggestively. “In red.”
“Nothing’s too good for my baby.”
“A Keurig machine in my office.” He knows I’m joking about that, because I’m really not a fan.
“It’s like velvet handcuffs for the urban office worker.”
“And chocolate-donut-flavored K-cups.” The Velveeta of coffee. Blech.
“Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“You hit my hard limit. We have a firm agreement with Grind It Fresh!”
“I can feel your hard limit through your pants.” I prove it to him.
He looks down. “Why am I still wearing those?”
I shrug. “Because you’re too busy texting with Kay-teeeeee.”
He types on his phone, then tosses it on the couch. “Done. I gave her your number.”
From across the room, I hear the expected buzz. Katie is efficient. She must be.
She’s a wedding planner.
“Don’t answer that,” he orders, standing just long enough to rip off his pants and straddle me again, this time naked. I divest myself of the last bits of my clothing in the same stretch of time, and as he resumes his position, I look up to a wall of flesh, topped by a grinning madman.
My grinning madman.
I trace the line of hair that starts just under his navel and thickens as it heads south. His abs curl in at my lingering attention, as if we’re playing a game of tag, and I’m It.
