That wouldn’t happen to me. Right? Would he humiliate me that way? He’d humiliated other women.
Just focus on the party, Sophie, I reason, fighting down the feelings of hurt and embarrassment that are already rising in my throat at the thought of being abandoned. It’s going to be incredible, with or without Josh. If he takes off on you, he takes off. You can take care of yourself.
Earlier that morning, I’d gone out to find a dress. It was easy. I chose a classic, sexy, almost vintage-style bronze gown that gathered about the waist and hips. It reminds me of something Grace Kelly, Jacqueline Kennedy or Marilyn Monroe might have worn.
I put on small drop pearl earrings and ask Britt to fasten the dainty strand of pearls that sits high on my throat.
“I love your hair down and long like this, in soft wide curls. You’re going to turn heads and break hearts.” Britt nods, looking me over. “And your makeup is perfect.”
“Mommy, let me buckle your shoes.” Charlie works at the straps of the eggshell pumps. “You look like a princess.” Her eyes are full of awe.
At that moment, Bruno Mars’s song “Treasure” comes on the radio.
“Dance with me!” Charlie jumps up and grabs my hands.
“Come on, Britt, get in on this action,” I say, extending my hand.
The three of us jam out together, singing that we’re each other’s treasures. By the time the song ends we’re laughing and out of breath.
A second later, we hear a knock, then Josh’s voice at the door. “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there, Joshy?” Charlie sing-songs, melting my heart.
“Iva.”
“Iva, who?” She giggles.
“Iva sore hand from knocking so much!”
“Can I open it, Mommy?” Her excitement is revving up my own. I can barely nod yes.
I catch a breathless look at Britt, who smiles supportively.
Now I keep my eyes focused on the door. Charlie opens it so wide she slams it against the opposite wall. My back tenses even more.
The moment seems utterly suspended in time, as if forever just occurred and we are somehow standing in it together.
Josh wears a fitted tux—sleek, black, breathtaking. The fabric strains ever so slightly around the muscles of his arms and chest. His dark, perfectly cropped hair and white pressed shirt are begging me to destroy them. To rip each button and expose the gorgeous, cut chest that I know is underneath.
Damn, I’m in trouble. I’m quickly and undoubtedly losing all of my resolve.
“Sophie, you look like a goddess.”
I hear his voice and register his words, but I can’t move. I can’t respond. The song that Taylor Swift sings with Ed Sheeran is now playing on the radio, and it sweeps me further into the present (possibly delusional) moment. But I can’t deny that, for me, everything has changed.
Charlie races over and clings to Josh’s perfectly pressed pant leg.
“Charlie!” I begin to scold.
“It’s fine.” Josh bends down and picks her up. “I have a present for you.” He opens his hand over her face and lets a pretty pink, sparkly heart on a gold chain appear, as if by magic.
She grabs it, screams, wiggles out of his arms and runs back to me, begging me to put it on her so she can look like me.
I still can’t tear my eyes from him. “Have Britt help you, like she helped me.”
Taking the initiative, Josh sees my cloak in the closet by the door, carefully removes it from the hanger and walks around me. Every cell and nerve stands at attention as I feel his eyes examine my back before he drapes the fabric across my bare shoulders.
He comes back in front of me and holds out that strong hand that I’d contemplated so much earlier this afternoon.
Now, peeking out from under his cuff, a silver Rolex decorates his shapely, tattooed wrist.
I’m thinking … I’m not going to make it to the event, and that we could just simply walk out and straight into his room.
“You look like a prince and princess.” Charlie giggles as if she’s full of effervescent bubbles.
“The limo is waiting outside, my princess.” Josh bows forward a bit and I take his offered hand.
People watch us as we walk arm in arm through the hotel lobby. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
We step into the cold December night. A light snow is falling, and I wonder if I’m in a dream.
The driver comes around to open my door, but Josh stops him.
“Thanks, Pete. I’ve got this.”
Pete moves aside smiling. “Yes, sir.”
Josh opens the door and takes my hand, helping to lower me into the vehicle before closing me safely in. In a moment he goes around to the other side and sits opposite of me.
His gaze is penetrating. His eyes are all over me. My breath quickens.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says.
I would say thank you, if I could. My mouth gapes open a little, I feel it. My eyes close. I can’t handle the power of his scrutiny. My body and mind are rocked with primal need. If I don’t get control of my thoughts, we won’t make it to the event. Honestly, I don’t even care anymore … about anything. I want to feel him all over me. I want to feel the hardness of his frame hovering over my naked form and the sensation of him pressing onto me, inside of me, filling me, driving me, pumping with me.
It’s over. I’ve lost the fight. I’ve lost the bet. I would do absolutely anything to have him inside of me now.
How did I do that? How did my emotions swing from feeling the very probable pain of Josh embarrassing and rejecting me at the party to an absolute surrendering to him?
Slowly, I allow my eyes to open. His black leather shoes shine, and I think about how long, wide and thick his feet are. Slowly, my gaze climbs, hypnotized by his very presence—the bend of his knees, the strength of his thighs. His hands sweep over the sides of his legs restlessly. My eyes glide to the muscled girth of his waist, then to that perfect stretch of fabric across his chest that again makes me want to rip his shirt like wrapping paper off a gift. His neck is gorgeous—thick with muscle and lines of veins. I want to bite and run my tongue across them.
I can’t stop myself. I know he sees and feels what I’m doing, but I’m too far past restraint. I drink in his sharp chin and the angles of his face. His strong, firm jaw clenches.
My eyes finally come to his and land there.
Josh is on fire. I can see it in him as much as I can feel my own burning.
Neither of us says a word.
My arousal forces me to press my legs together and reposition myself. Josh audibly, but softly breathes at my movement.
I have to touch him. I’m desperate to quench this thirst.
I lean forward just the slightest bit before I feel the limo change course and stop.
We each watch the other, but before I have a chance or the nerve to say or do anything, Pete opens Josh’s door.
Josh remembered what I said about the red carpet and photographers, and he ushers me in through an unoccupied side door where a host is waiting to greet us and lead us into the main event ballroom via the busy, crowded kitchen.
When we come out the other side, my mouth falls open in awe. I’ve never been to any formal event—no dances, no prom, no wedding—and have nothing experiential to compare this with.
The ballroom is stunningly elegant. Gleaming crystal chandeliers are suspended from a ceiling that is etched with beautiful, strikingly royal gold designs. Rich white drapes flow over each window. The floors are covered in a luxurious golden Persian style carpet, while a massive dance floor spans out in front of a stage, where an orchestra is playing, lending background mood. White clothed tables are decorated with bouquets of white lilies and orchids, stately gold and white table settings and crystal long-stemmed glasses.
I feel Josh staring at me and feel rather green.
“This is beautiful,” I say graciously. I don’t want to appear like I’ve
never been to a formal party. I remind myself to behave with poise and grace.
“Is that Peyton Manning?” I almost stutter.
Josh smiles. “Yes, it is. Let’s say hello.”
NoNoNoNoNo. Then something happens, I feel Josh’s hand on my back. He has never touched me before. It’s meant to be casual. It’s meant to lead me in the direction we’re going.
It’s innocent, but the sensation sends me reeling.
“Hey, Josh, good to see you, man!” Peyton and Josh shake hands.
I’m just shaking.
“This is Sophie Garner,” Josh introduces me.
My mouth is suddenly dry. I clear my throat. “Please, excuse me. I’m not used to meeting celebrities,” I half lie. Josh’s hand is still on my back.
“Is that what I am? Please, don’t tell my mom. She thinks I’m just a football player,” he says self-deprecatingly.
I laugh lightly at his attempt to put me at ease.
We talk for another moment before Josh sets up a lunch appointment with his sports colleague and we move on.
He talks to several well-known celebrities: Johnny Depp, Serena Williams and Derek Jeter, among others. Josh introduces me to all of them, and they all seem very down-to-earth and magnanimous.
I’m trying to feel as if I belong here. I’m trying to stir up enough self-confidence to get through this unscathed.
Everyone is dressed to the nines—actors, actresses, athletes, models and significant others—they drip with jewels and wealth and status. I begin wondering why Josh didn’t invite someone important.
A waiter comes by with flutes of champagne. Josh touches my arm to stop my motion, smiles at me and then takes two.
As he passes one of the elegant glasses to me he says, “Believe me when I tell you, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room, Sophie.”
You’d think it’d be easy to receive the compliment. You’d think it would wash over me and excite me. He’s being gracious, trying to relax me, but a part of me wants to believe it. A bigger part of me wants him to mean it.
We run into Silva, and I’m thankful for a familiar face. We begin talking when Josh abruptly says, “You’re in good hands, excuse me for the moment.”
Silva wears an apologetic expression, and there it is. Suddenly, I know what it feels like to come to a party with Josh. The reports of him screwing waitresses in the closet or leaving with a model on his arm who he didn’t come with, while his dates are left standing alone hit me full force. I feel the humiliation spreading through me and warming my face. Silva says something about how he’s glad I could attend this evening and asks if I’m enjoying myself.
“This has been wonderful,” I reply.
He continues asking about whom I’ve met and whether or not Charlie and I like Denver. I feel sort of bad for him, stuck here entertaining me. I find myself trying to appear casual as I answer and scanning the room for Josh. I don’t see him.
He could have gone to the bathroom, I think.
Taking a deep breath, I decide I’m not going to let it show. This is not a personal betrayal. I’m hardly a date, I’m a business colleague.
I give Silva a soft, knowing look. “I’m sure you have friends and business associates to mingle with. I’ll be fine here on my own,” I say reassuringly.
Silva regards me with a look of concentration.
I lean in so my words aren’t heard by anyone else. “You’ve been working with Josh a long time, and I’m not under any false pretenses.” I lower my voice even more. “I’ve heard of his party exploits.”
“Ah.” He nods in understanding then matches my hushed tone. “What you don’t know, Sophie, is that Josh has been a whole different person since you came along.”
I’m trying to process what he’s said, along with the expression he’s wearing, when I’m surprised by Josh’s voice beside me and feel his hand on my arm. “Sorry, that took longer than I expected. Ran into Chris Weidman.”
I respond, “That’s fine.”
Before I know it, I’m shaking hands with the middleweight champion.
Soon, we break away from them and move to another group and then another. To my astonishment, it seems that Josh is introducing me to everyone. My fear of him dumping me alleviates, and the notion doesn’t cross my mind again.
What does stay on my mind are Silva’s words, Josh has been a whole different person since you came along.
Also, his touches are making my senses spiral. I can’t read their level of … of what? Intention? That’s a good word. Intention: friendly (his warm fingers press into my shoulder), possessive (his arm wraps around mine, connecting us at the elbow), sensual (the small of my back burns from the pressure of his full hand and how long it has lingered there).
Insane! I’m simply insane! I’m sure he means nothing by any of these gestures. It’s just simple body language—politeness, gentlemanliness—certainly not meant to turn me on like a NASA rocket engine.
Still, I notice he treats me as if I’m the most important person at the party. He watches my comfort level and adjusts our situations accordingly. I must have a real tell as to when I’m uncomfortable around some people, because he reads it clearly and moves us on.
And, although I am obviously with him, many women simply ignore me and talk to him as if I’m not present, falling all over themselves to gain his attention. Politely, but coldly, he acknowledges them briefly and then pulls me away.
Later in the evening we dine. The foods are sumptuous, but they don’t hold my attention, because I swear, even though there is plenty of space at our assigned table, Josh’s leg presses against mine.
Deliberately?
Oh God, I hope so.
I like it.
After the meal, while everyone at the table makes small talk, he takes my hand in his, as if it belongs there. As if we’re a comfortable couple.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks me.
“Immensely. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Then dance with me.” It’s not a question.
Dancing with Josh is going to kill me.
He’s not dancing with me, he’s making love to me. It’s not Dirty Dancing style; it’s under the radar, full of finesse and thought out strategy. Each perfectly placed touch brings me closer, each detailed move heightens my growing passion and each sweep and press of his fingers leaves me more breathless.
It begins like any wholesome embrace—my right hand loosely cradled in his and his left hand placed saccharinely on my hip. He positions me a good six or seven inches away from him—I’m aware of the distance and the acuteness of his absence.
The song that plays tumbles note for note through my mind, but I can’t recall the name of the popular song. Slowly the fingertips of Josh’s right hand trace the sensitive center of my palm and the length of my fingers, sending chills through my core and goose bumps over my skin.
He finds the inside of my wrist and stays there to follow the tracks of my veins and lines of my tendons. The skin there is thin and absorbs the featherlight touches that warm my blood. Josh plays his fingertips slowly up my forearm and lingers at the inner bend of my elbow.
His attention to these near-erogenous zones forces my eyes to fall closed. Josh continues his ministrations up my bare arm until his right hand rests on my shoulder. I become acutely aware that his left hand has journeyed from my hip to the small of my back, where he’s applied just enough pressure to bring our bodies close enough that I can sense his heat.
Josh’s hand on my shoulder strokes up and under my hair. He uses its length as camouflage while he continues his assault on my senses. He massages my neck, varying the pressure from sweet tickles that titillate my entire body to needy, sensual kneading up into my hairline, which persuades my hips that they can no longer handle the distance between us.
I feel the tips of my breasts meet the contours of his chest while my belly and hips brush close enough to feel his own growing need. He twists his fingers into my hair, fisti
ng the strands. The action nearly has me dropping my head back to moan. Instead, I reposition my face.
It’s a bold parley. My soft cheek rubs against his chiseled jaw, while my lips brush intimately against him, but only for a moment, as I whisper air over the curves of his ear.
At this, his right elbow bends as he uses his forearm to remove any space between us, and his body fully meets mine—hard and wanting.
A moan escapes my lips.
“Sophie.” Raw and ragged, his voice strokes me as definitively as a caress.
I don’t care about bets, or jobs, or appearances. “Bring me back to your room.”
Chapter Eleven
Josh
2005
“I don’t know what the fuck you expect of me. You want me to talk about my feelings? That’s fucking stupid.” I slump lower in my cold metal folding chair. Being forced to attend group therapy sessions sucks balls. Psychs are freaking ridiculous! I don’t talk when we’re one-on-one, what the hell makes them think talking in a circle with others I hate almost as much as myself is going to make me “open up”?
Dr. Perfect is spewing some crap out of his mouth about how we’re expected here at the house to act with respect toward each other. Dr. Perfect has never had a real problem in his life, I’m sure of it—he acts way too smart and positions himself like he has a fucking brick up his ass. Why does Uncle Cade hire assholes like this?
“Fine.” I give up, annoyed. “I’ll tell you how I feeeeeeeel.”
Dr. P rolls his eyes.
I sneer. “I hate this place, I hate my life, and I hate all of you.”
Liam leans forward in his chair. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man? He’s only trying to help!”
“Does he help you, Liam?” I’m sarcastically sweet. “Do you help him back, late at night?”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Liam grates out.
“Truth hurts,” I retort.
“You don’t know the truth,” my uncle Cade’s voice cuts through the room. He’s just like my dad—his demeanor commands attention.
Instinctively, I want to apologize. I know how rude I was being. But there is no way I’m going to be fucking soft in front of these guys. The only truth is that I do hate my life … and most of all, I hate myself.
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