by Lori Folkman
Paul was facing the door, his back to Ben. Paul turned briefly; he was still smiling, eagerly awaiting Brishell. Paul wasn’t fazed at all by Ben’s tirade. Typical. “With us, of course,” Paul replied. “She invited us to spend the weekend on her yacht. How could I not invite her to stay at our villa?”
Ben felt like growling. He hated it when Paul turned things around like that. When he put the question on Ben, and in such a way that made Ben feel like a child.
And that answered Ben’s dilemma about hiding in the bedroom with a pending headache. It wouldn’t do him a bit of good: Brishell would be waiting for him when the plane landed. Paul had sentenced Ben to four days of burning—fiery hot, acidic, gouging his eyes out, kind of hell. That woman was one of Satan’s angels. Probably his most prized.
Paul went to the landing to greet Brishell. Ben grabbed his belongings and went to Paul’s chair, claiming it as his own. His mother sat in the opposite armchair, reading a magazine. She gave Ben a look of guilt. “You knew about this?” he asked.
“Unfortunately. He told me this morning.”
Argh. Her betrayal was hard to swallow. Ben needed her alliance today. No wonder she’d been so distant this morning. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ben asked, his voice in a near whisper. He had only seconds before Paul would be escorting Brishell into the cabin.
“Because I needed you to get on the plane,” Lena said with a slight smile. “I couldn’t stand another minute in Dubai.”
This made Ben smile slightly as well. Lena was forgiven. Her motivation was understandable.
From where Ben sat, he couldn’t see the landing, but he could hear their voices. Paul had Brishell laughing. And Ben could hear the warmth … the eagerness in Paul’s voice. It sounded like flirting, and had Ben not known that Paul was a happily married man, Ben would have concluded as much. But he knew that wasn’t Paul’s intention. It was much, much worse than harmless flirting. “Why does Paul have his sights on … her?” Ben asked.
Lena didn’t look up from her magazine. Her tone was flat. “Are you kidding? Look at her.”
Just then, Brishell walked into the cabin, all five feet eleven inches of her. Well technically more, because she was wearing heels. And at least five feet of her height came from her legs. And the other part—the top part—ahem. “I’m trying not to,” Ben responded to Lena. Brishell’s clothes were always tight. The fabric was always thin. Buttons were always open. Ben really, really had to concentrate on not looking. Which meant that he was the only man in the world who wasn’t.
Brishell had been modeling since she was sixteen, but her real fame came last summer when she was given the cover of the coveted Swimsuit Issue. It had sold more than any of the previous year’s issues. By a long shot. She was the current goddess of the modeling world. Her face—her body—was everywhere. Every male on every continent would give up his remote control to spend a weekend with her. Except for Ben. He might have to claw out his eyes before the day was over.
Brishell finally approached, with Paul following at her heels like some pathetic groupie.
“Be grateful our culture doesn’t accept pre-arranged marriages,” Lena whispered, but in Italian. Brishell didn’t speak Italian. She spoke Czech.
Ben stood, just like any gentleman would. He returned her air kisses, and then gestured for her to sit. In the back of the cabin. Next to Paul.
Ben saw the disappointment register on her face. He saw a flicker of anger cross Paul’s. But Ben plopped back in his seat and quickly took up conversation with Lena. He leaned across the aisle, anxiously engaged in conversation. Like he and Lena were in the middle of something.
Until his phone vibrated. It was a text from Kat. His heart felt like it was anchored to the deserts of Dubai, even though his jet began its climb into the bright blue sky. Apparently, she was planning to see him on Sunday, against her parent’s wishes. And Ben would be somewhere between Monaco and St. Tropez. But he couldn’t tell her that.
Chapter Seventeen ……
Early Saturday morning, Kat received a text from Ben. She hadn’t heard from him since earlier in the week, after he told her that he was going to Italy. This text informed her that he was coming home. Today. And he wanted to see her.
My place. 6?
She was ecstatic to get this text. But not so thrilled with the next one:
Need 2 talk 2 u
Great. What was that supposed to mean? Isn’t that what people say when they want to break-up: “We need to talk …”?
So she reviewed all the past texts. Had she said something wrong? What was his tone in the texts? Was it indicative of a break-up? Her stomach grew hot with worry. She couldn’t eat all day.
After the incident at Actuelle and Ben’s text saying that he might not be coming home, Kat hadn’t given anymore thought about buying something new to wear. So she had a major wardrobe-related meltdown. She destroyed her closet looking for something to wear and then finally decided that she had to make another trip to the store. She’d just stay far away from the undergarment area. She had to look perfect for Ben. So good that he’d take one look at her and forget that he was going to dump her.
After two hours at the mall (and several dressing rooms that looked like the mess she’d left in her room at home), she finally found the perfect outfit. She bought this cute little dress with a high waist. It was classy, yet playful; romantic, yet sassy. And the yellow floral print was the perfect compliment for her hair.
Then, after another two hours in the bathroom primping, she drove Bugsy to Ben’s. She checked her reflection in the mirror no fewer than ten times on her way up the canyon road. She looked good. She knew she did. This was her best. But was it good enough?
She was told that Ben was out back: poolside. She felt awkward as she walked alone through a seemingly empty house. Her heels clicked on the tile, just like Lena’s once had. Kat sounded like a woman. She looked more womanly than ever before. But inside, she felt like a little girl playing dress-up. Like she was trying to cling to some imaginary world that was slipping away.
When she reached the patio, her stomach turned like the bingo tumbler at Gigi’s retirement home. And the caller wasn’t stopping to pick a number. It just kept turning, and turning, and turning ….
‘Cause Ben was reclined in a hardwood lounge chair. With. His. Shirt. Off.
She couldn’t approach. She didn’t dare. She might attack if she got any closer. And his eyes were closed. He looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping. She really didn’t want to be the one to wake him.
But then she realized that if he wasn’t asleep … and if he saw her standing there gawking at him, that he might mistake her for a stalker and have security toss her out. So she walked across the patio, her heels now clicking on the stamped concrete. The sound didn’t draw his attention. So he was asleep.
She sat at the foot of the neighboring lounge chair. And she did continue to gawk at him … but just for a second. He really was unearthly. There was no other explanation for his beauty. Her stomach started rolling, like the bingo caller was trying to churn butter inside of the bingo tumbler. She had to stop. Enough lusting.
She grabbed the bottom of Ben’s foot and ran her finger up his bare foot. But he didn’t budge. And that wasn’t good for her stomach either. It seemed too intimate to be touching his bare foot and it caused goose bumps to prick on the back of her neck. Or it could have been from the cool air. Really, how was he able to sunbathe? Her car’s thermometer had read 70 on her way up the hillside. And it had to be several degrees cooler up here on top.
She considered splashing some pool water on him: that’s what her dad always did to her when she wouldn’t wake up. Only it wasn’t pool water, it was just water from a squirt bottle. And it was mean. She hated it. So she wouldn’t do that to Ben.
She grabbed him again, this time around his toes, and shook his foot. His eyes popped open. And then he squinted against the sun. He blinked a few times. “Hey … you,” he said sleepily.
<
br /> You? Had he forgotten her name already? She knew he met thousands of girls every week … but come on! He didn’t say anything else, let alone her name. He just rubbed his eyes and then pulled his hands through his hair while he yawned. Should she give him a hint?
“Yep. It’s me.” Nope, no hint. She wanted to see how long it took for him to remember. If it took longer than five minutes … she’d be the one dumping him.
He sat up and looked at his watch. “Man. I can’t believe it’s six already. I was going to shower before you got here.” He reached for his shirt—thank goodness. “It just felt so good out here. So cool. They were having a heat wave in Dubai. It felt like hell.”
He pulled his T-shirt over his head. It was the one with the red sleeves that he’d bought the time they went to the swap meet. That made her smile; he was actually wearing something she’d helped him buy. But then she realized what he was wearing, in comparison with what she was wearing. She was way overdressed, like she was going out to dinner at a five star. And he looked like he was going to a concert in her neighbor’s garage.
“Dang. I should jump in the pool so I can wake up,” he said as he stood.
She stood too, but didn’t say anything. He still hadn’t said her name. Or acted excited about her being there. Or told her that her new two-hundred dollar dress (her mom was going to freak!) looked nice. She was starting to get irritated that she went to all this work to get dumped. He should have spared her the time and money and just texted her the break-up. “We could do this later,” she said through clenched teeth, “if you’re too tired.”
His eyes brightened when she said that. He smiled and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Let’s go inside.”
Why did he want to do this inside? So he could give her a box of tissue on her way out the door? That’d be so generous. She followed him half-hesitantly back to the house, almost like a puppy on a leash, waiting to be tugged before moving forward.
They stepped into the solarium. All the blinds were drawn today, unlike last time Kat had seen the room. Come to think of it, Kat really hadn’t seen the room last time: she’d seen the wall-to-wall windows and the beautiful landscaping beyond. She hadn’t really noticed what the room consisted of. It looked like a recreation of a Mediterranean patio brought indoors. The floor was a deep orange terra cotta tile. The furniture was in bold yellows, reds and blues. Pots of bright flowers dominated the room. There was even a three-tiered fountain in one corner.
Ben rubbed his eyes, while grumbling about sun blindness. “Should have worn my sunglasses.” Then he blinked a few times. His eyes seemed to focus. And he focused on her. His eyes passed her high-heels, her legs, her dress, then rested on her face. “Look at you, Kat. You’re a sight for sore eyes, literally.”
His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her in to this Vince refrigerator-crushing type hug. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his head buried in her hair.
Not what she expected. At all. This didn’t fit with typical break-up behavior. And he knew her name, and complimented her attire. This was good.
But the hug … maybe not so good. He was seriously squashing her. This was like a consolation hug. Like he needed comforting because someone had just died. It made her nervous. She tensed up. He probably felt like he was hugging a cardboard box.
“You okay, Ben?”
He let out a moan. “I am now. Now that I’m here with you.”
She eased up on the rigidness and hugged him back a little. But she was still worried. What was going on here? Was he just diagnosed with cancer? Or did his hamster just die?
He finally pulled back, but still kept his arms around her. He looked tired … but he looked happy. Not like a man who’d been told he only had three months to live. “Really, are you okay? Healthy and everything?” she asked.
Ben reached his hand up to her face and rubbed in between her eyebrows with his thumb. “I’m worrying you,” he said.
“No.” She tried to shrug it off. But it was too late. He’d noticed her creasing her brows. “Well, a little.”
“I didn’t want to greet you outside,” he explained, “after the Ferris wheel incident. With zoom lenses like that, I can’t even let my guard down outside. They could be up at the Space Station taking pictures of us.” He was exaggerating, obviously. But she hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t even safe to show emotion outside the walls of his home … on this secluded mountaintop. The paparazzi were that relentless. And that’s why she’d been given the cold reception outside. “You thought I was being indifferent, didn’t you?” He gave a half-smile when he said this: almost a mischievous smile.
“No.” She responded without thinking. But then he gave her look of reproach. “Kay, maybe.” He looked victorious. Like she couldn’t hide her thoughts from him. But he didn’t need to know everything—like how she was worried that he was going to dump her. But for some reason, her mouth opened and revealed more. “I thought you were mad … about me not being able to see you tomorrow.”
He tugged on a strand of her hair. “No,” he said warmly. “I’m not mad. I wanted to come home early. I couldn’t wait another day to see you.” His face brightened—his eyes sparkling with energy. “But Paul: he might be mad at you. He was planning on stopping over in the South of France. But I told him that I had to come home.”
Fantastic. Like she needed Paul mad at her. But … Ben had stretched his neck out for her … that was cool. She had to try and joke with Ben so he wouldn’t see how much she adored that: how she felt like rolling over like a trained dog because Ben had come home early for her. Seriously, she’d fetch his slippers if he asked her to. “And stopping in the South of France would have been horrible. I’m so relieved you were spared that … agony.”
His dimple smile. Sigh. She’d bring him the slippers right now, even though he hadn’t asked. “It would have been. You have no idea how ….” His thought trailed off. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Want to try that hug again?”
This time she hugged him back, matching his earlier refrigerator-crushing type hug. “That’s better,” he said, his voice muffled from her hair. “I missed you … so much,” he moaned. He kissed her ear lobe; she shivered.
He smiled this blissful smile when he pulled away. He had this sort of white glow to him … like he was at peace with everything. Not a worry in the world. “I didn’t realize how much,” he paused, his vibrant eyes locked on hers, “how much I need you. You’re like … a daily dose of Prozac. But better. Because you’re real. And I don’t need a prescription.” He kind-of winced. “But you’re equally as addictive.” Then he smiled again. He held his hand to her chin and placed his lips on hers. But he just held his lips there—not kissing her. Just breathing her breath.
After her stomach turned about a half a dozen times, he finally kissed her. It was a soft kiss. A tender kiss. While this one didn’t speak in the language of passion, it still spoke volumes. It said the thoughts of his heart. Her stomach did a cartwheel over the implication.
“Hey,” his voice had lost that faraway tone, “do you mind if I go shower? I still smell like Italy.”
Oh. Is that what that scent was? Wait! She needed to smell it again. But he’d already pulled back. Hoople. She wanted to memorize that smell … Ben fresh off the coast of Italy.
“No, go ahead.” Kat looked around the solarium. No TV. There must be a book … or at least a magazine somewhere.
“You can come with me,” he said as he grabbed her hand, “to my room.”
“Um,” Kat’s lungs didn’t fill with enough air to give a full response. She really shouldn’t. But could she pass up the chance to say that she’d been inside Ben Wilder’s bedroom?
They went through the double doors that led to his room. When he’d given her a tour of the house before, he’d pointed out the door, but he hadn’t taken her inside. And since he had said, “his room,” she expected just that: a room. But it wasn’t. It was like an entire house. Or at least a very large ap
artment, penthouse style.
He had a sitting room, a room with a ginormous entertainment center, a gaming room with a foosball table and basketball hoops, a weight room, and a kitchenette. Sheesh. He could spend his entire life in this wing of the house and never have use for the rest of the gorgeous mansion.
She didn’t see his actual bedroom, which was probably a good thing. This way, she really hadn’t broke any of her dad’s rules.
Ben left her with the remote to the TV while he went to shower. She had no idea where he actually went to shower. She couldn’t hear water running anywhere. There must be an entire other wing to this wing.
So she really couldn’t really focus on the TV after all that … intensity that had just happened downstairs. It was kind of dizzying to be treated like that. Like she was his fix and he’d been suffering from withdrawals. Like he needed her pulsing through his veins or he wouldn’t be able to survive. She didn’t quite know what to make of it—especially since she’d come with the mistaken thought that he was going to dump her.
It’d been a while since he left her watching TV. She’d sunk low into the black sofa—it was a bit slick after all. He walked up behind her and she didn’t even hear him. “What are you watching?” he asked, his voice sounding amused.
She startled, and then pulled herself up into a proper sitting position—because the way she was slouching was entirely unladylike, especially for a lady wearing a dress. “Um,” she began. Shoot. She didn’t even know what she was watching. This was like getting caught spacing out in Math. “The Spanish channel. A soap opera.”
