by Kati Wilde
“Or a marriage engagement?” he suggests in a low voice.
“Yes,” I say softly. “Though I’m still figuring out those rules.”
Like how to choose endearments, because he’s apparently already settled on one for me. Baby. As if he wants to hold me and take care of me.
Or whether to kiss him hello. To which he said, You don’t need to but meant I don’t want you to.
That deep ache opens up in my chest again. I try to ignore it, because I’m supposed to be telling him—“I don’t react well to pain. And I don’t like things that aren’t in the right place, or out of order, or cluttered, or physically uncomfortable. And sometimes I get distracted by those things. But it’s not really a distraction. It’s more that I become hyperfocused on that thing, and that hyperfocus means that I’m not paying attention to something I should be paying attention to.”
“Like Patrick.”
“Yes. Though maybe that was also overstimulation because I was feeling so much. Usually it’s loud noises and flashing lights that do it. Then I have to give my brain a break.”
“Like now,” he says gruffly. “In the dark.”
I nod.
“Is that what the rubber band on your wrist was for, too?”
“That’s for when I feel myself hyperfocusing on something—that little bit of pain pulls my focus in a different direction. Long enough for me to realize what I’m doing and stop. So I have coping mechanisms that mostly work. And I usually recognize when I’m becoming distracted or overstimulated.”
“But not always.”
“No. That’s why I typically bring Jeremy or Jessica to events like this.”
“But tonight you had me. Fuck.” He exhales a breath that sounds forced through clenched teeth. “I should have stayed with you like you asked me to. And I shouldn’t have called you what I did.”
“Why? You meant it.” Snobby little ice queen. That vulnerable opening in my chest starts to ache again. Because even before he promised to speak directly to me, Caleb said what he thinks. Frigid and pretentious. “Didn’t you?”
“I meant it then.” His voice hoarsens. “But now I know that I was badly fucking mistaken.”
Knowing that he changed his mind should ease the ache, but it only deepens. As if I’m becoming more and more vulnerable simply by sitting here in the dark with him. And more afraid of that vulnerability.
Prodded by that fear, I scramble to my feet. “I’m ready to leave now.”
Almost instantly Caleb is at my side, an enormous shadow looming next to me in the dark. “Then I’ll help you find your car.”
“My driver will pull up to the front of the hotel. I can find that alone.”
“I’m sure you can.” He reaches the conference room door and opens it for me. I don’t look up as the light from the corridor falls over us, don’t let myself become distracted by his fascinating face. “But there are rules about this. An engaged man makes sure his woman safely gets where she’s going.”
His woman? “That sounds like an antiquated rule.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”
Perhaps. “All right. You may escort me to my car.”
“I may?” A deep laugh rumbles from him. “I would have anyway. But hold up for a minute.”
His fingers catch mine, and he swings me around to face him—then backs me up a single step. My back hits the corridor wall and he’s all around me, his head bent toward mine. I lift my gaze but only as far as his mouth, my breathing shallow and my pulse racing.
His voice is low and intimate. “What do you want me to do with this?”
The diamond ring. He holds it in his palm, the gold band looking ridiculously small in his big hand.
I sigh. “I should wear it.”
“Because that’s what engaged women do? But I say there should be some rules that we won’t give a fuck about. If a ring bothers you, don’t wear one.”
“Yes, but…I only borrowed this one for the night. I shouldn’t risk losing it. And I’m more likely to if I’m not wearing it.”
As it is, if he hadn’t brought the diamond with us, I’d have forgotten it on the floor.
“All right, then.” He lifts my left hand, and my heart thumps as he slowly slides the ring onto my finger. As if this gesture has more meaning than simply putting on a ring so it won’t get lost. As if he’s righting something that almost went wrong.
He settles the band into place, then turns my hand over and draws a slow circle in the center of my palm with his thumb. “Okay for now?”
“Yes,” I whisper as his thumb circles again. I can’t even feel the ring. Only that caress.
“And what about your panties?” He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and, a moment later, black silk dangles from his fingers. “I’ll happily put those back on you, too.”
Immediately I imagine his rough hands sliding their way up my legs, tugging my skirt up and dragging that tiny scrap of silk into place. My inner muscles clench in response. An erotic shiver works its way over my skin, tightening my nipples, as if his thumbs were stroking those taut buds instead of my palm.
Sheer longing fills my chest, but I shake my head. “Not if they’re still damp,” I tell him. But even if they aren’t, soon they would be again. Especially if he’s the one who puts them on me. “I’ll feel them and won’t be able to think about anything else.”
He gives a short, pained laugh. “Then we’re a good match, baby. I can’t think about anything but these wet panties, either.” Which he slides into his pocket again—and before I can protest his thievery, he entwines his fingers with mine and we begin heading down the corridor toward the coat check.
Holding hands. This is clearly something we’ll do as an engaged couple. I like it very much, just as I enjoyed clinging to his arm and standing close to him in the ballroom. At first it was only to make certain everyone saw that he belonged to me—and to offer my protection. So many people within this social circle can be vicious, but my presence alone should stop the worst of it. And although I can’t detect the more subtle insults, people don’t know that. If any jabs slipped through, however, Caleb never seemed to be intimidated by them…and gradually, it was I who felt protected, standing there beside him. As he if was a solid wall between me and the crowd. As if I were safe with him, even as I was slowly overwhelmed by the constant interaction with everyone else.
Safe with him, yes—but only safe from others. Because even as I feel protected by him, Caleb Moore makes me so vulnerable. Just in a different way.
We are almost to the coat check when he asks, “When will I see you next? I want it to be soon.”
He does? Happiness and anticipation skip through me. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked at my calendar since this afternoon—and that was before we established a date for the wedding. So everything will have changed.” And will need to be updated again, after I send Jessica a message about Patrick’s ugly sweater party.
“Then look at it while I get our coats.”
I can’t look at my calendar until he returns with my trench, because I didn’t carry my phone into the ballroom. I scroll through my new schedule as we make our way to the hotel lobby.
“I don’t have anything else scheduled with you before the wedding.”
A scowl darkens his face. “Do you have any free time?”
“Before or after the wedding?”
“Both.”
“Not much. But I can tell Jessica to change that.”
“Then tell her I want to see you every damn day. Even if you can only manage a few minutes.”
I would like that, too. And I can certainly manage more than a few minutes, but I’ll let Jessica figure that out. I tell her what I want to do but don’t attempt to create my own schedule, because I begin obsessing over the details—such as how long it’ll take my driver to get me from one appointment to another—and spend more time planning my schedule than working. Far better to just place all of that into my assis
tant’s capable hands.
Outside, it’s snowing again. My driver’s waiting for me, and as Caleb walks with me to the car, one of the hotel attendants opens the rear door with a flourish.
A tug on my hand brings me to a halt. “Hold up, baby.”
Standing in front of the open car door, I turn to face Caleb. He glances at the attendant, who blurts a “Happy Holidays!” before vanishing.
His dark gaze returns to mine before falling to my lips, and the gravel in his voice seems to abrade my nerve endings, bringing my entire body to raw awareness. “A man should kiss his fiancée goodnight.”
A horrible ache re-opens within my chest. “No,” I tell him. “You’ve already established that you don’t want me to kiss you hello. A good-bye follows the same rules as a greeting.”
The skin over his cheeks draws taut. “You think I don’t want you to kiss me? Because I really fucking do.”
I frown in confusion. “Then why tell me no before?”
“I didn’t want any woman kissing me because she felt obligated to and not because she wanted to.”
My brittle smile feels as fragile as my heart suddenly does. “And you thought I didn’t want to...because I’m an ice queen?”
“Because I’m a stupid piece of shit,” he rasps. “Did you want to?”
“Yes.”
His eyes close briefly, as if in regret. “And now?”
Yes. But how vulnerable will the truth make me? I don’t know—but I’m terrified that I won’t simply be opening myself up to hurt. Caleb Moore might be able to completely tear me apart. Because I already feel as if I’ve been shredded.
Yet I can’t lie. So instead I remain silent and let my eyes answer with the cold stare that’s so effective in these circumstances. Too late, I remember that I told him exactly what I use it for.
But he doesn’t seem to remember. Because his jaw clenches and he nods before replying as if I’d said the word no out loud. “You don’t want to. All right. No kiss.”
He steps back, his big hand clenched on the top of the open door frame as I slide into the car’s seat. My throat aches and my eyes burn as I tell him, “Goodnight, Caleb.”
Softly he replies, “Goodnight, Audrey.”
The door swings shut. I close my eyes, fighting the hot sting of tears.
I liked it better when he called me ‘baby.’
6
Caleb
I don’t sleep for shit. In the morning I stumble into the shower and stroke one out to the memory of Audrey’s lush red lips. But as my cum washes down the drain, another image sticks in my head. The same image that haunted me all fucking night. Of Audrey looking up at me with that withering, icy stare. The stare she uses instead of saying a lie.
Because she still wanted to kiss me. But she didn’t want me to know it. And there was no hiding the wariness that accompanied her every response after we emerged from the dark room.
Afraid. Because I hurt her last night. And not just once.
A handful of text messages greet me when I leave the shower, and a tight band of tension wraps around my chest when I see the name of Audrey’s assistant, Jessica. Maybe calling everything off. Notifying me that the Wyndham mansion isn’t worth putting up with my shit.
Instead sheer relief hits me when I see it’s a group message titled ‘Audrey’s Little Helpers’ that includes Jessica and the other assistant, Jeremy. And I must be crazy about this woman, because group messages are stupidly fucking annoying and yet here I am, glad to see it. I carry the device into my kitchen and begin reading while I pour my coffee.
Jessica: Good morning, Mr. Moore. I’m attaching a calendar to this message. When you click on the link, it should sync with your phone’s.
Jessica: I’ve cleared most of my employer’s evenings per her request. At your convenience, please send me your work schedule and let me know of any social events you’d like her to attend with you.
Yeah, my schedule’s not exactly hopping with ‘social events’—and I’m not likely to drag her to any of my friends’ parties. Not if she doesn’t do well with crowds and loud noise. But I’m damn pleased that Audrey opened up her evenings.
I pull out a griddle and continue to the next message, then start grinning when I hit the assistant’s name for her.
Jessica: Please understand that this calendar is extremely flexible. Audrey Motherfuckin’ Clarke (AMC) can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, wherever she wants, however she wants. But she likes the structure of a schedule. So if you’ve planned something, let me know. Updating the calendar is no problem.
Jeremy: Also—though she might have a different preference with you—generally AMC prefers texts and emails to phone calls.
That last one came in while I was looking at the screen, so I type out a response.
Caleb: Who doesn’t?
Jeremy: Truth. Also, if your reply is rhetorical, or if the tone of your message might be easily mistaken or is unclear, AMC appreciates emojis that can clarify your meaning. If you are joking or teasing her, I recommend the winking emoji.
Caleb: Got it.
Jessica: For the upcoming wedding, would you like us to schedule tuxedo fittings, arrange transportation to church and honeymoon, make sure you and AMC obtain a marriage license and have all necessary documentation, hire movers to take your belongings to her house, etc.? Before you say no, or that it’s not necessary, or that you can do it, consider that we make AMC’s life easier by making YOUR life easier—and that we are very good at it.
Caleb: You can do it.
Jessica: Great. We’ll accomodate your work schedule as much as possible. Also if your employer is reluctant to give you the week off between Xmas and New Years’, let us know. AMC’s name can be very persuasive.
Caleb: Absolutely fucking not.
Jeremy: Hard limit noted and accepted.
Jessica: AMC is scheduled to attend the Bennet Foundation’s Christmas carnival tonight from 6 to 9ish. Do you wish to accompany her?
Caleb: Yes.
Jeremy: This evening’s fundraising festivities include a raffle drawing, a pie-eating contest, several wintertime sports activities, a Polar Plunge, and—if you’ve been a good boy—you can sit on Santa’s lap.
Caleb: Pass. What will Audrey like?
Jeremy: Ice skating!
Jessica: Hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Jeremy: Manly yet sensitive displays of strength!
Jessica: Anything soft and fuzzy.
Jeremy: Correctly punctuated signage!
Caleb: Thanks.
Jeremy: Our pleasure! We look forward to helping you become Mister AMC, husband to the beautiful and successful woman who gives us a tremendous bonus at the end of every fiscal year.
Jessica: I’ll send updates to your schedule as I arrange them. Do not hesitate to contact us if there is something you need or if you have any questions regarding ANYTHING.
Caleb: Will do.
Though not often. I’m not using Audrey’s assistants as a go-between for me and her. But they’re obviously invested in making her happy—and they know her likes and dislikes better than I do.
But that’ll change. If I get my way, I’ll know her inside and out.
I get dressed for work, then pick up my phone again. Audrey’s number is the newest entry in my contact list but our message history is blank. Not anymore.
Caleb: Tell your driver to take the night off. I’ll pick you up from work around 5:30 and take you to the carnival, and then drive you home. Bring your ice skates.
It feels like a goddamn year passes before the reply comes. I’m on my way out the door when my phone buzzes and the message notification pops onto the screen.
Audrey: Okay.
Fuck. Is that a happy okay? An irritated okay? A disinterested okay? I wish she’d used an emoji. Because I can read that simple ‘okay’ a million ways.
And I don’t know what the hell to write next. Sorry I hurt you? I’m a fucking asshole? I want to kiss you hello a
nd goodnight and I don’t want you to be afraid that I’ll hurt you again? But that’s not the kind of shit you say over a message. That needs to be said face-to-face.
So… We’ll just leave it at ‘Okay.’
For now.
At five-forty, I pull up to the Clarke building. When I saw it yesterday under a gray sky and in the drab winter sunlight, it struck me as an unwelcoming sculpture of glass and steel. With night falling and warm light filling the windows, the building looks more like a flame rising against the dark and the cold.
Christ. Even her building is telling me how wrong I was about her.
It’s a damn good thing she needs that Wyndham property, because it’ll give me a chance to make it right. And since I left her last night, the only thing on my mind has been how I should go about doing that. The main thing is—taking it slow. Let her see that I’m not going to hurt her again. Build up her trust. Because she might be sexually attracted to me, but her icy stare last night told me that she doesn’t think I’ll take care with her emotions. Not after I treated her like she doesn’t have any.
So I’ll go slow. And luckily, I have time to go slow. She agreed to marry me to get her hands on that property. So we’re stuck together for a while.
Earlier, Jessica sent a text telling me to park directly in front of the main doors, so I do. Feels damn strange, but the way the security guard in the lobby greets me by name and some of the looks I’m getting tell me that the word is out. That I’m not just Caleb Moore anymore, but the soon-to-be Mr. AMC.
“Miss Clarke says not to bother coming up. She’ll be right down,” the security guard says—Reginald Johnson, according to his name tag. “And congratulations on your engagement, sir.”
“Thanks. And it’s Caleb.”
“No can do, Mr. Moore. Just like she’ll always be Miss Clarke here, whether she invites us to call her Audrey or not. The employees of Clarke, International like anyone coming in from outside to know how much respect they ought to be showing her. Now that respect extends to you—along with other privileges.” He holds out an envelope. “In here is a key card that’ll give you access to the building after hours and allows you to take the elevator to the executive levels. It’ll work in combination with your thumbprint, so if you’ll let me scan that now, we’ll get that all set up. There’s also a parking sticker. You have a designated spot in the garage, but the truth is, your spot is called ‘anywhere you like.’ Though we’d appreciate a heads-up if you change vehicles.”
