by Mj Fields
Cinq A Sept
MJ Fields
Blue Valley Publishing LLC.
Cinq à Sept
Copyright © 2018 by MJ Fields.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Designs by Dana
Edited by C& D Editing
Proofread by Asli Arif Fratarcangeli
Second Proof by Josie Charles
First Edition: September 2018
Created with Vellum
Contents
Disclaimer
To The Reader
Play List
Synopsis
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part II
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Also By MJ Fields
About the Author
Disclaimer
This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. It involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are consenting adults over the age of 18.
For information contact: [email protected]
This book is dedicated to those who are starting over, to those who are wary of trusting their heart to another, and to those who worry too much about what others might think if their next love doesn’t fit the mold.
To The Reader
Love is without the knowledge of time and its compatibility knows no years. The heart wants what the heart wants.
~Forever Steel~
MJ
Play List
No Rain by Blind Melon
Good Riddance by Green Day
Right Here Right Now by Jesus Jones
I Remember You by Skid Row
Love Song by Tesla
Two Princes by Spin Doctors
High Enough by Damn Yankees
The Best Day by Taylor Swift
Price of Love by Bad English
So What by Miles Davis
Stay by Black Stone Cherry
“I let my inhibitions go, and they fell in the wrong place. I didn’t know he would be my unraveling. I didn’t know he was twenty-five.”
A single mother often lives by certain rules, and Angela Petrov has made certain to adhere to hers: Mom first, career second, and no man will meet her child unless they will be in her life long-term.
However, with her daughter now in college, the company she has worked at for over a decade facing major changes, and no lover in sight, Angela’s life has lost all its carefully construed and configured organization.
When news that the annual, employee, Labor Day party in the Hamptons will still be held, Angela tries to bail out. However, her best friend and coworker, Autumn, convinces her otherwise.
Turns out that, while attempting to enjoy the elite Hampton nightlife with her coworkers, she meets a much-younger, tall, dark, and sexy man who offers her an escape for the long weekend. So, throwing caution to the ocean breeze, she accepts his offer of a true time-out in life, focusing only on time between the sheets with no … strings attached.
What happens when you allow yourself to let go of life’s stresses, release inhibitions, and embrace desire?
You chase regret.
Part One
Chapter One
The ocean breeze is cool tonight, I think as I pull the loose, knit shrug that has fallen from my shoulder back to its rightful place, covering my bare, sun-kissed skin.
I’m eternally grateful for the annual de la Porte Labor Day Hamptons weekend celebration. It’s a reprieve from the sweltering, New York City summer heat. Every year the entire staff of de la Porte is invited to the founders sprawling Georgica Pond estate for a party and long weekend of relaxation and celebration.
This is the first year I have attended alone.
My eighteen-year-old daughter, Natasha, has entered her first year at the London College of Fashion; therefore, my plus one is no longer available, and neither is my excuse for not coming in on Thursday evening instead of Friday, enabling me to avoid going out, getting drunk, socializing, and mingling with my coworkers for the two evenings preceding the company’s family picnic.
Leaning against the wooden railing of the outdoor bar, I watch them all dancing, drinking, and having a great time. I should feel more a part of this group who I have worked with for the past ten years, yet I don’t.
This isn’t my scene; hasn’t been for the past eighteen years. The majority of my coworkers are considerably younger, mostly in their late-twenties, or a few, like Autumn, are in their thirties. Yet, here I am.
I raise my flute of champagne toward the group, hoping they don’t see me and pull me back onto the dance floor as I toast, “To youth.”
Seeing that Autumn has spotted me, I brighten my waning smile just for her.
She looks beautiful tonight, dressed in a floral, maxi dress. Her long, brown, highlighted waves are down, and her makeup is a little more dramatic than her typical “office” face. Confidence and a carefree demeanor make her look even more stunning.
She points toward a handsome young man in his twenties, with thick, dirty-blond hair. He’s not an employee of de la Porte, which is good, because the stories I have heard over the years about the weekends here have ruined marriages, families and yes, careers. Then Autumn looks toward the exit and raises her phone slightly. She is sharing her location with me, so I will know where she ends up. It’s a safety net we set in place when she started using dating apps.
I nod as I give her a look of approval, and she nods slightly back. Then I watch her as she looks back at him, blushes, and takes his outstretched hand. He escorts her through the wooden double doors that leads to the inside bar, where I know they won’t be staying for a drink. Tonight, Autumn is finally using some of the advice she has given me over the past five years that she has been my assistant.
She always pushes me to date more, settle for less. Since her divorce a year ago, she has dated more than I could ever allow myself to date, yet she has taken few lovers.
Autumn and her ex did not have children; therefore, she has nothing “grounding” her. Going on dates every day of the week is possible for her. I applaud it and her very specific list—yes, list—of what she wants in a man. Perfect … for her.
I suppose some day she, too, will get tired of chasing the idea of love and accept that sometimes a mutually agreed upon sexual relationship with boundaries—and realize no disillusions, broken promises, or inevitable plans for marriage—can actually be quite satisfying. I secretly hope not, but it is a
harsh reality many working women must accept when their jobs mean so much to them.
I hope my past failings will serve as a cautionary tale to her, and that she may guard her heart, just a bit, so she never has to feel as broken as she once did.
In ten years, I have dated several men; two who were thought to be promising. It was even planned my daughter would meet them, yet somehow, a divine enlightening came upon me prior to it actually happening.
The first man, Charles, seemed to be on the same page, until the clouds parted just a week before and I saw him for who he was. One overheard phone conversation with his ex-wife and I knew I could never be with him long-term. Having three children with her, he should have never called her the names I overheard. Yes, I know that sometimes we all slip, but the way he spoke to her was vile. I left his bed that evening with no intention of ever going back.
Samuel was a few years younger, and also a father. The clouds again parted, shining a light on what he would be as a partner, when his youngest fell and broke his arm. His ex wanted him to meet them at the ER. He told her no. His tone wasn’t vile, but there was no consideration in it.
What both men had in common was that I could never see myself with a man who was blatantly disrespectful to another, or so self-centered that the need to get laid took precedence over his child needing him.
The three men who followed were workaholics, like myself, who wanted to fill the only thing lacking in their lives—intimacy.
Natasha once asked me why I didn’t go on as many dates as I had previously. The fact is, I did. She just didn’t know about them. In the corporate world, the hours between five p.m. and seven p.m. were known to be the time when men and, yes, women took the time to unwind. Some took lovers to release frustration, or to make them feel powerful or desired before returning to their families where they tried to blend in, to be part of them.
Though I never took a lover who was married, it’s not uncommon, and I can’t say I’m appalled by it. In fact, I understand, yet it doesn’t mean it’s right for me.
Why? I had the same thing done to me.
The French use the term cinq a sept, making an affair sound sensual, erotic, even desirable. I know this because a former lover explained it to me. He wasn’t married, and neither was I, but what we had was forbidden and needed to remain a secret. So, for the past four years, I allowed the French term to titillate and excite me. Being his lover was the equivalent to eating dark chocolate that had been hidden away by a parent who stored it for a time they wanted to savor a moment.
A year ago, it ended.
The ending wasn’t torturous or tearful like a couple who were in love.
We were never in love.
There was no going back and forth, trying to figure out how to make it work.
It never would.
The ending was simply … inevitable.
Now, with Autumn single and Natasha away at school … growing into adulthood, Autumn has pulled me out of the office more nights than I care to remember so that I could maybe find what she believes all women want—love, the kind born from fairy tales.
I thought I had that once.
I would never allow myself to regret my marriage, because it gave me what I know to be true love—that of a mother to a child. What is more, I will never believe a man who swears an oath, first on one knee, then to God, that he would love, honor, protect, and cherish me until death parted us.
Death rarely destroys love. What destroys love are miscommunications and wayward desires, which are ultimately the root causes of a failed partnership.
I don’t loathe my ex-husband. Davis works for the same company I do. We are friendly, but we grew apart. It happens when two people are on two different paths in life. His was to become successful in his career, to advance; and mine was to break a cycle and be the best mother I could be to a beautiful, little girl who needed me.
We have successfully co-parented Natasha for ten years, managing to get through the losses of both our mothers, Davis marrying the woman he had an affair with, introducing Natasha to her son and making it as painless as possible.
On several occasions, Autumn has pointed out that it wasn’t due to any great accomplishment on his part, and now buzzing on champagne, I would tell her she’s right…. was I actually having a conversation with her. I’m glad to be having it with myself.
I’m blessed to have Natasha; and therefore, I treat her as just that, a blessing. When her father dropped the ball, I picked it up and turned it into an entire ballroom. When Natasha would tell me she was left to watch her stepbrother, Johnny, I explained to her father that she wasn’t old enough to carry that responsibility. When he had other children and spent less and less time with her, I encouraged her to find her passions. When his wife again started treating her as a babysitter for her half-siblings, I made damn sure she was busy doing something she loved and not made to feel like she was anything less than the children Davis now had in his everyday life.
I know it hurt her, but I did everything humanly possible to lessen the blows given to her by the man who, if I’m honest with myself, probably still doesn’t know how to replace an empty roll of toilet paper, let alone shut the seat after he lifts it and pisses on the floor anyway. All warning signs I should have heeded. Signs that a man like Davis wouldn’t see beyond his own … pointed nose; therefore, shining a glaring light on the warnings hidden by disillusions of love that he would ever think of someone else’s needs, wants, or desires before his own.
Love is the most beautiful illusion there is. But like all illusions, it fades away in time.
Speak of the devil and he appears.
I sigh out loud when I see Davis through the glass centered in the large, oak double doors leading to the outside deck.
When I see him looking around, I make my way to the stairs that leads to the beach and escape what would be a mind-numbing and infuriating conversation about Sabrina’s (his wife’s), constant nagging, turning into a nauseating, drunken rambling about how he fucked up and should have stayed with me. As if that was ever an option at any point. When I walked out the door, there was never any intentions of going back.
My steps are not easy—sand and heels don’t mix—but I trudge on.
Story of my life.
With the trifecta of change upon me, my emotions are not as easy to hamper. My child is soaring like she should, I’m forty years old, and the career I have built, that supports not only mine but my daughter’s lifestyle, is not quilted in a nice, perfect, and planned pattern. In fact, it’s like a childhood blanket after years of giving comfort and security—it’s all hanging by a thread.
Enter Davis and the infuriating realization that he has not, nor will he ever, go the extra mile for Natasha. The burden lays on my shoulders. He would think of himself first, even if it meant crushing her dreams. What should be a relaxing weekend, one to celebrate the fruits of my labor with the company I’ve treated as if it’s another child, isn’t. I’m far from the state of relaxation.
Yes, life would be easier with two incomes flowing into one household, but Davis dangling the carrot of reconciliation in my face every time he’s had a drink is nauseating.
Could I have him back? Without a doubt.
Would I want him back? Never in a million years.
“I’m not, nor will I ever be, a choice to man with an average-sized dick and less than average ability,” I huff as I pull off my heels and walk down the sandy beach.
“Infuriating,” I puff.
“Disgusting.” I blow out the words like they’re on the end of a wand and will float off into the air, pop, and never return.
The smell of smoke stops my rambling, and then a chuckle causes me to look left toward the source. The orange glow of cigarette embers lights up the face of a tall, dark-haired male. His hair is thick and wavy, pushed back by a pair of sunglasses atop his head.
He exhales and buts the cigarette out in the sand with his shoe. Then he bends down and picks it up
while looking up at me with a smirk.
I sigh and turn to walk away.
“She complains about average Joe and his less than average ability, yet she walks away from a man above average in everything.”
I stop quickly and turn around. “Excuse—”
He steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
My throat dries immediately.
My breath is lost, and so are my words.
Me, the word is me, Angela, I scold myself.
Pushing away from the wooden fence behind him, he straightens to his full height, which is over six feet tall. His white linen shirt is unbuttoned just below his chest, displaying his beautifully sculpted pectorals, and a light sprinkling of dark, well-groomed hair is peppered perfectly on them. The shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. They are strong, muscular, and well-defined.
My eyes sweep upward to his muscular shoulders and thick neck. His hair isn’t just dark; it’s a jet-black mess of waves. And although his face is lightly bearded, you can still see the spectacular strong bone structure beneath it.
I close my mouth even tighter as I swallow back the instant desire this man’s presence causes.
He cocks his eyebrow as the corner of his mouth slowly ascends, assumedly seeing exactly what effect he has on me. The tightening of my nipples confirms its possibility.
