by Remy Rose
Christ. My cock definitely heard that. This is not at all what I expected.
She reaches into her purse. “Let me give you my card. Call me later tonight, and we can have that drink. I'm staying at the Westin.”
How convenient.
I watch her walk away. She moves confidently and with style as she stops to talk to the different vendors. I have no doubt she could charm the pants off anyone here.
At this point, I’m not sure if that also includes me.
* * * *
My agenda when I get back to my suite is a quick shower, order room service, catch part of the Eagles game and go to bed early. It’s been a productive day; we secured a contract with Boeing and made some new contacts. Including Olivia Malstrom.
She was definitely a surprise—bold and beautiful and obviously available. But I’ve got to steer clear—keep the focus where my heart is.
I take off my jacket, drape it over the couch and loosen my tie as I sink into the armchair, wondering for the thousandth fucking time what Cassandra is doing. I flick on the TV, lower the volume and pick up my phone to text her. I’ve learned not to expect a response, but hoping for one—that’s another story.
I'm in Chicago at a trade show, and I've found that even surrounded by hundreds of people, I feel alone because you're not with me.
Going to the window, I pull open the drapes. The view from the Crown Suite at night is nothing short of stunning. The tall buildings jutting up against the velvet-blue night sky are dotted with lighted windows, and way below me, cars are moving along Michigan Avenue in a steady stream. The Magnificent Mile Lights Festival is this weekend, complete with a parade, caroling and fireworks to kick off the holiday season.
Otherwise known as the Great Depression. Jesus. I rub a hand over my face. I’ve already said no to offers of spending Thanksgiving with Gianna and Jordan and with Estelle and Martin.
There was another offer as well.
All of them will ask again at Christmas, and I’ll say no again, citing work reasons. But they’ll know better. I’ll give Christmas bonuses and attend the office party. Exchange presents with Gi, get something for Estelle, and find a special gift for Cassandra. Then I’ll pour myself a glass of Scotch, find something on TV and try not to think too much. Unless, by some Christmas miracle, Cassandra allows me back in her life. Then, and only then, things might be different.
I pick up my phone again and swipe the screen to unlock it. As expected, no response to my earlier text. I send another.
I hope you are all right.
A shower and drink will hopefully help snap me out of this mood. I go into the marble bathroom, turn on the water and undress. Don’t want to admit it, but Ms. Malstrom ignited a spark of arousal in me. I’m betting that later tonight, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands, so to speak.
I’m toweling off when my phone rings. Sam Oakes, who’s sounding particularly happy.
“Hey, buddy! I'm in the hotel bar with Liv Malstrom. Come down and have a drink with us.”
Shit. “Thanks, but I just got out of the shower. I'm actually planning to turn in early.”
“Early? It's not even 8:00. We're just getting started. And the night life is the best part of this goddamned trade show.”
“You know the saying...three's a crowd.”
“Three's also a threesome.”
I can hear a feminine laugh in the background. From a business standpoint, I do want to get off on the right foot with the new Allied manager, and she did mention getting together. No harm in going down for a drink or two, but I sure as hell won’t be able to keep up with Oakes. The man loves to imbibe.
Grinning and red-faced, Sam gives me a fist bump as I sit down at the high-top table. “Welcome to the party, Mr. Leone!” He’s a former Penn State baseball player and still has his athletic build, looking younger than his thirty years.
Olivia turns to look at me, her face flushed. She’s changed into a short, black, off-the-shoulder dress, and the effect of her bare skin and toned upper arms gets to me instantly. Her legs are crossed, the dress hiked up to several inches above her knee, and she’s wearing hot pink, high-heeled shoes with straps crisscrossing her ankles. The hot pink is completely unexpected—a virtual exclamation point.
This punctuation mark is Olivia Malstrom in living form.
She speaks. “Well, look who's here to wet his whistle—so to speak.”
My mouth opens, then closes, and I feel a slow smile spread across my face. She caught me off guard. Again.
“I appreciate the invitation, although I feel like my role is to babysit Sam.”
“As long as I get to put him to bed.” Olivia winks.
Sam whistles. “Baby, now you're talking! I'm gonna get our chaperone a Jager so he can start catching up.”
As he heads toward the bar, Olivia turns to me. “I didn't think you'd show. You seemed a little hesitant when I mentioned it today.”
“I like to have time to think over any offers I receive—business, as well as personal.”
“Not the impulsive type, huh?”
“No. I've always been a planner.”
“You miss out on a lot of fun that way.” She raises her margarita glass to her lips and runs her tongue suggestively around the rim, her eyes wide with innocence.
Fuck. I feel my cock begin to harden. This is not good. She keeps looking at me, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her.
Thankfully, Sam returns with two shot glasses and sets one of them in front of me. “Should we toast to anything?”
Olivia nods and raises her margarita as she fixes her gaze on me. “Yes. To impulsiveness.”
Sam looks from her to me as the three of us clink glasses. “Whoa. What did I miss?”
“I think Liv's trying to tell me something.” I toss back the Jagermeister and grin.
As the night progresses, I’m feeling the effects of two shots and a beer. I’m laughing easily at Liv, stealing glances at her mouth, her breasts, her legs.
She likes that.
I learn that she’s twenty-eight and a Massachusetts native. She got the job at Allied right after graduating with a business degree from Boston University and worked her way up to her current position of district manager with “seventy percent skill, twenty percent persistence, and ten percent cleavage.” She ran her first Boston marathon this past April and has a pug named Winston. When Sam saw Winston's picture on her phone, he told Liv that was the ugliest goddamned dog he’d ever seen. Liv smacked him on the arm and told him not to speak of the love of her life in that way.
Lucky dog.
I also learn that Olivia likes to be physical, resting her hand on my arm and once on my upper leg, making me draw in my breath. She’s also freely affectionate with Oakes, leaning her head on his shoulder as she laughs. I’m surprised to feel a twinge of something close to jealousy, wanting her full attention. Ridiculous, because she doesn’t belong to me.
I have a feeling Olivia Malstrom wouldn’t belong to anyone.
I excuse myself to use the bathroom. The night’s been better than expected, and it feels good to be socializing. I’ve had more than enough to drink, though—good thing Sam’s been close by to save me from anything escalating with Liv.
I haven’t felt my phone vibrate but will double-check to make sure Cassandra didn’t text me. I’ll prepare myself for the usual jab to the gut when I see there’s no response.
But this time, there is.
I'm doing very well. Moving on, and I suggest you do the same.
Multiple jabs to the gut, reading those words. It’s impossible to know what she’s really feeling. Is she putting on a front? Or is she telling me the truth?
Jesus, what if she’s telling me the truth?
The good feeling I had earlier starts to slide, darkening my mood. I leave the restroom and go back into the bar. I’ll tell Sam and Liv good night and head up to my room.
The two of them look like they just shared some glorious secret. “What
's up?”
Sam bursts into laughter. “Nothing...yet.”
“I'm not following you.”
“Liv and I were just talking about continuing this party elsewhere.”
“We were betting you have the nicest room of the three of us, Carlo,” Liv says, her face glowing. “Would your suite happen to have a big...hot tub?”
Jesus, this woman. I open my mouth, fully prepared to say that I’m going back to my room—alone—and then I remember Cassandra's text: Moving on, and I suggest you do the same.
“Yes,” I grin. “It would.”
chapter sixteen ~ Cassandra
When I searched for my father online the night before, I never expected I’d find Reuben Larsen so easily. Or that he’d be, incredibly, about a half hour away in Harrisburg, working as a machinist at the nuclear power plant there.
After he moved out—physically, as well as from my heart and mind—it was easy to imagine him living very far away, even out of the country. Or in the depths of hell, which also worked. So discovering that he’s in fact very nearby feels unnerving—almost like an intrusion.
I’m driving west on 743, my heart rate climbing with every mile that passes. God, I was even stressed out just typing his name in the Google search bar—clammy hands, queasy stomach, the whole deal—I can only imagine how I’ll feel when I actually see him in person. But it’s one of my personal goals, and since today is one of my rare days off, I figure I might as well get this over with.
I’ll get to his house at dinner time. Hopefully, he’ll be home from work, but if he isn't, I’ll wait till he gets there, say what I need to say and leave feeling with some sense of closure. Maybe I’ll even leave feeling empowered.
I haven’t been feeling very strong lately. My sleep has been interrupted, and when I do sleep, I dream of Carlo—as in, extremely vivid sex dreams: Carlo on top of me, giving me commands in that sexy growl he has while he prepares to enter me; his hands on my breasts, groping and tweaking, and oh, Christ...his tongue between my legs, teasing me...I’ve woken up wet and throbbing, and the want is so strong, I need to make myself come before I can go back to sleep. I feel guilty for imagining him while I touch myself, but no one has to know except me. Which is bad enough.
And when I got his text telling me he felt alone at his trade show, my first reaction was complete despair—for both of us, because this mess fucked up what could have been a really good thing. Then I got pissed, because getting pissed was much safer. So when he sent the second text—I hope you are all right—I felt like hurling my fucking phone across the fucking room.
No, Carlo, I wanted to scream. I'm not all right, and as much as I want you to make it all right, you can't. I'm the only one who can do that, and I hate that I don't know if I can. I hate that I wish we had made love so I could know what it would feel like to be with you.
And I hate that I miss you.
No, I am not all right. But I sure as hell don’t want to let him know that.
The few men in my life all ended up hurting me. Did they see weakness in me? Carlo certainly did. I felt weak most every time he was around me and wondered if a person could give in sexually but still be strong and independent. There are all kinds of stories about women who were assertive in their jobs but subservient in the bedroom. And with Carlo, I definitely wanted to give in, let him do whatever he wanted to do to me...
Okay, stoppp. Just stop. Thinking about sex with Carlo isn’t going to help me move forward.
I shiver. The heater in the Malibu isn’t working, but I’ll deal with it rather than pay to get it fixed, since I’m saving to take a class next semester. It’s hard to believe that November is halfway over. But I’m not complaining—it’s such a dull, depressing month. Shorter days, cold temperatures, and everything looks so dull. Like the world, too, is depressed, gearing up for the long winter ahead.
When I was little, I used to assign colors to the months: October was a bright, rich orange; November was the color of Dijon mustard; December, pine green and white; January, sparkling silver. I remember helping my mother decorate for the holidays, the first year without my father. We put on Christmas music, the classics Mom loved, and I turned it up loud, thinking that it could somehow blast out the silence and sorrow that draped over our house like a thick, cold fog.
I had opened the box containing Mom's Santa collection while she was stringing together a cranberry and popcorn garland for the tree, when I heard a sound and looked up to see my mother’s tearstained face. “Cass,” she had said, in a small, choked voice. “I hope I'm enough. I so want to be enough for you.”
It’s memories like this that have made me want to confront my father, to say the things my mother had never been able to, and to somehow make it right.
By the time I pull into his driveway, my heart’s knocking so loud against my chest I can practically hear it. For a fleeting moment I think of turning around, but I clench my fists hard, think fiercely of my mother, and get out of the car into the brisk night air.
My father's house is plain and looks like others in the development—a white split level with black shutters. There are three fat pumpkins staggered on the brick steps. A light at the top of the garage shines down on a portable basketball hoop. Basketball hoop? This doesn’t fit with my father. Then again, I don’t even know him anymore.
What is his reaction going to be, seeing his daughter for the first time in four years? I didn’t let him know I was coming, figuring the element of surprise would be to my advantage. And he deserves to be caught off guard, just like he pulled the rug out from under me.
I stand in front of the door, take a deep, shuddery breath and ring the doorbell. Within seconds, there’s the thumping sound of feet coming closer, and the door opens.
“Can I help you?” A forty-something woman stands before me, looking me up and down. She’s wearing a baggy, navy sweatshirt and sweatpants, wiping her hands with a dishtowel, some of her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and the rest loose and disheveled around her face.
Is this her? The woman my father left Mom for? Or is this someone new, since then? Either way, knowing that this is the person who replaced my mother makes me feel sick to my stomach.
The smell of something cooking—stew, or pot roast—wafts out the open door, adding to my queasiness. I check out the woman's left hand, and there it is—a plain gold wedding band.
I find my voice. “I'm here to see Reuben...my father.”
The woman's mouth opens and closes, her eyes large with surprise. “I'll go get him,” she tells me sharply. “Wait here.” She gives me another up and down glance and closes the door, leaving me there.
So sorry to have messed up your evening. But your husband messed up my life.
A couple minutes later, the door opens again. And there is Reuben Larsen.
My father stands before me awkwardly in a denim shirt and dark work pants, with his black, stringy hair hanging in pieces down his forehead. He looks older, paunchier, the skin on his face loose. And he looks shocked, as if he’s seeing an exotic creature for the first time.
I shiver involuntarily in my fleece jacket. Is he going to say anything? Invite me inside?
“Hi...Dad,” I say, finally, the second word feeling clumsy (and honestly, gross) on my tongue. “I wanted to talk to you.”
He’s looking at me warily. The skin on the back of my neck prickles. “This will only take a few minutes. I think you owe me that much.” Good job! Calm, assertive.
His face changes, then. “All right. Come in.”
Taking a few steps back, he opens the door wider and I step inside, careful not to brush against him. I can see the woman—his wife—busying herself in the kitchen, setting the table and casting glances at us.
We walk through a small archway into the living room, and my father motions for me to take a seat in the glider rocker while he sits across from me in a blue recliner. I sit down stiffly, feeling unsteady as the chair slides back and forth, and wonder if he offer
ed this seat intentionally to keep me off balance.
I will both my nerves and the glider to still and scan the room quickly to get a feel for my father's new life. The furniture is simple, rustic, and the room is done in blues and browns with a country theme. There’s a photo on the lamp table beside the recliner: my father, his wife, and a tall boy in cap and gown, smiling in between them. The woman's son?
Reuben clears his throat, clasping his hands on his ample belly. His expression is bland, almost disinterested, but the way he’s twisting his wedding ring makes me realize there’s more going on beneath the surface. What is he feeling? Shock and uneasiness, no doubt, but I wonder what else. Is he feeling any guilt? Is any part of him glad to see me?
And then it strikes me that it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about what he is thinking and feeling; it’s about me. He made it all about himself when he had those affairs and left, and now, I’m going to make it all about me.
“I'm not going to stay long.” My heart is pounding wildly, but my voice is low and even. “I know we haven't seen each other since you left. But things have been building up inside me. I just wanted to say a few things to you, because I've found that I'm having a hard time with relationships, and in a major way, it's due to you.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, and he leans back in his chair, still silent.
I order myself to look directly into his eyes. “You hurt Mom, but you also hurt me. She wasn't strong enough to tell you this, so I'm going to tell you. For both of us.”
There’s the sound of a cupboard door being shut forcefully in the kitchen, a not-so-subtle reminder from his wife that she’s listening.
Her father exhales deeply. “What do you want, Cassandra? If it's money, I can give you some.”
Christ, is he for real? “I don't want your money. You can't put a price on pain. I came here to tell you that it was wrong of you to treat Mom the way you did. You didn't just cheat on her and walk out on her...you did it to me, too. I was your daughter, and I needed you too, but you just left and never looked back. I've figured out that this affected what I've thought of myself. I've taken crap from guys when I shouldn't have. But I'm done with that. I deserve better. And so did Mom.”
