“But—”
“Stop working.” I licked the shell of her ear before running my teeth along her jaw. “Forget about your to-do list. Or better, let me make you forget.”
She relaxed and stroked my beard as I nuzzled my way down her chest. I tugged the hem of her shirt up with my teeth, then placed soft, wet kisses along her exposed stomach.
For the record, she chose option number one, in combination with three, followed by number two for an encore.
Our weekend together ended too soon. I was taking things as slow as I could stand, but I wanted . . . no, I needed more time with her. Instead of an evening or weekend, I needed a longer stretch of uninterrupted hours. Waking up to her every morning would be ideal, but I knew we weren’t there yet. I couldn’t convince her to slow down, she had to come to the conclusion she wanted more of a life than her career.
No, I wasn’t talking about her being barefoot and pregnant making dinner for me every night while I wore slippers, drank a martini, and smoked a pipe by the fire. Although, I did have a fantasy of her naked in my kitchen.
I wanted Roslyn to join me on the other side, where work and the rest of her life were in balance, in the sweet spot between success and enough.
We had enough money to live the rest of our lives and do everything we could imagine.
We didn’t have enough time.
Never enough time, especially after wasting years apart because of stubbornness.
An idea hatched as we were packing up her car and saying good-bye.
“Christmas is a little over a week away and we haven’t discussed plans.”
“I want to skip it this year. My sister-in-law is the smug mommy equivalent of bridezilla. Everything is about the baby and buying presents for the baby. Does a human who can’t control their own bowels really need a white, real sheepskin-covered rocking lamb costing two hundred dollars? Or a cashmere onesie? If anyone is getting one of those, it should be me.”
“You have a nephew?” I leaned against the side of her SUV.
She tilted her head. “Yes, he’s ten months old. How did you not know this?”
I tried and failed to remember her younger brother’s name. “I didn’t even know your brother was married.”
“Claire and Trevor? For three years. Albus is the first grandchild and a son, so you can imagine the joy in the Porter family.” She pressed her lips together.
“Albus? As in—”
“Albus Harry Porter.”
“No.” I laughed.
“Oh yes.” She rolled her eyes.
“I have a proposal . . . I mean proposition for you.” I stepped closer.
“Another fun spree?”
Pulling her into my arms, I asked, “Come away with me for Christmas. Send the sheep and a card.”
“Are you serious? You can’t be serious. It’s a week away. Where would we go?” She gazed up at me, her eyes almost as dark as the sky above us.
I had no idea. Yet. “I want to surprise you. Do you trust me? Pack for cold and bring your passport.”
“But what about our families?” She leaned away from me.
Keeping her caged in my arms, I kissed the corner of her mouth. “Would they be devastated if you skipped a year?”
“Probably not. What about you? No traditional white Christmas in New England?”
“I was home last year and saw my parents this summer. They’ll give me a little guilt, but if I tell them I’m whisking away a beautiful woman who I’m madly in love with, they’ll understand.”
“Madly?” She squinted at me.
“Head over heels, ass over elbows, world upside down in love.”
“How am I supposed to resist you when you say these things?”
“Why even try?” I kissed the end of her nose.
“This is crazy.”
“The best love stories always are.”
“Okay. Let’s do this.” Her grin lit up her face.
“Then it’s a done deal. We’ll leave Christmas Eve so we can wake up Christmas morning together.”
She gave me a sweet, lingering kiss before she got in her car.
I tapped the window and waited for her to roll it down. “Bring your passport.”
“THIS IS A dream, a surreal, sublime dream. Any moment a tutu wearing goat on a tricycle will pedal through the room and do donuts in the corner.” Roslyn stretched across the white sheets of the bed, gloriously naked and thoroughly sexed.
“I don’t believe goats are popular in Venice.” I kissed a constellation of freckles on her shoulder. “A masked cat steering a gondola would be more likely.”
“Should we order room service?” I rolled in the direction of the nightstand, pulling her under me as I went, unwilling to break contact with her naked skin.
“We’re in Venice. We should leave the room and explore.” She dodged and evaded my kiss. “With jet lag and everything being closed on Christmas, we’ve already lost an entire day.”
I nudged my semi-hard erection into the space between her legs. “Lost day? I’d call spending an entire day in bed with you the best Christmas ever.”
“I feel like a failure for only getting you tickets to Bob Dylan.” She squirmed out of my embrace.
“Age?”
“Seventy-five. A solid senior citizen.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is legend.” I kissed her calf and noticed a small tattoo on her ankle. “Wait, this tiny thing is your secret tattoo?”
She twisted her leg to show me the full quote. “Took you long enough to notice.”
“I was paying attention to more important parts of your body.” I traced the words with my finger and knowingly butchered the Spanish, “Amor que puede ser eterno y puede ser fugaz.”
“It’s about love.” She tried to cover the thin script.
I stared in awe and shock at the words forever etched into her skin. I translated the Pablo Neruda quote to English, “Love that can be eternal, can be fleeting. And the line that proceeds it is ‘love that is shared in kisses, bed, and bread.’ I know the Neruda poem well. In fact, I believe I read it to you once or twice a few years ago. I always loved the line about bread being part of love. So much that before we ever met, I got a tattoo of it. Also, in white ink.” I pointed to my shoulder where the words curved around the larger dragon tattoo.
Like a rabbit caught in a vegetable garden, she stared at me with wide bright eyes.
“My dear Roslyn.”
“Yes?” The question came out a whimper as I stroked the words on her ankle.
“Did you get a matching tattoo to mine?” If I were a grinch with a heart many sizes too small, this was the moment my heart grew larger than them all.
“It was a moment of bitterness. My girlfriends dragged my mopey self to Vegas for the weekend. Too many sad Celine Dion songs, froofy cocktails and tears, I found myself in a tattoo parlor.
“And the first thing you thought of was this quote?”
“Seemed more than appropriate.”
“Did it?” I hummed happily to myself. She loved me enough to hate me, but also to keep loving me long after we ended.
“You are standing in a glass house, Ashland.” She jabbed her finger in the air in my general direction.
“Am I?” I kissed my way up her leg to her knee. “Enlighten me.”
“Your pizza pin-up girl skateboard?” Her jabbing finger made contact with my skin. “Busted.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I ran my tongue along the center of my bottom lip. “I’ll own up to it. I wondered how long it would take you to notice and comment.”
“I saw it at the photo-shoot. Cari pointed out the resemblance.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting it tattooed on my bicep.” It perfectly combined two of my greatest loves.
“You should. Definitely. It might create a shield to keep all other women away from you.”
My smug happiness knew no limits. “You know what else could do that?”
“W
hat?”
I reached for her left hand and placed a kiss on her ring finger. “Gold bands. I hear they’re universally recognized as a symbol of fidelity and commitment.”
“Is this a proposal?”
I kissed the open palm of her hand. “Do you want it to be?”
“Can I say someday as my answer?”
I grinned at her. “That’s not a no. I’ll take it.”
“Definitely not a no.” She tumbled back into the pillows and I followed, kissing up her leg and stomach, slowly making my way to her breasts.
A knock at the door of our suite interrupted us.
“Go away,” I said, but not loud enough to carry out of the bedroom. With only a week’s notice, the suite was the only room available at the Aman hotel. I didn’t even balk at the price for the room or the plane tickets. What was the point of money sitting in the bank and compound interest if I didn’t get to enjoy my life? A suite in one of the fanciest hotels in Venice with a view of the Grand Canal seemed like the perfect way to spend money.
“We need to eat,” she whined.
I pinched her nipple and placed my other hand between her legs. “Excellent idea.”
“I mean food. You love food. You’ve built your life around food.”
“It’s overrated.”
Shaking with laughter like a whistling tea kettle, she poked me in the side. When I dodged her tickling fingers, she rolled out of bed and put on a white hotel robe.
“How do you say cockblocker in Italian?” I called after her.
A moment later she returned pushing a cart with a large silver dome covering a tray. “Now listen up, Ashland. We’re going to eat food and then we’re going to get dressed and go sightseeing in Venice. Because in case you forgot,” she opened up the heavy rose colored silk drapes framing a pair of tall windows opening onto a Juliet balcony, “we’re in Venice.”
The Grand Canal and a row of sunny colored palazzos sparkled in the bright winter morning light outside. So beautiful, it looked like a fake backdrop in a movie or Vegas hotel. However, this was the real thing.
“You’re right.” I sat up and stole a piece of bacon off of one of the plates. “It’s too beautiful to stay inside making love to you all day.”
She grinned and sat next to me, biting off two-thirds of my bacon. “There’s still all night.”
I kissed her salty mouth. “One thing you should know about me before we play tourist.”
“Only one?”
I stared into her eyes. “I hate pigeons.”
She covered her mouth and muffled her laugh.
“It’s a phobia. You know the people who stand in Piazza San Marco and wait for the pigeons to land on them?”
She nodded, her eyes wide.
“My personal hell. I’ve had nightmares of being bound to a café chair while a hundred filthy flying rats use me as a perch.” I shuddered.
“Okay. We’ll run through the square as fast as we can. Loser buys the other a Bellini at Harry’s Bar.”
I agreed, knowing I’d buy her whatever she wanted.
Outside our hotel, the damp, briny air of late December greeted us.
“Reminds me of home.” Roslyn lifted her face to the sky. A few droplets of mist caught in her hair and sparkled like jewels.
“Should we take a water taxi or walk?”
“Walk. I want to get lost in the narrow streets.”
She got her wish at least twice as wrong turns led to dead ends and canals blocking our way forward. We backtracked to wider squares where we changed direction. With water on all sides and no high point to spot a tall landmark, we found ourselves in a seemingly never-ending maze. We stumbled upon tiny churches with Titans and Tintorettos decorating their walls. Never giving up, we finally spied the pigeon filled square in front the Basilica San Marco.
I won the race through the hell of flapping wings, but didn’t let her pay for cocktails or lunch.
Every moment with her here felt like a honeymoon. I never wanted to leave or be with anyone but her. Two people together on a series of interconnected, slowly, sinking islands, each connected by narrow bridges. This beautifully doomed city made the backdrop for our new love.
“Pulchritudinous,” I whispered, evenly divided over the positive or negative outcome of her hearing the word. Moonlight shadowed the room in cool blue light, our bed an iceberg in the dark night. I caressed the smooth dip of her lower back.
She barely lifted her head from its position at the foot of the bed. “What did you call me? It sounded like putrid.”
“I’d never call you putrid. Not even your corpse.”
She rolled over and rested on her elbows. “That’s the strangest compliment in the history of compliments.”
Ignoring her annoyance, I explained, “Pulchritudinous is the exact opposite of putrid. Or hideous. More appropriately close to sublime.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Your Dartmouth is showing, Mr. Pizza Man.”
“I’ve been trying to think of a word more beautiful than beautiful.” Unapologetically, I checked out her body from head to toe. “Apologies for that.”
Roslyn shook her head. “I’m still not sure pulchristmas is a compliment.”
“It is. Trust me.” I brushed my lips along her hairline. “It means breathtaking, heartbreakingly beautiful.”
I felt the intake of air from her sharp inhale against my skin.
With my index finger, I lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. “Still think it’s an insult?”
Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head no.
“If anything, no word can contain your beauty.”
Her eyelashes slowly beat together as she blinked. Otherwise she remained frozen until she replied, “You make it impossible not to love you.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to love me?” I gave her my most over the top innocent face.
“Because I won’t survive if we don’t work out.”
I gathered her in my arms, pulling her into my lap. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t all in. You have all of me.”
She studied me, letting her eyes scan mine for any sign of doubt or hesitation.
I knew she’d find neither.
“All in. I love you, Roslyn.”
She kissed me and I felt the warmth of her tears against my own cheeks.
I kept kissing her as I spoke, “This is where you tell me you love me back.”
“I do.”
A low chuckle rumbled in my chest. “Promise me you’ll repeat those words someday.”
“I love you,” she whispered against my lips. “I do.”
“Don’t freak out.” Roslyn stood in front of me in our suite’s living room. Light reflecting off of the palazzos across the canal from the setting sun gave her a golden aura. She reminded me of one of the many Madonnas we’d seen in countless churches over the past four days of wandering Venice.
“I’m not.” If anything, I was thinking about taking a nap. Naked with her in our bed. Just sleep. Sounded like a brilliant plan and the exact opposite of freaking out.
“If you freak out, then I will. And that’s not going to get us anywhere.” She turned and walked toward the door before returning.
“It’s unlikely I will, especially since I have no idea what you’re talking about and you’ve advised me not to.” As I watched, she paced from one end of the hotel room to the other.
“It’s probably nothing.” She nodded, reassuring herself.
“Is this something we’re going to look back on and laugh? Or one of those situations that involves potential prison time in a foreign country?” I attempted to grab her hand when she came close enough to the couch where I sat in our suite.
“Neither.”
On her last pass, I managed to make contact with her arm and swept her into my lap. “I’m not paying to have the carpet replaced because you’ve worn a path in it.”
She inhaled a deep and unsteady breath. “It’s not a big deal.”
Compl
etely confused—no, baffled was a better word—I waited for her to come to her senses and tell me what the problem was so I could fix it.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Her breath shuddered, and her body trembled against mine. I realized she was crying.
“Hey,” I whispered, trying to make eye contact.
She curled up tight like one of those roly-poly bugs. I leaned her back against the sofa arm, but she wouldn’t look at me.
“Roslyn, whatever it is, tell me and we’ll work through it.” There was no way in hell I’d let her walk out of my life again without a fight.
“It’s probably nothing,” she whispered into the throw pillow she’d picked up and tucked beneath her arms.
“Then tell me. Or do you want me to guess?”
She shook her head no.
“Okay, I’ll guess. It’s not illegal in Italy and we’ll probably not laugh about it in the future. Not a lot to go on, but let’s see.” I skimmed my lips with my fingers while I pretended to think. “You’ve booked us for a mime class where we have to wear black body stockings and the pointy-nose plague doctor masks?”
Not even a smile.
“Not that. Okay. Phew. Too creepy.” I brushed her hair off her shoulder to see her face more clearly. She wasn’t sobbing or desolate, if anything, she appeared to be in shock. If her parents or brother had died, she wouldn’t have set up the news this way. That realization didn’t give me much comfort.
“You hired a dancing bear for my birthday next month?”
Her lips twitched with the world’s tiniest smile.
“Bear on a bicycle? That would freak me out. Remember the video of a dog riding a bicycle, like pedaling and everything? How? Why?”
I caught the small shake of her head out of the corner of my eye. “No bears. I get the sense you think I’ll be mad. Is it something you’ve already done?”
Her head bobbed in the affirmative.
“Did you get another man’s name tattooed on your ass? Like Property of Obadiah as a tramp stamp?”
“What? Who would do that?”
“Some nice Amish girl on rumspringa?”
“No, no tramp stamps and I’m too old and worldly for a rumspringa.” Tears filled her eyes. “And now that I’m pregnant, I can never go back to the farm.”
Better Love Page 20
