by Ella Brooke
And old? What the fuck? I’m forty, and I’m in damn good shape. Or had she forgotten how, time after time in my bed, my body had served her just fine? I’d made her feel things I knew damn well no one else ever had. I’d made her fantasies come true, made her feel comfortable with the darker parts of herself.
Old, disgusting man.
I’d never intended to open myself up that way again. I didn’t think it would happen with her. I thought we’d have a fun few weeks and then part with some good memories, maybe run across each other here and there if she made it in the New York art world. But this… this need to have her, to keep her… this pain she’d caused with nothing more than a few words and a disgusted glare… this is the last thing I fucking need.
I finally move, running my hands over my face as I walk toward the windows. I look out without really seeing anything.
I need to talk to her. Tonight. Once this opening is over, she needs to go. She can have her money, since it’s clear it’s all she’s ever really wanted from me, anyway. And then I need her out of my life.
***
The gallery is full. I usually love times like this, when people who don’t ordinarily come here show up to support an artist they know. There’s always the chance, during opportunities like this, to turn someone from a person who doesn’t “get” art into someone who truly appreciates it. A lot of these people are here to support Vanessa, but they aren’t all necessarily art people. I do my best to chat those people up, to try to help them see the more exciting aspects of her work.
I give it my all, but I’m just not feeling it tonight. I spent most of the afternoon alternately brooding and raging over Poppy, and then trying to appear as if I don’t care at all, knowing I’d probably see her here tonight.
And I have to give it to Poppy—she’s a professional. She’ll do well in this business, which is two parts art knowledge to one part schmoozing. She’s standing near the entrance to the gallery with a tray of champagne flutes in her hand, and she welcomes each person who comes in with an offer of a glass and a few words about the artist and her work. Considering what she walked in on earlier, she’s doing a magnificent job of sounding like a genuine fan of Vanessa’s work.
It’s hard for me to keep my eyes off her, no matter how pissed and hurt I am. She’s wearing a long, emerald-green evening gown. It’s not an expensive dress, but it’s one that plays up every one of her assets—from her smooth curves and round breasts to the smooth milkiness of her skin. Even though I know things are different between us now, and they have to be, I can’t help thinking about how rewarding it would be to slide that dress down her body, freeing her perky breasts, then kissing my way all the way down her body…
I jerk my eyes away, and toward the guests I’m talking to. That won’t be happening. Even if I hadn’t decided that this had to end, she’s apparently already decided it for me.
When Micah and I returned to the penthouse after our dinner, I’d found that the few articles of clothing she’d had in my room, as well as her toiletry bag, were gone. My key was on the nightstand. She hadn’t bothered with a note. There wasn’t much point, was there?
I move from one attendee to the next. Vanessa is standing by what she considers to be her best piece, her husband at her side, talking animatedly to the group of tuxedoed men standing there. I suppress an eye roll and look around more. Roberto is doing his thing, answering questions about the art as best he can and being charming. He is good at that. Not too far from him, Bruce, Poppy’s father, is chatting with an older couple. The man cleans up quite well, and I’m glad I’d invited him, even though this feels awkward as hell—being around him after everything that’s happened behind his back between Poppy and me. Still, like the rest of us, Bruce has worked his ass off getting this show ready, and he deserves to enjoy it.
I spend a lot of time deliberately trying not to look at Poppy, but I can’t help it. The only thing I notice, aside from how gorgeous she is, is that not even once do I catch her looking at me. This bothers me probably more than it should, but less than twelve hours ago we were fucking like hormonal bunnies, and now she won’t even look at me?
I turn away as I feel my temper rising. No woman has ever messed me up this badly—made me feel like such an emotional fucking mess. I enjoy them and walk away, eventually. It’s what I’ve done since Danneel passed. I never even once considered opening my heart to anyone else, and I didn’t expect to do that with Poppy, either. Yet, it happened.
I guess it makes sense. She doesn’t look a thing like Danneel, but in personality… apparently, I have a type, and it’s sassy and a little bit cocky and curious and creative. My wife had been a quieter woman, though she had every bit of Poppy’s addictive confidence.
I turn back to look at Poppy without really thinking, and I do so just in time to see a dark-haired man sidle up to her. I pretend to be looking at the brochure in my hand, but I can’t help watching. He’s talking, and she’s laughing, and then she’s talking animatedly to him, and I can see that the fucker is absolutely enthralled.
Before I know what I’m doing, I set the brochure down and stride over to where they’re standing. Poppy gives me a disapproving glare, which the guy doesn’t see because he’s looking at me. I give them what I hope is a benign smile.
“Ms. McAdams. May I have your assistance with something, please?”
She gives me another glare but quietly excuses herself. I head toward the stairs up to my office, and she follows, then I wave her past. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do; to let her go first.
Of course, I should have thought of the fact that now I have her walking up the stairs ahead of me, her round ass and shapely legs are in front of my face. And Poppy’s ass is one of my favorite parts of her body. I love that she likes it when I spank her and that she’s been adventurous enough to let me have my way with her in that way, as well as every other way—no. Thinking this way isn’t a good idea. I need to get my shit together.
She walks into my office. I follow, closing the door behind us.
Chapter Thirteen
Poppy
The sound of the door clicking shut behind me is deafening. I can barely see straight, I’m so angry with Nathaniel, not just for that dumbass jealous move he just made, but for everything before it, too. The looks when he thought I wasn’t looking… that need in his eyes… as if I actually mean anything to him.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn to him, determined not to show him what I’m feeling.
“I wanted to get this out of the way now. I think we can both agree that we can’t work together anymore. Your services are no longer needed, but you’ll be paid in full. I transferred your full payment into your account right before the opening.”
I didn’t answer. I mean, I was expecting to be let go. The payment part of it, I hadn’t even thought of, except to use it to throw in his face earlier.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asks, and there’s a bitter tone to his voice.
“Thank you for the payment. It’s nice to see that you’re such a man of integrity,” I tell him, well aware of the sarcasm in my tone.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Poppy,” he growls. “Stop acting like a child.”
A cold smile curls my lips. “A child? You’re nothing but a womanizing coward, and if I’m such a child, what the hell were you doing with me? A man of your… advanced age… should know better.”
He glares at me. It was clear earlier that the age comment hit a sore spot with him, and this one hit home again. I can’t help going on because making him hurt is better than sitting around crying over his cheating ass.
“I mean, really. It’s surprising you didn’t have a heart attack or something, trying to keep up with me. You should get one of those alert bracelets so you can call an ambulance for when you overexert yourself.”
I have my mouth open to say something else, and he’s on me before I can do anything, his hands like vises around my upper arms. “You
’re wrong. About literally everything,” he snarls, eyes locked onto mine. “And as far as my ‘advanced age,’ I didn’t hear you complaining all those times you moaned my name, begging for more. What were your exact words this morning, Poppy? Something along the lines of ‘fuck me again, Nathaniel.’ ‘I need you, Nathaniel.’ Was that it?”
I’m about to say something bitchy, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“What you saw downstairs, little girl, was one-sided. I have no interest in Vanessa anymore. She used to be a convenient fuck, and now she’s nothing. The only piece of ass I’m interested in is yours.”
I shake my head and try to shove him away. Men like him will say anything to get what they want. Manipulative assholes. The harder I struggle, the tighter he holds me. For all my bullshit about his age, he’s strong as hell.
I try to free myself again, and before I can do anything else, his mouth is crashing down onto mine, and he’s kissing me—a punishing, hard kiss that has heat pooling low in my belly despite how pissed I am at him. I make a few more feeble attempts to pull away, but he’s biting my lower lip, and all I can do is melt into his arms and take it. I want it. I’m wet just from him kissing me, and I know this will be the last time I let him do this.
Nathaniel releases my arms, still kissing me, hard, hungry, and I feel his hands moving down my body, the fabric of my gown being hiked up. I feel the cool air on my bare legs, on my ass—the thing I’m wearing doesn’t offer a whole lot of coverage. And then his big, strong hands are on my ass, and he’s squeezing, dragging my body closer to his. I can feel his cock, long and hard against my belly, and I give a helpless moan.
“You think this is over? You’re mine and mine alone, Poppy. You’re going to see that.” He kisses me again, still squeezing my bare ass, his fingers playing over my entrance, and I whimper.
“What the ever-loving hell is this?” a familiar voice shouts, and Nathanial and I spring apart. I pull my gown back down and stare at my father, who’s standing in the doorway, gaping at us. Nathaniel steps away from me, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, and walks toward my dad, trying to calm him down.
“What the hell were you just doing with your hands on my daughter?” my dad yells.
“Bruce, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Really. Because it looked an awful lot like you with your filthy paws on my daughter’s body.” He takes a step toward Nathaniel, and it’s clear that he’s not going to be soothed or calmed down.
“Daddy, it’s okay,” I tell him, trying to head off a potential fistfight between my dad and his boss… shit. My dad’s going to have to look for another job now.
Dad doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look. There’s disappointment in his eyes. He slowly shakes his head as he looks between the two of us, then gives a disgusted wave and turns, walking away.
It hits me as I watch him—why he’s more disappointed than anything. He’s been here. He’s been in this exact situation—where he was the older and more powerful man messing around with a young woman. I know he was in this situation because I caught him doing it. Come to think of it, she was probably around my age, the woman I caught him with when I was a kid.
He expected better from me. And he expected better than Nathaniel. And we just made him relive what I know is one of his biggest regrets—that he didn’t appreciate my mom more when she was alive, and that he spent his time on meaningless sex instead of loving her the way he should have.
A lot of the disgust and anger I have toward my dad melts a bit. He’d been very, very wrong, but he was paying for it now, and there would be no peace for him. Not really. He needed me now.
I turn to Nathaniel. “It’s over between us. Don’t call me. Don’t try to contact me. Our age difference is too much of an issue, and we have absolutely nothing to offer one another. And I sure the hell am not ready to be anyone’s stepmom—assuming there really is no wife hidden in your attic or something. Just… just stay away.”
With that, I turn on my heel and go after my dad, ignoring the way my heart aches at the look in Nathaniel’s eyes.
I manage to catch up to Dad outside, just as he’s getting into his car parked in the gallery’s private lot.
“Dad! Wait!”
He snaps his head in my direction, and even in the dim light of the nearby streetlamps, I can still see that sting of disappointment in his eyes.
“How could you have been so foolish?” he states, a kind of severity in his tone that I haven’t heard since I was a kid. “He’s double your age, Poppy. I didn’t raise you to be some older man’s fuck doll.”
His choice of words makes me reel on the inside. Despite some truth to his words, he has no right to judge me. He’s been in this exact situation. Only worse.
“You barely raised me at all,” I hurl back, allowing spite to coat my words. “You worked all the time, and on one of the very rare occasions that I did come and visit you at the office… well, you know what happened that day…”
Dad bows his head, a clear admission of guilt but also pain. I hurt him just now, but he has to own what he did if he wants to reprimand me for being the “younger woman” screwing her older boss.
“It’s not just the fact that he’s older, Poppy,” Dad finally says, daring to make eye contact again. “Nathaniel Stone has a… troubled past. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I walk closer to him, my resolve softening when I see how broken he really looks. At this moment, I feel like a five-year-old girl just wanting to cuddle her daddy.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, fighting against the lump forming in my throat. “It’s over. I won’t be interning at the gallery anymore.”
Dad furrows his eyebrows, his expression harsh again. “Did he fire you? Because we can take him to court, Poppy. Unfair dismissal. If he sexually harassed or manipulated or seduced you, in any way, we’ll take him to the cleaners.”
I smile, knowing that he’s just saying that out of love for his daughter rather than hate for Nathaniel. In fact, Dad has tons of respect for him. It’s a little gutting that more than one relationship has been ruined in this mess.
“No, it was a mutual decision, Dad. I’m okay with it, really.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gives a slow nod and then gestures to the car. “Come on, sweetie. I’ll give you a ride home.”
I etch another weak smile and walk around to the passenger-side door. After I get in, and Dad turns the ignition, he pauses and looks over at me.
“Did he ever tell you what happened to his wife?” he asks, his voice as low as a whisper.
I can’t hide my surprise over the question. Nathaniel made it clear that there was no secret wife on the scene, but that was all he said. He had a wife?
“No…” My voice trails off as the past tense of that sentence sinks in. He had a wife. So, that means she must have died. “W-what happened to her?” I ask Dad, my voice shaking a little.
Dad lets out a heavy sigh like he’s battling with his answer. “It’s not my place to say, sweetie. But her name was Danneel, and she died when Micah was just a baby. If—” He breaks off midsentence and sighs again. “If you and Nathaniel… do decide to keep this relationship between you going… then I’m sure he’ll tell you about her in his own time.”
For the first time since Mom died, I don’t feel like a semi-orphan. This is the realist conversation my dad and I have ever had. It’s like, before, there was a wall up between us, and no matter how hard we tried to chip it away, it never relented. Until tonight—until one moment of clarity and vulnerability had punched an almighty hole right through it, causing the diamond-hard foundations to crumble.
As Dad pulls the car out of the lot, against my better judgment, I gaze at the gallery’s two glowing bay windows as we pass by. The venue is still swarming with people clinking glasses and laughing while they admire Vanessa’s art.
Then I see him, just a quick glimpse, a tall
, handsome statue striding over to rejoin his guests.
My heart skips a few beats, yearning for what it can no longer have, but then I peer back over at Dad, and the corners of my lips curl up.
Maybe some things really are for the best…
Chapter Fourteen
Nathaniel
I’m holed up in one of the back workrooms of my gallery. I’ve spent most of my waking hours here, and too many of the hours in which I should have been sleeping. It’s been a week since Poppy walked out on me for good, and I’m a fucking mess. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. It feels like someone turned down the color settings in my world. Everything had seemed vibrant and alive when I’d had Poppy in my life, and now everything’s gray and muted. I don’t want to do much of anything besides stare at the walls.
And paint.
I’ve been painting. It’s the only thing, besides Micah, getting my ass out of bed this last week. I didn’t expect it to hurt this damn much. I haven’t been this wrecked since Danneel died. Even that, though, was a different kind of wrecked. It was heartbreaking and sad, and I was angry, and I was sure I’d never, ever love anyone again. Definitely not the way I loved her. And I hadn’t wanted to. She was my one and only. I spent the last five years, before Poppy, sating my needs with women who meant nothing, because I didn’t want anything more than that. None of them was my wife.
And then Poppy opened the gallery door, letting in a flurry of wind that knocked over that damn painting. What started out as lust and desire became so much more. I started seeing her as my forever, a woman that my wife would have liked, a woman who pushes me to be better, to feel more.
And she’s gone.
This heartbreak is different, I think as I lay more paint on the canvas. I didn’t have the power to save my relationship with Danneel because it was just her time, but Poppy is alive. She’s here, in this city, and I can’t have her. She’s so near, and she doesn’t want me.
