by Maria Luis
My cheeks burn with the memory of what Marshall and I did last night—or rather, what we didn’t do. I’d like to pretend that we were just two lonely people who agreed to a little mutual self-satisfaction, but that seems woefully inaccurate to describe my most vivid sexual experience.
Regardless of whether we were in two different countries or not, Marshall gave me an orgasm I’ll never forget.
Exactly the reason you woke up this morning and took care of business . . . again.
“Not someone new.”
“Hunt, then?” Zoe asks, crunching away. “Who knew the two of you would develop some sort of telepathic sex system?” She waves her free hand in the air, as though she’s showing off a billboard. “Sign me up. It’s a lonely world when Andre is on the road.”
“We didn’t . . .” Stopping in the noodle section, I eye my options and buy myself time before answering. Fettuccini or lasagna. Unbidden, a visual of cooking for Marshall pops into my head and I shove it away. Don’t get ahead of yourself. “It was like . . .”
Popping another chip into her mouth, Zoe watches me like a hawk. “Yes . . .?”
My gaze darts from one end of the aisle to the other. Spotting an elderly lady on the far end, at least ten feet away, I lower my voice. “We had video chat sex, okay?”
Her chip bag releases a strangled-sounding pop! pop! as though she’s squeezed it too tightly. “Like Skype? FaceTime? Facebook?”
“Does it matter which platform it happened on?” I don’t know whether to laugh or poke her in the ribs for being ridiculous.
“Not really,” Zoe tells me, “but it does help set the scene for the sexy times.”
“Well, then!”
The elderly lady I’d spotted earlier smacks her carriage into mine as she angles past us in the narrow aisle. Behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, her blue eyes turn into slits. “Heathens,” she mutters. “Your generation has no common decency. You take up the aisle space, you steal the handicapped parking spaces without consideration for anyone else. You talk about—”
“Sex?” Zoe offers up, crunching away on her chips like this is the best form of entertainment she’s had in months. “Hey, Gwenny, did Hunt spank you, by any chance?”
So much for keeping this between us. To support the cause, I nevertheless swallow down my embarrassment and fake a casual smile. “Only once. I guess I haven’t been a bad enough girl for anything more.”
The woman’s lips part and, with a shake of her head, she gives a hand-shove to my cart before marching down the rest of the aisle and turning the corner.
For a moment, Zoe and I stand in silence.
Then, “You think she hasn’t gotten laid in years?”
I cover a laugh with my hand. “I was thinking that she might have some pent-up aggression toward anyone under the age of eighty.”
“Heathens,” Zoe agrees with a sage nod, “the lot of us.”
We both erupt into laughter, and I wrap my arm around my best friend’s shoulders to touch the side of my head to her shoulder. For a girl who never allowed herself to have true friends, the last year has been something of an awakening for me.
I don’t have blood sisters, but Zoe and Charlie fill a hole in my heart I never even realized I’d been missing.
Zoe demands I open my mouth for a chip to, and I quote, “Prove that you are a plebeian like the rest of us.”
I’m fully aware that not everyone grew up the way I did with butlers and chefs and a mother who couldn’t be bothered with my existence.
To be honest, I wouldn’t recommend my childhood to anyone either.
As we turn the corner, Zoe latches back onto our earlier conversation with barracuda-like claws. “So,” she says, “you, Hunt, sex.”
“Facetime sex.”
“Ah.” Zoe winks at me. “So it was FaceTime. A-plus quality and all that.”
“You’re insane.”
“Not as insane as you. You and Hunt went from deciding that no sex was happening at all, and then you got down and dirty while he was away at a game.”
When she puts it that way, I totally am insane. Marshall and I have always had chemistry—in some capacity or another—but I’ve never let myself dwell too long on it. What good would it do when I didn’t have plans to sleep with him? But the way we were last night . . . the way he looked with his hand wrapped around his cock, every lingering protest in me died.
Hearing him order me to come, to stroke myself for him . . . it did it for me. Marshall pushed me over the edge with nothing but the deep timbre of his voice and the visual of his hard body.
In a whisper, I carve up my heart and spill it all to my best friend. “I worry I’m going to be in over my head soon, Zo. What if it’s all part of a plan or something?” Insecurities rise up—particularly those that deal with wondering if I’m even good enough for a guy like Marshall. “What if he’s just giving me a taste of my own medicine after all these years? Like, she fucked with me and now I’m going to mess with her emotions in return.”
We step in line at the nearest register, and I push the carriage up to the conveyor belt.
“I’d kick his ass,” Zoe tells me, and then gives me a little nudge.
I follow the direction of her gaze, only to swallow hard at the sight of Marshall on a Sports Illustrated cover. Since I’m not his publicist—he opted to sign with Harris Publicity during his farm team days—I had no idea that he’d been chosen to represent the month of December.
I skim the cover, taking in the headline: Marshall Hunt Brings Heat To The Ice. And then, directly below: No Other Player Has Scored As Many Hat Tricks In A Single Season. Will The Streak Continue? Hunt Explains How Hockey Is More Than Just A Test Of Physical Strength.
In nothing but his navy-blue uniform pants, Marshall rests his hockey stick across the back of his shoulders. His upper body is a work of art—rippling muscles, tattooed arms, smooth, tan skin with a dusting of hair on his chest that narrows into a thin happy trail.
Last night, I had the chance to see where that trail led, and it was heaven.
“Ma’am, are you ready?”
Without giving myself the chance to decide otherwise, I set the glossy magazine on the belt and then begin unloading the groceries.
Zoe bumps her hip with mine. “I’m gonna take it that the, you know, was good then?”
My thighs involuntarily clench together at the memory of Marshall telling me to taste myself. “I’ve literally never had better.”
I just hope I haven’t set myself up for heartbreak.
14
Gwen
Five hours later, I’m in hell.
“The lasagna is overcooked.”
My mother pushes her plate away like she’s worried something might launch out of the meat sauce and smack her in the face.
Fun fact, the lasagna is not overcooked. No one else at the table has said so. Not Manuel. Not Carli, my mother’s chef who was wrangled into this dinner by, you guessed it, my mother herself. And not even Steven, my mom’s new boyfriend.
Yeah, boyfriend.
The divorce hasn’t even gone through yet and she’s already making up for lost time.
Fortunately for the rest of us, he’s not a complete jerk like her string of exes.
With a slight grimace, Steven downs half his gin and tonic. “Addie, the lasagna is fine.” He looks to me with a reassuring nod. “I’m a bit of a lasagna connoisseur—if this bad boy had a problem, I’d mention it.”
I’m not sure he would but I appreciate the sentiment. “Thanks, Steven.”
Seeking out my glass of wine, I tip it back and wonder why the hell I thought this would be a great idea.
When will I get it through my head that Adaline will always find something wrong with what I do?
As much as the weight of defeat settles on my shoulders, I refuse to give into it. At the end of the day, I paid for this meal, I spent hours pulling it all together, from the flower bouquet on the table to the California red that everyon
e—aside from Steven—is drinking like there’s no tomorrow.
I smile like I’m on the red carpet, wide and fake and showing off so many teeth Crest just might hire me for a new toothpaste commercial. “How was everyone’s day? Manny?” Manuel’s eyes go wide after being called on and he flashes me a thumbs-up. When it comes to my mother, Manuel O’Carlo turns as timid as a rabbit. I get it—not only does she cut his paycheck, but she has the opportunity to make his life hell. Right. Grabbing the wine bottle off the table, I offer it to Carli. “More wine?”
“Fill the bitch up. I need it, bad.”
The words are low and throaty and clearly meant only for me, but Adaline’s voice rings out like a shotgun. “What did you say, Carli?”
“I said, umm . . .” Brown panicked eyes flick from me to my mother and back again.
“Dessert!” If possible, my smile grows wider. And more fake. “She wants dessert. Which I have. The dessert, I mean. Plenty of dessert.” Oh God, I need to shut up. “Blueberry pie, anyone?”
Manny hangs his head, and I’m surprised he doesn’t bury his face in his palms and laugh out loud. His shoulders shake with mirth, and it’s enough movement, thanks to his elbows on the table, to send his wine glass teetering over.
Onto my mother’s pristine white tablecloth.
And all over her pale, yellow dress.
Oh . . . shit.
“Manuel.”
His name seeps out from my mother in a hiss that would rival Angelina Jolie as Maleficent. It’s not pretty, trust me, and it sure isn’t sweet. For his part, my mother’s butler cringes and leaps up from the table, muttering something about grabbing towels.
He makes his escape in seconds, leaving the rest of us behind to deal with my mother’s impending outrage. When he catches my eye and winks just before he exits the room, I don’t know whether to applaud his outlandish maneuver or throw the damn wine bottle at the back of his head.
The timid mouse just earned his claws.
Stephen swipes at his longish brown hair. “Babe, you’re fine. It’s just a little wine.”
Nope, wrong words. Totally wrong words.
My mother’s chin jerks back. “Just a little wine? This dress is Burberry.”
Stephen’s dark eyes swing in my direction, wide and confused. “Did she mean blueberry?”
“Burberry.” Adaline snaps a white hand napkin off the table and dabs at the skirt of her dress. “I said Burberry.”
“Right.” Stephen pauses, and for the length of time it takes him to exhale, I swear that my heart stops beating. Then, “Gwen, would you be a doll and cut me some of that blueberry pie?”
Do you remember those cartoons where the steam billows out from their ears? Just before shit goes down and everyone takes cover from an out-of-nowhere explosion? That’s how I feel when my mother drops her palms to the table and rises to her feet.
“This dinner is over.” She points an accusing finger at me. “Fire Manuel.”
What? My stomach twists with instant guilt. This is all my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t thought this stupid dinner was a good idea . . . if I hadn’t thought for one single second that my mother needed me, that I could make her feel better . . . Nausea throws my belly into tipsy-topsy central, and the lasagna threatens to pull a Second Coming.
Deep breath. Inhale.
“Mom, it was an accident. Everyone has them. You, me, everyone.”
Her shoulders draw up indignantly. “Fire him. I’ll have him replaced tomorrow.”
How in the world did one dinner go so wrong? I look down at the wine bottle gripped to my chest, and then meet Carli’s gaze. She twists her chin away, cutting eye contact, leaving me to deal with all of this alone.
Like always.
Bitterness rises to the forefront, and my fingers tighten on the glass bottle. “Manuel has been with us since I was a kid. You can’t—”
Adaline’s mouth firms. “I can and I will. Everyone is replaceable, Gwen. We’ve discussed this. Your employees, your men, your friends. Everyone.”
Including me? I almost voice the words that have lingered in my head for longer than I’d like to admit.
Stephen beats me to it.
“Um, hey there? Babe?” He holds up a finger, twirling it in a yoo-hoo motion. “Not replaceable over here.”
My mother stares at him. “I met you yesterday.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, well, it was quite the meeting, if you know what I mean.” When he winks again, the urge to vomit returns tenfold.
Beside me, Carli makes a gagging sound and then steals the wine from my grasp. She doesn’t bother with a glass this time. Pushing away from the table, she salutes me, tells my mother good night, and then promptly strolls from the room—all the while bringing the wine bottle to her mouth and tossing back the dry red.
My mother is not amused. Blue eyes flashing with barely concealed fury, she grinds out, “You don’t know Burberry,” as though the biggest deal breaker of the night is the fact that her date is ignorant to the world of British fashion designers.
Apparently, even my mother has limits when it comes to what she’ll put up with.
Stephen drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “Nah, I don’t. You got me there.” He turns to me. “But I would love a slice of that blueberry pie. Whaddaya say, Gwen? Get an old man a slice?”
I’d like to pretend that I had the foresight to see my mother reaching for her plate of “overcooked” lasagna. But I don’t—Adaline might be dramatic, but I never once thought she was certifiably insane.
Not until the plate goes flying and the lasagna collides with a nasty splat! against Stephen’s shirt. Red sauce splatters everywhere. It coats the white tablecloth like oozing blood. It sails through the air, sharing its meat love with the area rug, the original hardwood floors, the pale green walls.
If classical music were playing—and the lasagna had made its last descent in slow motion—the whole scene would be like something out of a movie.
But if this was a movie, Stephen would stand up like a normal human being, call my mother a crazy bitch, and storm the hell out of here.
Nope, I have the oh-so-lovely good fortune of watching my mother and Stephen glance at each other through all of the mayhem and fall in love like some sort of screwed-up Lady-and-the-Tramp replay over a shared plate of pasta.
“Fuck me,” Stephen mutters, “but you are so damn hot when you get all angry like that, Addie.”
My mother doesn’t even spare me a glance as she saunters around the head of the table, hips swaying with pure exaggeration. “I want to lick that sauce right off you.”
His arms go wide. “I’m all yours, babe.”
“You definitely are.” She hooks one finger into the collar of his shirt, and he goes without prompting, trailing behind her like a lost puppy.
“Leave me the Burberry pie, Gwen!” is the only good-night I receive as they disappear around the corner.
There’s no way I’m leaving the Burberry pie or blueberry pie or any pie after that showdown. I collapse into my seat and stare at what remains of the dinner I hoped would bring my mom and I closer.
Simply put, it looks like a murder scene.
And if we’re being all metaphorical here, that’s exactly how my relationship with my mom feels right now.
Without giving myself the chance to second-guess everything, I reach into my cardigan pocket for my phone. There’s a missed text from Charlie asking how the dinner went, and I send her a quick message promising to offer a recap tomorrow—with wine.
I try to ignore the way my heart rate picks up speed as I thumb down to Marshall’s contact and hit CALL. My butt scoots a little farther down in the chair as I listen to the ringtone and play with my discarded dinner napkin.
Maybe he’s not around?
He could be at practice. Maybe he’s in transit from Toronto?
I’m so lost in my thoughts that the sound of his smooth voice over the phone sends a jolt through me.
“Hey, you.”
Okay, maybe it’s just me, but I’ve watched enough TV to know that those two little words said by a sexy guy are kryptonite to a female’s piece of mind. Beneath the table, I kick off my stilettos and fold my feet under me on the seat.
“Hey.” I eye the dining table. “I have a random question for you.”
“Shoot.”
I love how straightforward he is. I take a deep breath. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to swim in lasagna?”
Marshall doesn’t even miss a beat. “It’s been awhile since I left my lasagna-swimming days behind. But they were strong, once upon a time.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me, and try to ignore the warmth spreading through my veins. His good humor is contagious, and I know it was the right move to call him. Why haven’t I done this before? Knotting the napkin into a ball, I say, “I’m swimming in it right now.”
Through the receiver, I hear masculine voices in the background. I wonder if they’re still at the airport, in transit back from Toronto. There’s the sound of a door clicking shut and then all that remains is the sound of his voice—which is heavy with mischief. “Tell me you at least drenched yourself in Parmesan cheese.”
And just like that, I grin. I can’t even help it. Tipping my head back against the chair, I allow myself to imagine Marshall here with me, and that vision is . . . well, to be honest, it’s lovely. “And ricotta,” I say, trying to hold back a laugh, “it wouldn’t be lasagna without ricotta too.”
“Damn, aren’t you my kind of woman?”
Yes, I want to tell him, yes I am. The admission tangles on my tongue but all that slips out into existence is a very quiet, “I want to be.”
There’s a small pause. It’s long enough to throw my heart rate into triple-time and set off a stampede of what were you thinking?! thoughts. I know that he claimed to want my heart, but maybe he feels differently now that I’m actively opening up to him? Maybe he’s spent the last six years putting me on this pedestal of his own making . . . only to realize now that I’m not all he thought I was.
