by Roya Carmen
But I want him to know that it’s not just about that. I wouldn’t be going off and doing this with any man, sleeping with the first guy who asks. I’m only doing this because it’s Eli. He’s all I’ve been thinking about ever since the day we met. I dream about the feel of his skin on mine, the taste of his lips. I love everything about him. Do I love him? Because if I do, I definitely shouldn’t do this. There’s just too much at stake. When it comes to love, the heart is impossible to control.
“We’re here,” he cheers.
We’re back at his friend’s hotel, and my suitcase is waiting for me, just as promised. I thank Dave profusely, and Eli calls a cab.
The taxi arrives quickly, and the driver is very helpful with my bag. I watch the sights while Eli tells me about his neighborhood. He lives and works in Vesterbro, a trendy district not too far from Nyhavn. Ages ago, it was a working class neighborhood, but now it’s filled with artists and hipsters. “There are tons of restaurants and clubs,” he tells me. “I need to bring you to a club.”
“You go out often?” I ask. The thought of him dancing with breathtaking Dane women and taking them home fills me with inexplicable jealousy.
He scowls. “No, too expensive. I’m kind of an introvert. My flat mate, on the other hand, is always out.”
I’m surprised by his words. “Oh, you have a roommate? I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it’s the only way I can afford the place. Actually, it’s his place. He lets me rent a room.”
I wonder if the roommate will be there the whole time. This could potentially be very awkward. “Why didn’t you mention this before?” I ask. “We’ve chatted for hours. How do I not know this?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know… maybe I wanted you to think I owned the place,” he confesses. “Your home is so nice. Maybe I thought you wouldn’t come.”
Well, he’s got me there. I probably wouldn’t have come if I knew I’d be sharing accommodations with a total stranger. Well, if things go badly, I could always rent a room at Dave’s hotel — I wonder if he’d have any available.
“And honestly, sometimes I forget he exists because he’s never there,” Eli goes on. “He’s an art dealer, and he’s always traveling.”
“Is he traveling right now?” I ask tentatively.
A slow smile stretches across his face. “Yes.”
Yes!
“I chose this week because I knew he’d be gone,” he admits. “I wanted us to be alone.”
I bite my lip. “I—”
“We’re here,” he cheers. “I can’t wait to show you.”
He lives in an old industrial looking building, and I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, and am about to enter an old factory. With much effort, we manage to wheel my suitcase into the old-school elevator, and finally reach the top floor.
He wiggles an old style key into the door lock. It seems so ancient — I have a press button key pad on my door.
The place is gorgeous; bright and airy, open, and very white. The walls are lined with white painted brick, and floor to ceiling paned windows. The furniture is sparse, and the pieces are very bright and sleek. The blue sofa I remember seeing in the photo he’d sent me sits under a striking painting, silently begging me to come and lie on it.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s fantastic.”
“Not too modern for you?”
“Well, it’s more modern than I’m used to, but I love it.” I turn on my heel and gawk some more. “I love the kitchen.” It’s truly fabulous; green cabinetry, sleek black shelves, a dark granite countertop island, stainless steel appliances, and orange accents throughout. There’s a round wood table, surrounded by black curvy chairs, the kind that were popular in the sixties. There’s even a vase of orange flowers at its center — tulips, my favorite.
“I bought those for you,” he tells me.
I want to cry. I really do. “You’re too sweet.”
“Come in,” he urges.
I slip off my shoes, and he wheels my bag toward a bedroom. “My suitcase fits right in,” I joke. “This place is colorful.”
“That’s Albert’s doing,” he says, “but I like it. I like color.”
I smile. “Obviously.”
“Where’s your dog,” I ask.
He smiles. “Floyd is with a neighbor. He’ll be back soon.”
I can’t wait. I love dogs. John has never been a big fan — he thinks they’re too loud and too rowdy, too needy. He prefers the independence and aloofness of cats. Cats sleep eighteen hours a day, and that suits him just fine.
“You like fish, I hope,” he goes on as we enter a really nice bedroom. A tall beige upholstered headboard reaches the ceiling. A cloud of a duvet covers the queen-sized bed, and is accented by gorgeous pillows. Matching free-floating night tables flank the bed, and are topped with black vintage lamps. The room is lovely, yet manages to still be masculine, and very, very sexy. “Is this Albert’s bed?” I ask in horror.
“No, it’s mine,” he says playfully.
Damn.
The bed had initially caught my attention, and it was all I could see. When I turn, I also see all his amazing watercolors on the walls — yes, definitely his room.
“I’m sleeping on the pull-out sofa,” he’s quick to explain, a little too eagerly. He didn’t even give me the chance to fantasize — how cruel.
“You don’t have to,” I object. “I can sleep on the sofa. It’s no problem.”
He inches closer, very slowly, and my whole body freezes. He rests a warm hand on my arm. “I’m a gentleman, Gabriella. I don’t want you to argue with me about this. You’re sleeping in my bed.”
Double damn.
There will be sexy dreams tonight… I just know it. As much as I want Eli, I’m so exhausted that the thought of this big bed, of lying in these cozy sheets, all by myself, sounds even more heavenly than sex. Yes, I am that tired.
He’s even left me space in his closet, and an empty drawer. I resist the urge to snoop through his things, but I can’t help but notice the suits hanging in his closet, one black, and the other, navy blue. I picture him wearing them. Oh my…
I quickly tuck away my things, and leave my shoes in my suitcase. I set my toiletries and my purse on top of the dresser. My eye is drawn to the beautiful watercolors on the walls, and the bookshelf — he seems to favor thrillers; James Patterson, Dean Koontz, and other similar authors. There’s a photo of him with his mother and his sister, presumably, and one of him and his dog, the same one he’d sent me, the one that made my insides melt. I still can’t believe I’m actually here, in his bedroom.
I hear a commotion. There’s someone at the door and he’s happy to see them. I walk down the hall, and round the corner. There’s a tall middle-aged woman standing by the door, and his dog is here. Floyd is hopping around, stretching his paws up to Eli’s chest, clearly happy to see his master. Eli leans into him and rubs his face into the fur of Floyd’s neck. Who knew such an innocent scene could be so sexy.
“This is Evelyn,” he tells me. “She’s our next door neighbor.”
“Hello,” she says with a Danish accent. She extends a hand. “It is very nice to meet you.” Her English is almost flawless. I smile up at her. “Nice to meet you too.”
“And this is Floyd,” he offers, and in no time, Floyd is jumping up on me. Eli tells him to settle down, and pulls him back by the collar.
Eli makes a delicious white fish pasta and salad for dinner. The table is perfect; bright orange plates, a large wooden salad bowl, two flickering candles, and the gorgeous centerpiece — my bouquet of tulips. “I’m impressed,” I say between bites. “Handsome, and you can cook too.”
He grins. I love to see his smile. The slightly askew eye tooth makes him even more beautiful, not quite so perfect. “Well, I have no choice. In exchange for a steal on my rent, I often cook for Albert. He’s useless in the kitchen.”
“Lucky guy,” I say. “I’d love having someone to
cook for me,” I sip from my wine glass. “John cooks once a week, usually easy stuff like tacos, or homemade pizza, pre-cooked chicken, but I still appreciate the effort.”
“So we’re talking about your husband now, are we?” he says, but his tone is playful, not bitter. “Is this really weird for you?”
I nod. “Um… yes.” It feels so much stranger than I’d anticipated. I feel like I’m cheating on him. I feel like an imposter — I don’t belong here. I belong with my family. “It’s one week, where I get to be someone else. I’m not Gabriella Moore here, suburban married mother of two.”
“Who are you here?” he asks. His eyes are almost impossible to look at — they’re so intense, so powerful. I feel like they could make me do something very foolish.
“I’m just Gabs here, the girl who loves color, who loves fairy tales, and riding a bike. I have no responsibilities, and I don’t need to answer to anyone. And there’s also this beautiful boy I have a crazy crush on.”
He smiles wide. “So tell me about this beautiful boy, Gabs.”
“He’s tall, and has the most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s funny and a little weird. He’s a phenomenal artist, and can cook too.”
“So do you think you stand a chance with him?”
Oh damn, he’s teasing, playing hard to get.
“I’m hoping so,” I tell him.
This isn’t what I’d expected at all. In my fantasies, I’d expected him to jump me as soon as he had the chance. I even wore my sexiest underwear on the flight, just to be prepared, just in case. He’s moving so slowly, I’m starting to wonder if he wants me at all. I wonder if we’re ever going to take that next step. Or are we just friends?
Chapter Twenty-Six
HE REACHES FOR HIS GLASS of wine, and doesn’t say a word.
“Do you like me, Eli?” I ask. “I mean, I know you like me, but are you attracted to me at all? I know I might be different in the flesh. I’m not skinny, I’m not young… I’m just—”
“No, Gabriella. Don’t think I’m not attracted to you. God, you’re… it’s just this situation,” he says, trying to make me understand. “I just don’t want to be the one who ruins your perfect little family, I don’t want to be the ‘other man’. I’m not a homewrecker, Gabriella.”
“So, it’s the fact that I’m married that bothers you?”
He shrugs and swirls his glass, holding it delicately by the stem. I study his beautiful hands, and his long fingers — every inch of this man is divine. “I just don’t want to be in the middle.”
“Don’t you understand,” I start. He needs to get a clearer picture. “We need you, Eli. Both John and I. If I don’t have an adventure with you, I’ll always be resentful of his affair. I’ll never get over it.”
He sets down his glass of wine, and draws a long breath. “So, you’re using me. What is this, revenge sex?”
“Well,” I say. “Isn’t that every man’s ultimate fantasy… sex without strings?”
He’s quiet and can’t quite look at me. He stares down at his plate, and I want to see those eyes again. Damn, even his lashes are gorgeous. Why is he making this so complicated? Just fuck me and enjoy it already.
“I’m not a sex without strings kind of guy,” he tells me.
“C’mon, every guy is a sex without strings kind of guy.”
“Not me,” he insists.
Seriously?! “We’re not doing anything wrong,” I scoff. “This isn’t adultery. My husband and I have an arrangement,” I remind him. “One week.”
“Yes, one week,” he deadpans. “That’s the problem.”
“Sorry, I can’t give you more.”
He stands, and clears his plate. “Can I take yours?” he asks. He walks over to the kitchen and rinses the plates without a word.
Of all the men I could have chosen to have my ‘little adventure’, I had to pick the only guy on the planet who’s not into casual sex.
I stare into the distance, at all the colorful art on the walls. I think we’re both feeling vulnerable, and I’m so tired. I help him clear the rest of the table.
“I’ve got this,” he says. “Why don’t you go to bed? You look tired.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you,” I say, my words drenched with sarcasm.
He smiles. “You could have a bath if you like,” he suggests. “I know how you like your baths.”
It’s funny how we’re practically strangers, yet he knows so much about me. Yes, that vintage claw foot tub did look heavenly. “Thank you so much,” I say. “For dinner… for everything.” He might not be giving me what I want, but he’s been the perfect host.
There are plush towels and a cozy bathrobe all ready for me in the washroom — this feels like a five star hotel, and it’s all free. Not always advised, but sometimes it pays off to talk to strangers on the Internet. This is all too good to be true — maybe he’s planning to murder me in my sleep, and make some strange avant-garde art with my nails and bones.
I shed my clothes, and set them on the antique stool by the bath. The room is chilly, but the water is just right. There’s a chrome shelf hanging over the end of the bath, and it has everything I need; shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, weird brands I’ve never seen before. Everything about this place is a little different, and that’s what I love about it.
I sigh as I sink into the warm water. It’s been such a long day and I’m so tired. I stare up at the shower curtain rail; an oval above me. The beige shower curtain wraps all around the bath, but I leave it open. I haven’t locked the door. I like the idea that Eli could walk in any minute and see me naked in the bath — it turns me on. I’m aroused and I’m not kind to myself when I imagine myself in bed with Eli. I want to touch myself, but I don’t have the guts. I want to make myself feel good, but it feels too awkward, here in this strange bathroom, when he’s not far away. Seriously, the man is torturing me. If I had balls, they’d be blue.
I fall asleep and when I wake, the water is cold. I hurry out, and towel myself dry. I wrap myself in the cozy bathrobe he left hanging on the door.
Eli is making himself a plate of food; pickles, crackers and deli meats. How could he still be hungry? He’s wearing sexy plaid lounge pants. My mouth waters at the sight of his tall lean frame. His feet and his torso are bare. And… well, let’s just say that his feet are huge, and his abs are defined, not a six-pack but nice. I get a better look at his tattoos; an angel over his shoulder, and amazing Celtic designs trailing down his left arm and pec. Why is he doing this to me?
He turns to me with a smile. “That was quite a long bath.”
“Yeah, it was nice… I fell asleep.” I attempt a sexy expression, hoping it says: I’m naked under this robe, but it’s probably useless.
He stares at me for a beat. “You want some?”
I shake my head. “No, actually… I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Oh okay, well, the room is all ready for you. I’ve got all my stuff here already,” he says and smiles. Sure enough, there’s a pile of bedding next to the sofa. He closes the distance between us, leans into me, and presses his lips on my cheek briefly. “Goodnight,” he whispers.
What a tease.
“Goodnight,” I say and head to his bedroom, giddy.
I brush my teeth, and put on my black silk nightie — it seems like a bit of a waste, but it feels good on my skin. The sun has already set and it’s dark enough to sleep.
I check my phone. There are three messages.
Did you do it yet? Corrie asks.
I smile at the sight of her words — she’s so nosy.
No. Sorry to disappoint. Not sure if it’s going to happen, I reply.
The second message is from Emma.
I hope you are having a good trip Mommy. I miss you.
My heart warms, and I wonder what she’s doing right at this moment. It’s just past ten o’clock here — four o’clock her time. She’s back from school, probably doing her homework, or watching her favorite show on her iPad.
>
I miss you too… so much. How was school? How is your brother? I’m going to bed now… very tired. Love ya!
It’s hard because I’ve never been away from my kids, but I remind myself that it’s just a week.
Finally, I read the messages from John, and my stomach drops.
Please don’t do this.
You can’t do this.
I’m suddenly filled with anger — it comes on so fast, it takes me for a loop. How dare he? He’s trying to manipulate me, trying to make me feel guilty. I know this must be hard for him. I know this is crazy. But so was his affair.
You certainly had no trouble doing it yourself, I reply, and turn off my phone.
I slam the phone down on the night table, and let out a long sigh.
My heart is still pounding when I sink into the soft bedding. It feels like I’m sleeping on a cloud, and in no time, my pulse slows, and my thoughts drift. This might possibly be the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. I slide my hands over the curve of my hips, across the warm flesh of my stomach, and imagine that they are Eli’s hands. I fall quickly into slumber thinking about him.
I wake in a fright. For a fraction of a second, a brief image flashes before my eyes, an avant-garde sculpture of me; all bones and red nails.
“Gabriella,” he whispers.
I spring up like a jack-in-the box. “What?! What is it?” The man must be trying to give me a heart attack.
“It’s me,” he says quietly. “It’s Eli.” His voice comes closer, and I can see the shadows of his body. It’s so dark, I can’t quite see all of him. He leans over me, and his words are jagged when he says, “I can’t sleep.”
I wrap my arm around his warm torso and pull him in. He smells so delicious, and despite the thick duvet separating us, the warm heavy weight of his body pressing on mine feels so amazing.
