You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  Shut down once again, I didn’t utter another word and went back to checking out the specs on a building in Kuala Lumpur Frank was considering purchasing. I could do silence. I could do silence better than anyone.

  * * *

  “Scott Blackstone. I have a reservation,” he said to the receptionist, a pretty brunette with a coy smile. Glancing up from her screen, her doe eyes widened. So did the smile, and it was directed at Scott with the intensity of a thousand suns.

  He’d turned more than a few heads the moment we’d walked into the Wynn. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit that hugged the contours of his new muscles and expensive shades on his face, I could see why. He looked like the millionaire he was, and women dug that. It just wasn’t my thing. I had no doubt that Scott had shot out of his mother’s womb stunning the doctors and nurses with his Instagram-model-level masculine beauty. But to me, he was ten times more appealing with his rugged tan and scruffy face and body like a back road than when he’d been getting his nails buffed.

  “Yes, the ambassador’s suite. Welcome back, Mr. Blackstone,” the receptionist replied.

  Of course they knew him here. I kept my disapproval to myself, however. It was none of my business what Scott did with his time––whether we were married or not.

  The receptionist slid the keycards across the marble counter, and in the process not-so-accidentally bumped fingers with him. The harsh look he gave the woman didn’t escape me. It did, however, seem disproportionate for such an insignificant lapse in professionalism. Then again, I’d given up trying to make sense of him. He was just as unpredictable as his father. Which was why when he handed me one of the keys and took off without a word across the casino, I simply followed. His demeanor screamed get away from me. So I did, falling back.

  “Scott,” I called out, slowing to a full stop while he marched ahead without any regard. I actually thought he’d forgotten about me. “Scott,” I reiterated louder, and a few men playing at a black jack table turned to watch us. Stopping, he turned and stared blankly. His animosity was a palpable thing.

  “I’ll see you later…” When he didn’t speak and didn’t break eye contact, I continued. “I have some stuff to do.”

  Like buy a dress. Getting married hadn’t been at the top of my to-do list this weekend. I hadn’t packed a dress suitable for a wedding.

  “We meet at the Graceland Wedding Chapel at nine. Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and headed for the elevators, leaving behind a bunch of unanswered questions and one soon-to-be wife who stood there contemplating whether I would live to regret this decision as early as tomorrow.

  Where the fuck is he?

  The screen on my phone read 9:30. No texts. No missed calls. Standing at the altar, I smiled nervously at Elvis, the man who was supposed to be officiating my wedding. Supposed to be being the operative words––meaning if Scott hadn’t already fled the country, subsequently jilting me.

  This was not how I saw my wedding day going. I’d stopped overindulging in fantasies of happily ever after when I came to terms with the fact that I was never going to find Josh. After thousands of dollars spent, I was no closer to knowing where he’d gone than I was six years ago when I’d hired an ex-NYPD detective to look for him. But I’d done it. I’d sucked it up and accepted it. And with the help of copious amounts of Ben and Jerry’s and Grey Goose, I pulled myself out of a deep dark hole and let him go. Still…every girl has a dream she keeps tucked away in the back of her mind of what that day will be like and this was not it.

  “Five more minutes and we’ll call it quits,” I told him through a tight smile. I’d been hoping for ’50s Elvis and got ’70s Elvis instead. Just my luck. He wore a gold pleather suit and the black dye he used in his hair had begun to drip down his temple, riding a bead of sweat.

  “Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Elvis said in a cringey bad Elvis impersonation. “I get paid either way.”

  Groovy. Jilted and I’m the one paying for it.

  I glanced at my phone again. 9:35. Scott had bailed. It was official.

  The disappointment hit me hard. The thought of returning to my empty apartment made my chest ache. And then there was Frank to consider. I hated to let him down. As I rearranged the layers of transparent ivory silk chiffon billowing around my legs, I worried over how to explain to him that I’d failed––not a conversation I was looking forward to having.

  The Stella McCartney dress would go to waste. Walking past the boutiques in Aria, I’d seen it in the store window, and it had stopped me in my tracks. The high ruffled neckline made my skin glow and the length hit below the knees, which covered up the scars. I’d gotten caught up in the moment and dropped three grand on it––something I’d never done before––because in all likelihood this was going to be my one and only wedding. It had been silly to get excited about a dress, but it felt good to want something again when I seldom did.

  “To want is to sin, Sydney. And we aren’t going to stand idly by and let the devil take you the same way it took your mother and father. This is for your own good.”

  I can still recall my grandfather’s voice as if I’d heard it yesterday and not seventeen years ago for the last time. For years, I honestly believed he’d beaten “the want” out of me. Until I met Josh. With his easy smiles and long yearning stares, it was easy to want something––or someone again.

  I glanced around, the chapel growing shabbier by the minute, the stem of the bouquet in my hand soggy, the blue food coloring on the cheap carnations staining my palm. I wanted to cry. Probably because every time I dared to be optimistic about anything reality strangled that inclination in its crib.

  A loud bang signaled that someone had walked in. My head jerked up just as the bright red double doors fell shut. A tall lone figure stood before them. Actually, rewind, “stood” is a major exaggeration, swayed is more like it. He stumbled forward and grabbed the back of the pew for support. His hair was mussed, his suit wrinkled. There was no question what he’d been up to for the past three hours.

  The music started immediately. Can’t Help Falling in Love by none other than Elvis. My heart sank when he started to approach, slowly coming down the red carpet in an unsteady gait. Was I the first bride to stand at an altar waiting for a reluctant groom to drunkenly walk down the aisle? Probably not. And yet I was devastated, nonetheless. I argued with myself that I had no right. This was a business arrangement after all. We’d made no promises to each other. We’d both made promises to a third party––Frank. So why was I upset? With each wobbly step Scott took, the answer revealed itself.

  Because I had actually started to believe he’d changed. I genuinely nurtured an embryo of hope that Scott had become a better man than the train wreck he insisted he was––that he wasn’t the person I’d met thirteen years ago––and this stunt wiped away any illusions I harbored on that front. He stumbled once again.

  Hope does not reality make, and party whores are gonna party.

  When he finally reached the altar, he took his place beside me. No question he was good and soused. One: I could smell it. Two: the goofy, one-sided smile he gave me was proof enough. His teeth were blindingly white, the front two slightly longer than the others. Funny how I’d always thought it was attractive on him and now I just wanted to knock them out.

  “You’re late,” I told him in a tone that brooked no more nonsense. Had I set myself up for this? Yep. And I took full responsibility. But the heaping portion of self-respect I’d gained over the years dictated I put him in his place. I couldn’t just let him set this kind of precedent, to run roughshod over me. To a guy like Scott, it would be free license to keep doing it, and I wasn’t about to spend the next three years being treated like my time was worthless.

  “Am I? Hmm. Sorry.” He chuckled darkly. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. The resentment was still there. Softened by large quantities of alcohol perhaps, but still there.

  I turned, facing the makeshift minister, and nodded for hi
m to begin. If Scott was angling for a scene, for me to call it off, he’d be sorely disappointed. Elvis gave his spiel and before long it was Scott’s turn to say his vows, ones he delivered with a laughing smirk and a hooded gaze directed at my lips. Then came my turn.

  I was about to speak when something strange came over me. Yes, this marriage was a fraud. Yes, he’d divorce me as soon as he could without jeopardizing Blackstone Holdings. But for some reason I could not bring myself to take those vows lightly, to speak them in jest the way Scott had. So as I stared at Scott and promised him I’d be a good wife to him for as long as he’d have me, in my heart I meant every word––even if I’d never admit it to him.

  Watching me closely, Scott fished a small signature robin’s egg blue pouch out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. I held my breath and offered my hand palm up as was my custom. I never wore colored nail polish, never wore rings––never flaunted my hands. The pale silver hatch marks were still there, my history written across my fingers. Lasers had removed most of them, but not all.

  Taking my hand, Scott emptied the contents of the pouch in my hand.

  A band of blindingly perfect round diamonds, the weight of it heavy. The stones caught light and returned fireworks. So pretty my heart stopped. My eyes lifted to find Scott’s expression as serious as I’d ever seen it, his gaze unblinking. And in that suspended moment, I forgot all about hiding my scars. I slipped the ring on and admired it, shutting out the voice in my head screaming that I was a fraud, that it didn’t belong to me, that it would cost me dearly.

  It was loose, too big for my finger, and fearing it would fall off, I closed my hand into a fist.

  Elvis handed me the simple gold band I’d purchased in a hurry from the hotel jewelry store. Scott hadn’t given me time to ask what his ring size was before he’d walked away so I’d guessed. Umm, wrongly, as it turned out.

  When I failed to get it past his knuckle, he took it from me, and with more than a little effort (and his face screwed up in pain) jammed it on. We both stared at it. His knuckle abraded. The ring choking off the blood supply. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Elvis exclaimed. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Scott moved fast, gunning for my mouth, but I was faster. We once had crazy chemistry and I wasn’t in a hurry to find out if I’d imaged it or if I’d been right. There was no place in this arrangement for chemistry.

  Turning my head in time, the kiss landed on the side of my neck, his lips softly brushing back and forth. Goose bumps rippled over my skin from my hairline to the tips of my toes. Resisting the urge to sigh in pleasure, I dug my fingers into his biceps, crumpled the fine wool of his suit in my fists. Whether to push him away or pull him closer, I wasn’t sure anymore. It was as good as I remembered, and he hadn’t even touched my lips. An unexpected bout of fear rose up. What if I had to live with this thing between us, this distraction, for the next three years?

  That’s when the camera flash went off.

  Chapter Six

  Scott

  The suite at the Wynn was large enough for an extended family of ten. Two separate bedrooms bracketed the communal living area in between. It was so big I shouldn’t have been able to hear the conversation Sydney was having in the other room. And yet, I could. Clearly. Painfully. Like firecrackers going off between my eyeballs.

  “It’s done,” I distinctly heard.

  No mystery whom she was speaking to––Franklin. They sounded like two mobsters discussing a hit job. Which was about right. My old man had already called twice, and I’d let it go straight to voicemail. The numbness had finally worn off and I was itching to give him a piece of my mind. I’d square up with him later though. Now I had a battle plan to execute.

  “Stay here…for how long?” She sounded bummed. Good. She deserved everything she had coming. “Hmm…yeah…”

  Groaning, I buried my head and my hangover under the pillow. If I bypassed my annoyance for a brief moment, I would admit that I liked the sound of her voice. It had body to it, a soft rasp. It was the kind of voice a man sought out, wanted to hear murmuring in his ear at dawn when he rolled over and pushed himself between her legs, rocked his hips, and shot off to pleasureland.

  Not now though. Not when it felt like she was jumping up and down on my head.

  “Yeah…but I…yeah, okay…did you look over the Wilson & Bosch proposal? Okay. Got it. Bye, Frank.”

  Kicking off the sheets that were tangled around my legs, I got out of bed and grabbed the first piece of clothing I could reach––my suit pants off the carpeted floor. After shoving those on with more aggression than they deserved, I stalked out of the bedroom.

  And came to a hard stop.

  Wearing gray running tights and a white sports bra, Sydney stood at the window bent forward at the waist with her palms flat on the glass. The tights left nothing to the imagination. The sports bra even worse. She took turns stretching one leg, then the other. My dick stirred and it shocked me so profoundly I actually looked down to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  Hadn’t I determined only a few days ago that she had no sex appeal to speak of? And yet here I was with a blistering headache and a hangover, getting hard at the sight of my fully clothed, vanilla blonde wife. None of this made any sense.

  Tell that to the kickstand in your pants, dipshit.

  She turned and surprise briefly flashed on her face as she took me in. Then her gaze slowly lowered. No doubt she’d spotted the wood.

  “I was trying to sleep,” I bit out.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I was being unfair. It wasn’t her fault that, despite the hangover, my body was responding to her. Regardless, I couldn’t seem to tamp down the anger surfacing. “You couldn’t wait till noon for the postgame analysis with your new father-in-law?”

  Man, did that sound odd. This woman––this stranger––was my wife. That hadn’t been a nightmare. A throb of pain brought my hand up and made me grimace, my finger raw and swollen around the gold band. Jesus Christ, I had to get it off before I lost a finger to gangrene. If this wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was.

  “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon…” She blinked, an innocent look on her face. Her voice just as blank. Sweat glistened on her chest and ran down between her breasts to her flat stomach. My gaze got hung up there, on her breasts, my motor skills having a delayed reaction due to the absurd amount of very expensive whiskey I’d ingested the day before.

  “I just got back from a run…I thought you’d be awake by now.”

  My gaze lifted off her body to meet hers. Rust-colored eyes held steady on me. Behind her, a cloudless sky showcased a sun riding low.

  I had slept the day away.

  My gaze cut back to Little Mrs.-Know-It-All who continued to stare at me blankly while she fixed her ponytail. Her calm demeanor was driving me batshit crazy. Somebody needed to shake her loose. Somebody other than me.

  “I guess I overslept.” I sounded apologetic. Why the fuck did I care what she thought of me? I shouldn’t. I didn’t. Besides, I hadn’t overslept in ages. Not since I’d left New York. I was usually out the door by five. Sometimes earlier, depending on the season. But all I could see was the veiled judgement in her eyes.

  “You must have,” she returned drily.

  The air-conditioning clicked on and my gaze flickered to her nipples. Hard, perfect. Damn. This was swiftly turning into a problem.

  “Get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  Someone who hadn’t spent the last three days observing the cold austere beauty of her face would’ve missed it––the flash of disappointment that broke through the surface calm for the briefest moment. I didn’t. Her chin tucked and her gaze fell on her hand. The one with my ring on it. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when she spoke again.

  “Shouldn’t we pretend to be on a honeymoon? At least for a day or two?”

  The ring was too big, a Band-Aid wr
apped around the bottom to save it from coming off. She played with it, twisting it back and forth. I’d walked into Tiffany’s planning on buying the cheapest one I could find and was all set to purchase a simple silver band when some misplaced sense of pride hit me. The sales person practically screamed when I told him to swap the silver for the flawless six-carat band. What was even stranger was seeing it on her now didn’t make me want to jump out the window headfirst.

  She shrugged, stretching out her sun-kissed shoulders. Her chest thrust out. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend any more time in close proximity to her. The hangover was making me more cantankerous than a bull in heat. Or maybe it was the wicked case of blue balls. That wasn’t helping my mood either.

  “Can’t. I’ve got work to do.”

  Bottom line, the only way out of this rat trap was if she asked for a divorce. I’d planned to make life uncomfortable for her until my dick got involved. Attraction hadn’t even crossed my mind. That plan needed to be supercharged now because I had no intention of walking around with a semi for the next three years.

  “We can pretend back in Wyoming.” With that, I turned and stalked back to my room. I needed to get home. But mostly, I needed to get as far from her as this hoax of a marriage would allow.

  Sydney

  There was a chill in the air back in Jackson Hole and it wasn’t just because a snowstorm had rolled into town while we were in Vegas. Scott had shut me out. We hadn’t exchanged a single word the entire plane ride. With his dark aviators on, he’d stared out the window brooding for hours. By the time the jet landed, I wasn’t sure he could sustain the pretense of this marriage for a week let alone three years.

  After we shared wedding vows and a near kiss that had set my body on fire, he’d said, “Back to the honeymoon suite, wife,” with a dry bark of laughter. With his arm hooked around my neck, I somehow managed to get him back to the hotel without collapsing under his considerable weight. More than once, as I dragged him down the endless hallway on our floor, I’d mentally thanked my trainer for forcing me to deadlift as part of my workout routine.