You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  I flipped up the collar of my tux, my shoulders hiked up as the cold air slapped me in the face. The restlessness was back and I needed to walk it off. But mostly, I needed to figure out what to do about my wife.

  “What are you doing here?” she immediately said upon seeing me in her doorway. What was I doing here? I wasn’t absolutely certain. Only that my feet had carried me to Sydney’s place without conscious thought. Before I realized where I was or what I was doing, I was standing before her doorman and demanding he call her even though it was well past midnight. It was a miracle she’d let me up.

  “I feel duty bound to point out that we are, in fact, married.”

  As openers went, maybe not my best one. I’d fumbled my last attempt at an apology and really needed to score on this one and judging from her expression this was not the way to start.

  Looking torn, she cocked a hip and scrutinized me. The red dress was gone, replaced by a faded Yale Law sweatshirt with the neck cut out and long pajama pants covered in tiny rainbows. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun and she wore no makeup. It should’ve killed my boner for her––the rainbow pajamas alone should’ve done it––but then the sweatshirt slipped down her bare shoulder, exposing the absence of a bra, and my body said otherwise.

  “Married people tend to live together,” I added. She still wouldn’t budge. “We could stay at my place if you prefer.”

  Dragging her feet, she moved aside to let me enter. Her place was nice. Whoever had decorated her apartment did a nice job. We had the same taste in furniture. Comfortable oversized pieces, natural materials, soft neutral tones. It had a large living room and an open kitchen, a wall of windows that overlooked Central Park.

  “No paintings of clowns done by Malaysian blind kids?”

  “Chilean orphans, thank you very much.” Crossing the room, she turned off the TV. “I see being a patron of the Guggenheim hasn’t taught you anything about art.”

  “That’s Midge’s thing. I prefer my art living. The Tetons…a night sky with no light pollution…a woman’s body.” She frowned and a smile stretched across my face. “Nice place.”

  “One bedroom. I bought the smallest apartment in the best building I could afford.”

  This night was looking better and better. “Verse and chapter from the Bible by Frank Blackstone?”

  “Yep.”

  Placing the remote on the coffee table, she turned. Her arms crossed, chin tilted up. An angry queen with rainbows on her pjs. Technically, my queen. Damn, she was beautiful. Unconventional. Unique. I discovered something new about her face every time I looked at her and the more I looked the more I found something to like.

  “I’m sorry,” I stated, tone matter-of-fact. If she was expecting me to get my knees dirty, she’d be waiting forever. I didn’t grovel. Not in the past, not now, not ever.

  “What exactly are you sorry for? That you exchanged a few years of freedom for your inheritance?”

  “I deserved that, but you’re wrong. I didn’t do it for my inheritance. In fact, I told him to keep it when he tried that angle. I did it for the land.”

  Her brow got a cute little wrinkle. “The land trust? That’s Frank’s baby.”

  “Wrong again. That’s my baby. I asked him to set it up. And he threatened to break it apart and sell it if I didn’t fall in line…and you know, Dad doesn’t make empty threats.”

  The look she gave me said she agreed. A beat later she crossed her arms and exchanged the commiserating expression for an accusatory one. “And?”

  “And it was a stupid thing to do regardless…I apologize––I don’t respond well to blackmail.” Her face went blank again. Not a good sign. “And I’m screwing this up again. Let’s just say I’m sorry and that I regret what I did.”

  Without remark, she marched past me into the kitchen and I followed.

  “Want something to drink?”

  A smile stretched across my face. “Sure.”

  At the threshold, I leaned against the doorframe and watched as she reached up to grab a couple of glasses from inside the cabinet, her bare stomach getting my attention as the sweatshirt rode up. Then I spotted three trays overflowing with baked muffins and whatnot sitting on the counter.

  “Ryan misses your muffins.”

  That sounded grossly suggestive. Not what I’d intended, but she did that to me. Mixed me up, turned me inside out…Turned me on and had me questioning everything I thought I wanted. Like maybe my old man was right. Maybe I would enjoy marriage if I gave it a fighting chance.

  Bending at the waist, she examined the contents of the refrigerator while I took my time appreciating the view. She bent lower and a different image slammed into me, an image of her sitting on the counter with her legs spread apart and her feet on my shoulders as I ate her muffin.

  Jesus…

  Straightening, I rubbed my face. This was not a good time for my dick to get hard. And yet they kept coming, wave after wave of sexual images, sounds, and smells. My mouth on a soft patch of blonde curls. The scent of woman filling my lungs. The soft skin on the inside of her thighs brushing my cheeks. I wondered what she sounded like when she came. If she was loud or quiet. I wondered if she––

  “Beer or wine?”

  I needed to get a handle on this. “Uh, beer. Beer’s good.”

  “Glass?”

  “No, thanks,” I mumbled, incapable of taking my eyes off of her.

  I stepped closer and she handed me a bottle of Sam Adams, told me where to find the bottle opener. “Third drawer on the left,” she said.

  I liked knowing that about her house. I wanted to know more. I’d been fighting her––or maybe it was myself I’d been fighting, who the hell knew anymore––for so long it felt good to just go with it. To let myself enjoy her company. It felt natural.

  She opened one for herself, leaned her hip against the edge of the white marble countertop, and stared at me while she brought the bottle to her lips.

  “You know…” I started, incapable of holding back anymore as the sexual tension between us reached fever pitch. There was every chance she’d shoot me down and yet it didn’t stop me from running my mouth. I had to have her and that’s all I could think about. “This marriage could be mutually beneficial in more ways than one.”

  She blinked. “Are you for real? Or is this another one of your pranks? You and your father are so much alike sometimes it’s spooky.”

  Warmth spread in my chest as I edged closer to her. “No more pranks. Scout’s honor.”

  “Oh spare me, Scott. You were never a Boy Scout.” She huffed, chin tucked, staring at the bottle as she ran the pad of her thumb along the rim. Her voice grew softer. “I haven’t even forgiven you yet”––her gaze snapped up––“for being a dick.”

  How did arguing with this woman become the highlight of my life? “Well…do you forgive me?”

  She gave me a half-hearted stink eye. “Maybe…yes, I guess. I didn’t lose any fingers to frostbite so there’s that––anyway, it’s already beneficial enough.” She took a sip of her beer. I hadn’t pegged her as the beer type. Then again, I hadn’t gotten anything right about her.

  “We’re married. You’re not seeing anyone else and neither am I…three years is a long time, Syd.” She searched my face as I moved closer, got in her personal space, put my hand on the counter and not-so-accidentally brushed my fingers against hers. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it. You know I want you. I think I’ve made it pretty clear…and I have a hunch you want me too.”

  She didn’t argue my points, only got this hard, recalcitrant look on her face that was so damn cute I almost bent down and kissed her until the lowercase v between her eyebrows disappeared.

  “You have some brass balls on you––”

  “I prefer to think of them as golden.”

  She rolled her eyes, which of course induced another grin.

  “And the orgies?”

  I resisted any more unrepentant smiles. It would onl
y piss her off and ruin my seduction plans. “Small fabrication.”

  “Mmm. Well, in case you’ve forgotten this is a marriage of convenience, and that convenience is business-related.”

  “I got news for you, Sunshine. The world’s been populated by business-related arranged marriages.”

  She shook her head, muttering to herself as she stalked out of the kitchen into the living room. I followed and she nearly crashed into me when she abruptly turned. I wanted to touch her, needed to kiss her until she couldn’t remember her name or mine, but I needed to go slow. Once bitten twice shy. As soon as her stubborn gaze climbed up, I knew this was not going to go my way.

  “I can’t be casual about this, Scott. It’s not…” She exhaled roughly, frustrated. “I can’t jump into bed with you one night and see you with someone else the next. I can’t do it. Go exercise your sexual frustration elsewhere. I’m sure you have a virtual cloud filled with names and numbers of women who would love to let you treat them like gym equipment.”

  That was the point though, wasn’t it? I didn’t want to “exercise elsewhere.” I wanted to exercise those frustrations out on her, work out with a wife who was proving hard to convince.

  She left the room only to return a moment later with an armful of pillows and a blanket she threw at me. “Bathroom is to the left. Have a good night.”

  Which was more than I’d ever said to her when she was my guest. Her bedroom door slammed shut. The night had officially gone to shit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sydney

  “We’re about to land, Mrs. Blackstone.”

  The flight attendant’s voice yanked me out of some very deep thoughts, and it was the woman’s use of my married surname that did it. It was still jarring, hearing someone address me as the wife of a man I was only beginning to know.

  Speaking of husbands, I hadn’t spoken to Scott in over four weeks. Complications at work had kept me in Manhattan. Due to a pending lawsuit, which was commonplace in our business, I couldn’t leave until the middle of February. And honestly, I was a bit relieved because I had no idea how to continue in this arrangement. One thing I did know was that the attraction between us wasn’t going away. Distance and time certainly hadn’t stopped him from claiming all my attention.

  He could claim a lot more if you’d only let him.

  I squirmed in my chair. That voice had been growing louder each day. Not for nothing, but the man had been making women wet between the thighs since he’d learned how to walk. It was inevitable I’d succumb like all the rest. I didn’t even want to fight it. He was right. Neither of us would be dating anytime soon. When was I ever going to have sex again––with another person, I mean. Between my workload and a husband, it’d be tricky.

  The night he’d slept at the apartment, I’d gone to bed all proud of myself for turning down his offer of sex. The self-congratulations lasted for all of a nanosecond. Then it started to sink in that I’d essentially told Scott to sleep with other women. After which, panic set in and I spent the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open with my blanket pulled up to my chin, fighting off horrifying images of Scott having sex with a bunch of women in clown masks.

  The next morning, I’d awoken early, ready to put my pride aside and issue a retraction, only to find his blanket neatly folded on the couch and the pillow resting on top, Scott nowhere to be found. Had he left in search of a more willing partner as soon as I’d suggested it? Who knows? And I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know anymore.

  Rationally, I knew that I’d probably dodged a bullet. Sleeping with him would definitely complicate things and not for the better. And yet I couldn’t deny that the thought of Scott in the arms of another woman made my blood curdle.

  I’d gone out for coffee later that morning and caught the headline splashed across The New York Post. On the front cover, a full color picture of the two of us locked in a passionate kiss. The headline read: True Love. The byline: Heir to the Blackstone Empire Meets His Match. Judging by the picture, I would’ve believed it too if I hadn’t known better.

  Thus, the deep thoughts.

  The jet powered down and the stairs unfolded onto the tarmac. The cold hit me like a brick to the face as soon as I took my first step out of the plane. I’d forgotten how much harsher the weather was here. It had a biting quality you didn’t get in New York. Pulling my knit hat down over my ears, I walked down the steps and glanced up. A brand-new black pickup truck with chrome trim sat idling a few feet away.

  Scott jumped out. He was dressed in a black down jacket and a dark knit hat covered his head. His long legs encased in worn jeans and boots carried him to me in a determined stride, devouring the distance between us. The scruff was back. Looked like he was growing the beard again. In one glove-covered hand, he held a bouquet of black magic roses. That’s not what made my lonely heart skip a beat and my stomach feel swampy, though. What did it was the hard resolve on his face and the spark of interest in his eyes.

  God help me, I was developing a serious crush.

  My feet stopped. My brain too, powering off at the sight of him. I swear I was seconds from looking over my shoulder to see if it was actually me he was eating up with his eyes or someone else was standing behind me.

  Marching up, he pressed a quick kiss on my lips, grabbed my carry-on bag from me, and shoved the bouquet in my hand.

  “These are for you,” he announced as if this was completely normal behavior for us. “The dogs wanted to come, but I didn’t want them crowding you.” He turned abruptly and started walking back to the pickup while I remained frozen in place, as still as the ice sculpture we’d had at our wedding celebration.

  When he realized that I wasn’t following, Scott glanced over his shoulder and seeing me look disoriented, walked back and took my free hand. “C’mon,” he said, pulling me along. “I’m freezing my nuts off and it looks like we’re getting more snow tonight.”

  Did the plane travel into a parallel universe where this Scott was competing for husband of the year, or was this another one of his pranks?

  Opening the passenger door, he helped me in and still I said nothing, too dumbfounded by the change in him to form an articulate thought, let alone voice it out loud. The pickup smelled good. New leather and a faint trace of him. Sexy, sophisticated, and just a little bit spicy. He climbed behind the wheel. Both of us sat quietly for a minute. Eventually, I found my voice. “What’s going on?” Because well, frankly, Scott was acting like a real husband, and I didn’t know what to make of it. Moreover, blind trust? Yeah, no. That ship sailed after the cabin incident.

  Looking out the windshield, he exhaled. “I want a do-over.” He looked at me. “Can I have a do-over?”

  The pathetically earnest look on his face laid waste to my defenses. I was so tempted to trust him. “Is this another one of your pranks?”

  He smirked. “No.”

  I nodded and he put the pickup in drive.

  Scott

  “So…you’re gonna date your wife?”

  Ryan side-eyed me like I’d lost my goddamn mind. The horses we were riding set their feet to go downhill, the ground made slick from the six inches of snow that had fallen overnight. We were supposed to be checking the herd in the lower valley. Instead, it had turned into a third-degree interrogation from my best friend over the state of my marriage.

  My marriage.

  That word no longer made me desperate to find the bottom of a Macallan bottle. On the contrary, it had me considering how to improve it and no one was more surprised than I was.

  “Yeah,” I said, more than a little proud of myself and feeling good about it. I’d flown out early the day after the wedding party, and with each mile I’d put between me and Sydney, the more I’d felt the urgency to see her again.

  The same woman who’d told me to sleep with other women…

  Real nice. She thought I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants, and she was about to get schooled on how wrong she was about me. I
was as disciplined as I was determined to get what I wanted, which was my wife under me and over me. Any position that got her naked body touching mine would do.

  “How the fuck does that work exactly?”

  “I take her out to dinner, and we get to know each other better?” It didn’t sound convincing. Not even to my own ears. But what the hell did I know, anyway? I’d never been married before. The last semi-serious relationship I had was in business school. I was doing this backwards when I barely had any experience going forward.

  “Maybe you can get her a friendship bracelet with both your names on it. Or a gemstone promise ring––those seem to be popular these days.”

  I flipped him the bird and Ryan chuckled.

  I’d done my best to make her feel welcome. The dogs did their part. They’d jumped all over her as if Christ had arrived for her second coming. Then I’d shown Sydney to the guest room and the spare one I’d converted into an office for her. Introduced her to the new computer, desk, ergonomic chair, and so on. I’d bought the best equipment money could buy. Jan had even stocked the refrigerator and pantry for her in case she wanted to cook because I knew how much she enjoyed it. God knows, I enjoyed eating her cooking.

  She’d wandered around aimlessly, staring at everything as if searching for a landmine that could blow up in her face any minute. I didn’t like it. I hated seeing her look uncertain and had to forcibly stop myself from kissing her senseless just to wipe that look off her face.

  “Is she cool with that, you know…dating?”

  She didn’t trust me––that much was true. Did I blame her for the skepticism? No. I had a long way to go to make amends and I was going to. I’d do anything to gain back her trust. “Shit, I don’t know, Ry, but I have to try.”

  We rode on for a while in complete silence.

  “I’d try too if I were you.”

  Reaching the south pasture, I scanned my stock with pride. “Where’s Tiny?”

  Black and twice as big as the cows, it was generally easy to spot the old bull in the crowd. And yet I couldn’t see him anywhere––not even against the white landscape. I hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of him because he’d most likely be sent to slaughter due to his age, and after all the years of giving me beautiful babies I kind of felt like I owed the old guy.