One Less Problem Without You (25 page)

He held up his hands. “No strings attached. I'm probably getting a pay-per-view movie and having hangover breakfast in my room tomorrow morning. If you want to come, there's no expectation. But you're a good girl, I wouldn't mind spending more time with you. Tonight or some other time. Whatever you want.”

He was hot, she decided then. A crooked smile, honest eyes … she couldn't deny that she was attracted to him. And he was nice. There was something about the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, that made her believe him.

“No funny business,” she said after considering, with a pointed finger and a set of narrowed eyes.

“No.” He laughed, and she felt comfortable. He seemed more in control than she felt. Honestly, the risk of her trying to get home on her own in this state was probably worse.

The fact that she was so completely hammered was a whole other issue, of course. But it had been awhile, she hadn't eaten much, and she'd had drinks all over the spectrum. That was a conversation she'd have with herself in the morning. She downed the Mexican Coke she'd gotten from the food truck while he got her a water, too.

Their walk in the slightly chilly fresh air, mixed with the caffeine, food, and hydration, made her feel infinitely better. Not stumbling. Not sleepy. Drunk and silly, yes. But she also didn't feel like going home with him was all that big a deal. She was glad sobering up hadn't made her aware that she was making a huge mistake.

It turned out that he was staying at the Paramount. The big, grand hotel right downtown that she'd always walked past and wondered about. Ornately carved pillars, golden light pouring out of the lobby, expensive cars in the roundabout, and doormen who looked straight out of an old movie. She was suddenly thrilled at her choice to stay with him. She was probably going to hook up with him (could you say “hook up” when he was that much older?), but that was fine. She hadn't done something this foolish in awhile. Why not live a little?

And
at the Paramount, of all places?

They went in, passing the check-in desk, and went to the elevators. She got a little flicker of pleasure when she saw their reflection together in the mirror. He looked like a real man, and he made her look slender, pretty, youthful. She hadn't felt that way for some time. Something she knew was stupid.

He asked her if she'd drink a glass of champagne if he ordered one, she said yes (she knew she probably shouldn't, but a few sips couldn't hurt), and he called room service and asked for a bottle of Moët & Chandon.

He was practically Cary Grant, she thought, as she reclined on the luxurious king-sized bed.

Some silly part of her felt like she was just acting. Like they were in a scene, and he was her husband. They were just getting home from a night of entertaining. All he wanted was to unbutton his cufflinks, and all she wanted was to unsnap her garters … the dreamy sort of vision she secretly had of men and women together.

She smiled as she leaned back on the pillow, laughing at her imaginary scenario. Her ever-outlandish mind.

When suddenly imagination became reality. He was upon her, his weight depressing the mattress at her side, just a little. His lips kissing her shoulder, her neck, and her jaw.

She laughed again and let it relax her even further.

It felt like no time until the knock on the door came. Yes! The champagne!

When had she pulled down the straps of her dress? Had she not worn a bra tonight?

She rolled over so the room service guy didn't see her. Something Lee didn't seem to be worried about.

“Champagne?” he asked, bringing over two glasses.

She had never had Moët. She'd always wanted to. How could she say no?

“So good,” she said, but all she noticed was that it quenched the thirst of her dry mouth.

“I'm glad you like it.”

Some gap in moments passed, and then he was asking if she wanted him to help her. She became aware that she was trying to pull the zipper down on the back of her dress. She nodded.

It was off.

Then she was on her back. He kissed her. It was amazing. The kiss was incredible. Practically morphine. She could have done it all night. But that didn't seem to be up to her … Was she being driven by him or by her desperate desire?

It was like being a teenager again. Racing hormones. The tearing at each other's bodies. She wanted to kiss him, kiss him hard, pull at his shoulders, but then, no—

No …

She had pushed back on him, to flirt a little more. She didn't want to go tearing into this part of the evening already, even if she
did
end up doing it. Right now, she didn't want to go that far, maybe not at all. She pushed back on his chest with her palms, and he held her down with his forearm, right across her breasts.

Whoa.

Chelsea struggled to remember his name. “Wait, no, please, I don't want—”

He kissed her, and she kissed him back, because that part was okay. That part was fine, it wasn't that part …

She pushed back on his lower abdomen—bare, she noticed now with a gasp—his muscles were strong, and she still tried to rationalize, noting that his body was better than she'd expected.

She tried to get into it, but she couldn't. This wasn't desperate passion. This was force. But he couldn't know that, surely. He must think they were
both
feeling this into it.

And yet when she pushed back or tried to speak, he pushed
her
back and covered her mouth.

The words to express what she needed to would not come. The bubbles from the champagne filled her head, and the pain between her thighs became something she couldn't bear, as she slipped off into unconsciousness.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Diana

I have to say, I really loved the store. Almost right away. “Almost” because it was initially daunting to have such a change of lifestyle. Don't get me wrong; I was so grateful to Prinny for the apartment and for the opportunity to make something of the hobby I had been indulging for so long, but it was a far cry from the comforts I had become used to.

The comforts I had, in fact, come to rely on as the only real “good things” in my life. It's an age-old story; I'm hardly the first and sadly not the last to live it: One's love life is unsatisfying, so one acquires
things
to make up for it. Sometimes the
things
are lovers, sometimes the
things
are children, but most of the time things are
things.

They certainly were in my case. I would go to Nordstrom or Simon's with a blank mind, and
whoosh,
I could buy into every fantasy they tried to sell me. A beautiful, colorful serving tray? I could immediately see my funky martini glasses on it for a party I would never have, so I'd buy it.

A new perfume
from Paris
(probably by way of New Jersey)? One spritz and I was imagining myself on the Champs-Élysées, Audrey Hepburn hat in place, tasteful Hérmes Kelly bag hooked over one forearm, a rack of iconic shopping bags on the other.

Leather riding boots? Preferably predistressed, thank you very much. I could see myself at the point-to-points in Middleburg, at the Clyde's tent, sipping fine champagne, nibbling shrimp cocktail, betting twenty-dollar bills on sleek Thoroughbreds.

The softest Belgian linen sheets? I could even picture having sumptuous sex on them, despite the fact that it would not just be the
cure
for my emptiness but, more important, was the
cause
.

Well, none of that was part of my life anymore, and even though time had yet to tell what our division of assets might end up being, chances looked good that I would remain as I was, with nothing. And, truth be told, that was ceasing to seem like such a horrible thing.

After all, I had
satisfaction,
and that was something I had
never
had in my marriage. It had been a long time since I'd felt productive or important, or like anything I did or thought or achieved made a lick of difference to anyone else in the world.

Yet just yesterday, Prinny and I had come up with a gorgeous, simple logo for the Cosmos tea. A little shower of herb leaves like stars spilling into a steaming mug that had the Cosmos logo on it. We were even going to start producing the mug.

And I was
part
of that. I was a big part of it. It was an exciting new venture, and I was in. It felt great.

So that put me alone, working, feeling content in the shop. I was listening to music that had made me happy as a teenager, the lights were dim, except for my workspace, and I was alone in the store, ten minutes before closing, concocting away when the bells on the door jingled.

A young man with a flushed face and hair that had clearly been repeatedly raked back with his fingers stumbled in.

I knew this story. It had already happened multiple times in the short while I'd been here.

He looked around, confused. “Ahh, where's the bar?”

“This isn't a bar.” People always thought it was. Cosmos. Like the drink. “Sorry.”

He came closer, and apprehension moved over me. “This”—he pointed at the counter where I was working—“looks like a bar.”

I shook my head. “Only if you want tea. Did you want tea?”

“Tea?” He looked as if he'd never heard the word before.

I laughed. “No alcohol. Sorry.”

“Ahhh.” He rolled his eyes and waved me off with his hand, turning from me. “You're a tease.”

I squinted, trying briefly to figure out if he had misunderstood the word “tea” that completely.

“I think you'll find plenty of other options on M Street,” I called after him. “Good luck!”

Perhaps it was fortuitous that he'd come in, because it gave me the idea to come up with a hangover tea, maybe with some detoxing dandelion for the liver. I was jotting the idea down on a pad when the bells rang over the door again.

Oh, no, he was back.

I looked up, ready to usher him out and lock up early. But it wasn't him. It wasn't him at all.

My stomach lurched.

It was Leif.

“Mrs. Tiesman,” he said easily, ambling in. He stopped and turned the lock on the door and moved the sign from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Everything froze for a moment, my body stiff, my ears ringing with blood. And then I decided to be calm. Or my body realized it had no choice. No amount of panic, fury, anger, nothing could make him go away or control the situation.

“Took you long enough,” I hedged.

He laughed. “So it
was
a game all along. To get my attention.”

I shrugged, as if flirting. Hopefully he didn't know how my heart was pounding. “I didn't say that.”

I remembered the breakup games of my teen years. I remembered driving off into the night, only so I'd be chased, ignoring phone calls to make my boyfriends worry. If he wanted to believe that's what this was like, maybe I could be convincing.

He came over and leaned on the counter in front of me.

And
dammit,
my body reacted, just as it always did around him. My body wanted to angle an eyebrow at him, pull him in to me, like this was all some elaborate role-play. I had no control over my desire whatsoever. It was so infuriating.

“You have
really
pissed me off.” His voice was low and smooth and unmistakably threatening.

The only way to deal with it, I decided, was to fight fire with fire. I couldn't let him know he was rattling me.

I leaned down in front of him, our faces just inches apart. “Ditto,” I said.

He drew back and slammed his hands so hard on the glass counter that I was amazed it didn't break. “I could kill you for this. In fact, I
should
kill you for this.” He splayed his arms. “Who'd know? Who'd
care
? Here we are in this dumpy little shop late on a weeknight. It's busy enough to be unsuspicious out there, but deserted enough for almost complete privacy. Tell me, Diana, why should I not strangle my estranged, betraying wife right now?”

“Oh, I don't know. Because your chances of getting caught are better than you say, as you well know, and you don't want the great Leif Tiesman going to jail? You know that would be a bad way to go.”

He scoffed at the very idea.

Did he mean it? I had no idea. This might be a shop full of psychic paraphernalia, but I didn't have an iota of talent in that arena. Not one little bit.

“Tiesmans don't go to jail.” He shrugged. “At least not this one.”

“Oh, come on, Leif, cut it out. You shouldn't talk this way. Someone might take you seriously.” Oh, I was taking him
very
seriously. But as long as he didn't know I was, there was still a chance I could get out of this unharmed. “You've caught me. You're pissed. What is my punishment, dare I ask?”

“I'm not sure.” He started walking around the store, eyeing the retail items with disdain. “Look at this shit.” He took a handful of quartz crystal and hurled it in my direction. I put my hands up in front of my face just in time, as the crystals pinged against my palms painfully, then clattered onto the glass counter and floor.

“Leif!”

“She's as crazy as her fucking mother.” He continued his perusal of the store, tipping books off the shelves as he read them off.
“Magikal Kitchen
,
Herbalism for Her, Fly to the Moon Without a Broom, The Magic of Stones, The Single Witch
.
”
He took that one in hand and laughed. “You might be wanting this one.” He winged it at me like a Frisbee.

I was scared. I didn't want him to know it, but I was
so
scared, how could he not?

“Yes, Leif, I wanted your attention! So what? What did you expect me to do when you were running all over town with other women? Touching
other women
? I hated you for that, but I wanted you anyway. You talk about killing me? You
are
killing me!” The tears that sprang to my eyes came naturally, but they were not for the reason he thought. It was because the truest thing I had ever said to him was that he really was killing me.