The Ground Rules (7 page)

“I bet you liked the jocks,” Gabe ventures, flirting with her.

“Oh yes,” she tells him.

“You would have liked me,” he says, completely serious.

He is
so
arrogant.

“For sure,” she laughs.

I decide to change the subject—enough with the flirting already. “So tell us about your kids.”

Yes, you are married with kids, remember?

A smile lights up her face. “Well, Ashton is just like his father, a real whiz.” She rolls her eyes, like this trait irritates her somehow. “They spend hours building things, gadgets.”

“It looks like you have
two
nerds on your hands,” I tease.

She laughs. “I do.”

Weston smiles in my direction, taking it all in stride.

“And Lizzie’s my little girly-girl. We do everything together…shopping, shows, mani-pedis.”

“Sounds fabulous,” I say, realizing I’ve never gone for a mani-pedi with my girls. We should try it out sometime.

“But Weston spends a lot of time with her too. He’s such a good dad.” Somehow, that’s easy to believe. He seems tenderhearted. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s just intuition.

“When she was little, they’d play tea party for hours.”

I smile at the vision—absolutely adorable. I look over at him, and he averts his gaze, a sweet smile on his face. I’m not sure he likes all this talk about him.

“Our two girls love to have tea parties too,” I tell them, redirecting the focus. “We usually have iced tea and animal crackers.”

So the conversation goes, the usual small talk—nothing electrifying. But somehow, there seems to be a charge in the air. My intuition is telling me we should all be very careful.

Learning so much about Weston and Bridget, and the reality of their lives, makes whatever happened between Weston and I seem insubstantial.

Which is a good thing.

A
great
thing.

The gallery décor is very “urban country”—exposed brick walls, large reclaimed wood beams, ultra modern chrome light fixtures, and white walls accentuated with bursts of color as far as the eye can see. Wine is flowing, and conversations are filling the room. I’ve dressed appropriately—it seems almost everyone is wearing black. I spot a woman in red, and my gaze is drawn to her, like the focal point in a painting.

The artwork is incredible—rich colors, impressionist style, splatters and diluted washes mixing together beautifully. It’s messy and loose and somehow breathtaking. This is what true talent is, I muse, standing next to a painting of an old man pulling a rickshaw, the sun beaming hard on his back. I’m in awe. Gwen and I take a watercolor class on Saturday mornings, but I am nowhere as good as this, and I realize I never will be. It’s an innate talent I just don’t have. I try too hard, according to my teacher. I need to loosen up, she says. Apparently, it comes from the soul.

Bridget spots her friend and practically runs to her. “Hi, Simone. These are fantastic,” she says, hugging her delicately, trying not to spill her wine glass.

“Thanks for coming, Bridget,” Simone says. “Where’s Weston?”

“Somewhere,” Bridget tells her, and we all turn and scan the gallery.

He’s standing there by his lonesome, staring at a piece, glass of wine in hand, looking very introspective.

“That suit is fabulous on him,” Simone says without reserve. Obviously these two are close.

“I know…right?” Bridget agrees with a sly smile. “And lucky me, I get to take it off tonight,” she adds, laughing.

They both giggle like junior high school girls, and I want to vomit a little.

Yeah, I’m jealous.

I’m jealous she gets to take that suit off. There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I realize as I gaze at the colorful paintings lining the walls.

“Oh my God,” Simone suddenly blurts out. “Who is he talking to? He’s gorgeous.”

I peel my eyes off the paintings and turn my attention back to Weston. He and Gabe seem to be in deep conversation. What could they be talking about?

Bridget laughs under her breath. “That’s Gabe, a friend of ours,” Bridget answers. “Mirella’s husband,” she adds. “I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you two.”

Simone offers her hand, and I notice how beautiful she is, European features, dark complexion, long silky black hair.

“Well, your husband is gorgeous,” is all she says—very forward, in my opinion.

“Uh…thank you,” I stammer a little.

It isn’t long before Bridget ends up on Gabe’s arm, walking through the gallery, introducing him to people. He’s so friendly and charismatic—he’s enjoying every second of it. I notice how, occasionally, he puts a hand gently on the small of her back. It doesn’t bother me too much—he’s a very touchy-feely person. And I notice how he whispers things in her ear, and she laughs out loud.

I’m standing next to Weston. We’ve been walking together, discussing the art—which pieces stand out and which pieces evoke emotion. He seems genuinely interested, and I discover he’s quite the art aficionado, unlike Gabe who seems more interested in the women and their sleek little black dresses than the art.

I tell Weston all about the watercolor class Gwen and I take on Saturday mornings.

“We’re the youngest there. We’re in a seniors’ class.”

A grin stretches across his face. “How did you manage that?”

I smirk at him. “Oh…I have my contacts. I like it, but it’s kind of strange.”

“You don’t like seniors?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ll age too one day,” he points out.

I stare at him, mildly irked.

“And those big, beautiful brown eyes of yours
will
get droopy.”

My heart does a little skip. He thinks I’m “beautiful.”

Well, not really.

He likes my eyes. Too bad about the rest of my face—my teeth and my horrid freckles. “Oh…the horror.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure your husband will always love you.”

The mention of Gabe brings me back to reality.

I lighten the conversation and tell him all about Cecilia. Cecilia is an eighty-ish year old woman in our art class who’s completely deaf, or so the word goes.

“But I swear, sometimes she is totally listening to our conversation. When Gwen and I start talking about anything juicy, like sex, her little wrinkled face seems to perk up.”

Weston laughs. “Be a little considerate. Give the old lady something to live for.”

We both laugh, and I instinctively turn away.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” I ask, confused.

“Cover your mouth every time you smile.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug, not quite looking at him. “Nervous habit, I guess.”

“You should really knock that off,” he says simply. And I’m amused by his choice of words. “Knock that off” doesn’t sound like something Mr. Prim and Proper would say.

“How old were you when you and Gabe met?” he asks, a hint of a smile. “Eighteen years together…you don’t seem old enough.”

He’s been doing the math.

“Are you trying to determine my age, Mr. Hanson? You know it’s very rude to ask a woman her age.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t asking.” I love his laugh. It’s soft, but still infectious.

“We were seventeen. He was the popular basketball player, and I was the new girl…I was terrified.”

“And he was your knight and shining armor, I gather.”

I smile, remembering those days so long ago. “He sure was.”

We stand silent for a while, looking at the pieces displayed on the wall…or maybe
pretending
to look.

“Thirty-five,” he says with a coy smile. “You look younger.”

God, I love this man.

“And how old are you?” I ask, surprised I don’t know, despite all my cyber-stalking.

“Isn’t it rude to ask?” he teases.

“Oh…it’s fine for a woman to ask a man, just not the other way around.”

“Seems like a double standard.”

We move along the narrow hall, toward the back display.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I point out.

“I was born in nineteen seventy-five.”

Great, now he has me doing math in my head.
Um…let’s see…it’s 2012…
After a long, rather embarrassing moment, I venture a guess. “Thirty-seven?” I ask, not sure I’ve calculated right—I’ve never been great at math.

He gives me one of his trademark make-you-melt smiles. “Not quite…I’m still thirty-six.”

Damn.

We keep moving toward the end of the gallery and find ourselves in a small room—just the two of us.

I press my palm against the support beam, trying to steady myself since I’m suddenly a little light-headed. Looking down at my glass, I decide to ease up on the wine.

“Have you two ever broken up in
all
those years?” he asks out of the blue, catching me off guard.

“No,” I reply, with a certain sense of pride.

“Was he your first love?” He seems very preoccupied with my relationship with Gabe, but I don’t mind the questions.

“Yes.”

We are clearly no longer looking at art.

He walks toward me. “Have you ever been with anyone else?”

His line of questioning has now
officially
gone too far. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out as I try to pull myself away from him. The beam presses against my back. “That’s a very personal question.”

He turns from me. “I apologize.”

But I don’t want him to turn away. “No. He’s the only one.”

He turns back to face me. “Really?”

I resent the implication in his tone. The walls have been torn down, and the small talk is officially over. “I have never cheated on him,” I snap. “And I’ve never wanted to.”

He closes the distance between us. “You’re telling me you’ve
never
been attracted to another man.”

I can feel the heat from his body, and I can smell him, a delicious clean woodsy scent. And I’m seriously concerned I’m going to faint. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I didn’t say that. I’m married, not dead,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles.

My heart is sprinting, and I find myself staring at him.

And wanting him.

“I just have never felt a connection with another man…before.”

“Before?” he asks quietly. He knows too well what I’m trying to say.

I turn my head away. I can’t look at him.

He inches closer. “I want to see you again,” he breathes against the shell of my ear.

I can’t do this.

I so desperately want to. But I can’t. I can’t do this to Gabe.

I turn to look at him. His beautiful eyes are fixed on me, threatening to melt my resolve.

Suddenly, it all falls together.

I S
TEADY
M
YSELF
A
GAINST
T
HE
B
EAM
. I feel like I’m about to fall. This moment…this moment is key. I can’t fuck up my life. I can’t let him get to me.

“I’m s-sorry, Weston,” my voice cracks as my gaze settles on the vibrant art on the wall. “I won’t cheat on Gabe, not under any circumstances.” I’m trying to sound strong and business-like, but in reality, I’m so weak, I could break apart any second.

“Mirella, that’s not what I’m asking,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m very well aware you will not cheat on your husband.”

I will myself to look at him. “Then…what…are you…asking?” My words are staggered, lost between labored breaths.

His eyes on my mouth unsettle me. I wonder if he sees my lips trembling. My whole body is shaking.

After a long pause, he speaks again with great effort, his words measured. “I want to meet with you and discuss something,” he says, but does not elaborate.

“Discuss what?” I scoff, even more confused. “Let’s discuss it right now.” Maybe
he
can read minds, but I certainly can’t.

“This is neither the time nor the place,” he says, his eyes darting from me to the couple beside us, “the atmosphere is already too charged.”

What in the heavens is this beautiful man speaking of? I’m dying of curiosity. “What is it about?” I ask, desperately wanting an answer.

“We’ll discuss it at a more convenient time¸ just the two of us.”

This sounds like a very bad plan to me. I bite my lip, mulling it over for a second or two. My stomach feels like lead…if he could only tell me. “Are you planning to get into my skirt under the pretense of this oh-so-mysterious ‘meeting’?” I ask, my voice still unsteady. My crack at humor is a poor attempt to cover my emotions—he can surely see how messed up I really am.

He laughs his soft infectious laugh. “No. I promise I will
not
seduce you,” he vows with his sexy trademark grin. “Well, not on purpose anyway.” Oddly, this conversation doesn’t seem to faze him—he’s so cool. Meanwhile, I’m a ball of nerves, bouncing off the walls.

“I don’t trust you,” I confess. The fact is…I don’t trust most men, especially those who look like Greek gods decked out in ten-thousand-dollar suits. “You’ll take me to this wonderful place and somehow manage to kiss me.”

He cocks his head, a huge smile on his face. I am amusing him thoroughly.

“And if you kiss me, Weston…I’ll completely fall apart.”

His smile fades. He is suddenly without words and looks at me—at my eyes, at my mouth.

He wants to kiss me.

I want him to kiss me. I’m frozen under his stare.

But he doesn’t kiss me.

He jolts back in a sudden move, and I jump a little. Relief washes over me. A disquieting tingle runs up my spine at the thought of what I almost did. I know I would have kissed him.

“This is what we’re going to do.” He is all business. The walls have been built up again. “You will meet me at my office,” he explains and then pauses for a moment, “…or I can come to you if you wish.”

I listen to him, not saying a word.

“We’ll meet in a neutral environment, and I promise I won’t lay a finger on you.”

He makes it all sound so formal, and I wonder if I’m reading too much into things again. We set the meeting for Tuesday at five o’clock. I ask him again what it’s all about, but he refuses to tell me.

Finally, I pull away, still unnerved and determined to stay as far away from him as possible for the rest of the evening. I find Gabe buried in conversation, three beautiful women draped all over him. Not one or two…but
three
—that’s Gabe for you. I lace my arm around his in an effort to find comfort…protection. Or maybe I’m just trying to mark my territory. I’m not sure. All I know is I need him right now. I need everything to be normal again—just us, Gabe and Mirella, like it’s always been.

But despite being stuck to Gabe like gum in a kid’s hair, I am intensely aware of Weston. He’s far, yet he feels so close. I try not to look at him, but I see him from the corner of my eye, being pulled into conversation, drifting away, and back again…a reluctant extrovert…a true lone wolf.

Almost
three whole days
until I see him again, and he explains what this is all about.

I may very well die of curiosity.

As we walk back to the truck, Gabe takes my hand in his.

I have to tell him. I can’t hide this from him.

I stop in my tracks, dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Gabe eyes me with a “what the hell” expression.

“I should tell you something,” I say, my words heavy. I don’t know exactly how to go on. I know he’ll be angry.

I pull my clammy hand from his, my heart beating a little faster than normal. I’m scared he’ll go into one of his little fits. Gabe has a short fuse. He can be the sweetest man, but is also very volatile. When something sets him off, watch out—random objects will go flying.

“What is it, Ella?” he asks, concern written all over his face.

“Weston and I…” I trail off. I just can’t seem to utter the words.

I catch a brief glimpse of fear on Gabe’s face—pure, unfiltered terror.

“Oh no…no,” I’m quick to say. “It’s just…we’re meeting on Tuesday at his office.”

“What?” He glares at me, confused. “Why? About what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, knowing he won’t be happy with this answer.

“What do you mean?” he snaps, his mouth a hard line. “You don’t know?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” I explain, my words strained. “He wouldn’t tell me. It’s all very mysterious. I wish I knew.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. “I don’t like this at all, Mirella. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

I reach out to him, his unshaven jaw is rough against my fingers. “He told me it will be a formal meeting,” I reassure him, not quite convinced myself.

We both stand there, in eerie silence, for what seems like an eternity.

Finally, he sucks in a long breath. “Well, I trust you, Ella. I always have,” he says as he starts walking away.

I scurry up to him and lace my hand in his. “Thank you.”

“The guy’s kind of weird,” he says as we reach his sleek black truck.

“I know.”

I rest my hand on the car handle, waiting for the beep of the key fob, but it doesn’t come.

Gabe wraps his arms around my waist, and I turn to face him. “Not so fast,” he says and he leans in to kiss me.

My lips open against his, and our tongues tangle. Despite the coolness of the night, all I can feel is Gabe’s heat—his warm arms around me, his scorching kiss. The kiss feels amazing, but as great as it is, I feel inhibited, standing there in a public lot. I try to tear myself away, but his kiss is wild.

“Gabe,” I breathe, pulling away from him. “Let’s wait till we get home.”

“I don’t want to wait,” he breathes into my neck, warming my cool skin. “I want you
now
.”

He’s arousing me. I admit it to myself, but there’s no way we’re having sex against his truck in a public parking lot.

He reaches in his pocket, and I hear the beep I had been waiting for. But oddly, I don’t move.

He trails the tip of his finger along the side of my face, his intense gaze not leaving me. “Get in the back.”

“I…I don’t think—”

He slides his hand beneath the hem of my little black dress, slowly up high, between my thighs. “Get in the back,” he breathes into my ear. “I want to fuck.”

I’m speechless…and really turned on.

I admit it—I like dirty talk. And Gabe knows this all too well.

I open the back door and hop in the truck, do as I’m told, and slide in the back.

He joins me and presses his weight between my legs, a hint of cologne filling my nostrils. His tongue finds mine. His kiss his wild—it wanders—traveling from my mouth, to my chin, my cheeks, all over.

He and I haven’t done this kind of thing in a while—sex in public. I suppose we’re not completely in the open, but it’s certainly public enough for me. I feel so wanted.

The rough sensation of his unshaven jaw sends chills through me. The warmth of him heats me, and I can barely feel the coolness of the night. He’s all over me—his hands sliding up my thighs under my dress, his mouth on my neck. I reach for his belt.

It’s fun to act like a wild teenager, without a care in the world, when you’re really a respectable, suburban working mom.

I want him inside me.

And I suddenly don’t care about the public lot, or any person walking by for that matter. His lips travel down the edges of my face, and he lingers there, biting gently—his prickly whiskers brushing against my skin. I love the sensation of him against me. My fingers are tangled in his unruly hair, and my legs are spread wide against him. He slides his hand up my thigh and reaches for my panties.

He pulls away and slides my panties off slowly…leisurely. I can barely see his sly smile in the darkness, but I know it’s there—he’s such a tease.

Finally, as he pulls my panties over my strappy heels, he whispers, “What do you want me to do to you?”

So many things…

“Nothing,” I whisper with a coy smile. “I’ll take it from here.”

I move up against him and climb on top of him. He leans back against the seat with a delicious smile on his face.

I straddle him, filled with anticipation. As I kiss him, I slip his belt out of its buckle in a swift move and free him from his pants. I take him in my hand. He’s hot and hard for me.

He closes his eyes.

And I take him inside me.

Where he belongs.