The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (14 page)

"Sure," I replied immediately.

"You're gonna need a dress. I'm warning you, I'm gonna wear a tux. It's black tie."

I was temporarily distracted by thoughts of Ryan in a tuxedo. Sunny, golden curls and handsome face, topping broad shoulders, in a suit jacket, leading to his bulging biceps, leading down his body, to his lean abs, in a white shirt, tucked into suit pants, which led to, yeah.

Mental image impressed.

That would do.

Then he asked, "Do you want me to get you a dress?"

I laughed. That was a strange question, and sort of sweet. "No, I can get myself a fancy dress, thanks."

He took my hand, pulled me into the entire length of his hard body, kissed me again, taking his time and having his tongue do a Lewis and Clark exploration in my mouth. After he got me all bothered, he took off in his old truck.  Men, I thought, exasperated. Just when he got me all, you know, he left.

No.

Just this man. This is the only man who gets me so keyed up. I skipped into my room, hyped from the kiss and from the anticipation of my upcoming week, and called Marie, ignoring the warmth pooling in my sex. Now it was time to shop.

Monday morning at work, I talked with my mom. She was the kind of mom who went to church every morning to say the rosary. I love my mom; she's patient and kind. I knew that she cared for me and wanted the best for me.  But she could be extremely meddlesome, and she was ultra-conservative and religious. I didn't mind these things in other people. I just wasn't conservative or religious.  Still, after a lot of therapy sessions, I was realizing that I was undergoing something called "individualization." I was starting to be my own person.  It was a work in progress.

I had hoped to cut her off at the pass and used the "I've been busy with work, Mom," standard line, which was also normally the truth. But no, not this time. She was on to something.

"What's this I hear from Marie's mother?" she asked, beginning to press my buttons.

Oh fuck
.

Because Marie and I have been friends since third grade, our mothers have also been friends since we were in the third grade. This meant that, of course, Marie told her mom that we had gone shopping and, of course, her mom told my mom that I had a date. I should have known that word would get out. Or, I should have sworn Marie to secrecy.

Here was another thing about my mom: she was the original snob. Word got out that I was dating a guy I met in a coffee shop and she didn't like it. I mean, I was a snob too and the princess was the prodigy of the queen, but I was trying to change that, and change myself.  This time I got angry. I needed to defend my man, if Ryan was indeed "my man."

"Mom, it doesn't matter what his income level is, or what he does. He is the kindest man that I've ever met."

We had more words and then I hung up the phone on her, still angry.

Fuck
.

I would have to call her later and apologize.  Christian told me that where you are from does not determine who you are.  I still loved my mom, but I remembered that she was not me.

On Wednesday morning, Jake stopped by my office, his hunky body taking up the whole doorway. "I need you to stay tonight and work on the evidentiary objections to the motion for summary judgment."  This was the life of a lawyer.  Guess I didn't get to check out Ryan's pad after all. At least not tonight.  I called Ryan.

"Sorry, I have to work late tonight. Rain check on seeing your place?"

"No problem. I'll see you Friday. I'll pick you up at six."

Friday evening, I showered slowly and carefully, shaving everything. After, I lubed up with lotion, used my perfect scent, and fussed over my hair, letting it be down and in waves. I put on heavier eye makeup than I usually did.

I put on my dress. Marie and I had found a great satin dress, in a "sheen green" color from Crayola. Look it up. It was strapless, and the bodice folded over at the top, hugged my curves, with a matching belt at the waist, and then went straight down.  Since my ass was not straight, I made the dress curvy.   It was the kind of dress Ava Gardner would wear with gloves above her elbows, while dripping in diamonds.  Since it was about sixty years too late to wear gloves, I didn't. Instead, I wore strappy, silver heels and earrings with three diamonds hanging in a row connected by platinum chains. They were the nicest ones I owned.

I liked how I looked.

Thinking about the narrowness of the skirt of my dress, I was wondering how I was going to get this dress into Ryan's truck, and figured that I'd offer him my Mercedes.  Still, by the time he knocked, I was ready. I’d never been the type to make a guy wait, so I figured that I wouldn’t start now.  I picked up my silver envelope clutch that held my phone, an ID, twenty dollars, and my lipstick, grabbed my keys, and opened the door.

I was breathless.

Ryan stood there in a tuxedo, a classic tuxedo.  His tan face and curly hair contrasted with the crisp bright white of his shirt. He wore a black tie, his jacket was buttoned up, and his shoes were shiny. I loved the stripe going down the side of his pants. As usual, he smelled clean and fresh, but manly.

"You look gorgeous," I managed.

"I could say the same for you," he replied, and kissed me on the cheek. "I really want to mess up your lipstick, but I imagine that you might kill me."

"You're right. I would kill you," I agreed, not meaning it in the slightest.

He smiled at me, unabashedly looking me up and down. Then he shook his head and held out his hand for me to follow him. "You look so fucking sexy, Amelia. Thanks for coming."

I locked my door, and he led me down the path to a shiny, black Tesla.  "Where's your truck?"

"Not the type of night for a truck," he said. "Thought this would be better."  I figured that he'd borrowed it from a friend, and I didn't ask any more questions, not wanting him to feel bad. I wondered how much the tux rental had set him back. They certainly did a good job measuring him. There was no indication that this was a rental. He must have picked a nice place.

"So where are we going?"

"Bacara."  Ooh boy. I had been to Bacara once before for a business lunch, and you couldn't get two ham sandwiches and two ice teas for less than a hundred bucks. I should have brought more than twenty dollars in my purse.

"Wow.  That's posh."

He looked over to me and smiled. "It's a fundraiser for a charity that my parents started. If you have it at a nice place, the people who need to be there to donate will come with their wallets open."

"What kind of charity?"

"Cancer research. I lost my dad to cancer, my mom to a ski accident. Both while I was in high school."

I was aghast. "I am so sorry."  Why didn’t I know this? Hadn’t I asked him any questions about himself? He had told me so much about himself, but I realized that he had not told me much about his history. I couldn't imagine losing both of your parents while you were in high school.

"I had to grow up pretty quickly. But I carry on their traditions and this is one of them."  We drove in the quiet Tesla, no music playing, and I appreciated its comfortable interior. It wasn’t that far of a drive to the luxurious Bacara hotel, and soon enough we pulled into the resort, and a valet approached. Ryan handed the valet his keys, and came around to escort me out and down to the ballroom where the event was.

I saw a sign that said "FIELDING PHARMACEUTICALS FOUNDATION" with an arrow pointing to the event area, which was decorated with white orchids everywhere. Like I thought. Posh.

And then I realized.

Fielding Pharmaceuticals.

Fielding.

Ryan Fielding.

Ohmigod.

He was an heir to the Fielding fortune.

I was such an idiot.

In awe, I looked at him again. He wasn't a surf bum or a coffee shop manager. He was a mogul.

"Shall we?" he asked, giving me an admiring look, as he held out his arm to lead me into an area with people dressed in tuxedos and gowns, jewelry everywhere and waiters circulating with champagne glasses.  Trembling, I didn't know what to do. Normally I could handle these types of events, but now I felt completely stupid.

I wasn't the one slumming with him; he was slumming with me.

Exorcism

I TURNED TO RYAN.

"I need you to fuck me. Right fucking now," I exhaled.

His body stiffened, and he looked at me in surprise. Then he started to grin, but looked me in the eyes and looked concerned, his eyebrows furrowing, his jaw set.  "Do you want the coat closet or do you want me to get a room?"

I loved that he didn't question it.

"Either, Ryan. Now." I ordered.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the check-in desk. "We need a suite," he demanded.

"Yes, Mr. Fielding," smiled the obsequious male employee, who started to type on a computer.  Of course they fucking knew him at Bacara.  The employee continued, "That will be-"

"It doesn't matter," Ryan cut him off and handed the employee a black AMEX credit card (why hadn't I noticed it before?) and signed the check-in form. The employee handed him two keys, and then Ryan grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the elevator.

The elevator opened immediately, and he hauled me inside, then pushed me to the walls, pressing his hard body against mine.

"What the fuck, Amelia?  Are you okay?"

"No. No, I'm not. I need you to fuck it out of me."

"Fuck what out of me?"

"That I'm a fucking snob."

He shook his head slightly, and looked adorably confused. "What?"

"I thought you were a coffee shop manager."

"I am a coffee shop manager."

"But you're Ryan Fielding. Everyone knows about Fielding Pharmaceuticals. I had no idea you were related."

"So?" he challenged.

"You're completely out of my class."

He pulled back, his face looking thunderous. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Do you own that coffee shop?"

"Yeah. I own ten, and I'm working on franchising them."

"Then why are you working the counter and wiping down tables and driving around a beat up old truck, for fuck's sake?" I yell-whispered.

The elevator door opened. He grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall. I was practically running in my heels to keep up with him. He opened the door, hauled me in, and closed the door, then slammed me up against it. He didn't turn on the light and I didn't bother to look at the room. I only saw him. He glared at me, his body pressed to mine, fury emanating from him.

"Slowly, now, so that I understand. What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?" he demanded.

"I thought you were just a surf bum and a coffee shop manager. I'm totally attracted to you, but I thought … I thought … I'm such a bitch …." I trailed off.

"You thought I was lower than you," he hissed.

I really didn't want him to know that was what I'd thought of him. But I wasn't going to lie.  Time for the truth.  "Yeah," I admitted.

He pulled away from me with a growl, turning away. Then he looked back at me, his face pained. "What does money have to do with anything?"

"I'm sorry. It's the way I was raised. It's everything to my parents. In fact, my mom found out I was seeing you, and tried to get me to stop."  He looked incredulous.  "Obviously I stuck up for you, and told her she was wrong. But still, there was this part of me who was, who was … ." I couldn't finish that sentence. "So now I come here and I find out that you've been hiding all of this from me," I continued, gesturing around the room.

"What, exactly, did I hide from you?" he asked, dripping with venom.

"That you're way out of my league."

"I'm not. I didn't hide anything from you. I invited you to my house, for God's sake."

"Where do you live?"

"Faria Beach, on PCH."  It figured that he lived on Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean-front location of world-class real estate. A shack cost two million dollars. I shook my head.  "Honestly, Amelia, I figured that since you looked me up, and knew that I went to high school with you, that you Googled me."  I shook my head in response.

"Is there a Wikipedia article about you?"

"Yes. I figured that you'd already read it, since you Google everything."

Fuck. Completely out of character, I hadn't Googled him.  We stared at each other.

"Is this a reason not to see me?" he asked, still pissed. "My money?" he spat out.

I paused.

"No." But then I went on. "But you're not who I thought you were."

"I'm exactly who you thought I was," Ryan argued back. "Nothing's changed." He looked me in the eyes and, after a moment, when he spoke again, his voice softened. "You really didn't know, did you?"

"No," I said, quietly.

"I'm so used to people knowing who I am and wanting me for my money, I just assume—" he began.

"I assumed, too. We were both wrong, I think. I think I just learned a lesson about not jumping to conclusions about someone."

"I'm not going to hide it, I'm pissed at you, Amelia. What the fuck are you thinking about money and class and shit like that for? Isn't the only thing that matters whether we like each other, and whether we make each other happy?"