18. Charlie
I’m in the shower when I hear Gwen knock on the bedroom door.
“Hi,” she calls, clearing her throat loudly. “I’m going to get changed while you’re in there, if that’s okay?”
I turn the shower as cold as I can.
“Of course,” I reply. “Dress is on the bed.”
I try to focus on anything except the sound of her pulling off her clothes, of her unzipping the garment bag Zane picked up. But it’s impossible. I shouldn’t think about her nearly naked in the room next to me. Shouldn’t wonder which parts of her skin have freckles and which don’t. She’s never in anything more revealing than bike shorts and t-shirts around me. I’m desperate to see more of her.
I spent the morning with Sammy, helping him unload crate after crate of booze into the inventory room, praying that the manual labor would keep me from thinking about Gwen.
It didn’t work.
I give it a few minutes after the noise of her changing seems to quiet and turn off the shower, drying off and wrapping a towel around my waist. Part of me hopes she’s gone into the living room, so I can delay the inevitable. But when I open the door, water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, she’s standing with her back toward me.
There’s not a word for how incredible she looks. The dress, made of sapphire blue silk, drapes around her body in waves. The straps are thin and the zipper lays open to the small of her back. I feel indecent even looking at her, the lingering cold of the shower doing nothing to temper the heat crawling up my chest. The fabric ends just below her knee, but a generous slit exposes her thigh as she tosses a camel-colored coat on the bed. She’s slipped into beige heels, the straps meant to circle her ankles still undone.
It takes every ounce of control I have to school my expression as she turns over her shoulder. Her cheeks heat immediately as her eyes drop to my bare chest, and against my better judgment, I allow myself to read her flushed skin as attraction instead of embarrassment.
I’m so incredibly fucked.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
The word is too small, but it’s as close as I can get in English, maybe in human language. She’s been stunning since the moment I saw her, but there’s something about her dressed to feel beautiful—not for the practicality of doctor’s appointments or errands or torture—that has me nearly speechless.
“Thank you,” she replies quietly, clearing her throat and shifting her eyes back to mine. “Mind helping me with the zipper?”
I should put on clothes first, or take another cold shower. But I just nod, and she pulls her hair over her shoulder and offers me her back.
She has freckles along her spine. Tiny, almost translucent ones, not nearly as prominent as those on her shoulders and nose and temples, but still there. You’d never see them unless you were as close to her as I am now.
Goosebumps erupt across her skin where my fingers drag as I pull up the zipper. There’s no longer a string pulling us toward each other. There are magnets. Impossibly strong ones, demanding I touch her more, press myself against her.
I force myself to take two steps back.
She whispers a soft thank you without turning around, and I move to the walk-in closet, taking the opportunity to put some distance between us and recenter myself.
I dress without paying attention to my movements, focusing on slowing my heart rate and calming my raging hard-on, trying to think about work or who will be at the fundraiser, or literally anything but the constellation of stars that decorate Gwen’s spine. But it’s no use.
It’s been impossible to focus on anything else since my call with Clara. I knew my sister thought my decision to bring Gwen into the family was impulsive. I never in a million years imagined she would threaten to vote against our marriage.
For a marriage of a council member to be legitimate in the eyes of The Syndicate, there has to be a vote. My parents and Clara, as well as my cousins, aunts, and uncle, will all have a say in whether Gwen is the right person to join our efforts. There hasn’t been a rejection in generations, and although the Matriarch or Patriarch technically holds veto power, I’ve never heard of it being used.
I tried to downplay my feelings on the phone, to prove to Clara that I was acting responsibly and following a well-laid plan, but the mindless panic I felt when my sister made her threat shifted something fundamentally.
There’s no use in denying how much I need Gwen. The pressure in my chest, the primal need for her, is terrifying. It’s getting harder and harder to refuse myself those moments where I read into her flush. Where I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, keeping her at an arm”s length.
When I’m decent, dressed, and as put together as I fear I’ll be able to manage tonight, I return to the bedroom. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, leaning over to secure the strap around her ankle. Her copper hair falls over her shoulders in large, soft waves, obscuring most of her, but I still get a glimpse of the bodice of her dress pulled tightly against her breasts, forcing them to spill over the top.
Before I can recognize the terrible idea for what it is, I’m kneeling in front of her, brushing aside her hands and placing her foot on my knee. Her jaw drops just a fraction, pupils dilating and breath caught in her chest. I watch my own fingers intently as I fasten the clasp, trying to ignore what’s become obvious. It wasn’t embarrassment, or intrigue, or gratefulness, or even me projecting my attraction on to her. The look she’s given me constantly, since the afternoon at the farm, is desire.
I can feel the heavy beat of her pulse inside her ankle as I fasten the second shoe. I wonder what she would do if I pressed my lips there. If I dragged my mouth up the inside of her leg, under her knee, between her thighs. Would she open them for me, arch her back and hook her leg over my shoulder? Lace her fingers through my hair and pull, or push me closer? Would she do it because she wants to? Or because she thinks she has no choice?
I don’t know how long it is before Gwen clears her throat, but it’s too long for this to be interpreted as anything innocent, with my thumb rubbing circles on the inside of her calf. She crosses her leg but doesn’t unclench her fingers from where they’re curled into the comforter. I need to stand, to move, to not be on my knees in front of her, but if I do, all pretense will be thrown out the window. She’ll see how painfully hard I am, just from the thought of tasting her.
She whispers her thanks again, seemingly able to collect herself better than I am, shifting her legs to the side and slipping off the bed.
“Going to finish getting ready,” she mutters, and it’s not until the door to the bathroom clicks closed behind her I’m able to stand.
We both have a better grip on ourselves by the time we get into the car and head toward D.C. Zane’s playing bodyguard outside Ana’s friend”s house, and while I could have pulled another driver, something about the feeling of the wheel beneath my hands is steadying.
The drive is tense in a way it’s never been between us. I ask about Ana’s field trip, and Gwen asks about Sammy, but both of us seem lost in our thoughts, trailing the ends of our sentences and humming non-committal responses. There are a few moments where I feel her almost break. She works herself up, pressing her fingernails into the skin of her hands, and opens her mouth to say something. But every time, she seems to talk herself out of it.
Despite the unbearable need to hear what she wants to say, I know it’s for the best. There’s already so much happening tonight. Neither of us can handle whatever we can feel simmering between us.
The unease means that I don’t warn Gwen about anything that’s about to happen at this event, which I realize as we’re pulling up.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out, reaching into the center console to grab the valet key and trying to avoid touching her. “I should have told you about the event.”
A smile flashes across her face as she smooths over the indents she’s made in her hand.
“It’s okay. I assumed I’d just follow your lead.” She gives me a tight, nervous smile that has my chest clenching.
The valet lets me out of the car, and I wave off the second attendant so I can open her door myself. When she slips her hand into mine, a shudder runs up my spine.
I hold her coat out to her, the evening unseasonably cold for the beginning of summer. With her back to my chest, and her scent of lemon and amber surrounding me, I lose all sense of reservation.
“I trust you,” I whisper, lifting her hair from where it’s trapped under her collar. “And I think I’d much prefer following your lead.”
It’s a stupid risk, ramping myself up like this before an event where we’ll be surrounded by people. But it’s worth it when Gwen glances over her shoulder, her cheeks rosy and eyes round with surprise, and only hesitates a moment before reaching behind her and slipping her hand into mine.
The ballroom is packed to the brim with people laden with luxury, sipping top shelf liquor and chatting around high top tables. Despite the bodies moving around the room, the air is chilly, and Gwen tucks herself closer to me, shivering without her coat, which we left at the check. I slip my arm around her shoulder as we step into the fray.
I notice familiar faces—other foundation and non-profit executives, high-level government officials, donors with pockets far deeper than mine. We may have been invited to this dinner, but the price of a seat is well more than the value of most people’s cars.
“People recognize you,” Gwen whispers as we make our way through the crowd. A few eyes flicker our way, some with nods that I return, some avoiding my gaze completely.
“The Costa Family Foundation is well known in these circles,” I say casually, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and handing it to Gwen. We find an empty table, and I find it difficult to remove my arm from around her shoulder so she can sip her drink.
“Some of them look afraid of you,” she says, almost like a question rather than an observation.
“Afraid of us,” I rebut, winking at her.
She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth pull into a smile around the rim of her glass.
“I thought your family’s work was a bit more…discrete.” Her eyes flicker around the room, many of the guests averting their eyes as soon as hers land on them.
“Most of them are only aware of the work of the foundation, but the legacy of The Syndicate is well known among those whose families have crossed our paths in the past. Even if they don’t know why they should fear us, their parents and grandparents have warned them to stay in our good graces, or to stay invisible.” I smile and nod over Gwen’s head at the man waving at me, who starts making his way toward us. “But don’t worry, tonight should be filled with more allies than enemies.”
Gwen starts to respond, but the Administrator cuts in.
“Mr. Costa, so good to have you here. Your mother was too kind, sending a donation and her son in her absence. I hope she and your father are enjoying their anniversary trip.”
Clara’s been busy spreading rumors, it seems. There’s a pang in my chest, the memory of seeing her in the hospital for the first time etched into the back of my eyelids.
“Good to see you. And I’ll pass on your well-wishes. They both seem to be enjoying themselves, to the point that they forget to check in with us.” Dr. Loden laughs, and I slip my arm back around Gwen, finding comfort in the soft skin of her shoulder under my hand. “Let me introduce you to my partner, Guinevere. Gwen, this is the Administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration, Dr. Christopher Loden.”
Gwen holds out her hand and he shakes it, smiling widely at her.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Loden,” she says, sweet and unphased.
“Lovely to meet you, Gwen, and wonderful to see you settled down, Charlie,” he laughs, shooting me a look over Gwen’s head. “We thought you might be an eternal bachelor.”
“Just had to wait for the stars to align,” I reply, unable to suppress my smile at how true the words are. “Are we going to be blessed with the company of your husband tonight?”
Dr. Loden rolls his eyes and turns over his shoulder, searching the crowd.
“He’s here somewhere, probably annoying the DEA staff like he enjoys doing so much,” he says, his smile indulgent and amused, before turning back to us. “I hope you don’t mind if we talk a bit of business over dinner. The Secretary has been asking about local non-profit organizations that have international arms to assist trafficking victims identified at airports, and few have as far of a reach as the Costas.”
“We’d be happy to discuss.” I glance down at Gwen, who already has her eyes on me, some indiscernible look in her eyes.
Maybe it’s the overt affection throwing her off—this is the most we’ve touched each other since meeting. Again, I’m reminded of what I don’t know—does she want to touch me as badly as I want her, or is this simply an obligation?
Suddenly, the doors at the other end of the ballroom open, and the Secretary of State walks through, his wife and son a few steps behind.
He thanks the room for their attendance and generous donations to the resettlement non-profits benefiting from tonight’s fundraising, and after a round of applause, invites us into the adjoining room for dinner service.
We all filter slowly out of the opulent ballroom, event staff leading us individually to our seats at round tables draped in white linen. Gwen and I are seated with other non-profit executives, most of whom greet me personally.
There are polite introductions with congratulations on promotions and inquiries into kids” college applications. Gwen keeps up easily, smiling and chatting, her hand easily falling to my shoulder when she laughs at a joke someone made. We share glances and smiles, and at one point I pick up her hand and press my lips to her fingers, just because it feels right.
“You’re very good at this,” I whisper to her when she recommends a wine to one attendee hosting an oyster tasting event, whatever that is.
“You’d be surprised how much I’m relying on a decade of waitressing,” she says under her breath, and I can’t help but laugh.
As dinner is served, speaker after speaker makes their way to the small stage at the front of the room, presenting awards and thanking attendees. Videos meant to pull at our heartstrings and empty our wallets are played on giant screens. All the while, Gwen and I seem pulled toward each other, our chairs moving closer together as I lean in to whisper an explanation for a story someone tells, or for her to ask about someone’s reaction. I stretch my arm to rest over the back of her chair, and after a moment of hesitation, she rests her hand on my knee under the table.
I’m not paying any attention to what’s being said on stage. Because all I can think is, what if? What if this isn’t acting? What if fate really was this kind to me?
Under all the hope is a final, well-buried level of fear. That all the what ifs are true, and it’s because she wants the version of me she sees when we work together. Someone who controls every moment, every movement.
I swallow past the sinking feeling in my stomach. Maybe for her, I could be that. I’m realizing I’d do almost anything for her. Maybe I can do this, too.
Gwen’s hand squeezing my knee brings me back to the present, and most of the table is looking at me with their eyebrows raised.
“Mr. Gao asked how we met, and I thought you’d like to tell the story,” she says, obviously suppressing a laugh. I can’t look away from her. She seems so happy. Relaxed, giggling, smiling at me like we share an inside joke, because we do.
“If you’d believe it, we met at a bar,” I say, winking at her and watching her blush rise as a smile splits across her face. “She mistook me for a bartender and she was so beautiful, I couldn’t correct her until I had to admit I didn’t know how to make her favorite drink. Haven’t been able to look away from her since.”
Her expression softens, and she lifts her hand to my face. I press a kiss into her palm.
“Well, you two are quite the pair,” a younger guy who I don’t recognize pipes in, reaching to grasp the hand of his partner. “Seems like we finally know which of the Costa crew will get married first.”
Clara, Emily, Bea, and I have always known our marital status was a topic of conversation among our peers and colleagues. It’s the way of the world when you have the generational wealth and legacy of the Costa family. Still, it can be frustrating to have people speculate on something so critical and personal, especially with what marriage signifies in our family.
But when I look back at Gwen, I don’t feel irritation. All I can feel is a sureness that goes far past any arrangement we’ve made.
“I’d bet on it,” I say, mostly for her.
She leans forward slightly, and I nearly dip my head to kiss her before I stop myself, pulling back a bit too abruptly. Gwen’s eyes flicker to my mouth, and hurt flashes through her eyes for a moment before she seems to shake it off, leaning into my shoulder and smiling at the table.
“He’s not much one for public displays of affection,” she says, covering for my reaction. There’s a few awkward chuckles, but a man I don’t recognize laughs louder than everyone.
“Ah, man, you can kiss your wife in public. I think we’re all adults here,” he exclaims too loudly, earning us glances from the surrounding tables. His partner winces a bit when he leans over and plants an enthusiastic kiss on their cheek, but gives him an indulgent smile when he pulls away.
Gwen glances at me from under her lashes, and my pulse starts racing. I could brush this off, give us an out, but I don’t want to. Now that I’ve been presented with the opportunity, my whole body craves her lips against mine, her body closer than I’ve ever allowed us to be.
“Not my wife quite yet,” I say, slightly quieter, trying to ask her a question with my eyes that I can’t ask out loud. Is this okay? Do you want this? Please?
Her eyes search mine for a moment, and maybe there is some thread tying us together, because I know she understands.
“Oh, soon enough, though. No need to split hairs.”
Her pupils are blown wide, probably a mirror of mine, as I lean into her. Her hand squeezes my knee so tightly, I don’t think she’s doing it consciously. I leave the last millimeter of space for her to close, needing one final confirmation that she’s choosing this.
Kissing Gwen can’t be explained. Every cell in my body is humming at some new frequency as she sighs into me, relaxing her grip on my leg and opening her lips ever so slightly. My hand grasps the back of her chair like a lifeline, to stop myself from slipping my fingers into her hair. I want to lose myself in her, in the soft mouth and intoxicating sighs and gentle touches. I would have forgotten we were in public if a glass didn’t shatter across the room, jarring us apart from each other.
“Good husband,” Gwen says softly, dragging her thumb across my bottom lip to wipe away her lipstick.
Our table laughs and claps softly, turning to each other to talk about first loves and weddings, but I once again can’t hear what’s going on around me. Because the words good husband are now forever intertwined with the feeling of that kiss. My pulse won’t slow, and I can’t hide the effect Gwen is having on me. She must see it, must feel it, because it’s reflected in her eyes, slightly hooded and filled with desire.
But in a single second, Gwen shifts. The lust clears from her expression, and she removes her hand from my leg, twining hers together in her lap. She leans into the conversation next to us, asking about the couple’s eldest daughter who’s pregnant with their first grandchild.
The change is so sudden that I’m left stunned into silence. Throughout the rest of the night, she’s charming and gorgeous and engaging, but she doesn’t make another move to touch me more than is absolutely necessary. There’s a coldness that settles over me without her touch that’s intolerable. And I’ll do anything to fix it.