Chapter 3
3
[Ruthie]
T he night of the actual event, my dress is red. The deep crimson shade will be one among many women wearing the color in support of heart-health awareness for women. The gown has thick straps and is tightly cinched at my waist. Layers of chiffon create a full skirt which flows gracefully to the floor. The back dips dangerously deep to the curve of my lower back. I look like a princess.
Or, as Bolan called me, a beautiful flower.
My mother-in-law picked out this dress, insisting I wear it. The material is exquisite, the fit perfect, and the price out of my comfort zone. The gift, as Nylah maintained, is a sharp contrast to the drab, professional attire I wear daily.
The dress boosts my confidence which I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe that’s the lingering effects of last night. Regardless, I feel desirable, even beautiful, like I’m ready to take on the world. I can’t remember the last time I’d been so extravagantly attired.
My wedding, perhaps?
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror before the festivities begin, I take a moment to note the intricate style in my blonde hair. The column of my throat is on display thanks to the elaborate up-do. Mentally, I envision Bolan’s hand around my neck. I even inspect my flesh as if I can find signs of his touch, but the notion is silly.
Bolan Adler. What an unexpected flash from the past. What a new memory we’ve made.
When our night ended, we went our separate directions again after a romantic spin on the shadowed dance floor.
He smelled like leather and cinnamon, with that hint of lime still on him.
Our farewell would have been the perfect time to tell him I knew who he was. Who he’d been all those years ago, but I still didn’t speak. I didn’t want to tell him that I remembered him for fear that he didn’t remember me. I feared that the kiss I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for over fifteen years would be a moment he didn’t recall, and the embarrassment over something so important to me, that he’d forgotten, would have been damning to my spirit.
The secret of last night would be added as another layer to my former memory.
The stark nakedness of my left hand where my wedding band once rested is the reminder of all the reasons Bolan has been only a sliver of my history. The absence of that gold band is liberating.
I’d loved Clifton Jacobson with all my heart, but I’d been weighed down by our relationship. The last few years of his life had been trying, frustrating, upsetting. And then, there was heartbreak like no other.
The time has come for me to focus on myself .
Wearing silver stilettos bolsters my confidence as I enter the ballroom and fight the reminders of my Valentine’s Eve. For the first half of the evening, I avoid glancing in the direction of the ballroom dance floor as well as the arched windows overlooking the ocean. Both locations are triggers. One reckless. One romantic. Collectively, they ignite something inside me. Something red hot and cherry sweet, like the color of my dress.
Like the dichotomy of my thoughts. The responsible side aghast at the reckless one while the wild side applauds the liberating burst of rebellion.
Eventually, I need air. I’d been suffocating under the pressure of well-meaning sympathy for Clifton’s absence and the delicious new memories created in this very ballroom. Making my way to a second-floor balcony, a door exits onto a veranda. Bursting into the late-winter evening, I take a deep breath and exhale. The salty scent of the ocean burns my nostrils but clears my head.
In some small way, I’m relieved not to see Bolan Adler wandering the Coastal Resort ballroom. I’d known who he was last night, but would he recognize me in the light of day? Would he acknowledge that our paths crossed? Or would he keep our new secret?
Either way, the foolishness of my decision to have sex with him last night tolls like a funeral bell in my head.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid .
Slamming my hands on the cement railing, I stare out at the swirling ocean. Inky black water churns beneath a moonless sky as I inhale again. My lungs then expel a heavy breath although my body pulses with an achy need I both recognize and reject.
I want to see him again.
However, it might be best that I don’t. At least, not under the present circumstances. For once, I wanted to feel like I was the one who walked away, not the one left behind. Hope filled me that last night made an impression on him, and, at least for a little while, he might continue to wonder about the mysterious woman he’d met in an empty ballroom.
Maybe, just maybe, last night will be considered a magical moment for him.
It has certainly made its mark on me.
“Lady in red,” a masculine voice gruffly intones behind me. “Or should I say my beautiful flower?”
Spinning, I see Bolan outlined by the interior lights behind him.
“Looking to jump?”
He has no idea how unfunny that comment is.
“Just trying to get some air,” I murmur, turning around again, placing my back to him, but not before my brief glance takes in the fit of his tuxedo. Definitely custom tailored to fit the broadness of his shoulders and the solid columns of his thighs. His entire body screams strength.
With two broad steps, he’s standing directly behind me, his mouth near my ear. Leather and cinnamon again. His presence overwhelms me, and my breath quickens, my chest rising and falling as if I’m unable to draw in enough oxygen.
“Looks like fate is on my side,” he murmurs to my neck.
“Why’s that?” I question, facing the black night as my head tips back like it has a will all its own.
“I was hoping to see you again.” He chuckles softly, gently spinning me in order to step back and appraise my appearance. His eyes roam down my body while his fingertips hover just above my skin, along my exposed throat and over my collarbone before his gaze drops, along with his hand. “You’re a vision. Truly stunning.”
He sighs, pausing a second, before his gaze continues to skim over the swell of my breasts and the length of my dress. “Did you know that in the Japanese culture red is a sacred color. It means strength and sacrifice. But it also means peace and joy. Luck. So many emotions in one color.”
With his final words, his eyes land on mine, as if he sees something deeper inside me.
The years of sacrifice. The strength it took and the willpower I’m mustering for the next steps in my life. The peace I want to have in the future. The need to experience joy.
My eyes begin to prickle. The sensation is strange, because I’m not sad, but overwhelmed. Like for just a moment, he sees me. Truly sees me.
He steps forward and twists me once again, bringing my back to his front, keeping his hands on my hips. His nose tickles the nape of my neck as he inhales.
“You smell heavenly, too, flower.”
“Why do you call me that?” I choke, hating how much I like the nickname. The anonymity of it.
“My granddad had a garden when I was child. He loved his precious flowers.” Bolan quietly chuckles. “The moment I saw you, you reminded me of one of them.”
His hand gently encircles my throat and tips my head to the side with a press of his thumb on my jaw. Running his nose along the column once more, he inhales again. His lips follow the trail, tenderly sucking on my skin until he reaches my shoulder.
“You look like a delicate flower.” He pauses, scraping his teeth over my clavicle. “One I want to pluck and keep, treasure even.” He hums. “Want to bloom again, baby?”
Closing my eyes at the sudden burst of goosebumps on my flesh, I say, “I’ve never done anything like what we did last night.” The one-night stand thing. The exhibitionistic risk of having sex in an empty ballroom where anyone at any time could have walked in.
Thrilling yet reckless, and so unlike me .
The moment has replayed in my head on repeat, but that’s all it can be—another moment.
And I should tell him who I am.
“That ballroom seems to be an aphrodisiac, flower. It makes me want you in the worst way.”
“And wanting me is bad?” I ask as his lips tickle my ear. Again, I don’t want to be considered a mistake. I know all about making poor decisions. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of one.
“Not bad,” he growls, sending shivers down my spine. “But I’ve never been good at following the rules.”
“And there are rules?” I question.
“Ones I want to smash to smithereens.”
With him cupping my throat, possessive and strong, he nips at my flesh, while his thumb presses against my pulse, and I don’t want to follow rules either. And the distraction of his mouth on my skin tips me over the decision point.
Whispered like a silent prayer, I suggest, “One more time.”
“One more.” Bolan’s hand instantly rounds my waist and lowers to scrunch up the material of my skirt.
“You have on too many layers, beautiful.” He chuckles against my skin until his hand is beneath my dress and between my thighs. He pushes aside the slip of underwear and easily slides a finger into me.
“Ready to blossom, like I thought.” He hums and I tip back my head, swallowing hard against his hand cupping my throat.
I’m rewarded with a second finger easily slipping inside me.
“Things are fucked up, flower.” Desperation fills his voice.
I hear it, feel it in my core. I know about that sensation—feeling fucked up.
“We need to be quiet,” he whispers into my neck, skimming his nose to my shoulder.
Sounds like a rule I want to break.
He removes his fingers from me, and I whimper at the sudden loss, deflating just a smidge. The unlatching of his belt jangles behind me, instantly restoring the fever. The burning desire to have him inside me one more time.
I hike up the back of my dress while he lowers his pants enough to free his thick cock from the confines.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” he coos, running his palm up my exposed back and bending me over the cool cement barrier. I hear the distinct crinkle of a package, then he’s lining himself up at my entrance.
His thrust inward is sharp and quick, like he entered me last night, and I cry out at the sensation.
The fullness steals my breath. The connectedness ratchets up my heart.
In this position, he hits me in a new way. A raw, intense way. And I arch into him, attempting to keep him deeply seated inside me.
He pulls away, surges forward, draws back. In and out, the frenzy begins. My hands keep my delicate dress from scraping on the rough cement railing as he surges into me hard and deep. He cups my throat while slipping his other hand to my tender clit, teasing the sacred spot as he enters me.
Another stolen moment. The unabashed fucking. God, I’m going to hell for this.
As he hitches forward, I lift one knee to the railing, balancing precariously on one stiletto heel.
“Fuck, flower,” he grunts as I open wider for him. He groans, “Wish I could keep you. Want to make things better.”
I have no idea what he means but I’m too lost in the pleasure he’s producing in my body. To the possession of his powerful thrusts. To the cupping of my throat like he intends to keep me.
Like I could be his.
Too quickly, my body reacts, and like the waves crashing below against the rocky bluff, I break, biting my lip to hold back the shout of joy. The cry of a release as strong as the rolling ocean. Wave after wave crests and breaks within me, shattering against my rock-hard heart and my soft petals as he calls them, until he stills behind me, buried deep inside me. His own swirling current of release happens.
“Holy shit.” His forehead presses against my shoulder blade. His breathing exaggerated.
The time passed too quickly. Sixty-seconds, perhaps? Another minute.
Bolan kisses my shoulder before he pulls out of me. To my surprise, a cool strip of cotton swipes at the mess we’ve made between my thighs. Peering over my shoulder, I see him folding an honest to goodness handkerchief before slipping it into his pocket.
Slowly standing upright, my knees wobble. My legs are unsteady as the layers of my dress tumble back down to my ankles.
He steadies me with a hand on my hip, then he leans forward and softly kisses me. The brush of his lips is a goodbye. Like that tender kiss he snuck in after our first sixty seconds all those years ago.
What had he said earlier about wishing to keep me, wanting to do better? I should ask for more details, but he’s leading me toward the interior of the building with a gentle but firm hand on my elbow.
When he stops just outside the entrance to the inner hallway, he turns toward me, cups both my cheeks and gives me a final kiss that is hot and desperate, heady and rushed, reminding me of that first kiss we shared more than a decade ago.
What’s that saying about love in reverse? Is this a kiss on rewind? We’re back to where we started.
And we cling to one another as if we won’t ever see each other again. When we break apart, I finally question him as if I don’t already know the answer. “What’s your name?”
If I thought asking him would trigger his memory, I’m wrong.
The moment is gone. Another set of sixty seconds is over in a flash.
Without an answer, a sad smile rests in its place. He tucks my arm into the crook of his elbow and leads me back into the building, guiding me toward the top of the staircase. Once there, he finally turns to me, something haunting and dark fills those forest-colored eyes as he unhooks my hand from his arm and gives it a final squeeze.
“I’m truly sorry,” he mumbles, contrite like he’d been last night. Like he’s genuinely apologetic for what we’ve done, but the apology feels more like a foreshadowing. Like he’s sorry for what’s to come.
Perhaps I should apologize. “I have something to tell you.”
The distinct sound of heels on marble steps travels upward to where we stand, and I turn when I hear a familiar voice call out my name.
“Ruthie, darling, I’ve been looking for you.” Nylah sounds both breathless and worrisome. My mother-in-law is a strikingly good-looking woman in her late fifties with flawless skin and a wide grin. She’s also wearing red, although her dress is a bit more subdued, less whimsical than mine.
“Ruthie?” Bolan struggles over my name.
When I glance at him, his brows are severely pinched. He looks from me to Nylah and back.
A second set of heels follows the racing of the first, although the newer steps are more methodic, as if someone is taking her time to climb the staircase.
Click-click-click . Like a clock counting down to midnight.
“Oh, Bolan, I’ve been looking for you as well,” Nylah addresses the man standing a good foot away from me. An invisible shield of space between us. We are no longer the couple fused together on the balcony but strangers. Well, at least one of us is, and the other is about to learn a hard truth.
“There you are.” The second woman’s voice is breathy, seductive and deep, unlike mine. She’s tall and lanky, yet hourglass-shaped with sleek red hair in one perfect wave cascading down her head to the middle of her back. She’s intimidatingly beautiful and she comes to a full stop beside Bolan and places her hand on his chest. Her bright red nails stand out in sharp contrast to his white tuxedo shirt.
I take a second perusal of his appearance. The tailored tuxedo. Those deep green eyes. Trimmed facial hair that is still scratch worthy.
I cup the side of my neck, curious if he left marks on my skin.
He’s certainly imprinted on my soul again.
Then my eyes catch on those feminine nails, filed to nearly pointed tips, and pressed against his chest, like blood stains on white cotton.
Full-on panic takes over, gripping my chest like a vise clamped around my ribs, as if my insides know something is terribly wrong before my brain can compute the issue. Suddenly, I can’t get enough oxygen.
“Melody,” Bolan whispers to this other woman although his eyes do not leave mine. His body stands ramrod stiff while she leans into him, evidently rather familiar with him, as she tips her head to his shoulder.
“Ruthie, darling,” Nylah addresses me once more, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him. Off them.
This cannot be happening to me. Again .
“I see you’ve met Bolan,” Nylah states, breaking into my thoughts.
I turn toward my mother-in-law, blinking, the movement lazy like I’ve been drugged and evidence of my confusion .
“Bolan Adler,” she clarifies. “Joanna’s son.”
I turn back toward him, trying to identify any resemblance to his mother, Nylah’s cousin, her best friend.
“That means—” I lamely point at him as my mind filters through the facts.
Joanna’s son. He’s practically family. He was Clifton’s cousin once removed. Had he been close all this time, and yet completely out of reach? How had I not known? How was I not aware of this connection?
But then another thought slams into me.
As a member of the family, Bolan is a special project taken on last minute by Imperial Sports Management. Despite working directly with Jared, I didn’t know all the details. He’d wanted to handle this “new client delicately” on his own. However, the information slipped in a conversation with Nylah.
Joanna Frederick’s son.
Who happens to be Bolan Adler.
Until this moment, I hadn’t connected the dots. Never knew there were dots to be connected.
“We should really be getting downstairs,” Melody speaks up. She squeezes his chin, but he flinches his head away from her touch. Her eyes narrow, and she stiffens, standing straighter beside him.
“Yes. Yes,” Nylah chuckles, the sound both light and tense, although I’m not certain she understands where the tension truly rests. From her next comment, her own reason to rush Bolan off becomes clear. “It’s almost time. The big speech.”
“You’re a guest speaker this evening?” I ask, sounding dumbfounded while still unable to pull my gaze from him.
He wasn’t on the roster. I didn’t even know he’d be here.
“A last-minute addition. We thought it’d be nice to have one of Joanna’s sons speak,” Nylah clarifies.
Bolan scoffs. The sound is its own statement, but I can’t process the meaning. Joanna’s other sons declined the invitation to attend tonight.
“I see,” I whisper, lowering my gaze and my head when I don’t understand anything.
What is even happening?
“Maybe we should make our announcement this evening,” Melody adds, her voice sugary sweet to disguise the venom underneath.
“What announcement?” I look up again as Bolan closes his eyes, cutting off the forest, like he’s chopping down all the trees inside.
“I’m the future Mrs. Adler.” Melody nearly simpers, shimmying her shoulders back and forth, like it’s the best news.
“You’re married!” I shriek, jumping over the future part and glaring at Bolan while bile fills my throat. The same throat he cupped, only minutes ago. My stomach churns and swirls, like the violent waves of the ocean outside these walls. My breath comes hard and fast, lungs constricting with each painful attempt to drag in air.
Bolan’s lids flip open. His eyes wide, panic swirling in that sea of green. His voice is strained when he says, “Not yet.” He keeps his eyes focused on me and I watch them slide from that moment of fear to shuttered darkness, like he’s closing me off.
His declaration does nothing to settle the nausea in my belly or make my sudden dizziness disappear.
“But you’re engaged?” I clarify, my voice still shrill but quieting, as I glare at him. He has the grace to look away from me. Or is he a coward, afraid to face what he’s done? What we did? Before he marries someone else.
“Ruthie.” Nylah chuckles tersely. “What has gotten into you?”
Him , I want to scream but I can’t state the truth.
He was just inside me on the balcony. Filling me up and stripping me down .
This level of shocking rejection and betrayal is certainly appropriate for an event named The Red Dress Affair.
All those scarlet gowns downstairs match the color of my shattering heart, like violent red petals scattered in the wind.
For half a second, I wonder if Clifton ever felt this way about his past actions. This searing pain of regret. The blazing brand of a giant scarlet A on my chest.
However, I don’t take the time to wallow in misery. I’ll do that as soon as I get away from here. From him.
And like Cinderella, I race from the party.
Saving myself with no seconds to spare.