Chapter 8
8
[Ruthie]
H ave I entered some alternate universe? Was I living The Handmaid’s Tale ? Were these men not aware I am in the room, and this is my life they are discussing as if I am not sitting here?
“Of course, that’s if Ruth would agree,” Bolan adds, trying to dig himself out of a deep pile of manure.
“What about Melody?” I snap, singing over her name, certain the jealousy I don’t wish to display just rang out in my tone.
I glance in Bolan’s direction but can’t see him well-enough over his daughter’s head on my shoulder. His sweet baby girl who has settled against me and must have drifted off to sleep if the weight-shift of her body tells me anything. She’s suddenly a brick in my arms. The most amazing, wonderful, welcome brick.
Jared is staring at Bolan, wide-eyed and surprised. Floyd’s weaselly eyes narrow at me. He already has strikes against him for suggesting the lady can take the kid out.
“I hate to say she’s no one, but she’s no one.” Bolan states.
Yikes. Harsh.
Even Floyd flinches, clearing his throat and sitting straighter in his seat.
“And if you think I need tending to”—Bolan glances at Jared and then at Floyd—“a babysitter of sorts? Who better to keep me in line than my wife?”
I snort. I’d hardly kept my late husband in line, what would make this time different? While the term wife should equate to loyalty and dedication, to some men, it did not always mean those things. Let’s not forget love and attraction, too.
However, a rush runs up my middle at Bolan’s suggestion.
I don’t want a rush . I don’t want to be married again. I am looking forward to being an independent woman.
Plus, Bolan cannot be serious.
“And you said it yourself, Jared. I need a nanny for Tulane.”
“A nanny and a wife are not the same thing,” I defend, shifting the rotating chair so I can look more directly at him. A mother and a nanny aren’t the same thing either, but I don’t feel like dipping into that argument yet.
“Of course not,” Bolan eyes me.
“And I wouldn’t be engaging in any so-called wifely duties,” I state, as if I’m considering this preposterous decision.
Am I considering it?
“Absolutely not,” Jared interjects.
I swivel my chair, so I face him. Does he mean absolutely not to being Bolan’s wife, or absolutely not to sexual activities? Either way, is his objection because of who I am?
His daughter-in-law. The daughter Nylah and Jared never had. In some ways, I’d become closer to them than Clifton. For me, they have been better parents than my own and I never want to disappoint them .
But I want my own life.
Tulane shifts in my arms and Bolan leans forward, scooping her out of my hold and settling her on his chest, the practiced move of a loving father. Her body instantly curls into his. She looks so peaceful. So safe. So protected by his large arm around her small back.
“The decision should be up to Ruth,” Bolan states, his tone a little firmer. Those mischievous green eyes on me again.
Did he mean the decision for conjugal experiences? Been there, done that.
Or did he mean, the choice to be his wife?
I’ve already had that experience as well, and it wasn’t always that great. There are secrets I’ll take to the grave because I don’t want Nylah or Jared to ever think poorly of their treasured son. They’ve already suffered enough heartbreak from him, and I would never add to their pain.
Still, I’d been set free and I’m looking in a new direction. The future me.
For eighteen months, I’ve been moving in a bubble. One protecting me against the sympathetic comments and looks of concern about Clifton’s passing. Before that, I’d been numb, keeping myself together as best I could under the circumstances. The final act of betrayal from Clifton. The loss of a future I’d so desperately wanted.
But since that moment in the ballroom with Bolan, I feel charged, energized . . . alive. The sensation comes from more than amazing sex but from the tender moments when I sensed Bolan saw me. The me I am. The me I want to be. He won’t be my happily ever after. I’ll be certain to protect myself better in the future.
No more Responsible Ruthie .
The thought hits me hard. The very opposite of acting responsibly would be to do something reckless. To do something unexpected. To have sex with a man in a dark ballroom. Or kiss a stranger for sixty seconds and then never see him again.
Or marry him.
I turn back toward Jared, who is a good man, but a hard one. He’s been overly kind to me, but I’m reminded of the requirements set in place when I agreed to work at Imperial Sports Management. The pity-employment. The job I hadn’t ever wanted but took anyway. The position meant buttoning up in these constricting blouses and wearing knee-length skirts. Slipping into killer heels and donning my glasses instead of contacts, to appear more serious, more severe.
It did nothing to prevent an incident. My first and last foray into being an agent.
And I was so tightly wound, I was afraid I’d suffocate.
For the past eighteen months, I’ve been living the grieving widow role, with every reminder of Clifton a little more of a farce. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’ve been craving some space and distance from this city, these amazing people, and ISM.
When I glance back toward Bolan, the final stitch in my resolve is knotted in place. It’s hard to resist a man wearing a suit holding a sweet baby. And it’s hard to deny that an answer to my prayers is sitting beside me.
“What would it look like . . . to be your wife, in this arrangement?” Maybe he already had a plan for all the sexual positions he’d practice with Melody. The thought makes my blood run cold.
Not with fear. With envy.
“Y-you can’t be serious, Ruth,” Jared stammers, surprise lacing his tone.
“I am,” I say, surprised myself by the conviction in my own voice.
“You are?” He gasps .
“You are?” Bolan’s eyes widen, the gold flecks sparkling among the green base like fireflies flitting through dark woods.
“I’d like to think about it.”
“Think fast,” Floyd interjects, sarcasm thick in his voice and reminding the room that Bolan is on a time clock.
Bolan narrows his eyes at Floyd before he brings his attention back to me but speaks to the other men in the room. “Can you give us a minute?”
Floyd is hasty to stand but Jared lingers a second. “Ruth, are you sure about this?”
I’ve never been more unsure of something, but at the same time, I think this is what I might need. My gaze drops to Tulane, cradled in her father’s arms, sleeping like a major deal isn’t going down around her.
Her presence sweetens the possibility of this arrangement. To be able to protect her, nurture her, care for her, would be an honor, a blessing even, and the bonus is I wouldn’t have to be concerned for Bolan. He wouldn’t get close enough to break my heart like Clifton had. Like my father repeatedly did.
“I’ve got this,” I state, sounding more confident than I feel.
Jared excuses himself, stating he’ll be right outside, as if I’ll need him. And isn’t that part of the issue? For too long I’ve relied on my in-laws. Leaned on them for support. It was time to veer off the path they’ve paved, with good intentions, for me. I want a road less traveled. One that’s just for me.
Bolan sits upright, adjusting Tulane so her head rests on his broad shoulder. Looking at me over her, he says, “Thank you.” Breathlessly spoken and full of sincerity.
“I haven’t said yes,” I remind him.
“There’s no pressure.” He licks his lips. “For anything.”
Conjugal experiences. Wifely commitments.
“Maybe we should discuss some terms.” Again, I sound more powerful than I feel.
“Name them. ”
No sex is on the tip of my tongue but then I reconsider. That’s a mighty bold declaration to make considering I’ve already had sex with him. However, I also don’t want sex to be an assumption.
“Patience,” I state. Maybe sex will happen. Maybe it won’t. I wouldn’t take bets on the outcome yet.
Bolan’s eyes widen. “O- kay .”
“Faithfulness.”
Those green eyes narrow to slits. “Of course.” Then he adds, “And same for you.”
“Of course.” I softly agree. He has no idea how committed I can be to someone.
“A year at least,” Bolan adds.
“The season,” I counter which could run roughly eight months.
Bolan twists his lips, considering the timeline. “Fine.”
“Fine.” I pause a beat. “What do you want from me?”
Bolan assesses me a long minute. To my surprise, his gaze doesn’t wander down my body in some lewd appraisal but holds on my face. My eyes. My nose. My mouth.
“Willingness to renegotiate terms at any given time.”
“O- kay .” That suggests our situation remain open-ended. “But faithfulness is still a hard limit.”
Bolan tilts his head, assessing me a second. The secrets I hold are buried deep, though.
“Deal.” He holds out his left hand which would be awkward to shake, so I place my right in his, and for half a second, it feels like the first time we met.
That awkward moment when he held out his hand to shake mine, but I took his hand like he intended to hold onto me.
This time, Bolan does not tighten his grip but does hold fast. He leans forward and wiggles his thick brows. “Should we seal the deal with a kiss? ”
“Don’t press your luck,” I tease, scowling at him, but when that damn dimple pops out, I know I’m screwed. Resisting him will be half my battles. Wondering if he’ll really want me, is the other half.
I’m used to men with pretty promises that end up bottomless and false.
“So just to confirm. Will you marry me, Ruth Avery?”
“I will.”
He squeezes my hand in wordless gratitude. “I’ll get your number and call you later with details.”
He stands with Tulane pressed to his chest and steps backward, but his foot catches on the extended wheels of the swivel chair. He stumbles a bit, dropping my hand and clutching Tulane tighter, as he wobbles.
I stand abruptly and reach out toward him, as if I’ll catch both of them before they fall.
Bolan smiles tightly, cautiously stepping backward a second time. When he nears the door, he stops. Pressing his fingers to his lips, he blows me a kiss.
And I stand there staring at him.
“Come on, Ruthie. You didn’t even try to catch it.”
I blink, confused by what he’s doing, what he’s saying.
“The other night when you left the ballroom, you turned back and blew me a kiss.”
I did? I don’t remember that. Was I sex-drunk? Was I really that flirtatious? Was it a punctuation mark on our time together?
I’ve certainly re-opened what I thought was a closed door.
“Try again,” Bolan says, his voice playful. He presses his fingertips to his lips and watches me. Then he tips his hand forward and blows, like he’s sending fairy dust or imaginary glitter in my direction.
This time, I raise my hand like I’ll catch the kiss. Only, I feel awkward and don’t know what to do with my upright palm. Do I place the imaginary kiss on my lips? Tuck it in my non-existent pockets? Swipe my hand on my hips?
Instead, I just stare back at him.
“Better. Not a strike. I’d call that a foul ball. It means I have another chance.”
“Chance for what?” I scoff quietly.
“Chance at a hit.” He clicks his tongue in his mouth making a knocking sound, like a bat hitting a ball. Then, he sails his hand through the air, mimicking the trajectory of a hit ball, watching his fingers sweep before him. Finally, he glances back at me. Those eyes like a private firework display.
“A chance to win you over.”
Was I a game to him? I’d already said yes. I don’t know what more he’d want, but I don’t get the opportunity to ask as Bolan turns toward the closed door, opening it, catching it on his toe, and watching it bounce back into place.
Tulane shifts and Bolan presses a kiss to her head, then shuffles to attempt opening the door again.
The clumsiness was only mildly present the other night. A cocky seducer was present instead. Someone who laid me on a banquet table and ate me like a feast. Someone who held me up against a window and hammered into me. Someone who swayed with me on an empty dance floor as a final gesture.
Yet, the bumbling man, holding his daughter, is more charming than any of his alter egos.
And I might be happy to catch his kisses.
Someday.