Chapter 22
Jules
Even with Sienna teasing me subtly all night about Russell, this has been one of the best days of my life.
The driver comes back, just like Russell said he would. I sit wrapped up in my impossible comfortable—impossibly expensive—new coat, swathed in warmth, watching the lights of the city pass me by as we head away from the market and toward my place.
Russell was right about one thing. This definitely beats walking home, my head bowed against the bitter Chicago wind in a coat that was far too thin to stand a chance against the wind.
The driver idles at the curb while I buzz into the building, then waves before pulling off. I climb the steps with an extra pep in my step, knowing the fizz I feel is at the thought of finding Russell in my apartment when I open the door.
And, sure enough, when I push the door open, the first thing I see is him sitting at the kitchen counter, a book open in front of him. He sits so casually, so comfortably, that it almost knocks the breath out of me.
I like seeing him like this. Relaxed in my home, like he belongs here.
He stands and comes over to me, taking my bag and helping me undo the buttons on my coat, like it’s something he does for me every day. Impossibly natural, instinctive.
Then, as though he can hear the silent plea in my head, he follows me to my bedroom, waiting until the door is shut to speak.
“How was the market?” he asks, his voice low, quiet and deep. I gesture for him to sit on the end of the bed, and he does.
I disappear into the closet, changing into my pajamas and talking to him about the work tonight—Sienna opening up to me, that kid coming back to buy another candle for his mother, but clearly having a crush on Sienna.
When I emerge, I ask about Gus, and Russell tells me about putting him to bed. That he was good and now has a crystal dinosaur to hang on our Christmas tree, which he thinks we should put up soon.
“He asked me to come when he goes on today… tomorrow. I told him I would,” Russell says, his eyes locking on me as I pull thick socks onto my feet.
I’m wearing a set of black pajamas I got from Target—nothing salacious.
Just black shorts and a button-up top, but Russell is looking at me like I’m in lingerie.
More specifically, he’s looking at my chest like his mouth is already watering.
Is my mouth watering? Russell looks good, even better than he did bundled up in his coat on the street. There’s an ache between my legs, and reminders in my head of how good it feels to have him bracketed over me.
Can we have sex with Gus here?
I’ve never even had to face the question before. By the time we moved into this apartment, I’d decided dating just wasn’t for me.
“…I hope that’s okay,” Russell finishes, and I realize I’ve been so caught up thirsting after him that I forgot where his sentence started.
Gus. Today, Tomorrow. The show.
“Oh, of course,” I say, blinking when my voice comes out even huskier than normal. Is the air between us charged, or am I imagining it? Would Russell ever consider sex right now, knowing Gus is here, too?
To distract myself from my wanting, I add, “You’re good with him.”
Something flickers over Russell’s face, and he says, like a rehearsed response, “Pediatrician. All in the training.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, letting down my hair and grabbing my brush from the dresser, just for something to do with my hands. Stopping for a minute to point the brush at him, I say, “I think you’re a natural. That’s why it’s surprising to me.”
“What is?”
“That you…” my throat goes dry when I realize the personal ground I’m about to wander into. “Nothing, sorry.”
When I glance at him again, Russell is staring at me intently, his jaw ticking like he’s thinking about something hard.
“Juliette,” he says, clearing his throat and looking away. “Jules. You should know that this isn’t the first time I’ve been engaged.”
The words rocket through me, and for some reason, jealousy rises in my chest. I want to see this other woman—what is she like? Is she a doctor? An heiress, part of some medical dynasty, like him?
Is she gorgeous, accomplished?
One thing I know for certain is that she’s not a single mother working two jobs and going along with a fraudulent engagement because she has nothing better to do.
As though he can see everything running through my head, Russell sighs and runs his hand through his hair again.
“It was right after we finished our residency. She came two years after me, and we worked the same hospital in New York. Both surgeons, but she was osteo. I thought—well, I was getting ready to build a family. We wanted to build one. Together. By the time our residencies were finished out, we were pushing our luck. Figured we’d start trying right after the wedding, but to be safe, we went to a fertility clinic. ”
My heart beats in my throat as my mind races ahead, trying to figure out how this story ends. Did she cheat on him? Did he cheat on her? Why did they call off the engagement?
Oh, God—maybe she died, and he can’t stomach the idea of having a family with anyone else.
Or maybe it was something else. It’s not like I got pregnant on purpose, so I’m not that well-versed in it, but I’ve heard enough to know about the clock that’s always ticking.
Heard from friends of Ettie’s that some people just think they have more time than they do, or take for granted that it will work out when they want it to.
Maybe she couldn’t get pregnant.
“We ran a lot of tests to start. Both doctors wanted the full run-through. Despite being in her thirties, she didn’t have a problem. Eggs were looking great,” he sighs.
“I’m infertile,” Russell says, wincing a bit when he delivers the word.
I stare at him, shocked. Maybe it’s all wrapped up in something like toxic masculinity, but the thought of this man being infertile feels impossible.
I’d think he could get me pregnant just by looking at me.
“Margot has five kids now. Twins and triplets, actually. I guess it runs in her family.”
It dawns on me that I need to say something—that all this is incredibly vulnerable. He didn’t have to tell me any of it.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage, knowing it doesn’t even come close to being the right thing to say. In fact, I’m not sure anything is the right thing to say.
So, I listen to my instincts and set the brush on the dresser. Cross the room to him. Stand between his legs and push my fingers into his hair.
“For what it’s worth,” I whisper, sighing in relief when he wraps his arms around me. “Diaper changing for triplets must be a bitch.”
He laughs into my shoulder, and it makes me smile. His hair smells good, like eucalyptus and cedar, and I breathe it in, loving this moment. We’re all arms, mine around his shoulders and his around my waist. I can feel his thighs on either side of mine, can hear and feel each breath he takes.
In the back of my mind, there’s a voice reminding me that this isn’t part of the deal. We’re not showing off for anyone right now—there’s nobody to see this embrace, not like there might have been at the Christmas market.
And this definitely isn’t the little something extra Russell had been talking about in the hotel room.
If we’re not performing, and not fucking, then what are we doing? Breathing into each other, taking solace in the embrace. Sharing, touching, and holding.
And that’s not going to happen. We’ve both made it clear that we’re not looking for anything real. I’m his fake fiancée, and I need my brain to fully and completely digest that fact before it runs away with a version of the future that’s not going to happen. Not now, and not ever.
Slowly, I push Russell back down onto the bed, and he goes willingly, his hands moving hungrily to my hips the moment it’s clear what I want, and what I’m pushing us toward.
I straddle him, thinking about the way I rode him in that hotel room, the way it had felt to grind against him and take him as deep as I could.
The way he’d looked up at my breasts with a bowled-over sort of reverence.
I lean down and kiss him, savoring the feel of his thumbs slipping under the waistband of my pajama shorts.
Apparently done with the vulnerable moment, Russell growls, “Not sure why you put this on, if you knew I was just going to take it off of you.”
It fills me with a bright, hot lust that sears me clean through, and I rock against him, grinning when I feel him already straining against his pants, toward me.
“We have to be quiet,” I whisper, glancing back toward the door. “I’ve never done this before. Not with…”
Russell nods, sits up and grabs me, making me laugh when he stands, keeping his hands on my ass like he doesn’t want to let me go for a minute. Carrying me to the door, he reaches down and locks it, then brings me back to the bed, laying me out.
Silently, he strips me down, his eyes getting darker and hungrier with each piece of clothing that hits the floor.
“You don’t want to know how often I think about this,” he murmurs, kicking off his pants and lowering himself over me, nestling his mouth between my breasts. He kisses and licks, a hand coming up to pinch my nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, his teeth grazing the other.
I lift from the bed like a woman possessed and feel him smile against me. For what feels like hours, he busies himself there, sucking, biting, pinching, and palming, until I’m shaking with need and impossibly slick.
Before him, I’d never really thought about my chest as a vital part of the process. Of course, guys loved to grab at them and compliment them, but it never really did a lot for me.
But now, with Russell’s devotion, his obsession with my breasts, the way his eyes always stray to my nipples, it makes me squirm with a self-awareness. Like his appreciation for my body brings me back into it, forcing me to feel every touch—tits or otherwise.