Bex
Six days later, I land in Madeira, a couple hundred miles off Morocco’s coast and surrounded by the Atlantic on all sides.
I take a deep breath the moment I step onto the tarmac. The air is balmy and sweet, refreshingly pleasant after a series of ninety-degree days at home.
A car delivers me to the oceanfront home Theo and I will share, just outside Funchal. Lars appears to be making amends after sticking us in that RV on the last trip: the interior is magnificent, with two bedrooms and a sliding glass wall that leads to the infinity pool.
Unfortunately, it appears that—despite having larger houses down the road—the crew has made our home their own as well. When I arrive, Katrina is making popcorn in the microwave and Jon is asleep on the couch.
“Sorry, Bex,” says LJ, bouncing a tennis ball as he walks in, “you’ll be seeing a lot of us this week. You’ve got a much better view than we do.”
I smile, sliding the glass door open to let in the breeze. “I like having people around,” I tell him. And it’s true. It’s so good to have swapped out that stale old house in New Jersey for this modern, spotless one that I don’t mind who’s in here with me.
Though I might feel otherwise once Theo gets here tomorrow. And I know he’ll feel otherwise.
I pass through the wide, spare living room and move on to the larger of the two bedrooms. It has a massive platform bed and floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides: one overlooking the ocean, the other overlooking a putting green.
Theo’s at his desk when I video call, his frown easing into a smile when he sees me. I love that I make him smile now. So few things do…it’s a little miraculous that I’m among them.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask.
“For you, yes. How’s the house?”
“It’s amazing. I’d give you a tour of the living area, but the crew is in there, so I’ll just show you the primary bedroom for now.”
He sits forward. “Why is the crew in our house? I’m not going through Norway all over again.”
“We’ve got a better view and more space, apparently, but they’re sleeping elsewhere. Anyway, this is the bedroom, which has its own putting green.” I turn the camera to show him.
“All I’m seeing is a whole lot of glass that bloody well better have floor-to-ceiling blinds.”
I grin as I hit a button to lower the blinds. “It does. Though obviously this room is mine since my life is more tragic.”
He rocks back in his chair, propping his legs on his desk, hands linked behind his neck. “Ah. Then you’re not planning to share with me?”
“You’ll need to earn it,” I reply, walking into the bathroom. “Maybe we can have a competition on the putting green.”
“We’re not using that fucking putting green once,” he growls. “Come up with another way I can earn it.”
I prop the camera on the counter and turn on the water before I push my jeans to the floor. Behind me, he groans.
“Hmmm,” I say, turning toward the phone as I pull my shirt overhead. “Nothing is coming to mind.”
“Jesus,” he rasps, crossing his office to shut the door.
“You don’t actually expect phone sex when the crew is twenty feet away?” I whisper, unclasping my bra.
“Yes,” he grunts, his eyes dark, his lids heavy. “I absolutely do. Tell them to leave. Put the call on speaker and I’ll tell them.”
I shake my head. “For now, you’ll just need to picture this: us in that shower with me on my knees. You could be as messy as you want.”
“Fuck me, Rebecca,” he says. “Tell them to get out, right fucking now, then climb on that counter and spread your legs.”
“Make me,” I reply, blowing him a kiss as I climb into the shower.
If he didn’t miss me before, I guarantee he’s missing me now.
· · ·
I wake late in the afternoon, blinking in surprise.
Something…crashed? I pad from the bedroom to discover LJ and Sean playing a game that involves throwing a beach ball from the pool into the kitchen sink.
I’m not sure if they’ve gotten it in, but they have managed to knock over a bottle of tequila.
“Guys,” I call, holding the broken bottle aloft. “Your game is done.”
“Sorry, Mom!” calls LJ.
They laugh like naughty schoolboys. I’m muttering as I search the kitchen for a broom and…
What the fuck is happening right now? Am I the responsible one here? It is, perhaps, the first time in my life when I haven’t been the idiot in the pool with too many margaritas in my system, making the bad decisions.
Which isn’t to say I’m done making bad decisions. But perhaps I’m done committing to that as my entire persona. Nobody wins if I stay small now, but somebody definitely loses. I’m tired of it being me.
I walk down a palm-lined road into town for snacks, then join the crew for a catered dinner out on the patio as the sun sets. The mood is celebratory—Madeira is our final shoot, aside from the marathon a few weeks from now. A relief for everyone here but me.
Between then and now, Theo won’t really have much of a reason to see me, and I’m not sure what happens to us then. I already miss my fake husband, who no longer feels fake at all and won’t be my husband much longer, so what’s it going to be like when there’s nothing left to pretend?
Slowly, people disperse. Only Sean and LJ remain by the time it’s dark. We close the doors and sit in the living room to keep out the bugs, and LJ is scrolling through Hulu while Sean closes the blinds, which must mean they’re planning to stay.
“Have you watched The Ring?” asks LJ. “It’s scary as shit.”
“I’m not sure if I want to watch a movie that’s scary as shit when I’m sleeping in a new house by myself,” I reply.
“We can make it a sleepover,” he suggests and then holds up his hands. “I wasn’t being creepy. I just meant there’s another bedroom. Don’t need your husband kicking my ass next.”
Sean laughs. “That was not on my Paris bingo card. Theo always seemed so chill, and suddenly he wasn’t. We should post some of that footage to shut Baby Makes Three up.”
My head jerks toward him. I haven’t been letting myself watch their reels ever since that last mini-tailspin they induced. “Is this something new?”
Sean rolls his eyes. “Theoretically their source says Theo’s had somebody on the side for, like, decades. Which is crazy on so many levels. Mostly because he’s only in his thirties now and you guys just got married a few months ago so he didn’t need to hide someone. Ignore it.”
It is crazy. The burst of worry comes and goes faster than it did the last time. “They’re grasping at straws,” I conclude. “But I don’t know about the movie, guys. I was awake during the entire flight and there’s a lot going on tomorrow.”
“You slept all day,” LJ counters.
I’m about to reluctantly give in when the front door opens, and Theo steps inside. He’s in a suit minus the jacket, the tie tugged loose, a bag over his arm. There’s never been a lovelier, more welcome sight in my life.
“Hey, man,” says LJ. “We thought you couldn’t get here until tomorrow morning.”
“I canceled some meetings,” he says, his gaze entirely on me. “I didn’t want to miss out on the fun.”
I’m trying so hard not to smile but I just can’t help it…I’m thrilled that he’s here. I want to press my lips to his unshaved jaw, finish removing that tie, make quick work of the shirt…
“Perfect timing,” says Sean. “Let’s watch Step Brothers. Have you seen it?”
“Would you all mind if I speak to my wife alone?” he asks as if Sean hasn’t spoken, never looking away from me.
The guys nod but are slow to realize he doesn’t mean we’ll leave but that they will. They rise and file out the back door and Theo flips the lock behind them before stalking toward me.
My jaw falls. “Did you just—”
But he’s already here, pulling me against him, and my arms slide up over his shoulders. It no longer matters that he just locked them out.
His mouth lands on mine as he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist and walking toward the bedroom.
“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“Did you really think you could strip in front of me on camera while telling me to picture you on your knees and have me not arrive early?” he asks.
I smile. It’s certainly not the behavior of a man who’s interested in anyone but me.
He reaches the room and sets me down in front of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, watching as I slide the shorts down my legs and throw the tank overhead.
I scoot backward on the mattress as his pants fall to the floor, and then he is hovering above me, his erection straining against his boxer briefs, pressed between my legs.
I arch upward, urging him on, desperate for the feel of him sliding against my clit.
He pushes his boxers down, tugs my panties to the side, and then his fingers are against me and inside me. The sound of it—wet, needy—is so loud I’m worried they can hear it outside.
“I know I should go slowly,” he groans, gliding against me. “Tell me I don’t need to.”
“Don’t go slowly.”
He slams inside me, so heavy and full that I am unable to form words, to think, to tell him it might be too much and to tell him to do it again.
“So perfect,” he hisses. “God I’ve missed you.” He pulls out and pushes in again, even harder.
My breath catches. “Keep going. Like that.”
He reaches between us and circles my clit. “Let me feel you come around me. I’m going to explode the second it happens.”
“Oh,” I groan. “That’s good.”
He slides a forearm under each thigh, spreading me wide, watching as he enters me. The sight alone is a feat of nature—it looks like he’s going to tear me in half.
“I’m going to film this,” he says, his jaw clenched. “I’m going to film this and watch it every fucking time I have to leave your side.”
My core clenches hard, swelling around him. “Coming,” I whisper, and that’s all I can manage before it hits me.
With three sharp jabs he gasps and pulls out, letting his orgasm spray over my stomach and breasts and chin.
“Sorry,” he says once he’s gotten his breath back. “You described it earlier and it’s been in my head ever since.”
I reach up, pulling his mouth to mine. “That was so much better than a putting competition. I guess I’ll share the room after all.”
He walks into the bathroom for a wet washcloth and cleans me up, and then he falls onto his back and pulls me against him.
“I haven’t slept in two days,” he says, his voice slurred with fatigue suddenly. “But fuck it’s good to be home.”
His breath is already slowing as he falls asleep, so I don’t correct him. I’m not sure I would anyway. He feels more like home than any I remember.
· · ·
In the morning we are taken to Monte, eighteen hundred feet above sea level. We race downhill on a toboggan steered by two cheerful guides, careening along narrow, curving alleyways flanked by the town’s whitewashed homes, while the Bay of Funchal gleams far below us.
From there we tour a botanical garden, then eat espetada and bolo do caco slathered in garlic butter at a restaurant where we are supposed to have a “tense conversation” about whether or not we rushed into marriage.
“Do you think we rushed into this?” he dutifully asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply. I push the bolo do caco toward him. “Oh my god, try this…It’s garlic bread on steroids.”
“Bex,” Paula says, “when your husband suggests you’ve rushed into your marriage, you don’t urge him to eat garlic bread.”
“What if it’s really good garlic bread?” I ask.
Afterward, we shoot some B-roll on the beach, then the guys and Katrina swim in our pool, which ends when LJ again suggests a movie night and Theo says, “Haven’t you heard that we’re newlyweds?” and leads me inside, locking the door behind him once again.
I laugh as I walk toward the bathroom. “For someone who doesn’t want anyone to know we’re sleeping together, you’re being sort of obvious.”
I lean against the vanity as I remove my earrings, the breeze from the open windows blowing my dress around my knees. He steps behind me, moving my hair out of the way to press his lips to my neck. “Sorry. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one who’s worried about it.”
His hand, currently resting on my hip, stills. I wait for him to deny it, to tell me something has changed, and when he doesn’t, I try to pretend I don’t mind.
But why, when this thing between us is as good as it is, does he care so much about keeping it a secret?
I know how Baby Makes Three would answer that question.