8. Baldo
Why was she crying? The thought has been driving me crazy since I arrived at the courthouse.
It has been in the back of my mind as I bribed the clerk to move our appointment and called my concierge services to arrange a branch of my favorite appointment-only store booked for us.
It has been gnawing at me while I sparred with her—because why would she make anything easy?
When I led her to my car, holding her hand. When I put my hand at the base of her spine.
All the while I fought a hard-on that threatened to tent in my pants. The woman smells like I remember—vanilla and peaches—and all new—sin and temptation.
She’d always had a personality that drew me to her. Tenacious. Stubborn. Mad at the world. But aren’t all teenagers? And that’s what we were back then.
During the few interactions we’ve had since my baffling proposal, I’ve glimpsed the same strength in her, but laced with vulnerability, and fuck if that isn’t attractive.
For a moment, I even considered this one-year marriage might be fun. Like we could really go for it and enjoy each other.
But there are too many unresolved issues between us. Too many burning memories. Too many regrets.
She made her choice all those years ago and I accepted it. It’s not like she is the only woman in the world. Though sometimes it feels that way.
“Oh, these were made for you,” the shop clerk gushes.
I abandon the shelves of ties I’ve been perusing mindlessly and turn to see for myself. I turn too fast because blood rushes to my temples—and my groin—suddenly.
Brook wears a dress that hugs her torso and flares out at her waist into a skirt ending just above her knees.
It’s simple but elegant. Classic. It’s cream rather than white, and I wonder if that’s a coincidence or a choice.
She twirls in front of the mirror and smooths the skirt. The fucking dress is backless.
I’m standing there like an idiot, staring and trying to recall this quarter’s projection for my night clubs to keep my dick from giving opinions about the vision of the woman in front of me.
Brook chats with the clerk, not paying attention to my gawking, and then she leans forward, reaches under the fabric through the openings at her arms and adjusts her tits.
No financial projections can save me. “I have to take this call.” I practically run outside.
I pace the sidewalk to deal with the situation in my pants. I never knew shopping could be this stressful. Why did I want her in a dress, anyway?
She was just fine in those jeans. And now I’m thinking about how amazing her ass looked in them.
Spectacular. That’s how.
And that’s how screwed I am.
I should have never come to the States again. Or gone to visit my mom. Or proposed. So yeah, back to I should have never come to the States.
I take a long breath and, the asshole that I am, I pull the door open and growl, “Are we done here?”
The young clerk and Brook whip around, but Brook recovers first. “It wasn’t my idea to come to begin with. I didn’t want a new dress.”
I didn’t want—or rather—shouldn’t have done a lot of things, but here we are. And since she’s still in the dress that will be the death of me, I turn to the clerk. “She needs shoes with that.”
“Isn’t he charming?” Brook glares at me, and then smiles at the clerk.
The poor woman, who was probably informed I’m a VIP customer, darts her eyes between us and then finds her professionalism and smiles at Brook. “What size are you?”
Another fifteen minutes and the women emerge. She paired the cream dress with bright red stilettos, and there goes my sanity and decency.
Just like that, I don’t care about the dress anymore, because I’m busy picturing her bent over a counter in nothing but those heels.
“Could you just wrap the clothes I came in and ring it up for me,” Brook says, and the clerk moves behind the glass stand with a touch screen while my fiancée pulls out her credit card.
“Over my dead body.” I step to the counter. “Add it to my tab.” I place my loyalty card on the smooth surface.
Brook puts her hands on her hips, her nostrils flaring. “It’s my dress and shoes. I’ll pay for them.”
I glare at her for a few beats, not even sure what point I want to make.
“Yours are the clothes you chose to wear this morning.”
For some outlandish reason, I have to win the argument. Slowly, I move my eyes to the clerk, commanding her action without words.
She snatches my card and runs it through the reader. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Cassinetti.”
Brook purses her lips, moving them to the side. I forgot she used to do that when she was annoyed—instead of biting her tongue or grinding her molars—or thinking.
And for once, I’m glad she’s silent. This day has been taxing enough.
She grabs the bag with her old clothes and marches outside. Practically ripping the car door off its hinges—quite an achievement on an Escalade—she gets in.
I slide to the other side, beside her. She’s pouting, wrinkling the bag in her hands. God, she is adorable.
Almost the entire ride back we are silent while she refuses to look at me, bouncing her leg and chewing on her cuticle.
“You should replace that nasty habit with some other stress reliever.” I grab her wrist and pull it away from her face.
The feel of her pulse on my fingertips shouldn’t make me want her this badly. Like that first night in her room when I held her throat while she almost sucked my finger, her heartbeat messes with me more than I care to admit.
Her cheeks heat up while she attempts to kill me with her eyes. “I wouldn’t be this stressed if you weren’t around to piss me off.”
God, her fury makes her hot. I want to rile her up further, just to enjoy the passion in her reactions.
But that’s probably a terrible idea. By the way I’ve been reacting to her, the less contact we have, the better.
I drop her hand and turn to the other side. “You bring the best out of me, sweetheart.”
The car pulls to the curb and she yanks her door open. “You know what? You used to be my favorite person to talk to.” It’s an accusation more than a regret.
“You want to go down memory lane right now?”
If she loved talking to me so much, why did she stand me up?
Her eyes flare with something that I’m not sure is fury anymore. “You’re right, darling, let’s focus on our bright future.” The words are laced with poisoned honey.
She slams the door and strides to the building, not waiting to see if I’m following. Fuck.
“Brook,” I call after her, almost running over a couple leaving the building. “Wait.”
She stops in the middle of the bright foyer, not necessarily waiting for me, more likely not sure where to go.
The dome-shaped hall has a glass ceiling and she stands in the middle of the sun cone, looking both pissed and lost. So fucking hot.
“We need to take the elevator to the fifth floor. But before we go, I’ve got something for you.”
She eyes me suspiciously. I deserve that, probably.
I reach into my pants pocket and pull out a velvet box, my gaze on her face. Her eyes widen and she swallows.
“You demanded a huge rock.” I slide the ring from the box and take her hand.
Set in a delicate, intricately designed band of white gold, a halo of smaller, sparkling diamonds surrounds a vivid ruby.
Brook gasps, her free hand flying to her chest.
“Will you do me the honor…” I push the ring only to her first tiny knuckle and stop.
Am I really doing this? Are we really doing this? Haven’t we hurt each other enough already?
In a rush of memories, regrets and unresolved feelings for this woman, I hesitate. Unable to push the ring all the way down, but even less willing to take it back.
For almost ten years I’ve been suspended in limbo, never truly understanding why she didn’t come. Why she decided to never see me again.
So many unanswered questions. Even more regrets and resentment.
In many ways, this feels like forever. Or maybe a part of me wishes it was. I better bury that part deep.
Perhaps a year with her will give me some answers, help me accept, find forgiveness or understanding.
All things I never realized I wanted. Needed. Or maybe we can find out what if…
Brook’s hand trembles slightly in mine and, fully aware I might be making the biggest fucking mistake… or the best decision of my life, I slide the ring on her finger.