10. Brook
“You need to fuck him,” Celeste yells.
We’re in a VIP box at some club Saar recommended because she knows the owner, but there is hardly any privacy and conversation is mostly screamed over the loud music.
I laugh and raise my glass, “To fucking my husband!”
We drain our cocktails and dissolve in a fit of giggles.
Two men approach our table and Saar flips them off. “She’s a married woman,” my friend slurs, and another round of laughter grips us.
The night has been a success, if I may say so. I needed this. Dance, drink and laughter. Forget about the man I married earlier today.
About his haircut, my wedding dress, and the ring. About all the feelings he stirs in me like the years have never passed.
But they did pass, and we’re not who we used to be. Not anymore. I wish my body would get on board with that idea.
“I can’t fuck him. It will complicate things.” I gesture for another round of cocktails.
“Bullshit. It would be a release, not a complication. The two of you should totally bang. You’re newlyweds, after all.” Saar points at me and the motion propels her forward. She almost slides down the sofa.
We burst out laughing again.
“Let’s dance.” Celeste stands up. “You need to sober up before you go home to your husband.” She thrusts her hips forward, still pushing her initial suggestion of banging.
And God, I do want to. As pathetic as it is, nobody has ever made my body tingle in the way Baldo used to, and still does, and he hasn’t really touched me yet either.
Definitely a long year ahead of me. Jesus. Or perhaps it could be a fun year. If we have to play house for twelve long months, we might as well make the best of it.
“I’ll join you in a minute.” Saar waves us off.
“Are you okay?” I unfold myself from the sofa and Celeste grabs my hand, pulling me with her, swaying her hips.
Saar shows me two thumbs up, but before I turn to follow Celeste, her face turns serious as her eyes dart around.
“Is she looking for someone?” I lean to whisper-yell into Celeste’s ear.
“I’ve been wondering just how well she knows the owner since she insisted this is where we should come tonight.” Celeste winks.
“Ha… you’re right.”
I’m so absorbed with my own problems, I almost missed that. Saar didn’t mention who the owner was, but she is probably hoping to run into him tonight.
“Life is too short to delve into problems. Resolve them. In the bedroom. Believe me, if you have to live with him for a year, you better release all that tension.” Celeste laughs and drags me to the middle of the dance floor.
I dive into the rhythm, and with the help of all the alcohol I’ve consumed, I finally let loose and forget about my fake husband, our living situation, and his romantic gestures that he immediately contradicts with his behavior.
Hours later, Saar insists we’re leaving. As we shove through the dancing crowd, I follow her gaze to the upper level where a well-dressed man—Jesus, he’s gorgeous—stands with two women cozying up to him. His glare sends shivers down my spine.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Nobody,” Saar snaps, making two things crystal clear. He isn’t nobody, and she doesn’t want to talk about him right now. What’s up with that?
I forget all about it in the cab, immersed in my own conundrum. Baldo turns me on. That’s not something that happens often.
When it comes to physical connection with men, I stay in my head and can’t let go completely.
Would it be different with him? Could I get past my own baggage and unravel with the man who was supposed to be my first?
That night…
“Ma’am, we’re here.” The driver’s voice startles me, interrupting my memory. Thank God for that.
I straighten up and pay the fare. Stumbling to the entrance, I try and fail to find my keys. Groaning, I reach for the bell, but the door opens.
My eyes meet Baldo’s and I freeze. The man is breathtaking. And clearly pissed.
“Honey, I’m home.” I hiccup.
I’m vaguely aware my sarcasm isn’t the right weapon at the moment, but my drunken mind offers it anyway.
I step forward and lose my footing. Baldo snakes his arm around my waist and keeps me upright. Unfortunately, I’m now flush against the planes of his impressive body.
He’s still wearing his perfect white shirt and his suit pants, but the fabric doesn’t prevent my body from heating up at the feel of every dip and bulge of this perfect man.
I meet his eyes and my breath hitches, or perhaps the oxygen dissolves around us because my lungs struggle to get their fill.
Kiss me.
As soon as the thought flickers through the fog in my head, my lips part. His gaze bores into me, warring, but he doesn’t move.
Kiss me.
I beg with my eyes, my lips, my inner thoughts.
The entry hall is dim, the only light coming from the kitchen down the corridor and from the porch outside.
We’re both lost in the shadow of the house that witnessed the tragic end of our story.
Or was it only the first act?
We remain in the strange embrace, not moving, the cool evening air spreading goosebumps down my spine.
His closeness feels like everything I ever missed in my life. Which is a stupid, sappy thought, but the longing in me is real.
Kiss me.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down a few times and then he kicks the door closed, steadies me and steps back.
“Shame.” I pout, and oops, I didn’t mean to mourn the loss of him out loud. It makes me giggle. Another wrong move if his glower is any indication.
“Jesus, Brook, you’re drunk. Where the fuck have you been?” He stomps through the hall leading to the kitchen.
Either he expects me to follow or he doesn’t care about my answer.
I follow.
But the scene in the kitchen sobers me up. In one corner of the large island, two plate settings wait along with wine glasses and Mom’s special-occasion candle stand.
The whole visual is even more romantic because it’s not in the formal dining room. It’s at the corner where we used to eat our breakfast cereal.
Together. Secretly holding hands.
My heart hammers in my temples as I try to blink away tears forming behind my eyes. When I land my gaze on the enormous bouquet of purple orchids—my favorite—I stop breathing.
This is too much.
“You cooked for me?” I want to sound indifferent, but my voice comes out broken.
Baldo stands by the door to the yard, his back to me. Scrolling on his phone. How does a man do all of this for me and then check his social media? Asshole.
He turns to me, and I’m reminded he was pissed when he opened the door. That hasn’t changed if I’m to guess by the glare. “I have been calling you, worried, all night.”
“What? I can’t go out?” Apparently, I’m the asshole tonight. The man inspires the worst in me.
He shakes his head. “You can go out. But why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?”
Well, Baldo Cassinetti has just joined the rest of the family in patronizing me. Though I may deserve it at the moment. I rummage through my bag. “Oh shit, I lost it again.”
“You lost your phone?” He doesn’t believe me.
I nod.
“Just how much have you drunk? And what do you mean again?”
This might cheer him up. “Me and my phones…” His glower intensifies. Like he’s had enough of me. I swallow. “It’s a long story.” I don’t think he’d consider my chronic inability to keep a phone amusing. I smile at him. “You cooked.”
He snorts. “I ordered a meal, so we… Never mind.” He pockets his phone and crosses the floor.
Don’t leave. Don’t leave.
“Did you want to celebrate our nuptials?” I try to sound cheerful, but I don’t think this night is salvageable anymore.
Also, I’m too drunk to analyze what the fuck is going on in his head. Or be mature enough to simply ask.
He stops on the threshold and turns slowly. “Our fake wedding, you mean?” The way he stresses the word squeezes at my stomach. “I thought we could talk about how this marriage would work, so we can respect each other’s boundaries. And perhaps celebrate that you duped your granny.”
Oh, so it wasn’t a romantic gesture, just plain business. He could have fooled me.
“Sorry, I didn’t know we had plans,” I snap. “You forgot to mention it.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. It remains sticking out in every direction, and for some reason I love it. It makes him a bit less perfect, which is a relief.
Like his perfect was too different from my chaotic, but now we’re somehow closer. Just like when he tapped his finger in the car.
“We can still eat.” I step to him and place my hand on his chest.
He sucks in a breath, and I take it as a win. And it stupidly encourages me, and my drunken mind, filled with my friends’ stupid advice, acts before I can stop myself. “Or maybe we should consummate…”
Raw hunger flickers through his eyes. We stare at each other for the longest moment, all our baggage filling up every molecule of air between us.
And in that moment, I wish I could take my suggestion back. Not because I don’t want to sleep with him. I do. Maybe even more than I wanted to nine years ago.
But in his eyes I see a mixture of things, warring with a sentiment I really wish wasn’t there. Baldo wants me as much as I want him, as evidenced by his ragged breath, his hand gripping my hip and, if I’m not mistaken, a bulge in his pants.
But there is so much hurt between us and so much resentment. If we went through with it, we would only make things worse.
Without talking or moving, at a standstill in the middle of the house that haunts us with our story, we pant as our eyes lock in a battle between want and should.
I’m paralyzed by the avalanche of memories and all the questions I want to ask. But also by my body’s all-consuming desire for this man.
Such an unknown sensation for me. I’ve never trembled for a man like this.
Baldo reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Unlike that first night in my room, he removes it quickly like I burned him.
Heat spreads up my neck and cheeks, and my heart hammers as I try to figure out how we can gracefully remove ourselves from this stalemate. How not to feel rejected.
Trapped between our need for each other and the reality that the time for that passed long ago.
And then Baldo resolves the situation for us. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
For some reason, it feels like he’s broken my heart all over again.
He turns and his footsteps echo long after he leaves me there, standing in the air infused with my favorite flowers.