Chapter 16
16
Natalie
W hat the hell was that eye-contact thing? It was…fierce. One minute I was raging at Lloyd, and then I turned to see Preston watching me with this dark hungry look, and my anger turned, on a dime, to something else. Something hot and needy and almost overwhelming.
I want to ask him: Did that happen? Or was it some kind of anger-fueled delusion?
And… Will it happen again?
Because that Preston, the passionate man barely holding his worst impulses in check…
I think I might want to know him better.
Of course I don’t ask because Horace—wearing a T-shirt that says Smashing Things Is Cheaper Than Therapy —is now helping us out of our safety gear and telling us that there are lots of other things that can be smashed besides tech and toilets.
Instead, I ask Horace if he’d be willing to do a second demo at the Wilder-Hott party on Sunday.
At first, he’s annoyed at the idea of having to demo himself twice, but when we explain the whole situation with the will—minus, once again, how Preston antagonized his sister—he agrees. Apparently he has some beef with Arthur Weggers, the lawyer who’s been enforcing the will on Preston and his brothers, and he’s more than happy to do whatever he can to cockblock him. His words, not mine.
As we leave the rage room, walking back toward the lodge, I half expect Preston to run away the second he has the chance. Instead, he asks, “Who is it?”
“Who is…?”
“When you were smashing the VCR. Who were you thinking about?”
“How do you know it’s a who ?” I ask, even though it totally, totally was. And then, “Who were you thinking of when you were smashing the toilet?”
He scowls and looks away. But I’m getting used to the scowls. I’m starting to understand they don’t mean he doesn’t want to talk.
“It’s only fair,” I point out. “If I tell you, you have to tell me.”
“I asked first.”
“It was a who,” I admit. “It was my ex. He was having an emotional affair with his work wife.”
He lets out a sharp hissing sound. Which is…satisfying.
“I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was with her so much. It just hurt. Especially because he made it seem like I was the problem. That if I had more substance, if I wasn’t just fun , maybe it would have worked out.”
He shakes his head. “That’s complete bullshit. He tried to make it about you, but it was about him being a complete dickwad.”
I’m quiet for a moment because, well, it’s nice—hearing him say that. He’s a guy who clearly never says anything he doesn’t mean, so it has more weight, somehow.
“Thanks,” I say finally, and he shrugs, like, I didn’t do much, but you’re welcome . “Even so, I never, ever want to be someone’s fun-times girl again.”
“Is that what he called you?”
His voice is tight. It reminds me of the heat in his eyes right before Horace interrupted.
“It’s what I was to him.”
It’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of our footsteps as we walk.
“What was his name?” he asks.
“Lloyd.”
“Lloyd,” he repeats, squinting.
That makes me laugh. “Worst name ever, right? It’s like that scene in When Harry Met Sally when he’s all, ‘A Sheldon can do your income taxes. If you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man…but humpin’ and pumpin’ is not Sheldon’s strong suit.’”
There’s another long silence, and I think maybe I’ve shocked him. Until he says, “Was it Lloyd’s strong suit?”
“I mean, it wasn’t bad ,” I say.
“That,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up, “is pretty damning.”
Is he smiling ? “It is, kind of, isn’t it?”
“If that was the best thing anyone could say about me in bed? I’d move to Siberia and swear off sex.”
I snort.
“God, I hope no one has ever said that about sex with me,” he says fervently.
I’m guessing no one has ever said sex with Preston “wasn’t bad.” Because he can look at a woman like she’s, God, I don’t even know, dinner —and he has so much intensity and focus, like if he decided you were what he was doing, he would do you absolutely as well as he knew how to?—
This is not a productive line of thought.
“Who was yours?”
“My…?” He’s confused, and I let myself wonder what he was thinking about, what caused him to lose the thread of the conversation.
“Who you thought of while you smashed that toilet.”
“Oh,” he says. “Right.”
“You said you’d tell.”
“I didn’t technically say I’d tell?—”
“You implicitly agreed by saying you asked first and pushing me to tell you after we’d discussed the fact that it was only fair for you to tell if I told.”
“Whoaaaa,” he says, and holy shit, he’s definitely smiling. And it’s so… pretty . Eye crinkles and dimples and straight white teeth. Everything about him gets brighter, and?—
I want to do it again. I want to make him smile again.
“You ever thought about law?” he asks.
“Never once,” I say, and he does—he smiles, and we’re walking side by side, like maybe we’re friends or something.
“Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook,” I warn.
He’s quiet, and I think he’s not going to tell me. And I wouldn’t be surprised. This is Preston, after all. He has not become a titan of New York finance by showing his cards.
“Kali,” he says abruptly. “My ex-wife. She asked me for a divorce about a year ago. She’d met someone else, and she wanted to—to see where it went.”
And holy shit. He told me something I know he hasn’t even told his family. Preston Hott doesn’t open up easily, and he’s given me something he’s been holding incredibly close to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
His gaze flicks over to me. There’s grief in it. He’s letting me see it. “You get it,” he says.
There are so many things I could say, but I settle on the only one that seems like it might help.
“I do.”
That’s it. That’s the whole conversation. Right then we reach the lodge, and he says he needs to check in about something at the front desk, and I head to the elevator.
But as we part ways, my chest is a whole village of warm fuzzies.