15. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 15
D ays later, my anger at Ford had faded but still not completely dissipated.
Things between us were more or less civil, but there was a new distance that hadn’t been there before.
Gone were the cozy, shared breakfasts with classic jazz playing softly in the background, and though we still had our evening walks with Munchkin—as safe as the neighborhood was, Ford refused to let me go by myself—they were no longer a chance for us to laugh and catch up with each other while strolling with casually linked arms.
Admittedly, it was mostly my fault.
I was blatantly avoiding my husband.
Working as much as possible, leaving in the morning before he woke up and getting home far past dinner time, communicating with him only when necessary and using one-word responses, going to bed early in the guest room where I’d set up camp for the foreseeable future.
I had assumed today would be exactly the same agonizing routine all over again.
But when I got home from a DRM photoshoot early enough to take Munchkin for a pre-sundown walk, I found that the apartment was in the middle of a reformation.
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
It was almost like a chemical, or?—
“Careful,” Ford said, coming out of the bedroom with a leashed Munchkin in his arms.
“I think the paint is still wet.”
I walked into the living room, gaping at the walls, which had been repainted a beautiful, muted shade of cool, grayish blue—exactly as I had suggested.
It contrasted beautifully with the warm leather of the sofa and lightened up the entire room.
And then I looked over at the mantel and let out a gasp at what I saw.
“It’s always been one of my favorites—I hope you like it hung up there,” Ford said.
Hanging over the fireplace was a huge, blown-up copy of a photo that I had taken years ago on a spring break trip to Serbia, where the Zoric family originally emigrated from.
“Subotica, right?” Ford asked.
“I thought it would be cool to have something Serbian around here to look at. So you can have your own stamp on things.”
The city of Subotica was known for its swooping, fairy tale-esque architecture and soft pastel-colored buildings, city halls, and churches.
I had adored the place even before stepping off the train with Emiko, one of my art school friends, and we had both taken tons of pictures—especially of the Raichle Palace, a gorgeous Art Nouveau confection of arched windows, lacy iron balconies, mosaic tiles, and peachy pink and cobalt facades.
It had been converted into an art gallery, and I spent an entire day wandering around by myself in there.
I was way more interested in snapping photos of the architecture than in paying attention to any of the art.
Afterward, I’d dragged my exhausted self to meet back up with Emiko at Boss Caffe.
We got a table on the outdoor patio under a shady canopy of trees and gorged ourselves on steaks with gorgonzola sauce and a sampling of desserts—pistachio cake, baklava with pear sorbet, a decadent chocolate torte, and ?omloi galu?ka.
It had been a perfect, unforgettable day.
“Was it not a good choice?” Ford asked, startling me out of my memories.
He sounded concerned.
“I can put something else up if you want?—”
“No, no. It’s perfect,” I murmured, still choked up.
“I love it.”
“Great. I made a few other changes, too,” Ford said.
“Come see.”
He handed Munchkin to me and I followed him as he pointed out the now floral-less bathroom, the tossed-out gold pillows, the general removal of all things overtly Claudia.
As we turned the corner into the den, I braced myself for facetime with the painting I hated so much, but to my shock, it was gone.
“Where’d the Le Comte go?” I asked suspiciously, eyes darting around as if I expected the thing to jump out at me from behind a piece of furniture.
“I had it moved into storage. I thought we could find something new to go there,” he said.
I stood there for a minute, tongue-tied.
This was the last thing I had expected to come home to.
“But—I thought you loved the way your apartment looked before,” I sputtered.
“Nah,” he said with a shrug.
“I was never that into Claudia’s style. Too flashy.”
Well.
That was confusing.
Especially since, just a few weeks ago, he had fought so hard to keep everything the way it had been.
I didn’t understand.
What the hell did it all mean?
Was he finally getting over Claudia?
Or had he simply argued with me before because he was stubborn and hated the idea of change?
Which…
if that was the case, why redecorate now ?
I opened my mouth to ask Ford what had gotten into him, but then closed it again.
I didn’t want to question things too much—I was happy enough that the changes were happening.
And that I wouldn’t hate my surroundings anymore.
“You’re welcome to add your own touch,” he told me.
“This is just a start. I know you like soothing colors and less…man stuff.”
Although I wanted to jump right on that, I refrained.
“Honestly,” I told him, “I really appreciate the changes, but I’m only here for a year, you know? This is really nice, though. Thank you.”
Was it just my imagination, or did Ford seem to visibly deflate at the reminder of our expiration date?
But no.
Couldn’t be.
The one year time limit had always been his idea.
“No problem,” he said, and whatever it was that I thought I’d seen in his eyes, it was now gone.
Looking down at his fancy watch, he added, “You do need to hurry up and get changed—we have reservations.”
“Umm, for what?” I asked, my anxiety kicking into high gear.
Had I forgotten about another of Ford’s obligatory work events, or worse—a dinner with his parents?
“Dinner,” Ford said.
“I thought it would be nice to take you out on a date. That’s what newlyweds do, right?”
“What kind of dinner?” I asked slyly, though behind my teasing tone, I had a case of the warm fuzzies.
Ford was taking me on a date—a real date.
“It’s a surprise,” he said.
“Can we be out the door in thirty minutes or less?”
“Depends,” I said.
“Is it a fancy surprise? Or a jeans-and-T-shirt surprise?”
“Probably not jeans. But not so fancy that you need to wear a ball gown either.”
I laughed.
“This tells me nothing, and yes, I can swing it.”
“Here.” Ford held out his arms.
“I’ll take Munch for a walk while you get ready.”
I practically swooned.
This was the Ford Malone I’d crushed on for so many years.
While the boys were gone, I excitedly got ready.
I scrunched a little product in my hair to give myself voluminous, beachy waves, touched up my eyeliner, powdered my nose, and then turned the glam up to eleven with my favorite (but rarely-called-for) red lipstick.
Vavoom.
When it came to my dress, I wanted something appropriately date-worthy, so I slipped into a vintage cocktail dress I’d been saving for a special occasion.
It had sheer fabric along the neckline, a short tiered skirt, and looked perfect with my siren red kitten heels.
I still had no idea what had gotten into Ford.
Maybe he’d realized how ridiculous he’d been about the Andrew Apellido thing.
Or how much it sucked for me to be living in an apartment that was a shrine to his ex-girlfriend.
No matter the reason, I was just grateful that things seemed to be changing.
For the better.
The date was much sweeter than I expected.
Ford took me to an upscale fondue restaurant where we started our evening dipping various breads and veggies into various bowls of melty, artisanal cheeses.
Raclette, Emmenthaler, mascarpone, Gruyère—I was practically moaning with every bite.
It was heavenly.
Also fun and a little messy, and I couldn’t stop giggling as Ford kept losing his forkfuls of food in the bubbling bowls of cheese.
We were also served a salad course and a round of delectable small plates including crispy brussels sprouts, potstickers, and Castelvetrano olives.
It was all delicious and the restaurant itself was cozy and romantic, giving off almost an English library vibe with its candlelight and dark patterned wallpaper.
I was ready to burst by the time dessert came, but I couldn’t say no to the melted chocolate fountain and the plump, red strawberries that accompanied it.
And I especially couldn’t say no when Ford dipped the largest berry in the chocolate and held it out for me to eat.
After dinner, we walked to a nearby gallery that Ford had chosen.
It was a new venue, one I hadn’t even heard about yet.
When we walked through the doors, I blurted out an, “Oh my God.”
The images on the walls were by a photographer I loved—a lesser known Ghanaian artist who hadn’t gotten the acclaim I was certain they deserved.
I had both of their photography books but had never seen their work in person.
“How did you know?” I asked Ford.
After all, he had planned the whole evening.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
“I pay attention,” he said with a pleased smirk.
I had no idea what had come over him, why this night felt so different, but damn, I liked it.
The whole date felt like something out of a dream.
We wandered around the gallery for over an hour.
Ford was tuned in to the eclectic variety of artists on display but still completely attentive to me, asking questions about what I saw in a particular photograph or what I thought about the abstract mixed media sculptures.
He was interested in both the art and my opinions, and with each passing minute, I found myself wanting him more and more.
When he casually took my hand in his, brushing his fingers softly along my knuckles, I became even more wet for him.
And I wasn’t wearing any underwear, which only served to turn me on even more.
Reaching the last room in the gallery, I started to move back the way we had come, but Ford stopped me.
“This way,” he said, leading me out a door in the far wall.
I thought we were simply going home, but instead, Ford nodded his head at a roof access staircase along the side of the building.
He started his upward ascent and I followed, feeling the evening breeze tickling the bare skin of my legs, the swirl of cool air moving upward, another reminder of my lack of undergarments.
My need for Ford tugged at my lower belly, making my knees weaken on the climb.
Once we got up on the roof, I was delighted at the view of the city.
All the buildings felt so close, like I could almost reach out and touch the glitter and glass, the golden light spilling from the windows.
It was incredible.
Chicago’s angular urban beauty spread out all around us, a blanket of stars overhead, the rooftop bathed in the glow of neon.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.
“You’re beautiful,” Ford said, coming from behind to wrap his arms around me.
Even though his body was warm against mine, I shivered.
Turning in his arms, I tilted my face up to meet his kiss.
It was harsh, demanding, and urgent.
Apparently I hadn’t been the only one thinking naughty thoughts during our gallery tour.
I slid my hand down his chest, his abs, down the front of his pants, where I could feel how much he wanted me.
When I wrapped my hand around his cock, he moaned in my mouth.
Still kissing me, his hands slipped under the hem of my dress, stroking the soft skin of my inner thighs.
When he reached my pussy, soaked and aching for him, I felt his body go still.
He lifted his head, his eyes brimming with lust.
“No panties tonight?”
I shook my head.
He pushed a finger inside me and I let out a whimper.
“You’re wet,” he said.
“I’ve been wet all night,” I told him, grabbing his hand to steady it as I started to slowly ride his finger, keeping my eyes on his the whole time.
“That’s so fucking sexy,” he groaned, sliding another finger inside me.
“Yes,” I gasped, my head falling back.
I widened my legs and leaned against the brick half-wall as Ford began to fuck me with his fingers, his lips hot on my neck, his teeth teasing and nipping at me.
“More,” I moaned, my fingers digging into his biceps as I bucked on his hand.
Without hesitating, Ford turned me around so I could grab the lip of the brick wall, and I did, staring out at the gorgeous view of the city at night.
He tugged the skirt of my dress up, exposing my ass to the cool air, and then I heard the rasp of his zipper being undone.
“Fuck me, Ford?—”
But before I could get any more dirty talk out, he was inside me, pumping hard and fast, like he couldn’t wait even one more second to fuck me.
I cried out, my moans lost on the wind as Ford fucked me against the wall.
Both of us were gasping for breath, and he was whispering my name, squeezing my tits through my dress with one rough hand and slapping my ass with the other.
I felt like a goddess.
Knowing we could get caught at any moment only made me hotter.
Wetter.
Louder.
There was no buildup, no crest.
Out of nowhere I just shattered, coming so hard and deep I was shaking all over with the force of my orgasm.
With his hand clutching my ass, Ford let out a groan and finished at the same time, cursing as he spilled into me.
We stayed there, gazing out at the city, letting our hearts slow, until Ford carefully pulled out and turned me around.
“Mrs. Malone,” he said formally, tugging my skirt back down.
“Shall we head home?”
I nodded, and he arranged his jacket over my shoulders before taking my hand.
As we made our way back to the car, I realized that I didn’t know what was happening between us.
All I knew was that it felt dangerous.
I was going to end up with a broken heart.