Chapter 32
I can fix a broken sink. I can hang a gorgeous set of kitchen cabinets. I can build a goddamn house.
These are my skills.
But knowing how to deal with sticky situations involving the opposite sex? Let’s just say that’s never been my stock in trade.
That’s putting it mildly, right?
I suck at making the right choices when it comes to the ladies.
After a night at the Bellagio—during which I toss and turn and weigh a million options, some of which include knocking on the door to Natalie’s room, saying nothing and just fucking her instead—I’m still in the same vexing spot as I was the day before.
I’m no closer to knowing the right words to speak, in the right order, at the right time. Words that won’t result in me winding up in a stew of bad-luck broth.
After I shower, I pull on jeans and a button-down. I don’t normally dress up in my line of work, and this is as fancy as I get. I figure, though, a man should dress with respect when he goes to the courthouse during his lunch break.
I picture a looming concrete structure with men and women in black robes doling out your fate, and I shudder. All things being equal, I’d rather avoid the courts. And if I can figure out what to say to Natalie, maybe we won’t have to go.
Hey, Nat. How’d you like to date me now?
Sweetheart, I know this might sound off the wall, but any chance you’d be up for staying married?
Sooooo, I was wondering . . . what would you say to just giving this a whirl? Having dinner tonight, moving in with me, and being my woman?
Yeah, like I said, my ideas all suck.
Note to self: Try to find clarity in the next few hours.
That task would be a whole lot easier if I could trust my gut when it comes to women. All I know is I love Natalie, and I need to figure out how to keep her. Ending this marriage seems like the wrong way to go about it.
I call the one woman I’ve always relied on—my sister.
She answers on the second ring, and speaks like an auctioneer—with extreme speed.
“I’m up to my elbows in red velvet cupcake batter, but I always have time for you.
Just, you know, make it quick.” I can hear the familiar sounds of her bakery in the background.
Pacing across the plush carpet, I spill my heart. But, you know, quickly. “Here’s the thing. I’m in love with Natalie, and I don’t know what to do about anything.”
Josie doesn’t miss a beat. “Have you told her?”
“No. What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“That’s a chance you have to take.”
“But what if—”
No need to finish—Josie knows what I’m thinking. “What if she’s going to screw you over? Stab you in the back? Mess with your business?”
I scowl and am about to deny that all those too scary and too real possibilities have entered my mind, when there’s a loud, wet plop on the phone line. I hear the muffled voice of my sister, then silence reigns.
I have the distinct feeling Josie’s phone is bathing in a cake tub right now.
* * *
Natalie: Remind me that this is the right decision.
Charlotte: Oh, sweetie. I know it’s not easy.
Natalie: But this is the right decision, right?
Charlotte: I can’t make that choice for you. But I support you, even if I don’t agree with you.
Natalie: I know. I appreciate that. But what if I mess things up worse?
Charlotte: You’re taking a chance. A big chance. You have to consider all the risks. Ask yourself if you have.
Natalie: I think I have. I have to do this, Charlotte. I have to.
* * *
I knock on Natalie’s door with something not quite like butterflies flapping in my chest. Not exactly hummingbirds flying around, either. It’s more like crazed black crows swarming me from the inside out.
I inhale, trying to center myself, but the breath flees my lungs when she answers.
Jesus Christ, why does she have to be so gorgeous?
She wears an orange sundress with slim straps, one of those little croppy-sweater things, and a pair of beige strappy sandals. It’s bright, cheery, and beautiful without being provocative.
It’s so her. Sunshine and apple pie dreams.
She gestures to her summery outfit. “It’s my annulment dress. What do you think?”
I hate it.
I hate that she has one, that she calls it that, and most of all, that she’s so damn excited to sever ties. But she’s fucking stunning as she looks at me with a smile that slays me, and all I can say is the cold, hard truth. “I love it. You look gorgeous.”
She taps her finger against a button on my white dress shirt. “And you look handsome.” She hikes her bag up her shoulder and says in a playful tone, “What do you say we go to work, take a lunch break to split up, and maybe, if you play your cards right, we can have dinner tonight?”
That was one of my options, but now that she’s given it voice, it barely seems enough. We’re beyond that. We’re already more. I just need to convince her.
But I’m not so pig-headed that I’m turning down a date with Natalie, so I say yes.
Beaming, she taps her watch. “We need to be at Lila’s in thirty minutes, and I bet we’ll be early if we leave now. We’ve got time to stop for a cup of coffee on the way. Like a starter date, maybe,” she says, jutting up her shoulder and looking thoroughly adorable as she flirts with me.
And that’s it. I snap. I can’t just date her. I can’t flirt with her right now.
“I don’t want coffee,” I say roughly.
“What do you want then?”
“You.”
A naughty smile tugs at her lips. “For old times’ sake?”
“No.” My tone is serious. “For new times’ sake, Natalie.” My heart races like a cheetah. I swallow and push past the nerves and the wild crows. “I want you. I want to be with you,” I say, starting with what’s in my heart, even though there’s so much more to say.
But before I can tell her more, she swallows, and tears well in her eyes. She presses her fingers to my lips.
“Shh. Don’t say it.”
I furrow my brow. “Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say anything. Not now.” Her voice breaks. “Please.”
She shakes her head as a tear slips down her cheek, and maybe this is why I don’t understand women.
Because I’m thoroughly fucking confused.
She was flirty and sweet a few minutes ago, and I was sure she wanted to have a go at a relationship.
Now, she’s sad after I’ve told her I’m mad about her.
I don’t have a clue what to do next, but all I know is I’m not the kind of man who can stand by and watch a woman cry. “What can I do to make you happy?”
She steps closer and whispers, “Make love to me.”
Now that . . . that I can do.
I cup her cheeks in my hands, push her to the wall by the door, and rake my gaze over her from head to toe, memorizing every curve, every muscle, every dip and valley. I don’t know the blueprint to how we’ll come together. I don’t know what happens next. But I’m wild for this woman.
Running my hands from her shoulders down her arms to her waist, I imprint the feel of her. She’s mine, and she’s the one I can’t let get away.
Even though I have no answers, at this moment, I’m certain Natalie and I are on the same page. This is where we’ve never had any questions. I kiss her earlobe, tugging it between my teeth. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. “You feel like mine,” I whisper.
She bites her lip, as if she’s holding in her words. I nuzzle her neck, kissing the column of her throat, winding her up. Her moans grow louder, higher, and I lift her skirt while her busy hands yank down my jeans. This is all I need this second—nothing more, nothing less than this connection.
She wraps her hands around my cock, and I tremble. God, she feels so fucking good. She strokes me, and I close my eyes, rocking my hips into her soft hand. “Nat,” I groan, but I say no more. The lady has spoken. She wants me speechless, and she can have me speechless.
As long as she’ll have me.
Her nimble hands tighten around my shaft, and she brings me closer to her. I tug down her panties and glide my fingers across her slick heat. She’s ready for me. So fucking wet and lush. “Look how turned on you get,” I groan, because it’s too hard to stay silent.
“Wyatt. You need to stop talking and start fu—” But she stops herself, bringing her face close, her forehead touching mine, and she whispers once more, “Making love to me.”
There it is again. Those two words. She’s never said them to me before today—make love—and they let me believe she might feel the same.
I rub the head of my cock against her, and in one fast motion, I push inside. She’s so wet and tight and snug, and I love the way we fit. Like we’re meant to be. Like everything that happened before has led to this.
I want to tell her everything, how I feel, and what I want—her in my life as so much more.
“Sweetheart,” I whisper in her ear, and she shudders.
“Oh, Wyatt.” Her sweet voice is a bare whimper, and that sound touches down deep in my heart.
She clutches my shoulders as I make love to her.
Even though the clock is ticking, even though this won’t last long, I take my time in my own way.
I savor every sound she makes, every sweet, sexy noise, every murmur, and every sigh.
I hike her leg higher around my waist and swivel my hips deeper into her.
With my touch, I want to erase whatever sadness she feels.
I might have made some bad choices. I might have made some mistakes. But this isn’t one of them. She’s not going to be my checkered past. She’s my present, and she’s my future, I know that. I believe that.
Because there’s sex, there’s fucking, there’s lust.
And then, there’s this. Right now. And it’s everything, because I’m so in love with her.
In mere seconds, she grabs my ass and calls my name, and I’m right there with her. Our sounds are white-hot noises, wild groans, and intense cries of pleasure as she comes, and I join her in what I hope is the start of something new.
* * *
While she’s in the bathroom cleaning up, I flop down on her bed, thumbing through my phone, and see that my sister texted me.
Josie: Sorry. Phone took a swan dive into the batter. Anyway, listen . . . love is all about taking a chance. It’s not rocket science. Just speak from the heart, and tell her she’s the one.
I smile, and a sense of calm floods my body.
Wyatt: I can do that. I can definitely do that.
Josie: Of course you can. Just trust yourself. Your new instincts with her, not the old ones.
Wyatt: Promise. I’m a new man.
I put my phone in my pocket, take a deep breath, and wait for the woman I love.
The sink is running, so she’s still in the bathroom.
As I stand up, I wander past the TV console.
Her phone buzzes on the wood. Glancing down, I see a 917 number on her screen.
Someone from New York is calling her. It’s not my job to answer it, so I leave it alone and the buzzing stops.
Then it rattles, like the caller has left a voicemail. The sound draws my attention back to the screen for the sliver of a second.
That’s enough time for the message to flash. It’s been translated from voice into text. I should look away. I really should. But I don’t.
“. . . Rhonda Hafner from Hafner and Hickscomb, following up on our meeting. I reviewed the information you sent, and yes, you have a reasonable claim . . .”
I grab the wall as the floor buckles. What the hell? My head swims, and a strange, new nausea whips through me. I’m even sicker when I click on my phone, run a quick Google search, and find that Hafner and Hickscomb is an employment and labor law firm in New York City.
As panic thickens in my veins, I cycle through our conversations about lawyers.
When the Easy Out service fell apart, Natalie mentioned talking to an attorney friend of Charlotte’s, someone specializing in family law.
She said the woman gave her useful guidance on an annulment versus a divorce in New York.
At the farmer’s market, we even talked about not needing attorneys, and we agreed to keep our split shark-free.
By all accounts, we don’t need a lawyer today.
And that’s when the coldness in my veins turns to dread. My memory latches on to the dinner party, to Charlotte shushing Spencer, to me realizing that Natalie and her sister have secrets.
Big secrets. Maybe the lawyer they talked to was never the family law one. Maybe Natalie’s making a case for something else.
I stab the about us section on the website, and that’s when the knife slices through my back. The firm specializes in employment cases of class action, discrimination, whistleblowers, and sexual harassment.
Natalie didn’t hire an attorney to divorce me. She hired an attorney to sue me.
“Oh shit,” I mutter, with a palpable fear in my voice as I put two and two together, since I can only get them to add up to this—sexual harassment. That’s why she hired an employment lawyer to make a claim.
A reasonable claim.
She’ll have the text messages, too, the whole exchange about a boss falling for his employee. And that same employee lost other work because of that boss. She can’t be suing the dojo. She doesn’t have a contract with the dojo. She has a contract with me.
My stomach plummets, and I silently curse myself.
I did it again. I mixed business with pleasure. And this time, the results may be disastrous. This time, it’s not my bad luck with women. The fault is one hundred percent on me, and this is so much worse than a poisoned sandwich.
I should have gone cold turkey on Natalie a long time ago.