Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
BLAKE
Igive my mother a look across the table, subtle but pointed, because if there's anything out of place, she'll notice.
I expect her sharp eyes to miss nothing after a lifetime of navigating her world of wealth and whispers.
I wonder if that faint arch of her brow as Carolyn entered is her picking up on the shift, or just the usual disdain she has for her daughter-in-law.
But I definitely do.
It's hitting me like a slow burn, starting from the moment she stepped into the dining room slightly disheveled in a way that's so unlike her, that it stops my breath for a second.
To start with Carolyn is never this casual at dinnertime.
Every night she dresses like we're dining at one of the best restaurants in town, layers of couture labels stacked on top of each other.
But here she is in a light polka dot sundress—thin straps slipping over her shoulders, the light cotton hugging her curves in a way that's…
almost playful, the hem swirling as she moves.
Her strawberry-blonde bob is tousled as if she just woke up, strands catching the chandelier's warm glow. No makeup, or at least none that I can see. She usually slaps on the full works. Nope, tonight it’s just flushed cheeks and deeply blue eyes.
Yeah, that’s another thing. When was the last time she apologized for anything.
She looks breathtaking, raw and real in a way she's never been.
The way that dress holds her breasts. God, I can't look away, the fabric stretching just enough to outline their full swell, nipples faintly visible through the thin material in the room's soft light.
Being around a lot of socialites all my life—women who've nipped and tucked themselves into perfection on Fifth Avenue—I know what fake breasts look like.
Perfectly round and hard looking. Like one tennis ball cut in half and stuffed under stretched skin.
But these… these have to be the most full, most naturally gorgeous looking breasts I've ever seen.
They seem to be soft and heavy, moving with her breath in a way that's mesmerizing.
They draw my eyes despite myself.
For the love of God, I’m staring at them, I realize with a jolt.
I pull my gaze away from the way the polka dots shift over her curves, and I can't believe it: I feel myself getting hard.
Hot blood is rushing south, unbidden, and my trousers tighten uncomfortably under the table.
The dining room feels warmer suddenly, and it makes my skin prickle as I shift in my seat.
Shocked, I stare at her openly, feeling my blood stir for the first time since... ever, really. What on earth is wrong with me? I don’t even like this woman. And the only thing in our future is a divorce.
This had been partly a business relationship from the start.
Why not? She was accomplished in bed, and she was polished enough to fit the role of the perfect society wife on paper, and more importantly, I really thought she cared about Freya.
But then, I never felt anything for her beyond that initial sexual spark.
Never this raw pull, this heat coiling low in my gut like a live wire.
Then, a bit of plastic surgery, of all things, I'm suddenly attracted?
Am I that shallow? The thought twists in my mind.
Maybe there's something wrong with me, some glitch in my wiring.
She's been a stranger in my bed for almost two years and yet I am responding to her as if she is someone I’ve just met.
All I can focus on is her, settling into her chair at the far end, raw and beautiful, like a different woman entirely.
An awkward delay ensues before the waiter brings her plate.
I watch her avidly as she immediately digs in.
Surprise flickers through me at the way she attacks the food, fork spearing a juicy piece of fish.
No hesitation, no picking at it like a bird.
Her lips part around the bite and a soft hum of satisfaction escapes her.
It's strangely satisfying watching her eat with real hunger, juices glistening on the corners of her mouth for a second before she dabs it away.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, she freezes. Then she blushes, looks down at her plate, and starts poking daintily at her food. Strange. Very strange.
Dinner is stilted and stiff from there on.
The dark oak paneling absorbs our sparse words and only the clink of silverware survives.
Frances sips her wine, Freya tucks in, oblivious to the tension humming around her.
My gaze drifts back to Carolyn more than it should.
My eyes trace the line of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts.
My mother, ever the observer, breaks the quiet first, her voice dry but with a hint of amusement. “Your appetite is unusual. You’re eating like a human being for a change," she comments, eyeing Carolyn's plate, at the food disappearing steadily.
Carolyn pauses, fork midway, and says evenly, "I've decided to put my diet on hold for a few months." Her tone is light, almost defiant, but without the usual bite.
Maybe do that indefinitely, I think, the thought bubbling up unbidden, but I don't comment.
I take a sip of my Chateauneuf-du-Pape Blanc.
Chilled to perfection with notes of truffles and earth.
It slides down my throat like butter. Carson did well to team it with the barbecued fish.
It is a very good Beaucastel, perhaps the best they have.
I watch my wife over the rim, and the new attraction for her simmers brightly despite my best efforts to damp it down.
My mother nods and tries not to show her surprise. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
She turns and starts talking to Freya.
Eventually, the plates are cleared away. Dessert is Moelleux au Chocolat.
My mother turns to me. “By the way, it’s Dora’s birthday in a couple of days. You won’t forget to prepare a birthday check for her, will you, darling? Since I'm not feeling all that well to go out and buy her a present, I'll probably have to give her money too."
Before I can even open my mouth to answer my mother, Carolyn’s voice cuts across the table, soft but perfectly clear. “I can shop for her, if you’d like.”
The words hang, suspended in the candlelight like a note no one expected to hear. My fork stays suspended halfway to my mouth, a piece of chocolate cake speared on it. My mother’s water glass pauses an inch from her lips. Even Freya stops swinging her legs.
Silence swells, thick and sudden.
Carolyn has never, not once in three years, offered to do anything for anyone in this house unless it came with a price tag or a photo op.
She has never volunteered to run an errand, lift a finger to help anyone, or spend her own time for someone else’s comfort.
And now she just… offered to help buy a present for the housekeeper.
The woman she hates. And so calmly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My mother recovers first, her lashes flickering as if she’s checking she heard correctly. She sets her glass down with deliberate care. “Very well. That would be nice of you,” she says, voice thin, polite, but laced with something I can’t name, suspicion, maybe wonder.
My pulse is thudding in my ears, slow and heavy.
I can feel the heat crawling up my neck because I’m staring at Carolyn like an idiot, and I can’t stop.
The sundress straps have slipped a little lower on her shoulders, the red-and-white fabric clinging to the swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each breath.
Strands of her hair curl against her flushed cheeks.
She looks… undone. Real. Human in a way she has never allowed herself to be in this room.
My mother folds her napkin in two and puts it on the table. “Please excuse me. I’m tired. I think I’ll retire early.” She pushes her chair back and stands.
I stand too. “I’ll take you to your room.”
“No, no. Don’t worry. I can make it to my room. You stay and finish your dessert.”
She leans down and kisses Freya’s forehead, murmurs goodnight, and glides out. The sound of her shoes fades down the hall, each step measured, deliberate, until the house swallows the sound.
Freya lingers a second longer, eyes huge, darting between Carolyn and me. I can see that she is desperate to be excused. Carolyn and her used to be friends, but they are no more and Freya says almost nothing when Carolyn is around and tries to escape at the first chance she gets.
I smile at her and ruffle her curls. “Okay, sweetheart. You can go too.”
Instantly, she hops down, gives me a quick hug around the neck, then scampers off, her little footsteps pattering up the stairs.
Now it’s just us. My wife and I.
The dining room feels cavernous suddenly, and the long table a ridiculous distance between us. The candles flicker and dance. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of fish and melted butter.
I draw a slow breath. “Have a nightcap with me.”
It’s not a request. More like an order wrapped in velvet.
My pulse is kicking hard now, a steady thrum under my skin, because I need to be with her alone.
I need the noise of the house gone, the audience gone, so I can figure out what the hell is happening to me, between us.
Because, unless I’m losing my mind, the woman sitting at the far end of this table in a casual sundress is not the same woman who left for “surgery” a month ago.
And whatever she is now, she’s got me hard under the table, aching in a way I haven’t ached in years, questioning every cold, bitter certainty I thought I had about this marriage.
She looks up, those blue eyes suddenly wary, catches mine across the candles, and for a single, suspended second the room narrows to just the two of us - her parted lips, the quick rise of her chest, the way the polka-dot cotton shifts when she breathes.
The air between us crackles, alive and waiting.
She doesn’t move.
Well, well, what are you afraid of, little rabbit?