Chapter 6 – Wick
Chapter Six
WICK
She’s looking at me. Really looking, and I’m annoyed because she’s married so she shouldn’t be looking at any man. It doesn’t matter that I’m the one she’s married to.
“What will you have?” The barista is cheery.
“Whatever she just ordered.” I jerk a thumb in Annabelle’s direction, who suddenly stares out the window instead of at me.
“Hot chocolate?” The woman sounds unsure.
I’d drink bleach if that was what Annabelle thought was tasty. “Yes.”
“Here or to go?”
Annabelle’s hands are curled around a cup. “Here.”
I move down to the pickup area of the counter, watching her the whole time.
She’s staring resolutely out the window despite the Kindle lying on the table in front of her.
I wonder what she reads. Picking up the hot chocolate, I arrow straight for her table, and without asking, I drop down into the chair across from her.
“There are other tables open,” she says.
“I like the view here.” I want to say, I’m your husband. Husbands sit at the same table as their wives. Of course I don’t. The deal was that she would never have to have contact with me, and here I am, two days into the deal, violating the basic terms. She could sue me for breach. I don’t move.
“The view being me? That’s new but also weird.”
“Why weird? You’re gorgeous.”
She presses her lips together, as if trying to prevent herself from speaking her mind. I want to hear everything, though, so I push. “It’s okay if you think I’m weird—”
“I’m married,” she blurts out.
I smile. I like hearing that. “You have a big ring on your finger. Your husband must provide well for you.”
“He does.”
My hands are ringless. I spread them wide on the table so she can see. “Have you been married long?”
“Should you be asking me these questions?”
I want to ask even more personal questions than these. It’s hard to restrain myself. I grip the cup tightly so I don’t reach across the table and haul her into my lap.
“Why not? Is your husband a jealous man?” He is, very jealous.
“I…no, not really.”
“I find that hard to believe. He’d probably be crazed if he saw you here at a café, reading a”—I glance at her Kindle—”a romance book while having a conversation with a strange man, but if he’s not jealous then it doesn’t matter that I’m here.”
She looks flummoxed for a moment, a cute wrinkle appearing between her brows. “I think I’ll just read my book,” she says, picking up her reading device. “If you want to sit there, then go ahead.”
“Have you read many books by this author?” I plan to go home tonight and read them myself.
Maybe I can pick up some tips. On what, I’m not sure.
This is the most half-assed plan I’ve ever executed.
It made perfect sense at the time. I saw her.
I wanted her. I needed to make sure no one else snatched her up.
Since my whole life is about spending money to acquire the things I want, that’s what I did.
I studied her circumstances, sent her a proposal (money, no contact, a year’s worth of time) that she couldn’t turn down, and acquired her. But she’s not really mine.
She sets down the Kindle and gives me a hard stare. “Are you really trying to have a conversation with me?”
“Are you saying that exchanging a few words with me will land you in my bed?”
“No.” Her denial is so sure and quick, I’m stung.
She doesn’t know who you are, I tell myself. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for us to talk, drink hot chocolate together, be friends.”
“Friends?” It’s as if that’s a foreign word to her.
“Yes, friends. Unless you’re one of those who believe men and women can’t be friends.” I could never merely be friends with Annabelle. I want her too badly—not in a friendly way but in a fierce and wild way that would see her with her clothes off, her skin flushed, her hair wild.
Her finger rubs the top of her reading device as she ponders her response.
Those hands made the scones I ate. They’re capable and elegant.
I want those hands on me. I want her fingers rubbing the ridges of my body, memorizing my frame.
The cup threatens to crumple under my grip. I force myself to ease up.
“I don’t know if men and women can be friends. I’ve never had a male friend before.”
“Start with me.” The words pop out before I can stop them.
There’s a plaintive note to them that sounds unfamiliar to me.
I’m not a person who ever pleads with anyone, and yet here I am, pretending to be someone I am not, begging my wife to accept my offer of friendship.
As I sit here, though, it makes sense. This is the way I can meet with her in person, every day.
I can get to know her on a personal level beyond what I’ve been able to scrape together from public documents and social media accounts.
I can find her weaknesses and bind her to me in a way that even a wedding ring and a contract can’t.
I press forward. “We can meet here for coffee—hot chocolate,” I correct myself.
“I’ll bring my own reading material, and you can bring yours.
A reading club of sorts. Unless you think your husband would mind,” I add on.
“I don’t think he would.” She gives me a wry smile. “Why not? Reading in a café is hardly a romantic outing.”
“Exactly.” I lift the cup to my mouth, feeling slightly irritated that she’s so ready to cast her husband aside. I know it’s irrational to expect her to tie herself to her fake husband, but I’m torn between being upset on my behalf and excited at the same time.
I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. A standard courtship might have been a better idea, but that ship has sailed.