Chapter Eighteen
Marcel
Juliet walks into my room after about forty minutes and the look on her face twists something deep inside me.
Her expression is shuttered and I know instantly she’s seen the neatly hung robes, the unopened boxes of condoms, and the discreet array of lubes and more.
All of it is my efficient and soulless effort to be prepared for amorous company.
I’ve never thought twice about it before.
Now it feels like a glaring neon sign over my head: Serial Womanizer.
I’ve never cared before if anyone liked my world or wanted to be in it, but with Juliet, it matters.
And for the first time in a long while, I wish the walls weren’t so high between us.
She looks scared, and a little sad and I know it’s because she’s seen what's in the guest room. I’ve had many women stay a night or two and there’s no secret about why they were here.
I like women who appreciate nice things, but also understand that I’m a man who makes no commitments.
The best way to uphold that reputation is to provide the finest things, in bulk.
This way there’s no specialization, the items are for anyone who stays in that room, not for any particular woman. For Juliet, though, I don’t want her feeling like one of the many and so I understand her sad expression. She knocks before she enters and I close my laptop.
“Just finished,” I say as she walks in wearing her own clothes; a sexy pair of satin shorts and a V-neck white T that makes her tits look huge. No bra, of course and I know I’m going to be wrangling her out of that in minutes.
“I’m not disrupting your Grinching?” She gives me a tiny smile and it's a relief.
Her gaze flicks to mine, guarded. It slices through me more sharply than any accusation.
“I can explain ...” The words sound pathetic even to my ears.
“You don’t need to.” Her voice is quiet, too calm. “It’s none of my business.”
But it is, and we both know it. I step closer, hands shoved into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Juliet ... you’re not like the women who’ve stayed here before.”
She lifts an eyebrow, her mouth twisting in something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Aren’t I? I slept with you without knowing you within the first hour of our meeting, actually. That doesn’t make me special.”
Her words strike a chord, even though I can’t deny them, it doesn’t make her sentiment valid. “While true, it doesn’t change how I feel about you,” I mutter, but the protest is weak.
She sighs and wraps her arms around herself.
“I’m really tired, Marcel. I just want to sleep.
If you’d rather I stay in the other room, I can.
I’m not up for anything tonight. I’m sorry if you were hoping for me to have sex with you.
You flew me out here and all.” She looks like she’s almost in tears.
I take a breath, choosing honesty over pride.
“I’d rather you sleep with me.” Her head jerks up, startled, and I rush on, heart hammering.
“I’d love to give you a good-night kiss and wake up with you in the morning, something I don’t often offer others.
” Oh I am fucking this all up in the biggest way.
“I don’t mean that. I mean. I’d like to sleep next to you and wake up with you .
.. usually, I ...” What I usually do to the women is kiss them ‘goodnight’ and send them back to that room with some excuse or another about not being able to sleep with others in my bed.
I’m offering Juliet the opposite, but it feels like, ugh ... it feels like I’m throwing scraps to a love starved creature, when she’s the one who’s surrounded by more love than I will ever know. The second the words leave my mouth, regret slams into me. “Damn it. Sorry. That came out wrong.”
Her eyes narrow, wounded. “Maybe I should sleep in the other room or get a hotel? I don’t think I can get on a flight back to Rhode Island this late. We’ve already taken this too far.”
I close the distance between us until I’m just close enough to feel her warmth.
“You’re right. It has gone farther than I ever expected.
” I let the truth settle between us. “But I can’t pretend I’m ready to let you go.
Not yet. We’re ... living in this moment, Juliet.
And right now, I’m enjoying every second of it with you, even if I don’t deserve to. ”
For a beat, neither of us speaks, everything feels unsteady, fragile, terrifying, and impossibly precious. Juliet hesitates, her eyes flicking toward the guest room, then back to me. I can see the storm of thoughts behind them—the doubt, the hurt, and the tiny spark of trust still flickering.
Finally, she exhales. “I’ll stay. But ... just sleep.”
Relief washes over me and I nod. “We could both use a good night’s rest.”
I lift the duvet to welcome her in and she gives me a smile.
“Rich people have very comfortable looking beds,” she says, perhaps referring to the tiny bed we slept in last night.
“People with uncomfortable beds are sometimes richer ...” I say referring to the love Juliet has in such abundance. “Besides, in my bed, I know you’re going to sleep on yours side, but in yours there were no sides, just us. I like that better.” And I truly did.
She slid into her side of the bed and smiled at me. “I still prefer this,” she says, wiggling her toes as I climb in beside her.
“Well, I like it better like this.” I gently pull her to my side of the bed and kiss her lips.
Our kiss is soft and unhurried. She opens her mouth for me and suddenly the world tilts; the press of her lips, the warmth of her breath. I can feel her body respond, and she can’t miss the way my own reacts. I want her, God, do I want her, but she pulls back, cheeks flushed.
“I’m too tired, Marcel,” she whispers. “I just ... can’t tonight.”
“I know,” I say and I don’t push. Instead, I pull her against my chest, tucking her under my chin. “Can we sleep like this?” I ask, nearly begging.
The rhythm of her breathing slows, and I hold her as the city hums faintly outside, as a rare peace settles over me.
“You’re right,” she says softly. “I like this better.”
“Good night, Juliet.” I kiss the top of her head and can’t recall a moment in my life when I was ever as content.
Not even Clara made me this happy.
“Good night, Grinch,” Juliet barely says as she falls asleep.
In the morning, I’m up before dawn, restless, the way I always get after a night with a woman, but this time it’s for a different reason.
Most mornings I’m anxious to get them out of my bed, if I’ve allowed them to stay there, or my house, if they were only here for the night.
My anxiety with Juliet is what to do with her.
I want to make love to her all morning long and eat food off each other’s naked bodies, shower it all off and fuck again.
Instead, I answer a few emails at my desk, but my eyes keep drifting to the bed.
Juliet’s there, tangled in my sheets, hair spilled across the pillow, and her lips are parted in sleep.
She’s heartbreakingly beautiful like this, unguarded, unaware.
I’ve never met a more effortlessly gorgeous soul.
I ache a little thinking of someone else keeping her, marrying her, and making babies together.
Imagine her beauty in each one of their little faces. God, it hurts to think about it.
I pick up my phone and order breakfast for us to eat in bed; croissants, bagels, and margarine, which is vegan, fresh fruit, and her favorite, hot cider. Outside, snow is falling again, muffling the city. When she stirs awake, I’m at the window, espresso in hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” My voice comes out softer than I expect. “Breakfast is on its way.”
She blinks, rubbing her eyes. “You didn’t have to ...”
“You and I need to eat.” I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The jet will take us back tonight. But ... I’ve never actually enjoyed Christmas in New York. Want to help me fix that?”
Her answering smile is small but genuine.
She doesn’t make a move, sexually so I let my disappointment deflate my erection.
Instead she and I spend the day like tourists.
We take a carriage ride through Central Park, bundled under blankets as snowflakes collect on her lashes and enjoy hot chocolate from a street vendor.
She rushes to the street corner as soon as she hears singing and we stop to listen to a choir of carolers whose harmonies echo between the brownstones.
She’s radiant and in her element. I think for one instant I might actually be happy.
And then mid laugh, she cups her mouth and rushes to a nearby trashcan.
“Juliet?” I run to her and rub her back as she nearly pukes into the trash.
“I’m sorry, I forgot. I think that hot chocolate had cow’s milk.” She bucks and looks like she might hurl. “I ... I don’t feel so great,” she admits. “I think it might be the milk?”
Concern tightens my chest. “That’s probably it. Let’s go back. You need to lie down.”
I call my car service and tell them to have someone pick us up urgently.
I explain over the phone that my girlfriend is nauseous.
Juliet gives me a strange look when she overhears me using the word girlfriend to describe her.
I'm not going to divulge the logistics of our relationship over the phone while I'm trying to get a car.
The driver arrives in six point five minutes, which I think is incredibly fast. It's not a driver I've ever ridden with but he gets us back to the mansion in twenty-eight minutes which is another record.
During the dash to safety, Juliet looks truly sick. She's pale and a little clammy. I have her rest her head on my shoulder as I stroke her hair and offer calm affirmations to settle her stomach.
“You're doing great,” I said. “Not much farther, just keep breathing.”
I did learn from the one yoga class I took that breathing was essential to getting through life's stressful moments. I counted out the breathing that I’d learned with her and that helped immensely.
Back at the mansion, I give her warm cider and some ant-acid, then set her up on the couch with a blanket, and quietly cancel the flight.
“You’re grounded for illness,” I tell her, pretending levity I don’t feel. “Boss’s orders. One more day.”
She manages a weak smile. “That’s ... abuse of power, you know.”
“Then sue me,” I say, staying close, watching her color fade as exhaustion claims her.
When she finally drifts off to sleep, I carry her to the guest room and tuck her in.
Even though I want her in my bed, I sacrifice sleeping next to Juliet for her peace and quiet.
I think that she might need to have a night without me to just sleep deeply and not be troubled by thoughts or concerns about us.
For once, the mansion feels less like a fortress and more like a refuge.
Standing in the doorway, I watch her sleep, the storm outside whispering against the glass.
I realize I don’t mind bad weather, which I’ve always hated if it means I get to hunker down with Juliet.
I imagine being snowed in while living in the mansion, as we had been in Gran’s apartment.
We'd have so much fun together dreaming up things to do while we weren't allowed to leave.
It's almost like a dream come true instead of a nightmare.