Chapter 13 #2
“What I mean is I’m not interested in getting involved with someone who has intimacy issues,” she said in a direct tone of voice.
Damn. She didn’t mince words. She didn’t pull punches as she continued.
“Perhaps that sounds harsh. And I know I shouldn’t be judgmental, given my job, but my reality is I was in love with a good friend of mine for ten years from a distance.
From afar. I never said a word to him until he’d already fallen madly in love with someone else.
He had no clue I had any feelings for him.
Even if I had told him, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
He never saw me that way. He never thought of me romantically. ”
“That makes no sense to me,” I said, speaking plainly. I could only see Michelle romantically. How any man could look at her and talk to her and not want to know her was baffling.
She sighed, took another bite, and then continued on when she’d finished.
“And that was three months ago, when it all came to a head. And it’s fine.
We’re all good. But my point in bringing this up is that I’m the poster child for unrequited love.
And while I’m certainly not asking for love, the bottom line is, I don’t think you’ll be romancing me because I can’t risk my heart again for someone who might be closed down,” she said, and her words were like a heavy stone around my neck.
That described me perfectly. Closed down. Shut down. Battered and broken with guilt. “I’m not closed down,” I muttered, denying the truth I knew inside myself.
She reached for my hand, and laid hers on top of it.
“We don’t have to bullshit, Jack. I’m not some blushing twenty-two year old who read in the paper that you were New York City’s most eligible bachelor and wants to nab you.
I have a business, a career, a respectable profession, a brother and sister-in-law I love dearly, and very close friends.
I’m fine. But when you’ve been in love with someone who didn’t love you, it really makes you protect your heart from anyone and everyone,” she said, and those words stung me more than she could ever know.
“We had a great time last night and I’m having a lovely time tonight.
But this can’t be anything. From what I can gather your heart is still with someone else. ”
I swallowed thickly. I was so tempted to tell her the truth that only Casey knew. “Why would you assume that?”
“I could be wrong, but your fiancée died a little more than a year ago. And you go see a therapist who specializes in intimacy. I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out that’s why your sister sent you to see me. To help you move on, right?”
“Yes,” I said, and then clamped my lips shut so I wouldn’t reveal the truth out loud.
That I didn’t need to move on in the way everyone thought.
That I wasn’t some poor widower, or really near-widower.
Yeah, I had commitment issues a mile long, but not because of what everyone thought about how things ended with Aubrey.
Not because she died. But because of what I’d said before. Because of how it was all my fault.
I winced as the memories assaulted me.
High school sweethearts in Denver, Colorado where I grew up, Jack Sullivan and Aubrey Sheen were names that were inextricably linked.
One of those couples. The kind everyone thought would be together forever.
I was the school’s star shortstop; she was captain of the ski team and an Olympic hopeful.
It was first love. It was true love. It was as real as it could possibly be.
She was bright and beautiful, ambitious and determined.
We laughed together; we had fun together; we were going to be together always.
But then we drifted apart, attending different colleges with many miles between them, and the inevitable split set in. There were plenty of tears shed, but plenty unshed too. She was focused on her Olympic dreams; I was focused on school, and then on my time in the service.
Years later, when I returned from Germany, right after starting Joy Delivered with Casey, we found ourselves near each other again. With Aubrey living and working in New York, we reunited.
At first, it felt natural to be back with her.
We fit. We made sense. On paper, we should have worked, and so I proposed.
But at some point after that, one thing became painfully clear to me.
I was living in the past with her. I wasn’t the same person I had been when I was younger.
She wasn’t either. But our love had been born of that time in our lives—young love.
And I’d mistaken that for forever love.
I hadn’t realized that when I proposed. When I’d gotten down on one knee, I was sure it would be forever.
But once the planning started, the sense that something was amiss kept tugging at me.
Finally, I woke up one morning to the stark realization that I was about to walk down the aisle and say “I do” to a woman I cared deeply for. To a woman I admired.
To a friend.
I was no longer in love with her. Marrying her would have been a mistake.
Maybe it made me a jerk; maybe it made me an asshole.
I was willing to be the punching bag for all those terms of un-endearment.
Better to break it off before the wedding than after.
Better to cause the hurt before we took those steps.
We went away for the weekend in Breckenridge. I knew Aubrey—she’d need to be near mountains to deal with my bombshell. Snow and slopes were her companions for the good and bad in her life. She processed everything through her sport.
I could still remember the look on her face when I told her I didn’t want to marry her.
Like I’d sliced her open with a knife. Tears spilled.
Her lips had quivered, and she’d given new meaning to the word devastated.
Then she wiped off her cheeks, stood up and said what I’d expected her to say. “I need to go hit the mountains.”
Twenty minutes later, Ski Patrol dragged her body down the blue square trail that she’d always owned and conquered, that she’d mastered at age six. This time, she’d slammed into a tree. Dead on impact.
That’s how I became the near-widower a week before the wedding that I’d just called off, and no one knew the truth but my sister.
I wanted to tell all that to Michelle. I might have in therapy. But there was no way I was going to unload on her right now. Not after she’d just revealed something painful about her past. That she’d felt unloved. That she’d been unwanted.
If she knew I was the kind of guy who’d called off a wedding, she’d run from me right now. I was everything she’d want to stay far away from. The guy who didn’t love back. She was right to try to nip this in the bud.
But hell, I had no intention of letting a woman like her slip through my fingers. My greatest skill in business had always been solving problems. I could invariably find new ways around the hurdles, and spot the routes others hadn’t seen. The path to her was crystal clear to me.
Because I wanted Michelle.
Badly.
I might not be able to give her love, but I could show her what it would be like to be wanted.
I also didn’t intend to start whatever this was with a lie.
So I cast the truth in a new light as I answered her question.
“You’re right. I haven’t moved on entirely, but not for the reasons you think.
And since you’re not my therapist, I’d rather not get into it.
But I have another idea. Something that I think could meet both our needs. Want to hear my proposal?”
Her eyes blazed with curiosity.
Michelle
I scoffed and laughed at the same time. “Thirty days? You want me to sign a contract or something?”
“Not unless it’s one that requires you to use a safe word and call me sir, but somehow I doubt you’re into Dom/sub stuff,” he said, his cool blue eyes twinkling, as if he’d just come up with the most brilliant plan ever.
Admittedly, it had some appeal.
“You read me right on that one, Jack,” I said, and took another bite of pasta, shaking my head in surprise. The food was good; I wasn’t going to miss a chance to enjoy this delicious dish simply because he’d proposed something so ridiculous.
But he was undeterred. “So? What do you think?”
I finished my bite, set the fork down and clasped my hands together. “Jack, we had a great night, and I’d really like to sleep with you again because sex with you is spectacular, but suggesting we have a no-strings-attached affair for thirty days and then walk away is ludicrous.”
“But why? Why is it ludicrous?” he asked in the tone of someone who was damn curious.
As if he were asking a business partner why the terms in a contract didn’t make sense.
“You’re not in a spot for a relationship.
And you’ve already decided I’m not either.
Let’s not pretend it’s ever going to be anything more.
We’re both mature, reasonable adults who had a fantastic night together.
We’re both looking to move on from hurt. Let’s help each other do that.”
“Through sex?”
“Yes. We can both be therapists,” he said with a sexy glint in his eyes, and I laughed. “I’ll give you the best kind of therapy there is. I’m very good at sex therapy,” he added, his eyes looking so eager. So boyish for a moment. So young, like a kid at Christmas.
“I hardly even know you though.”
“What do you want to know? I’m thirty-four.
I grew up in Colorado. My father taught at the Air Force Academy.
I played baseball in high school, studied business in college, served in the army for six years, most of it in Europe.
I speak German and French. I run a business.
I play basketball for exercise with my friend Nate.
I live on Fifth Avenue. I like classical music. I’d like to fuck you to Ravel.”
I reined in the naughty grin that threatened to bloom across my face from the final statement. I could practically hear the rising crescendo of Ravel’s Boléro, the way the piece was sex in musical form. But now was not the time for picturing more orgasms from him.
“And you?” he asked.
“Thirty. Grew up in Westchester. My parents were in the arts—mom was a choreographer, dad a theater professor. They died in a car accident when I was seventeen.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, tilting his head, his eyes on mine, filled with compassion.
“It’s okay. I mean, it wasn’t okay. But it’s okay now.
My brother delayed college for a year to watch out for me when they were gone.
Then we went to school together at Yale.
I live off Park Avenue in Murray Hill. I’ve never done any sports.
I like to go shoe shopping with my friend Sutton. I love wine and scotch and theater.”
“And fucking to Ravel?” he asked in his deep, sexy tone, returning to his seductive side. The side that thrilled me.
“That’s not fair. Now you’re playing below the belt.”
“That’s exactly where I’d like to be playing. So are we good then?” he asked, reaching for my hand, sliding his fingers through mine, as if he knew that contact would help win a yes.
“Jack,” I said, with a sigh.
“Why not?” he asked in the barest of whispers, then bent his head to my neck. “You’re beautiful, and captivating, and I loved every second of being inside you last night. The only thing better than fucking you was tasting you on my tongue this afternoon.”
If he was going to play dirty like that, I was going to lose. Because with those words, a heat wave rolled through my body, and I was aching for his touch again.
“Let me have more of you,” he continued. “Let me have you for a month. Give me your body. I’ll give you mine.”
“I don’t know,” I said, but I could feel my resistance breaking down with his lips on my neck, buzzing a path to my ear. I lingered in the moment, considering. Was his plan so crazy?
“I haven’t been with anyone since Aubrey, and last night with you blew my mind. I could sit here and try to break it down, and try to analyze it and understand it, but I’m not a therapist. I’m only a man who wants a woman. Badly. Let me have you; let me give you the exquisite pleasure you deserve.”
I burned inside for him. Flames licked my body from head to toe, turning me into an inferno of desire. I’d come to dinner wanting only one more night; and now he was asking for thirty nights with me.
Thirty nights of pleasure. Thirty nights of bliss. Thirty nights of being wanted in ways I hadn’t ever been wanted, and had desperately longed to be.
I didn’t know how I could say no. I was about to say yes when he spoke again.
“Let me give you a taste of what I can do to you. If I don’t give you the best orgasm of your life within the next hour, I won’t ask again.”
I tossed my napkin on the table. I was dying to know how he planned to top this afternoon.
“Check, please.”