Chapter 18 #2
"Ha-hah. Screw you," I deadpan.
Ben raises a brow in that would-you-now look, but I'm already pivoting, knees bending as I lob it back.
"Not a bad return," he calls.
"Didn't need your approval."
"Didn't say you did."
Lisa calls from the sidelines with fake concern. "Ben, that's enough. Poor Emma is melting."
"Lisa's right," Richard joins, his voice genuine. "Em, you never know when to stop."
"Never, always, ever," I mutter into my chest. Then louder: "I'm fine."
A lie. The sun's carving my scalp into steak, and the edges of my vision are getting fuzzy.
"You should listen to them," Ben teases. "You look like something's about to give."
"Asshole," I mouth so no one can hear, but exaggerate the syllables, and he smirks.
Then I run, swinging with everything I don't have and pure spite.
Pop! The ball zips across the net, and by whatever good karma I've accumulated before all this started, Ben lunges—and misses.
He freezes mid-step, chest heaving.
When he turns, he looks at me like I just performed a miracle. "Have you been practicing?"
I double over, hands gripping my shaky thighs, sweat dripping into my eyes and pant, "No. Just imagined your face on the ball."
His jaw works like he's chewing down a smile, and there's a flash of pride in his eyes.
He takes a couple of breaths and walks around the net with that prowl in his step, his stamina unfazed by the whole match.
Richard and Lisa beat him to me, getting here just as my legs decide they're done and I stagger, almost kissing the court.
Ben jerks forward instinctively, but Richard cuts in front of him, pressing his hand over my forehead. "God. You're burning hot. I told you to stop. Should I bring you water?"
"No, I'll get it myself," I pant, forcing an exhausted smile.
When I glance at Ben, his face is all shadows, jaw clenched like he's trying to snap Richard in his mind with it. I think he might even move him aside, but instead he turns, and stalks toward the table, shoulders rigid.
Lisa presses a hand to my arm. "Here, I have this mist—rose and lemon." Before I can object, she's dousing my face. "Take it. You deserve it. You're the only one who's ever scored against him."
I flash her a real smile for once. For all her flaws—the way she transparently wants something from my husband, and married the man who should have been mine—Lisa is complicated.
I doom-scrolled her socials once for a Ben cameo. Barely any. Mostly the eco-warrior shtick and sloths rescues in Panama, which is... aspirational. And I'd probably hate on Ben's wife even if she was a saint, so maybe I can try to dial back the hate.
"I have a feeling you guys won't play with us again," she says lightly.
"We'll think of something without rackets," Richard offers a joke that's also a pointed remark.
"Have you checked on the polo?" Lisa suggests blatantly.
Richard blinks, thrown off for a beat.
"Not yet," he says and clears his throat. Then, noticing her pouting, he adds, "But in two weeks we'll go to the racetracks. If you'd... like to join."
Lisa practically bounces. "Oh, we'd love that!" She turns to Ben who's slouched under the shade. "Did you hear that? Richard invited us to horse racing. Time to force you into a suit."
"Never," Ben mutters dryly without moving an inch. "Next time I'm wearing it is at my sister's wedding. Or my funeral."
Lisa rolls her eyes, plucks the mist that was supposed to be mine, and spritzes herself as I push myself to my feet.
"I apologize for his behavior. He's better now. You wouldn't believe the project I started with. That's men—" She fans herself and throws Richard a coy look. "Unless, of course, we train them."
Richard chuckles, indulgent. "Sounds right. You women are far too patient with us."
My entire face pulls back like a bad filter. Really? Mr. Wife-Shouldn't-Do-That thinks that's funny?
"Marriage is about compromise, isn't it? You both give up on your dreams," Lisa giggles on her own joke.
I go still, every ounce of me itching to rip that bottle out of her hand and spray it straight down her fucking throat.
Doesn't she know Ben is way out of her league? Out of anyone's league.
Okay, calm down. Emma.
"I'm going for water. You two keep talking. I think Lisa wants to present you a business plan anyway," I bite to Richard.
Both of them flick their brows up. Richard looks at me confused, but Lisa recovers first with: "Well, actually..."
Good. Let's see how he laughs at this one.
I leave them behind and pace to the table where Ben's sprawled with arm over his eyes, legs thrown wide, chest gleaming like golden armor.
I perch beside him—close enough to see his eyes under the arm, far enough to avoid suspicion.
If he heard Lisa, he doesn't show it, but I'm furious. He might be an ass, but still deserves the world.
He pours a glass of water for me and lets his arm fall back, watching as I drink.
"You went down smooth," he says, eyes tracking the waterfall dripping down my chin. "Though not as smooth as when you drink."
I snort into the glass, not even trying to look dignified. "Screw you. Nothing tastes better than water when you're dying."
Across the court, Lisa claps. "I'm so excited about the horse racing! We might bet! Ben's weirdly lucky with chance."
"Emma always bets on a black horse." Richard chuckles like it's some kind of kink.
Ben's eyes slice to me from underneath his arm. He knows the story. So does Richard.
"That's because of Salvador," I call back to Lisa. "He was my horse. My first love. When I was ten, he got a sudden knee infection and we couldn't save him."
"Oh no..." She clutches her chest, sounding genuinely sad, surprisingly. "I hate when animals suffer."
"My mom didn't let me stay when they put him down. I should have fought harder, should have known better—"
"You were ten," Ben cut in, voice low and protective. "You don't know better at that age."
I give him a small, appreciative smile.
"I told you I could get you a new one. A better breed, actually," Richard says out of nowhere, then smirks. "Might cost us as much as all your lost bets."
Ben's arm instantly drops and his eyes sharpen on Richard.
For a second, I think he'll sprint across the court and deck him right here.
Instead, his gaze snaps to me, narrowing. Like I'm the problem.
"So this is why you stayed in Seattle?" His voice is all teeth. "For this kind of 'maturity'? What the hell were you thinking?"
The sting lands because he's right—I'm pissed too. Even Lisa flinched, but Richard's too busy basking in his own golden glow to notice.
Ben does not get to judge me, though.
"Poetic," I snap. "We both ended up in the same hell. My husband's emotionally deaf, and your wife treats you like you're air she's allergic to."
Ben's scoff is deep, guttural. He reaches into the cherry bag without breaking eye contact, plucks one, and toys with it between tongue and teeth, jaw flexing in a way that isn’t accidental.
It's a reminder.
Of his mouth.
On my nipples.
I have to cross my arms so he doesn't see what that's doing to me, and glare.
"What?" he says, shrugging. "Next time, pick the winning team."
I move closer, eyes narrowed to slits. "I get it. You're hurt and in full attack mode. Not sure which sucks more, that or the withdrawals."
He snorts and clicks his mouth. "Love the self-reflection. Anything else you've diagnosed?"
I snap a nod. "Yeah. You've gone full romance villain, apparently. Telling me you'd blow up your life for me, then kiss your wife like it's the honeymoon all over again."
He smirks. "You're cute when you're jealous."
"Jealous?" I spit the word. "I'm appalled."
His eyes flash darker. "Appalled? If that's what you want," his voice drops and he angles his head even closer to mine, daring me, "I'll show you what I can do."
My pulse trips. Reflexively, my gaze flicks to Richard to check if he can hear us, if he knows what's happening in here. Luckily, Lisa's blabbering something into his head, all visionary painting it over the horizon and he listens to her, both of them turned the other way.
Ben notices me looking at Richard—looks at him, then back at me—and his eyes narrow. His shoulders bristle like I've crossed a line just by looking at my husband. "Why are you looking at him?"
"Are you threatening me?" I whisper.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head before his expression flattens. "Stop looking at him. He won't save you. Look at me." The fruit bag lands near my hand with the laziest flick of his finger. "Say the truth, and I'll lose."
"What truth?" I frown at him.
His voice drops lower, each word dragged out slow enough for me to catch: "That when you were under me, you wanted it. That you still want it."
My mouth goes slack. Is he freaking serious right now?
I blink it away and hiss, "Do you even hear yourself? Get the setting? You're not morally grey. You turned pitch black."
He smiles like I've called him charming. "Guess that's what happens when you meet Emma Foster—"
"Brilliant," I cut him off, my jaw grinding. "Pin it all on me again. God forbid you own ghosting me because you forgot how to be a decent human."
Ben snorts, clearly amused. "I think we both forfeited the right to use the word decent."
Wow. That ass.
I glare, my face flat. "You know what? There's nothing left to talk about. It meant nothing."
The second it's out I sense I pushed him too far, because Ben freezes mid-chew, and his head tilts, eyes cutting into me with that simmering fire.
"Really?" His brow cocks, his eyes dangerous now. "Nothing?"
"Yeah. Nothing," I snap, trying to sound steady. Believable. "An echo from years ago. A fling. A huge mistake."
"Mmm," he hums, licking his lips deliberately. "Funny. Didn't sound like a mistake when you were moaning my name, begging me to get inside you."
My eyes flash even though my stomach goes into full retreat.
For a beat, I freeze on him, before I manage to stutter, "You're delusional... I didn't..."
His head cants like a wolf cornering prey. "You soaked my sheets, Emma. Through your clothes. You don't fake that."
My mouth drops.
What did he say?
What did he just say?! The muscle above my brow twitches, annoyingly insistent, ready to throw a punch.
"Jesus Christ, Ben," I hiss then. "How can you say something like that? Don't you have any fucking filter?"
"Since when do I need one with you?" He looks at me genuinely irritated, like I'm the one who broke some unspoken treaty. Then he exhales a sharp breath. "And it's true. Hope you'll like the fact I kept them. Every night."
My mouth still hasn't closed and I guess it won't.
"What? You kept them?"
His smirk returns, but it seems self-loathing. "Yeah. Romance villains apparently go apeshit when the girl makes them lose their mind."
Apeshit. Okay. Don't think it. Stop.
But I do think of him in that bed, god knows doing what, and my thighs open on instinct.
His eyes drop, following my movement and drift deeper inside my skirt, lingering there. He even slightly tilts his head as if to get a better view.
I tell my legs to close, to fight back, but they stay spread, like my body knows who it really belongs to, even when my mind screams otherwise.
"Ready for round two?" Richard's voice cuts across the court.
Barely hear it. But yeah, I'm ready for round two—just not the kind that involves rackets.
Ben's gaze hasn't moved from between my thighs and I'm starting to feel every inch of it.
His mouth curves and he shifts, scraping the metal chair on tile until he's right next to my chest.
I manage to snap my knees together the second I see Richard approaching—his brows cinched together, his pace quickening.
Then I look back at Ben, his eyes on me, waiting for something, and my chest rises, shallow, betraying me.
"Last chance, Emma," he says, voice so low it's only for me. "Say it was nothing and I'll walk away. You disappear back into your boring marriage, I get on with mine. Or—"
"Or?" It's barely a breath.
Richard is only ten steps away.
Ben clocks him, then looks back at me, gaze focused and unbothered. "Or I'll show you what you've been missing for three years."
Something in me goes dangerously still—and flammable.
Ready to burn.