Tryst

  I’m laughing as we hang up. Normally, I wouldn’t allow this type of familiarity with employees, but Tamara is different. She’s incredibly efficient, professional, and knowledgeable. I’ve been grooming her to take on a junior position, although I’d hate to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had. And to be honest, she’s my only friend in the city. Those are hard to come by, especially for me.

  After tying up loose ends, including giving Lucia the rest of the day off, I decide to grab the book I’ve been dying to finish for the past month and take advantage of the quiet.

  I only get three paragraphs in before I’m dead to the world, sprawled out in bed with the sheets tangled around me like ivy.

  That’s how Tucker finds me hours later when he gets home from work.

  “Oh, my God, babe, what time is it?” I yawn after he gently wakes me. He looks handsome as always and genuinely happy to see me, but I can tell he’s tired.

  “Just a bit after six.” He brushes his hand over my forehead and I instinctively lean in to his touch. “You ok, Bunny? Are you sick?”

  “Yeah.” I yawn again, before stretching my limbs as lithely as a sleepy feline. “Just thought I’d take a half day. Had a lunch meeting that lasted longer than I expected and I was beat afterward.”

  He loosens his navy blue silk tie—a gift from moi—while simultaneously kicking off his shoes. “Oh yeah? With who?”

  My body begins to react reflexively, but before I can release the name from my tongue, I pause. Shit. How would he react if he knew I had met with Ransom? Would he question me about him? Would he suspect more than just a business lunch went down between us? I mean, if I’m truly being honest with myself, that meal had little to do with business. And if someone had seen us together, and it was splashed on the front of Page Six, do I really want my husband finding out this way? I hadn’t even told him that I had taken Ransom on as a client. How would he feel about me withholding that information from him?

  I know how he would feel. Pissed. Betrayed. Hurt. All the emotions I would be struggling to swallow if the shoe was on the other foot.

  “Um,” I stammer, as I climb out of bed. “Ransom Reed?”

  “Ransom?” The name sounds more like a curse, more like an accusation.

  “Yeah. He agreed to work with me. Crazy, right?” If I look as guilty as I sound, I’m screwed.

  I force my eyes from the floor, where they have been fixed since I mentioned the illustrious rocker, and look to my husband. His expression isn’t one of outrage or jealousy. More than anything, he seems shocked. So much so, that he’s gripping his half-fastened shirt, hard enough to snap off the buttons.

  “Yeah. Crazy.” I can see he’s trying to seem casual about it, but there are questions swimming in those deep blue eyes. Doubt. Perhaps even fear.

  In an attempt to ease the discord that is undoubtedly tensing his broad shoulders, I plaster on a fake smile and traipse over to where he stands as still as stone. I place my lips to his cold, rigid mouth. At first, he doesn’t reciprocate, but as my warmth thaws his chilly demeanor, I feel him melt into me, responding with a firm yet sweet kiss.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, in my most appeasing voice—the voice I only unleash whenever I feel guilty or remorseful. “I could make you some soup and a sandwich. I’m still pretty full so I may just have a salad.”

  “Soup and sandwich?” He frowns, and it’s the first sign of discontent that he’s shown me. For fucking food. “Where’s Lucia? It’s Wednesday.”

  Right. Wednesday.

  Every Wednesday, like clockwork, Lucia makes Tucker’s favorite, chicken enchiladas. She’s Dominican, but she loves him, so she makes it a point to fix him his favorite feast weekly. She goes all out too—rice, beans, homemade guacamole. They’re downright sinful, and Tuck hits the cardio extra hard on Thursday morning to afford them.

  I hate enchiladas. Always have. So I usually end up eating salad, or settling for a liquid dinner consisting of fermented grapes.

  It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. And like a bad wifey, I just deviated from the routine.

  “I sent her home early, Tuck. I told her not to worry about it this week.”

  He looks wounded, as if I purposely deprived him of his favorite source of sustenance. And maybe on some fucked up level, I did. Maybe I wanted to ruffle his damn rituals and push him just a bit to see how he’d react. To see if that same fire exists in those eyes that pierced right through me as I lay writhing on a borrowed bed last Friday night. The fury that forced him to roughly push me against the wall and fill the same space that Ransom had owned just hours before. I knew what he was doing—Tucker was marking me. Erasing the remnants of that stranger inside me with his dick. Cleansing my sullied shame with his hot seed.

  I need to feel that again. I need to see that hunger and desire for me. Not some goddamn enchiladas.

  “Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, as he continues to undress. He won’t look at me. I’ve offended him. Out of all the things I could have done and said today—out of all the reasons to hate me—it takes a lost pile of cheese, meat, and sour cream to insult him.

  I throw together a sandwich for him with little finesse, not even bothering to dress it with his favorite condiments. There’s some leftover tomato bisque in the fridge and I heat that up too. When Tucker emerges from the bedroom, I’ve got his food waiting for him at the bistro table, along with a cold beer. See, I can be domestic. I can pose as the perfect wife that’s perfectly content with caring for her perfect husband.

  “Looks great, babe,” he smiles before kissing me tenderly. The taste of irritation no longer rests on those too-full lips. He sits down and digs into his pedestrian meal as zestfully as if it were Lucia’s home cooking. Even when I give him a reason to be pissed at me, he doesn’t take the bait.

  “Where’s your dinner?” he asks around a mouthful of pastrami.

  “I ate too much at lunch. I actually want to get a little work done before it gets too late. Then maybe we can watch a movie?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want, babe,” he nods, digging back into his food.

  I ruffle his soft, brown waves and kiss the crown of his head lovingly. Tucker’s a good man, and I love him. And I’d be a fool to think that he doesn’t love me, considering what he’s supported me through . . . considering what he’s given me. And what have I done? Lusted for another man. But maybe it’s not the man that I want. Maybe it’s that brash, careless attitude. Or the arrogant swagger. Or the feeling of being soiled by him with just a vulgar word.

  That’s just not Tucker. I knew that ten years ago, and I loved that about him. He never made me feel anything but safe and cherished. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was being honest about his feelings. There were no complicated layers or minced words. He was always Tucker—kind, generous, and compassionate.

  Just as I will always be Heidi. I’m just not sure who that is anymore.

  TONIGHT ON E! News . . .

  A drug-related arrest, leaked photos with a suspected prostitute and a possible stint in jail.

  Good evening, everyone. We’re talking about Evan Carr’s sudden fall from Manhattan royalty, and what may have caused some of his recent erratic behavior.

  After his very public divorce months ago, Evan’s friends and family are truly worried for his life, saying that he’s “out of control” and in a “dangerous, self-destructive state of grieving.” Later on, we’ll hear from the woman rumored to have been his mistress during the time he was married to America’s sweetheart, Allison Elliot, who is now linked to intimacy coach and Evan’s half-brother, Justice Drake.

  But first, we’ll get a behind-the-scenes sneak peek into the world of Ransom, the band that’s known for their sizzling sound, as well as their ubersexy style. Find out how you can get their smoking hot look at home—

  I click off the television and release a resigned sigh. That’s enough Ransom Reed for one day. But just as I look over to my husband’s sleeping form, m
y cell vibrates on the nightstand at my side. Who the hell could that be? It’s not dreadfully late, but definitely past social hours.

  Got your email. Food Network? Really?

  It’s Ransom. Holy shit.

  My finger hovers over the message field on my iPhone, but I don’t tap in a reply. Not yet, at least. I know I need to; this is strictly a business matter. But why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?

  Thought it’d be perfect for you, seeing as you love to eat good food. They’re always looking for celebrity judges.

  There. Short and sweet. That should answer his question. And if he fights me on it . . .

  The phone vibrates again before I can consider his reaction any further.

  Yeah. That’s true. And if all else fails, at least I’ll get a free meal out of it.

  Like you hardly need to worry about that. I’m still pissed you didn’t let me pay for lunch. It was a business expense, after all.

  I’m smiling down at my phone, thinking about his earnest attempt to be a gentleman. Just as the waiter was approaching with the bill, Ransom quite literally shoved a wad of bills at him before I could object. He didn’t even see what the damage was, but I’m guessing it was enough to cover our meal, and a hefty tip.

  Don’t worry about it. Next time.

  Next time? Will there be a next time? Other than business-related meetings, can I allow myself to break bread with him again?

  The answer is a resounding no, but I’m trying not to hear it. I don’t respond.

  You ever seen the movie Edward Scissorhands?

  I nearly chuckle aloud.

  Uh. Who hasn’t? It’s only one of the most iconic films of the 90s.

  Johnny Depp fan, huh?

  I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

  I blush. Oh shit. Just the mention of a bed brings back memories of those dark satin sheets. I may not be able to listen to Jay-Z ever again.

  I’ll keep that in mind. It’s on TBS right now. Watch it with me.

  I know I really, really shouldn’t, but—Hello!—Johnny Depp. So in essence, I’m not doing this for Ransom. I’m doing it for my own selfish reasons.

  I turn on the TV, just in time to see Edward, in all his Goth glory, give some poor, sex-deprived lady a haircut so good that she moans in ecstasy. My cheeks flush in the dim lighting of my bedroom, and I glance over at Tucker to see if he’s noticed. Of course, it’s just paranoia; he’s dead to the world, snoring softly on his side like he has since 10 P.M.—bedtime. I turn my eyes back to the movie and am quickly engrossed in the story and that strange, sad, beautiful man.

  It’s fucked up, you know.

  I frown down at the cryptic message, wondering if Ran-som accidently texted me something that was meant for someone else.

  What is???

  He answers immediately, as if he was already typing in an explanation.

  To be wanted and celebrated by everyone, but be completely misunderstood. To be a novelty. Nothing more than a show dog.

  Did you just compare yourself to Edward Scissorhands?

  Idk. Guess I did.

  Someone thinks an awful lot of himself.

  LOL. But it’s true. No one really knows you in this business. They know what they see on TV and in the tabloids. But you’re a stranger, surrounded by people who think they love you.

  His words bring me up short, and I take a few extra moments to formulate an appropriate response. I don’t want him to think that his honesty has scared me away, so I hurriedly tap in some stupid emoji that I instantly regret.

  :-/

  Sorry. I can’t imagine. But at least you have your band. And what about your family?

  I don’t know why I ask him. It’s way too personal and something I shouldn’t give a damn about. I’m his publicist. Not his shrink. If he wants to talk about his feelings, I happen to screw a pretty good shrink twice a week. Three times on holiday weekends.

  Still, I stare down at my phone, waiting for a response.

  They’re not around anymore.

  Shit. I didn’t want to know that. I didn’t want to feel . . . anything . . . about him. But now I know that he’s alone in this world. And I can’t unfeel the twinge of sympathy that seizes my chest.

  I won’t respond. I won’t let him believe that I care, even if I do.

  We continue to watch on, and young Winona’s bitch of a boyfriend cons Edward into getting in trouble. I’ve always hated this part. It wasn’t fair—he did nothing wrong. Yet, the townsfolk’s perception of his crime has caused them to all turn against him in a vicious witch hunt. They loved him before when he seemed exotic and mysterious. They all couldn’t wait to covet his talent. They all wanted a piece of that strange, sad, beautiful man, but not to love. To own. And the minute he fucks up, he’s no more than a freak. An animal they just want to put down.

  After the movie is over, I look to find that Ransom hasn’t written more. I turn off the TV and the lamp on my nightstand then settle into bed. Just before I drift off to sleep, I reach over and power down my phone.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t hear from Ransom all day Thursday, so I definitely don’t expect to on Friday. However, I can’t help but feel somewhat slighted that he hasn’t texted, emailed, sent a carrier pigeon—something. Not that he should. Not that I should want him to. Which really is just poetic justice, considering that apparently I am on a roll when it comes to rejection.

  I woke up oddly refreshed, ready to make Friday my bitch and start my weekend. Maybe I was still on a Ransom Reed high or just excited for some downtime. Either way, it was odd for me, seeing as I was not a morning person.

  Tucker was already up, of course, and had just finished his 6 A.M. workout with his trainer. I could hear the shower beating down against sweat-stained skin and frosted glass, and a jolt of excitement ran through me like electricity, lighting up my nerve endings like a Christmas tree. I slunk to the bathroom and silently slipped out of my nightgown, and joined my husband under the steaming hot spray. He started at the first feel of my arms wrapping around his taut torso from behind, but it took him only a second to realize my intentions, and he turned to face me.

  “Good morning,” he murmured against my lips before capturing them between his. I opened for him—morning breath be damned—and let him drink in my desire. My nails ran a slick path up his back before raking down to the dimples above his ass. I felt him grow between us, nudging my belly, and I brought one hand to that rigid intruder. I began to stroke him—softly, at first—letting the water collect in my hand to heighten the feeling of warm slickness. He moaned and delved into my mouth deeper, his hands grasping my hips, my ass, my breasts.

  I wanted him. Needed to feel him filling me in the worst way. I turned around and pressed my chest to the cool tile of the shower wall, my back arched to give him better access to the heat between my thighs, not that he’s ever needed help finding it. His hands were on my shoulders, gently gliding down my spine to the arch of my ass, then . . .

  Nothing.

  I turned around to see what could be the hold up, to find Tucker studying the mosaic rocks of the shower floor. A frown dimpled his forehead and he panted, causing the water dripping down his face to shiver before dissolving into a thin spray. Then without looking up at me, he turned back to place his face under the hot spray.

  “I have a client first thing, babe,” I thought I heard him say. I can’t be sure. It was hard to hear over the roar of blood rushing my face. Moments later, he stepped from the shower, abandoning me to the heavy veil of steam and water to hide my frustrated tears.

  By the time I had collected enough dignity to step out of the humid safety of the shower, Tucker was gone. And I was left with the blaring reality that my life—my boring, mundane, beautiful, stable life—was trickling down around me, pooling at the soles of my bare feet.

  I file the morning’s incident under Shit I need to deal with but am too chicken shit/busy/stubborn to do so, and turn my attention back to my cell.
It remains silent aside from Tamara’s constant updates on the event my firm is hosting for a premium tequila launch tonight. I let her take the lead on this one, forcing myself to resist the need to micromanage and give her enough space and opportunity to flourish on her own. She has it in her—we both just need to trust it. However, I insisted on updates on everything from the catering to room layout to the swag bags for guests. My name was still stamped on this party, and I would demand no less than perfection.

  I’m punching in a reply to Tamara’s inquiry on the guest list when a deep, sinuous voice stops me dead in my tracks, leaving my finger hovering over the Send key.

  “You know, you really should hire reliable help. Anyone could just walk in here.”

  I look up to find Ransom filling the space of my office entrance, leaning against the doorjamb with the grace and swagger of a man who knows and loves every inch of his body. I don’t doubt that he does. I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing a glimpse of it, and I still can’t erase that image from my mind. Who would want to?

  “Anyone like you?” I quip, schooling my features into a cool expression. I don’t smile. I won’t let my happiness be manipulated by this man.

  He’s unruffled by my cold demeanor and enters the room without invitation or apology. The best way to describe it is saunter. Ransom saunters into the room, but there’s nothing flamboyant about him. It’s as if he’s completely unbound by bones or skin, the way he moves as fluid as the silk of his voice. He stops in front of my desk and regards me with a devious smirk before folding himself into the chair across from me. He doesn’t play by the rules. He just creates the game. At some point, I need to stop being such a willing participant. I need to quit playing myself.