She told him she’d see him soon in the Maldives, and said goodbye.
Soon in the Maldives.
The words slammed her in the chest, like a linebacker knocking out the opponent’s air, as she connected all the dots that were in front of her.
The wedding was taking place on the property of one of Nate’s hotels in the Maldives. He was the best man, and his wedding gift had been to arrange for a discounted block of rooms for the guests, friends and family. She’d be at her brother’s wedding, standing beside the bride and groom with the man whose hands and mouth and tongue had been exploring her. The man who was teaching her how to let go. How to give in. How to bend.
She waved her hand in front of her face, like a fan. Hell, just the thought of him was turning her on. Grabbing her phone, she began to dial his number to find out when their next lesson was. But before she hit the final digit, a neon sign flashed through her brain, blaring: Let me pursue you.
She had to do the same with Nate.
Letting him lead this unconventional arrangement was part of her much-needed romantic transformation from intimidating to demure.
She set down her phone and focused on work, eagerly diving into her projects. Because here, in the office, overseeing this company she’d loved and founded, she was allowed to be her true self—to pick and choose, to decide, to direct.
Even so, as she stayed late, burning the midnight oil, she couldn’t deny that inside she was squirming, hoping he’d reach out soon. When she packed up to go, she stopped to consider the painting on her wall, a favorite of hers. She’d studied business in school, but had minored in art history.
She ran her fingertips lightly over the illustrated lips, then touched her own lips, as she closed her eyes, remembering how Nate had kissed her. Like a field course in kissing. The kind of kisses scientists would study for years in an attempt to dissect all the elements of a perfect kiss. Sultry, possessive, as if he were claiming both sides of her—the side that wanted a tender, lingering touch and the side that wanted it rough and hard.
* * *
“He’s the perfect dog. The girls love him and he’s so obedient,” Kat said as she leashed up the Dachshund, who’d immediately burrowed into his sister’s arms when Nate dropped him off Saturday after the flight, and now, two days later, had clearly made himself at home with his new family.
“He’s a chick magnet already,” Nate quipped and Kat flashed him a smile as they walked down the steps of her brownstone on Park Avenue.
“I already picked a name for him,” she said as they reached the sidewalk.
“You didn’t let Chloe and Cara name him?”
His sister shot him a stern look. “They’re one, Nate. I’m not giving them naming rights to the first dog.”
“Fair enough. What’s his name?”
“Indiana Jones,” she said, as if it were an obvious choice. But then, it dawned on him what she’d done and why. “Because it was your favorite movie growing up. Remember we went to see it when you won the election for class president in eighth grade?”
Nate nodded, the memories flashing by of their childhood, summer days at the shore, dinners together every evening, movie nights to celebrate special occasions. His home had been happy, his parents had been in love and still were, and they’d worked together in a tourist shop they continued to run in his hometown of Mystic, Connecticut. His mind flicked to Casey. Her parents had split the second she’d left the house for college, so eager to be divorced. It was ironic that he and Casey had the opposite experiences, and each veered in the other direction. Despite her unhappy parents, she hadn’t soured on love; she still had faith in it. Meanwhile, Nate believed in un-love.
Thanks to Joanna.
Funny, how several years ago he’d have bet this would be his life now—two kids, the happy home in the city. He was drunk on love with Joanna then. The two of them spent late nights tangled up together in their Murray Hill apartment, drinking wine, playing slow, sexy music and coming together again and again. She’d even sculpted his hands once. She’d made a goddamn sculpture of them as a wedding gift to him. “The only hands I ever want touching me,” she’d said, and it was so heady, those words falling from her red pouty lips that poured forth promises of being together forever. They swore they’d be wrapped up in each other ’til the end of time.
Their marriage had lasted two intense, and seemingly beautiful, years. Then he was divorced at age twenty-eight.
Love was a drug; it played voodoo tricks on your brain, and the chemicals bathed you in lies as you fell, tempting you to believe in crazy notions like happily-ever-afters, and houses, and families.
He clenched his fists, shoving the memories away. He was happy, quite happy, thank you very much, in life post-Joanna. There was no need to linger on the past. He’d learned his lesson. He was glad though that his sister was happy.
They talked more as they walked. The little brown and tan creature sniffed every stoop, every bush, every small tree on the handful of blocks between Kat’s home and Fifth Avenue where they caught up with Bryan, who’d gone for a jog in the park with the kids.
He was running down the block, pushing a double stroller.
Nate clapped his friend on the back when he pulled up next to them, breathing hard. “Look at you. Dog, two kids, and the double wide. Such the family man now. I’d give you a hard time if you were married to anyone but my sister,” Nate said, and Bryan rolled his eyes.
“Thanks man. I appreciate the un-compliment.”