He hadn’t realized that when he proposed. When he’d gotten down on one knee, he was sure it would be forever. But once the planning started, the sense that something was amiss kept tugging at him. Finally, he woke up one morning to the stark realization that he was about to walk down the aisle and say I do to a woman he cared deeply for. To a woman he admired. To a friend.
He was no longer in love with her. Marrying her would have been a mistake. Maybe it made him a jerk; maybe it made him an asshole. He 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 they took those steps.
They went away for the weekend in Breckenridge. He knew Aubrey—she’d need to be near mountains to deal with his bombshell. Snow and slopes were her companions for the good and bad in her life. She processed everything through her sport.
He could still remember the look on her face when he’d told her he didn’t want to marry her. Like he’d sliced her open with a knife. Her eyes had spilled tears. Her lips had quivered, and she’d given new meaning to the word devastated. Because of him. Then she wiped off her stream of tears, stood up and said what he’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 he became the widower a week before the wedding that he’d just called off, and no one knew the truth but his sister.
He wanted to tell all that to Michelle. Hell, if he hadn’t slept with her last night, he might even have started to tell her his truth today. But there was no way he 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 he was the kind of guy who’d called off a wedding, she’d run from him right now. He 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, he had no intention of letting a woman like her slip through his fingers. His greatest skill in business had been solving problems. He could always find new ways around the hurdles, and spot the routes others hadn’t seen. The path to her was crystal clear to him. Because he wanted Michelle.
Badly. So very badly.
He might not be able to give her love, but he could show her what it would be like to be wanted.
He also didn’t intend to start whatever this was with a lie. So he cast the truth in a new light as he 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 shrink, 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.
* * *
She 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,” she said, and took another bite of her pasta, shaking her head in surprise. The food was good; she 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?”
She finished her bite, set her fork down and clasped her 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 she 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 at the University of Colorado, 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.”
She reined in the naughty grin that threatened to bloom across her face from the final statement. She could practically hear the rising crescendo of Ravel’s “Bolero,” the way the piece was sex in musical form. But now was not the time for picturing more orgasms from him.