The Ground Rules Page 3

  “So, how about you?” I ask. “Are you a psychologist? Let me guess…criminal psychology? You seem to be able to read people’s minds.”

  He laughs. “No…I’m a developer,” he says simply, without elaboration.

  Then he’s quiet again. There’s such an intense look about him, like he’s simultaneously having a conversation with me and trying to figure out how to solve global warming. There seems to be so much going on in his mind.

  “Um…” I hesitate. I want to know more but don’t want to appear too nosy. He’s not giving me much to work with. I’ll probably have to Google him. “What kind of development do you do?”

  “Sustainable loft condos and housing. Sustainable energy is the way of the future. We’re now building homes which create more energy than they use.”

  “That’s great,” I tell him, truly impressed. “Fascinating.”

  And we find ourselves in silence again. It seems he knows me down to my essence, yet I don’t know a thing about him.

  “How many children do you and your husband have?” he asks. How does he know I have children? I haven’t mentioned it.

  “Two. Two girls…Chloe and Claire.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Eight and six,” I wonder if he has children. I have no clue. “How ’bout you…do you have kids?”

  He looks off into the distance and doesn’t answer me. There’s something odd in his expression—he seems to be working out his answer—which seems strange to me, since it’s a pretty simple question. “We have two fantastic kids,” he finally offers. “Ashton and Elizabeth. Ashton is ten and Elizabeth is eight.”

  I picture his children—they’re perfect…of course. He has dark hair like his father, and she has her mother’s light blond curls and blue eyes. And it goes without saying, they’re both perfectly dressed—a picture straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. They’re not mismatched and disheveled like my girls—not in a million years would they ever have gum in their hair.

  “Your daughter is the same age as my oldest,” I point out. And before I can think, I add playfully, “We should have a play date.”

  And as soon as I say it, I regret it.

  How foolish of me. We hardly know these people.

  “I…I’m just joking, of course.”

  “Not a horrible idea,” he says, his voice as soft as ever.

  And I almost melt.

  No, it is a horrible idea. We should definitely not have a play date—not with the feelings I’ve got going on inside me at the moment.

  I stammer a little. “Well…you know…I’m sure we’re all very busy.”

  And just then, the waitress comes back to save the day and take our orders. I’ve barely had a chance to look at the menu—much too preoccupied with the gorgeous man sitting across me.

  I’m such a little tramp.

  But then I notice Gabe hasn’t figured out what he wants either—so it’s not just me—he’s guilty too.

  Weston and Bridget haven’t even peeked at the menu and have already made their choices.

  I suddenly feel rushed. The waitress tells us she’ll give us a moment. Gabe and I peruse the menu, quickly selecting our dinner choices. I realize that as much fun as we’re having, we do have a show to catch.

  Bridget orders a seafood salad, and I find myself wanting to emulate her. Maybe if I start ordering a few salads, I too, can squeeze into a size two.

  The “wine guy” (I’m really not sure what his official title is—though surely this is the kind of thing Weston and Bridget know) holds up the bottle for Weston, who nods. He proceeds to pour him a sample. Weston tastes and nods again. There is a lot of nodding going on, and I find myself watching him curiously. I would have no clue if a wine was acceptable or not, but Weston seems to be an expert. My favorite wines can be found in eight dollar bottles.

  “Wine guy” pours us all a glass, and I can’t wait to have a taste—I need to take the edge off. Generally, the more expensive a wine, the more I hate it.

  I wince as I take a sip. Yep, this wine must be crazy expensive. I do a rather monumental job at hiding my displeasure.

  Bridget and Gabe are still immersed in conversation, laughing here and then.

  “Where do you teach, Mirella?” Weston asks, my name rolling off his tongue so deliciously.

  “I teach at Heron Heights. I like it. And where do you work?” I ask, curious. The more I know, the better.

  He laughs a little. “Everywhere. I work everywhere.”

  Another cryptic answer. I hope he knows I’m not planning to stalk him anytime soon. Although it would be completely understandable if a woman were inclined to do so—he is totally stalk-worthy.

  “You don’t like to divulge much about yourself, do you?”

  “You got me.”

  I will definitely need to check him out—a man like him must be all over Google.

  We find ourselves listening to Bridget and Gabe who are going on about their college escapades. Gabe majored in business—his father wanted him to take over the family business management, but Gabe was never a paper-pusher. He wanted to get his hands dirty, work on the ground floor. We both went to Chicago State. I commuted, and I would often stay over at his dorm, even if it was against the rules—Gabe has always been a rule breaker.

  Now those days seem so far away.

  The waitress comes over with our meals. I’m always amazed how restaurants can coordinate completely different meals to arrive at almost the exact same moment. “Enjoy,” she offers as she leaves us.

  Weston pulls out a small plastic bottle from his jacket pocket, drops a dollop of clear liquid on his palm and rubs his hands.

  I smile. This is exactly what I do, but I haven’t brought my bottle because my fancy clutch is only big enough for my wallet and lipstick—and of course, lipstick takes precedence over hand disinfectant.

  I extend my hand to him. “Can I have some?”

  He smiles as he plops a drop on my palm. I catch Gabe’s eye—he’s looking at us like we’re the two biggest nerds on the planet. Well, let’s see how he feels when he gets the flu.

  We enjoy our meal mostly in silence, with the exception of Bridget who manages a few words between every bite. I can’t completely enjoy my pasta because I’m simply too worked up.

  Worked up about what?

  I’m not sure. I just feel this intense electricity in the air.

  Gabe and I tell them we have to rush because we have a show to catch. Of course they’ve seen it—they’ve seen them all, Bridget informs us.

  At this point, I don’t want to see the show anymore—I want to sit with them all night.

  The bill comes, and Weston insists he’s got it, and Gabe protests, which is a little awkward. But when Weston points out he’s ordered a three-hundred dollar bottle, Gabe smiles and says, “It’s all yours.” It’s quite evident these two are not struggling to pay the bills like we are—the posh perfectly fitted clothing, his expensive looking watch, and the gigantic diamond on her finger tells me so.

  When the waitress comes back with her payment gadget, Weston pays the bill. Gabe and I thank them profusely. And the waitress also thanks him abundantly when she sees her tip. From her reaction, you would think the guy has given her his left kidney.

  “Weston always leaves an extravagant tip. I think it’s too much. They’re only doing their jobs after all.”

  “Well, you’ve made her day, that’s for sure,” I point out.

  “Well, if I can make someone’s day, then I suppose I’ve done my job.”

  What a sweetie…

  We say our formal good-byes at the door since we are heading in different directions. Bridget hugs us both tightly and tells us how delighted she is to have met us. We thank them again for the wonderful dinner. Weston gives us both a firm hand shake, very business-like—he doesn’t strike me as a hugger at all.

  As we walk away, his eyes linger on me, and he seems…almost sad.

  I wonder if he feel
s the same way I do. I’m a little saddened by the fact that I will never see these people again. We shared a wonderful meal and pleasant conversation, but now we’re off in our own directions, to our respective lives.

  Our paths will never cross again.

  We race to the theater. Gabe pulls me through the crowds. His stride is much longer than mine, and I find myself actually running a little to try to keep up with him. Racing in my very high heels, I suddenly wish I had worn more sensible shoes. Thankfully, we make it to the box office, just in the nick of time.

  The show is great, but as wonderful as it is, I have a difficult time focusing on the story—my thoughts are still in that restaurant, on that face. I replay all the words that were said, which really were not many.

  I am shocked by the reaction I’ve had to this man, so sudden and powerful. Desire has struck me when I least expected it. I’m not a lustful woman but for a fraction of a second, I picture his beautiful face, and I long to touch it, and I crave the feel of his hands on my skin.

  I shake my head a little. I’ve gone completely mad.

  I barely know this man—he’s a stranger.

  But I can’t deny the reality…I’ve never been so affected.

  By anyone.

  Chapter Four

  Just imagine him…

  “WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THE SHOW?” Gabe asks as we walk back to the parking lot.

  I don’t know what to say. Hell, I don’t remember the show. All I could think about was him. I might just be certifiably insane. “I…uh…it was great.” It must have been—the set design and music were amazing.

  “You seemed distracted.” Gabe is nothing if not perceptive. He knows something’s up. “Were you thinking about Mr. Perfect?” he jokes. He always teases me about my silly crushes—the hot guy who renovated our bathroom, the kids’ optometrist. He joshes because he knows it’s harmless—I’ve been faithful to him for almost twenty years.

  I laugh a little, but somehow this time feels different. “No…who’s Mr. Perfect?” I ask playfully.

  “Oh, you know who I’m talking about.” He smiles wide. “Don’t play coy with me.”

  “You’re referring to Weston?” I say casually with a little smirk. But for the first time since we’ve been together, I feel like I’m putting on a show, like I’m lying to my husband. There’s just something about Weston…it’s different this time.

  “You totally have the hots for the guy, Ella,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Ella” is what he calls me—unless he’s mad at me—then it’s “Mirella.”

  Who am I kidding? My husband knows me too well. There’s no sense denying it. “Well…” I hesitate a little. “He is attractive, if that’s what you mean.”

  He laughs. “Oh…it’s more than that, he’s totally your type…good-looking, charming, and well-dressed, with a little bit of nerdy.”

  Gabe is all smiles—he doesn’t seem too concerned. And why would he be? We will never see Bridget and Weston again. And Gabe and I have always been open like this—I think it’s what has kept us faithful to each other over the years.

  I laugh a little. Yep…there are no secret crushes in this relationship.

  “Well, you’re one to talk,” I say, trying to steer the focus off me. “You and Bridget were practically all over each other.” I still can’t get over how flirty she was with him—another woman’s husband, a father.

  “Yeah…she’s gorgeous,” he admits—like I hadn’t noticed. “I’d like to tear that little prim and proper outfit right off her.”

  Unlike me, Gabe is not one to hide his thoughts. He usually spreads them all out on the table for everyone to see. We’ve been together so long, I’ve gotten used to his occasionally questionable sense of humor.

  He grabs me by the waist. “I’m kidding. You know that, right? You’re my only one, Ella.”

  “I’m sure she’d love it. She was all over you.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course, look at you.” I swear, sometimes Gabe doesn’t realize how gorgeous he is. He’s not traditionally handsome—he’s a little rough around the edges, and he’s definitely got that “bad boy” thing going.

  “You’re the sexy, rugged guy,” I point out. “I bet she’d die to slum it with you,” I add, a playful smile on my lips.

  He laughs.

  “I’m sure Mr. Perfect wouldn’t mind slummin’ it with you either.”

  I laugh nervously. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t possibly.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, sheepishly. “He doesn’t see me that way, I’m sure. Men like him go out with women like Bridget.”

  Gabe stops dead in his tracks and looks at me. Suddenly his beautiful hazel eyes are serious—they look almost black in the darkness. He grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. The heel of my shoe scrapes the sidewalk, and I look up at him, suddenly alarmed.

  “Trust me, Ella, a man knows when a guy wants to fuck his wife.”

  I’m shocked and speechless.

  Really? Is that what he saw?

  Could he be right?

  The thought arouses me. More than I care to admit.

  We walk the rest of the way to the car, in silence, in utter silence.

  As we’re heading back home in Gabe’s truck, I lean back on the soft leather of the seat, and close my eyes. I can’t seem to get the images of the night out of my mind—Weston’s face, his shiny silver cufflinks, Gabe in his sexy buttoned shirt, his hand on my thigh. I feel tense and restless.

  And almost as if Gabe can read my thoughts, he slides his hand under the skirt of my dress. I don’t protest this time—I want to be touched.

  “I can’t wait to get you home,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m going to rip that sweet little dress right off you.”

  His hand slides further up, and I find myself spreading my legs for him.

  Just a little.

  “You want it. I can tell.”

  Gabe always seems to know what I want. He and I have a very sexual relationship…always have. I’m convinced that’s one of the reasons our marriage is so strong.

  He reaches my sweet spot and strokes me over my panties, and I can’t wait to get home.

  He’s arousing me and he knows it. “You’re primed.”

  He’s right. I can’t remember ever being so turned on. I just want him to stop on the side of the road and finish me off.

  “Thank you, Mr. Perfect,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice.

  He is so crass—has always been that way.

  “He’s probably the one who got you this wet,” he points out, his voice playful. “But I’m the lucky one who gets to fuck you.”

  “Yeah…you are,” I say, breathless, and I sneak a peek at the odometer—he’s going ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit—he can’t possibly go faster without getting us in trouble.

  But I almost wish he could.

  As soon as we walk up the steps, Gabe presses me against the door and kisses me. I can’t quite remember the last time he kissed me like this.

  “Hold on, big boy,” I whisper, pushing him away, despite the fact that I don’t want to. “We still have to pay Caroline.”

  Caroline welcomes us back with a friendly smile. “How was your night?” she asks.

  I’m in no mood for small talk—I’m in the mood to screw my husband. I smile and fumble through my wallet. “Here you go. Thank you. See you next time,” I say quickly as I hand her the cash.

  “Everything went fine and the girls are fast asleep,” she tells us, putting on her jacket and shoes—not fast enough.

  And finally, she’s on her way back home, across the street.

  As soon as the door closes, Gabe grabs my face in his large hands and kisses me—his unshaven face scratches my lips.

  His kiss is amazing.

  He deepens the kiss. His ragged breathing is the only sound I can hear in the stillness of the night—he wants me. And he’ll have me. Gabe never asks—he never needs to—he reads me too well.


  His hands travel down my body and find their way under my dress. I run my fingers through his messy hair. I kick off my high heels and lose a few inches. He towers over me and hoists me up against the wall—my head knocks against a glass framed photo.

  I reluctantly pull my lips from his. “Why don’t we go kiss the girls good night,” I whisper, my voice slightly breathless. As much as I’m enjoying this, I don’t really want to have sex against the wall, in our entry hall.

  He trails kisses down my neck. “We’re kind of busy at the moment.”

  “Just two quick kisses,” I insist. “Then you can have your way with me.”

  He laughs a little. “Oh…I will,” he warns me. “Remember…you asked for it.”

  We tiptoe into Chloe’s mess of a room, stuffed animals and books scattered everywhere. I kiss her softly on the cheek. Then we’re off to Claire’s butterfly filled room. Gabe gives her a quick peck on the forehead, and I linger awhile and plant a kiss on her sweet cherubic face. I watch her for a few seconds—she’s so sweet.

  When I finally make my way out of Claire’s room, Gabe is waiting for me, leaning against the wall.

  He’s taken off his jacket. His hair is ruffled, and his eyes are intense. He scratches his unshaven jaw and looks at me.

  He wants me to come to him.

  Neither of us say anything as he studies me for the longest time. Finally, he’s the first to break the silence. “I’m not sure if I’m in the mood, Ella,” he says, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “It’s kind of late. And I’m kind of beat.”

  I smile. I know he’s joking. Gabe is always in the mood.

  He’s toying with me—teasing me.

  I grab a handful of his shirt and start unbuttoning, from the bottom up. “Is that so?” I ask, my voice silky.

  He bites his lip, an impish smile on his face. “I have a bit of a headache.”

  I almost want to laugh. He doesn’t fool me for a second. I look him straight in the eye as I start undoing his belt.

  He grabs my hand and stops me. “You want it badly, don’t you?” His eyes seem darker, even more intense—almost angry. “But I’m not giving it to you. Because I know it’s all about him.”