Chapter 11

11

L IZ

It turns out I'm not that much of a horseback riding fan. But I sure am a fan of having my arms wrapped around his hard torso and my cheek pressed against his back.

Whenever we hop over a small creek or any other obstacle, I hug him tighter, and the laughter climbing up his chest reverberates against my cheek.

I've never seen him so genuinely happy, enjoying everything, except maybe when he had sex with me or stared at my legs when I forgot to put a skirt on under my coat.

We've had such a nice time today.

After wrapping things up in the shower and cleaning ourselves for real, I put on the clothes he had bought for me from a local boutique.

Cropped pants, a smooth tank top, and a soft, luxurious sweater paired with flats.

I look like a true bourgeois baby, with my hair tied back into a voluptuous ponytail that bounces every time the horse's hoofs hit the ground.

He ditched the sharp suits for boots, jeans that fall deliciously over his butt, and a long sleeve cotton lumberjack shirt that makes me want to lick a trail from the base of his neck to the root of his cock.

Naughty thoughts aside, he took me to a lovely restaurant with a nice patio, where we sat and ate the best clam chowder I have ever had.

We tried their paella, and despite being full, we couldn't say no to their chocolate layer cake.

It felt like a small celebration.

We talked about the food, the places he had traveled to, and my limited experience with writing books.

There were no serious topics, nothing earth shattering. No drama of any kind.

From afar, we looked like a lovely couple.

Someone at a nearby table even said so, and while I blushed up to my hairline, he kind of laughed it off.

It wasn't enough of a setback to ruin my mood.

He didn't make me feel like I was a fleeting thing in his life. And I didn't make him feel like I was in only for the experience.

He took my hand at some point and held it while we waited for the check.

We left, holding hands, and I felt like we'd been cast in a romantic movie and the cameras were rolling somewhere in the background.

And then we came here.

His friend's estate is even more astonishing than I imagined. It has a vineyard, a large house, and the horses David has talked about.

I eventually got used to riding with him, but I would never go horseback riding by myself, and that's a fact.

We leave the place in the afternoon when he asks me whether I'm in the mood for dinner or dinner and a show.

My eyes linger on his face for a few seconds.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

He's casually tossed that at me, but I can tell he's enjoying this. Our time together.

We could spend the night at his place, drinking wine and having sex, yet he seems to want to do more with me as if he's missed having some company.

"Sure," I say.

"Sure to what?" he asks while waiting for the car to pick us up.

"We can go see a show."

The car pulls up, we say goodbye to his friend and claim our seats in the back of the limousine.

"Where are we going?" I ask, slumping back in my seat, my cheeks burning from the wind and afternoon sun.

"What about The Metropolitan Opera House?" he says, smiling and looking down at his phone.

"Uh… We can do that?"

"Of course," he says, sliding his phone into his pocket.

Damn, he looks like a sexy cowboy. All he needs is a fancy hat. The sun has colored his cheeks, his eyes looking even brighter against his tan.

I want to kiss him so badly, and it takes such an effort not to do it.

It's not like we don't have privacy.

We do.

The partition wall is up.

It's just that I don't want to ruin these wonderful moments that seem right out of a book.

"What about some clothes? I have nothing fancy to wear."

I packed light.

Honestly, I had no idea what my weekend away from home would look like. I expected sex and more sex.

He didn't say there would be a fancy house, dinners, or a show.

And I didn't want to drag a suitcase behind me.

I'd already told everybody––mainly my mother––that I'd spend some time with Sandy, helping her out.

My mother was so happy to see me out of the funk, no longer stranded or sailing uncertain waters, that she had forgotten to ask me where that place was and why Sandy needed my help the entire weekend.

Kudos to her for doing that.

But if she had seen me coming home wheeling in a big suitcase, she surely would have had some questions for me.

So, I thought it was the right thing to do, considering we're still very much secret… um… lovers?

I love it.

The voice inside my head, not so much, though.

She's still skeptical about this whole ordeal, and I can't blame her. That's her job––to question everything and keep me humble––right?

But right now, I don't need to hear from her.

"I could wear the same dress," I say and catch him sunk in thought, perhaps distracted.

He shifts his eyes to me, his focus sharpening.

"There's no need to do that. I might have something for you back home."

My eyebrows wiggle up.

"Like a gift or something? An old girlfriend's outfit?"

He cracks a smile before laughing quietly.

"Do you think I'm keeping some old girlfriend's stuff in my house? Like a souvenir?" he jokes.

"Yes. Why not?"

He tilts his head back against the headrest and studies me, amused.

"This place has always been my refuge. I wouldn't keep someone's clothes at my place."

"You said you might have something for me."

His smile fades a little.

"I bought something for someone a long time ago. This story is so ancient that it no longer bears any relevance. A gift that––as it turned out––had never been supposed to get to that person."

My heart trips over itself before racing like crazy while the voice inside my head gets ready to give me her take on it. I signal to her to keep her mouth shut and listen to my intuition.

This is where I need to pay maximum attention.

‘This thing is important,' my intuition says.

"How did that gift get to the house?"

He stares at me, a secret glint in his eyes, and I feel like he's right on the edge of confessing, weighing his options.

My curiosity is alight.

If someone keeps a gift in their house which is otherwise off limits to any female friend, that gift might have a significance that transcends every other consideration.

Who does that?

Someone who holds on to a beautiful idea.

Something meaningful to them.

"How ancient is this story?" I ask as he doesn't seem to want to share more information.

"It's old," he says, a twinge of nostalgia in his voice.

A thousand questions trample over each other in my head, yet none of them make it to my lips.

"I removed a few boxes from a storage unit when I bought the house. And that's how I found it. I had completely forgotten about it."

Oh, so it's not as important as I thought.

"I couldn't make myself toss it out. So… I don't know what I had in mind."

For sure it wasn't me.

"I didn't think I'd even talk about it again."

I bite my lip to prevent myself from talking.

I want him to continue.

I want him to tell me why he'd kept that gift. What had made it so hard to part ways with it?

He says nothing, and I speak, afraid that our conversation would otherwise go stale.

"Do you think it's my size?"

He flashes a knowing smile.

"It's definitely your size," he says, and I get a hot flash.

He learned about my size by gripping my waist and cupping my breasts.

He also learned about my size by running his hands up my thighs and holding onto my hips while thrusting into me.

I can only imagine he must've used the same method in that case. The story might not be relevant, but that woman surely is.

Or she was back in time.

"Do you think it would look good on me?"

He tips his head down in a soft nod.

"It's not outdated?" I ask. "I'd hate to go out wearing out–of–fashion clothes," I say with self-deprecating humor.

"You'll like it."

All my efforts to make him talk have failed spectacularly, so I go silent.

I look out the window, trying to shake off this odd feeling that I'm getting into a story that has nothing to do with me.

His hand finds mine, his touch warm around mine.

"I don't want you to take it the wrong way," he says seriously when I shift my gaze to him.

I'm waiting.

"It's something I bought for someone I thought was everything to me," he says, and my heart sinks.

I stare at him, overwhelmed, not knowing what to think.

On the one hand, there's him acknowledging––for the first time––that someone had meant something to him, Mr. North Pole.

And then it's this gift, which is probably a dress and doesn't mean much right now––although it meant a lot in the past––and that gift might be perfect for little old me.

I look at him, stunned, while his eyes hover over my face.

"Breathe," he says, smiling.

"I wish I could. The thing is, I don't want to mess with something that brings back memories from the past.

His smile dims.

"As I said… This gift has never been for the person I thought it was intended for. So, don't feel bad about it."

"You've kept it for so long," I argue, and he takes a troubled breath and relaxes in his seat. "You even brought it to this place from wherever you'd previously kept it. There must be a reason for doing that."

He shifts his focus to me again, a soft smile on his lips.

"It's one of the very few things that remind me of who I was."

My heart stops.

"I liked the man who bought that dress," he says, gauging my reaction.

I look at him, frozen as if witnessing a miracle.

"I liked how he was. He thought life was perfect and nothing bad could happen. His heart was pure, and his intentions were honorable. There was a hint of innocence in him he has since lost."

My eyes almost tear up as I realize how accurate his description of himself really is.

His smile tells me he's at peace with it right now, and Iwish I had something to do with it.

Maybe I had.

Leaning back, I slide into the shadow so he can't read my eyes while he continues.

"He used all the money that he had to buy her this gift andcouldn't wait to witness the reaction on her face," he says, his hand sliding off mine.

He runs his fingers through his hair, his smile fading away like a wilted flower.

"What he didn't know…" he says, shifting his eyes to me, "was that he'd bought it for the wrong woman."

Oh… Is this what I think it is? Is he saying what I think he's saying?

No. I don't think so.

Maybe she wasn't the right woman for him, but just because he offered me her dress doesn't mean I'm replacing her.

Plus, their story wasn't that good, was it? So, no. I'm just benefiting from something that went bust whenever it went bust.

"That's why I kept the gift," he adds, straightening in his seat while the car steers onto the street leading to his place.

"It was because of him, not her," he murmurs, looking out the window as if that can satisfy the unanswered questions in my head.