CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

NEENA

In my kitchen, I adjusted a stack of cardinal-red napkins and topped off a glass of wine. “Can you turn that down?” I snapped. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

Dutifully, Matt raised the remote and adjusted the television’s volume, not moving from his place in the living room.

“And put these items on the buffet. They’ll be here any moment.”

He lumbered out of the recliner and to his feet, making his way slowly toward me. “The food and the drinks?”

“Just the food. Use a hot pad underneath them.”

I glanced over the dishes with a critical eye. Glazed meatballs. My famous chili. Steak and blue cheese bruschetta. I might not have a private chef, but there was nothing here for Cat to turn up her nose at. I opened the fridge, verifying that a dozen bottles of William’s favorite beer were lined up and ready. At the counter, Matt struggled to lift the heavy chili pot with his good arm, and I sighed, batting him away. “I’ll get that one.”

It’d been four days since our sex in the boardroom. Four days when William had stayed in his office and away from mine. Our Wednesday and Friday meetings had both been canceled by him, his assistant emailing me the update without an excuse. I’d almost expected a no-show today, but Cat’s texts had been bubbly, friendly, and cancellation-free. My texts to William had gone unread.

Postsex was normally the time men hounded me, desperate for reassurances of their sexual performance. William had zipped up his pants, tucked in his shirt, and walked away without a word—then completely ignored me. I’d blame it on the unsatisfying sex, but while he had neglected my pleasure, he certainly seemed to have had enough of his own.

Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’d hated it. Maybe his quick finish had been a hurried attempt to bail out on a mistake. My insecurity warmed to the idea, then panicked, offering up suggestions and criticisms in chaotic repetition. I had to fix things before the self-doubt became a permanent obsession.

I set down the pot of chili, centering it on the hot pad, and took a deep breath. It was normal, I reminded myself, to have a period of cold feet after a big action. It had nothing to do with the dimple of cellulite I’d seen when pulling up my panties, or the believability of my faked orgasm. It couldn’t have. William had an addictive personality, and addicts were a very predictable breed who followed a standard pattern.

Act.

Enjoy.

Regret.

Push away.

Yearn.

Obsess.

Justify.

Obsess.

Turn against those who keep them from their addiction.

Obsess.

Act.

My father had proven that cycle again and again. With gambling. With women. With alcohol. With abuse. And maybe there was more of him in me than I wanted to admit. After all, I’d formed an addiction of sorts to William Winthorpe. The slow construction of building and creating his obsession with me . . . that was the job I hadn’t finished, skipping over a few crucial steps in my haste for the prize. But it wasn’t all for naught. I had played my role well during the last four days. I’d stayed away. Been nonthreatening and temptingly aloof. Now I just had to play tonight’s interaction the right way. Follow his cues. Keep him off balance. Set the hook in his gills deep enough that later, when I started to reel him in, he’d be helpless to do anything but flop toward me.

I adjusted the shimmery gold V-neck top that innocently displayed a bit of my bra when viewed at the right angle. Reaching into my bra, I adjusted my cleavage, bringing it forward before picking up the platter of veggies and dip. Following Matt to the buffet table, I eyed his placements before nodding in approval.

“Knock, knock!” Cat called out, easing open the side door.

I glanced over, smiling when I saw William step in. “Hey, there. I was about to call you. It’s almost kickoff.”

“Oh, you know how things go. We got . . . distracted.” She gave a coquettish giggle and reached over, gripping a handful of William’s butt as if she were a twenty-dollar hooker. I took a quick sip of wine to keep myself from gagging.

She swept forward and hugged me, and I returned the gesture, making eye contact with William over her shoulder.

“William.” Matt approached, and William’s face broke into a warm smile. “Ready to watch Stanford lose?”

“Not likely,” he responded. “But if they do, I plan to soothe my anguish with that twenty-one-year-old tequila you’ve been hiding from me.”

My husband laughed as if it weren’t true, as if he didn’t squirrel away the Fuenteseca every time company came over. “Let’s break it out tonight. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

I watched as Matt stole William away, leading him toward the living room.

“This food smells fantastic,” Cat mused. “We skipped lunch, so we’re starving. And . . .” She pulled a wrapped gift from the interior of her bulky designer purse, the same one looped over every celebrity’s arm. “I brought you this. Happy birthday.”

I paused, stunned. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

“You had it on your club application. My social coordinator keeps track of everyone’s birthdays and sends me reminders. I’m sorry it’s a day late.” She settled in at the bar top, setting her bag on the granite counter.

Had William known as well? Had he intentionally not said anything on Friday? Had he seen the huge rose arrangement that Matt had sent to the office? Surely he had. I’d put them on the low file cabinet by my desk, in clear view of the hall.

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” I said helplessly, taking the beautifully wrapped box she held out. “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday.”

“Oh, shut up and open it.” She smiled and worked her way out of her thin coat. She was dressed like it was winter, complete with a cream scarf and matching gloves. “Come on. I’ve been waiting weeks to give this to you.”

Under her coat was a vibrant red wrap dress. On me, the color would have highlighted my pale skin, but against her olive tan and dark features, her toothpaste-ad smile . . . she looked like a million dollars.

The gift was small, and I tried to guess at its contents. Maybe a watch? I glanced at my own timepiece—a Cartier lookalike that I’d found on Black Friday years ago. I pulled away the thick cream wrapping paper, unveiling a red box.

“Shake it,” she urged. “Guess what it is.”

I obeyed, feeling like a child as something rattled inside. “Um . . .” I tried for something conservative. “A paperweight?”

She let out a delighted trill. “Oh, you’re terrible at this game. Just open it.”

Setting aside the paper, I worked open the lid to reveal a product box, one cradled atop red tissue paper. My thoughts stalled at the image on the front. Not a watch. Definitely not a watch. I glanced up at her. “Is this—”

“Oh my God, you’re going to love it,” she gushed with a furtive look over her shoulder at the men. “We call it the six-minute orgasm.”

“We?” I turned over the box, the small handheld device looking more like a face massager than a pleasure deliverer. “Who’s we?”

“Well, you know.” She took the torn wrapping paper and gift box from me, and I stared at the vibrator, trying to formulate an appropriate response.

By the time I looked up, my mind still blank, she had worked off her first glove and was getting off her second. A flash of sparkle caught my eye, and I grabbed her wrist, taking a closer look at the gigantic ring on her finger. “Wow. That’s new.”

She blushed. “A surprise present. William gave it to me last night.”

I thought of his lack of texts. His guilt. I turned her hand, examining her new wedding ring in the light. The center stone was at least ten carats. Perfectly cut, with a diamond-covered band. “What’d you do with your old ring?”

She shrugged. “I think I’ll get a matching stone and have earrings made.”

Said in the casual and annoying way of a woman with more diamonds than she knew what to do with. Jealousy twisted my gut, and I fought the urge to hide my own ring. It was barely two carats, a size I used to be joyous over—but it was starting to feel smaller and smaller with time.

“It’s beautiful.” I stared at the stone and tried to see the positive—every time I saw it, I could remember what prompted it. His guilt over sex with me. It was a mini trophy in the battle between us. I just couldn’t tell if it had my name on it or hers. Should I be feeling triumphant or defeated?

“He proposed to me when he gave it to me. Asked me if I’d marry him all over again.” She blinked, and I was surprised to see tears beginning to mat the lashes underneath her eyes.

I yanked a napkin off the top of the stack and offered it to her. “Here.” He asked her to marry him? That was a bad sign. I thought quickly, trying to understand his current mindset.

“And I wanted to thank you.” She grabbed my forearm and squeezed it, the action awkward, considering I still held the sex-toy box. “I don’t know what you said to him, but he says he’s ready to adopt.”

“Really?” My heart fell. Maybe she was lying. After what William and I had just done, there was no way he was talking to her about children. Nausea swelled at the thought of her scooping up a running toddler, his face filled with pride.

He’d be a great dad. Hands-on. Loving. Lots of fun. The kids would go to him for anything they wanted, and he’d let them have it all. They’d never know the slur of his voice when he ridiculed them, or the weight of his body, throwing them against a wall.

That wasn’t how that conversation had been meant to go. When I’d brought up adoption last week, it was with the intent of pointing out Cat’s infertility, planting an image in his head of an alternate future he could have with me—carrying his own baby. A true Winthorpe, not some trashy woman’s rejected infant.

Cat sighed. “I have to admit, you’ve done an amazing job—with the team and with him.”

Something wasn’t right about this. Cat was too warm, too accepting, and I didn’t like the sudden jump in support of my work. She’d all but laughed over my job before, and now she was gushing? Was this all because of the ring? Or was it the new possibility of having a family?

Her arms crushed around me, and I added another likelihood—she was drunk. She pulled away, and I felt unsteady, too many factors suddenly added to this game.

“Anyway . . .” Cat dabbed at her bottom line of lashes and gestured to the vibrator. “I really love mine, and I thought you’d like one, too. You know.” She smirked. “For when Matt is out of town.”

“Oh.” I looked back down at it. “Thank you.”

She studied me for a minute, her beautiful features pinching. “Oh God. I weirded you out, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

I stopped her. “You didn’t weird me out. Honestly. It’s a great gift. It’s just . . .” I shrugged, grateful for the change in subject. “Thank you.” For this trashy, cheap sex toy.

“Oh, it was nothing.” She pushed off the stool with a big smile. “Now, sit down and let me fix you a drink. We’ve got four hours of time to kill, and I’ve got the juiciest gossip about one of the security guards at the north gate.”

I glanced at the men and opened our junk drawer, slipping the vibrator in among the scissors, pens, and Scotch tape. Following her deeper into the kitchen, I watched as she opened up cabinets and got to work with our drinks. When she dropped the queen-bee act, there were times when she was almost likable.

She reached for a bottle of vodka, and I straightened.

“Oh, wait—I have something chilling for you.” Crouching down, I opened the wine cooler and pulled out the bottle of limoncello that I had purchased for her. I twisted the cap. “I already opened it—had to try a little last night to see what the fuss was all about.” She’d gone on and on at dinner one night about a limoncello vintage that was—in her words—to die for. Both Matt and William had expressed dislike over the lemon liqueur, which I’d never had.

“Wow! I can’t believe you found this.” She swooped forward, picking up the rare edition, which I had spent hours tracking down. I’d ended up ordering it from Italy, the shipping price more than triple what the bottle had cost. “Did you love it?”

“I have to side with Matt and William on this one. It was too sour for me. So—” I gestured to it. “Please, drink up. It’s all for you.”

“Thank you so much.” She beamed, then squeezed me in another hug, and I almost felt guilty for what I was doing. Almost.

Two hours later, the game paused for halftime, and we took the opportunity to sit outside. It was pleasant, looking over the lit pool, the twinkle lights on, our firepit crackling. Though he had done it slowly and complained about his ribs and arm the entire time, Matt had actually gotten off his butt and helped out. With the recent injury, he’d grown more needy, as if his good arm were as useless as his bad. Still, his injury had an upside—his inabilities had given me several opportunities to ask William to come over and fix things or lift heavy items. And while my husband had many shortcomings, ignorance was still one of his strengths.

I passed through the arched opening and spotted our husbands already by the firepit, glasses in hand, the ice drenched in something golden. “That better not be tequila,” I warned the pair as I slipped my arms around Matt.

“Let’s pretend it’s not.” Matt smiled at me, and I rose on my toes, gently planting a kiss on his lips.

I stole his glass and peered at him over the rim, playing the sexy, coy wife. “Let’s pretend I’m not going to steal it from you.” I tipped back his glass and was rewarded by a chuckle from William. A chuckle I ignored, turning my head to call out to Cat. “Need any help?”

From the kitchen, she scooped a slice of my blueberry pie onto a plate and hummed along with the Stanford fight song. “Nah. Just find out who’s eating.”

I glanced at William. “Are you going to eat any of my pie?” I kept my expression blank and innocent, devoid of the playfulness I’d given Matt.

He studied me, trying to understand if I heard the sexual innuendo in the words. “Sure,” he said finally. “I’ll have a piece.”

I would have preferred a comment about how much he loved my pie, but I still chalked it up as a step in the right direction.

A round of pie later, I was in the kitchen struggling with a bottle of champagne when William came in, two plates in hand, and gave me an awkward smile. “Here. Let me get that for you.”

“Thanks.” I sighed. “This cork is a pain.”

He took the heavy bottle, our arms brushing, and I forced myself to take a step away. Grabbing a dish towel, I dried off my hands as I watched him. “Look. About the other day . . .” I glanced toward the back deck, Cat and Matt still involved in a heated debate over whether a stop sign was needed at the Rolling Pine intersection. She cupped her glass to her chest, and I was pleased to see the bottle of limoncello beside her, over half of it gone. Were her words slurring yet? “It was a mistake, and all my fault. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—it can’t happen again.”

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I feel the same way. I—”

“Good. That’s a relief.” I blew out a breath and managed an awkward laugh. “I was worried that you would want to . . .”

“Wanting shouldn’t be part of the equation,” he said quietly, his forearms flexing as he popped the cork, the sound adding an exclamation point to the end of the statement.

“No,” I agreed, letting my own voice fall to match his, and injected a hint of yearning into the single syllable. I cleared my throat. “So, we’re agreed. Never again.”

“Never again.” He nodded, holding my gaze, and I warmed at the sexual tension that crackled between us.

Wanting to end on a high note, I turned to the cabinet and plucked out a fresh flute. I took my time in pouring the champagne, listening as William’s steps rounded the island and headed toward the sofa, the kickoff in progress.

Another woman might have seen the conversation as a fail, but I knew exactly what I was doing.

I stuck my head out the back door to call Matt in, and paused, my back stiffening as I saw him take a sip from Cat’s glass. He paused, then took another. I heard her giggle and strode out to the pair. “What are you doing?” I snatched the glass from his hand and shoved it at Cat. “You hate limoncello.”

“Aw, I convinced him to give it another try. Like I said, this one is amazing. It’s like candy.” She put her hand on Matt’s arm, and I stared at the contact, hoping her fingers would turn black and rot off. “Isn’t it? Tell me that you didn’t enjoy it.”

He blushed under her attention, and I glared at him, daring him to agree. Catching my look, he straightened. “It’s, uh, still not for me. Too sour.”

“The game’s back on,” I said sharply. “We should get inside.”

“Oh, sure.” Cat stood, reaching for the bottle. She misjudged the distance, and I flinched when the bottle tilted off the table and fell toward the tile. There was a sharp crack as it landed, and I jumped back as glass and liqueur shot in all directions. Cat cursed and whirled to me with an anguished expression. “Oh, Neena, I’m so sorry. I must—” She swayed to one side, and I wished William were here to see what a mess she was.

“Don’t worry about it,” I bit out. “I’ll clean it up. Go sit in the living room and keep William company. Matt, you, too. I don’t want you to miss the game.”

“But you went to all that—that workkkk to find it.” She slurred the word and sank into a wobbly crouch, picking up glass shards and collecting them in her palm. “I’m so sowrrry.”

“Seriously, stop.” I pulled on her arm and got her upright. “I’ve got this.”

Matt stepped carefully over the broken bottle, his cast held high, as if he were wading through waist-deep water. Coaxing Cat into the living room, he led the way, pausing to assist when she tripped over the transom.

She should really go home. She couldn’t be feeling well. After cleaning up the mess, I’d suggest it.

I took my time sweeping the broken pieces into a dustpan, then went over the floor with a dry mop, then a wet one. By the time I made it back to the living room, Cat was curled into the right side of the sofa, her heels off, feet tucked underneath her. Her face looked almost gray, and I studied her carefully as I took the chair closest to William. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Not . . . great, actually.” She put a hand on her stomach.

“Would you like to lie down in the guest room? Or head home? Please, don’t feel like you have to stick out the game.” The offers were delivered perfectly, with just the right amount of concern.

“I think I will actually head home.” She reached down and grabbed her shoes.

“Really?” William leaned toward her, concern pinching his features. “Is it your stomach or your head?”

“It’s more like—” She stood, and whatever she was about to say was lost in the forward heave of her body, one that shot a projectile of bloodred vomit all over the front of William’s shirt.