44. Christian

44

CHRISTIAN

I f I got the opportunity to choose between Larry’s house in the Hamptons and Gibson’s, I’d probably go with Larry’s. Gibson’s is huge and modern with every amenity imaginable, and it’s closer to the beach, but Larry’s is just—warmer. More like a home. Gibson’s is like a really nice resort where he’s forced to make his own food.

Not that we don’t have a good weekend or I hate it or anything. And I have no complaints about any of the beds. Or the pool. The kitchen island, or the lounge chair on the pool deck. The shower, though—with its multiple jets in all the fun places—that’s the best part.

It sucks waking up Monday morning, though, knowing I have a shift at the door, and he’ll be home in his office all day.

We crashed in my apartment last night after getting back to the city late, and he played dirty trying to get me to stay an extra half hour in bed with him.

“It’s not like you’ll get fired for being late.”

“Spoken like someone who never worked a night shift in his life. ”

I gave him ten minutes, skipped shaving, and made it in time to relieve Teddy.

It’s a busy Monday morning, full of deliveries and phone calls. We’ve got two move-ins scheduled. One for the morning and one this afternoon.

With everything going on, I would have missed Gibson if he weren’t knocking on my desk while I’m on the phone with the Romanian model in 1706—the first move-in of the day. She’s freaking out about her couch not fitting on the service elevator.

I meet Gibson’s eyes and hold up a finger to indicate he should give me a second. Into the phone, I say, “We can take a look at it later if you want to have them leave it in the loading area.”

“Can’t you speak with them? I know it fits. I measured.”

“If it fits, we’ll make sure it gets to your apartment,” I tell her.

“I’m not paying for a crane,” she warns.

“Let me go check, and I’ll call you back.” I hang up before she says anything else. You give any of these people an inch and they’ll go for the whole mile. “Hey,” I say to my…boss.

“Do I need to call my mover to figure it out?” he asks.

“I’ll handle it. I saw the couch. It should fit. What’s up? Where are you headed?”

“Lunch,” he says. “With Avery Lawther.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because annulments require proof if they’re contested.”

My heart sinks about a foot. “Is this about her cheating?” I don’t like his fixation on Marianne and Avery’s supposed relationship. It makes him seem jealous, and it’s got nothing to do with me, which I realize makes me selfish, but he just spent the entire weekend convincing me I was the best thing that ever happened to him, and we’re right back here again, obsessing over the one who got away, and yet, is still firmly standing in my way .

“Cheating isn’t grounds for an annulment, and we have an open marriage anyway. I don’t even know if her relationship with Avery is like that, but I know they’re close, and if they’re close, they’ve talked, and if they’ve talked, Marianne could have mentioned the truth about our sex life.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

“I’ll be excited when you have an actual conversation with her.”

“Is that what’s bugging you?” Gibson asks as a dozen people come and go without my acknowledging them at all.

What’s bugging me is I want this over with. I want Marianne out of his life. He and I might work out, we might not, but I actually do love the guy, and living with that woman is sucking out his soul. “Just do what you have to do.”

“I will. And I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and types out a text. My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen.

Gibson

I love you

“Same,” I tell him, which results in a smile before he leaves the building.

A few minutes later, one of the movers comes to the desk and lets me know in a thick New York accent that they’re having trouble with the couch and the service elevator.

Using a hundred dollars of my own money, I tell him to make the fucking thing fit. Best investment of the day.

The afternoon move is smoother, as the Wall Street trader and his wife actually hired a reputable, licensed company who got parking permits and everything. I feel like I’m going to coast through four o’clock until I hear a soft voice clearing nearby.

Hiding my anxiety with a blank face, I nod at Marianne. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayes. How can I help?”

Jonathan, the doorman who’s taking over for me this evening slides behind the desk and claps me on the back. Marianne acknowledges him before glancing back to me. “Why don’t we take a walk once you’re done here? I’ll be just outside.”

“I—okay.”

She smiles, and I see what Gibson means when he calls it brittle. She doesn’t look as good as the last time I saw her. Like some of that buffed-to-a-shine glow is dull or missing.

I can’t decide whether to be unnerved or not. Gibson told me it’s likely she knows I’ve been in the club with him, and as we spend most of the time we’re there in his private room, it’s not a big leap to assume something’s going on. But from what he’s told me, he’s never “taken a lover.” He’s had subs and pets and casual sex with either escorts or club visitors, but his longest relationships have been with the women he’s dominated, and there were no feelings involved except maybe affection—some he was particularly fond of.

What Gibson’s not sure about, and therefore I have no clue, is how Marianne will handle knowing that what he and I have is more than casual. It’s not like his theory of her and Avery made him happy for her. It pissed him off and hurt his feelings, and now he wants their marriage annulled. I take a breath to brace myself and give Jonathan all the updates. He tells me he would have done the same thing with those movers from earlier.

It’s a warm day, so as I leave the building, I take off my jacket and swing it over my shoulder, letting it dangle from my finger. Marianne is easy to spot in her white athleisurewear on a bench directly across the street. Her hair is piled high in a carefully curated “messy” bun, and she watches my approach with a degree of curiosity on her face. She pats the bench about two feet away from her. “Have a seat.”

I give her even more space and sit three feet away. I put my jacket across my lap and my elbow on the back of the bench so I can face her.

She perches on the edge, her hands gripping the seat, knuckles white. She’s lost weight, I think, and she was extremely thin to begin with. “I’ll get straight to the point. Are you fucking my husband?”

Bracing myself does nothing when that question hits the air. While I understand the contours of their marriage, I acknowledge that what I don’t know about it is vast. “Why?” I ask.

She sends a leveling glare my way, but I keep my expression blank. “Look, I like you Christian. I always have, but don’t test my patience. Have you and Gibson been having sex?”

“I’m not following why you need to know,” I say, sticking with the not giving anything away approach.

Her shoulders stiffen. “Fine. Then I’ll tell you what I do know. Gibson is my husband. My partner. My best friend. We love each other. I probably knew I loved him before you knew your ABCs. If for any reason, you think you can take something from him—something from me , you’re gravely mistaken.”

I nod and say, “Thank you for letting me know,” which probably only pisses her off more, but she doesn’t show it.

“At first I was shocked,” she says. “Gibson with a man? It’s almost sad. But he does seem to have a thing for role play, and I imagine you’re all too eager to play the naughty secretary for him. I hope he’s compensating you well. If not, let me know, and I’ll?—”

“That’s enough,” I snap. “My sex life is none of your business, whether it involves your husband or not. I signed the same NDA all your visitors sign, and if you want to judge lifestyles, bring it on.”

“I didn’t…” she shakes her head. “I don’t mean anything hateful by it. The purpose of this conversation was to let you know that if you hurt him or try to con him, I’ll ruin your life.”

“Hm.” Maybe she’s not so bad after all. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“No? ”

“Not at all. I have everything I need, and I wouldn’t dream of compromising that.”

“But you’ll neither confirm nor deny?”

“I don’t know if you know this, but one of my closest friends is Silas Manning, and that name might not mean much to you but?—”

“I know who Silas is,” she interrupts.

“Then you know I know how you and Gibson operate.”

Her gaze goes steely and guarded. “Good. Well, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?—”

“No, and I’d appreciate it if you have any questions regarding your husband, you address them with him next time, but I’ll let him know we talked.”

“Are you serious ?”

“I am.”

“Fine. You know what? You’re welcome for the opportunity to work with and seduce my husband. It was my idea, you know.” She stands and wipes the seat of her leggings.

“I appreciate it,” I tell her honestly. “It’s truly changed my life.”

The look on her face can only be described as appalled. “What are you saying?”

I get the impression she’s not used to losing the upper hand. But I also know that she has her reasons for wanting control and autonomy, and they’re as valid as my desire for privacy. “Just that I’m grateful,” I say. “And I hope everything works out.”

Her eyes widen, alarmed. She glances across the street at Gramercy Place and fists her hands at her sides. Her enormous wedding ring grabs my attention, as it was designed to do. It, however, like Marianne’s temper, is barely hanging on to her bony little finger.

“He’s my husband,” she says, and I’m not sure it’s directed at me.

What I want to say to her is that he could have been. Maybe even a month ago, he still could have been. My worst fear, however, is that this ripple of realization moving through her might be enough to change the tide.

I take a deep breath and remain on the bench as she jaywalks across Park Avenue and disappears into the building.

I pull my phone from my pants pocket and call Gibson.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t see you when I got home.”

“When did you get home?”

“Just after two.”

“Oh, I had to go open the loading dock for more movers. Must’ve just missed you,” I say, already totally distracted by the casual sound of his voice.

“Are you in your apartment?” he asks.

“No.” Focus, Christian. “Look, I’m actually calling because Marianne just sat me down for a talk?—”

“She what?”

“She’s on her way up now, I think. She’s convinced we’re having sex, and she wanted to remind me not to try and take advantage of the situation.”

“Glad to hear she’s looking out for me.”

“She’s upset,” I tell him in terms of a heads up.

“Makes sense. She and Avery broke up in the Hamptons last month.”

“What?”

“And you thought I was being paranoid,” he says.

“So they were really together? What about all the other women?”

“Her baby subs, you mean? I would never presume to know exactly what Marianne is thinking, and you probably shouldn’t either.”

“I won’t. I promise. ”

“I’m planning to have a conversation with her when she gets up here. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring my disappointment. “If I go out, I’ll share my location. ”

“You will?”

His surprise is cute. “If you need me, come find me.”

“I love you,” he says after a short pause.

“I love you, too, Gibson.”

I hang up.

Staring once again at Gramercy Place, I imagine Marianne’s ascent up the elevator like a wrecking ball poised to demolish the entire thing.

It’s possible my entire future turns on this moment.