Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I’m shook that he’s the one bringing it up. It’s been like a specter between us, never mentioned but rippling beneath the surface of every interaction.
“We said we wouldn’t,” I remind him, my breath shortening.
“Yeah, but it did happen. I just want to make sure you’re okay with everything and it didn’t make things weird. You know I cherish your friendship. I wouldn’t ever—”
“We’re good,” I cut in, having no desire to hear him wax poetic about what a great friend I am when I fuck him in my fantasies. Does he really think I can forget what happened? It was fantastic, mind-melting sex. It was like old times, but even better. Apparently absence makes the heart grow horny.
Cross-stitch that on a pillow.
“Um, Soledad and I are spending the night with Hendrix,” I say before he can tell me more about what a great platonic buddy I am. “So that’s what I’m doing with my night of freedom while the kids are gone.”
“They asked me to take them to the Old Mill before they go back to school.”
And just like that we’re back to the mundane, back to this life where we don’t kiss or fuck or spill secrets in the dark. Our one night has been washed away. Our frank conversation about the issues that destroyed our marriage left a new openness and understanding.
Affection, respect, friendliness.
All there, but the passion we shared—gone. That’s the price I paid. He told me it would be this way, and I know it’s for the best.
You can pretend it never happened.
You can be his friend, business partner, co-parent without having more.
You can stop wanting him.
Dr. Abrams says honesty is medicine to the soul. I’ll have to ask her the remedy for a lie.
He takes another two bottles from the fridge to the cart.
“Is that a new brand?” I ask, nodding toward the champagne in his hand.
“It is.” He shoots me a sly glance. “Wanna try it?”
I giggle, but walk closer. “Isn’t it bad luck to pop bottles before midnight?”
“We make our own luck.” He reaches for a wine key and gives a dare me look. I nod, grinning like a kid smuggling chocolate from the candy store.
Pop!
The sound makes me laugh, as does the stream of fizz pouring from the bottle, so bright and bubbly in the dreariness of the cellar.
“We don’t have glasses,” I gasp, stepping forward to catch some of the cold liquid on my fingertips.
“Who needs ’em.” He hoists the bottle high. “Here’s to a new year. May all your pain be champagne.”
“Did you come up with that?”
“Nope. Otis.”
“Our dog?”
“No, the song “Otis” from the Watch the Throne album. I play it when I work out at home, and Otis does love it. He probably thinks it’s his anthem.”
“Well, then may all your pain be champagne.”
He chugs straight from the bottle, his stare never unlocking from mine, heating, gentling the longer he looks at me. Wordlessly, he passes me the bottle, and I wrap my lips around the rim where his just were, the closest we’ll come to a New Year’s kiss. I gulp as long as I can before coming up for air, gasping as the effervescent bubbles caress my throat and invade my bloodstream.
“Happy New Year.” I laugh, tipping up to hug him with one arm, the crook of my elbow looped around his neck while I still grip the bottle. He stiffens for a second before relaxing against me, his hands coming to my hips, his nose dropping to my neck. He draws in a deep breath of me and exhales, his warm sigh breezing across my skin. I shudder, pressing even closer, turning my head at the same moment he turns his. Our noses are separated by mere inches. Our faces so close I can almost taste the champagne on his lips.
“Happy New Year, baby,” he whispers, his breath misting my mouth.
The air between us feels clear and yet fogged with lust and affection, like it always did before everything fell apart. In his arms, I feel like his girl again. The one who wanted him wildly and promised to love him always. To love him until the wheels fell off. These few seconds, spiked with effervescence and champagne, feel more real to me than anything has since our night in Charlotte, but a sound at the door shatters the illusion.
Vashti.
“Oh.” Her wide eyes watch us standing in each other’s arms. “Sorry to interrupt. Anthony thought…well, I—”
“You’re not interrupting,” I say, taking my time stepping away from Josiah, making sure it doesn’t look like we got caught doing something wrong. “We were just loading up the champagne.”
“Yeah.” Josiah places the last few bottles onto the cart and pushes it toward the door. “The waitstaff can start taking bottles to each table so we’re ready at midnight for the toast. Did you need something?”