I’m not sure what came over me last night when I let him kiss me and then proceeded to jump his bones like some sex-famished lunatic, but when he told me he wanted to bend me over the couch, I suddenly felt more like an object than a human being.
His words catapulted me back into reality.
For some women, being objectified is a turn-on, but it’s never been my thing.
As a person who spent the first decade and a half of her life craving connections of any kind, I can’t do the casual sex thing.
And I sure as hell can’t do it with Bennett.
With his wolf-like glint and his mile-wide cruel streak, getting mixed up with him is the last thing I need. But I still can’t get over the fact that he had someone check into me.
The thought of Bennett Schoenbach taking the time from his busy schedule to solicit someone to look into my background …
He thinks about me. When we’re not together wonders about me. He wanted so badly to know more about me that he hired someone to do his leg work.
But why?
The man could have easily deleted our string of emails and left it at that.
After all, he made it clear that he had better things to do with his time. But he took it a step further. He went beyond what most people would do.
I must have intrigued him.
I’d be lying if I said he didn’t intrigue me.
There are layers upon layers beneath his galvanized façade.
More depth than he lets on.
He has more demons than a man should.
And for that reason, I need to let him go … because no good can come from this.
Twenty
Bennett
* * *
“Bennett, aren’t you going to tell your brother and his wife ‘congratulations’?” My mother bats her mink lashes, hands cupped beneath her pointed chin as the four of us are seated beneath a crystal chandelier at Peridot Saturday morning.
Normally I’d have declined the invitation, but she lured me here under false pretenses, claiming she needed me to sign off on a corporate tax document—which she did.
Once I was finished, she asked me to join her for a “quick brunch.”
No sooner did I reluctantly oblige (due to the rumbling in my stomach and the convenience factor) did my brother and his wife mosey into the dining hall and sidle up to the table.
I’d been set up.
And for good reason.
The Schoenbach family is expanding.
Beth offers a warm smile. Errol clears his throat, gaze darting from the green hydrangea centerpiece to me and back.
“I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock,” Beth speaks to me but looks to her husband. “We weren’t expecting it to happen this quickly. The adoption agency said it could take years to get a healthy domestic infant.”
Her fuchsia lips teeter.
I don’t buy her excitement.
From the beginning of their marriage, she’s done everything she can to avoid starting a family with Errol.
First, there was the whole “we’re too young” excuse. Then it was “we have plenty of time.” When they hit thirty and apparently were in full-fledged “trying to conceive” mode, it was month after month of mysterious negative pregnancy tests. She claimed her doctor said they should wait two years before seeking the help of a fertility specialist.
Beth waited two years to the day. I imagine Errol was hounding her and she knew she was running out of excuses.
Errol, for reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, is dead set on having a family.
Beth (for reasons of her own, I presume) has never stopped taking her birth control pills.
I know this because in the middle of last year, they happened to be in town and there just so happened to be a mix up at the pharmacy. We share the same initials. The clerk at the counter grabbed her paper bag by mistake. I was halfway around the block when I realized the mistake and returned to swap out her Yasmin compact for my antirejection pills.
Not that she’s aware of any of this, but her secret is safe with me because I couldn’t give a shit less.
“It’s a boy,” Errol says. “Due the second week in May.”
I reach for my ice water.
Sip. Nod. Glance away.
In my mother’s warped mind, I suppose she thinks this is going to unite our family, bring us closer together at long last.
Beth slips her arm into Errol’s. “We’ve got a couple of names picked out, but I think we want to wait until we meet the little guy first.”
“You’re going to be an uncle, Bennett. Isn’t that lovely?” Mother asks. “Blessings abound. Too early for champagne?”
She chuckles. Beth chuckles. Their hands meet across the table.
I place my glass down, my gaze flicking across the table to my mother’s. “Yes, blessings abound. Who’d have thought you’d become a grandmother twice in one year?”
Her face twists and her mouth moves, soundless. I’ve officially rendered Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach speechless—no easy feat.
“What’s he talking about?” Errol asks.
Beth’s gaze travels around the table as she waits for one of us to explain.
“You haven’t heard?” I sit taller. “Our dear sweet sister had a daughter, and it was her dying wish that I adopt her.”
My mother squeezes her eyes tight, readjusting the napkin in her lap, gathering her composure.
“Mother, is this true?” Errol turns to her.
“She’s five, almost six,” I answer for her, seeing how the cat’s got her tongue. “Dark hair. Big blue Schoenbach eyes.”
Beth’s brows furrow. I imagine she’s putting something together—likely the wrong something.
“Probably a coincidence,” Mother finally pipes up, reaching for her water. “Plenty of people have blue eyes, Bennett.”
I hide my satisfied smirk with a sip of water just in time to glance outside and spot none other than Astaire Carraro crossing the street. From the looks of it, she’s leaving the Elmhurst Theatre. I check my watch. What the hell would she be doing there this early on a Saturday morning?
Her pale hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. A Styrofoam coffee cup is cozied in one hand, a plaid scarf is wrapped around her neck, and a slouchy suede bag hangs across her body.
She crosses the street with a group of pedestrians, heading this way.
An errant heartbeat trills in my chest.
“Apologies.” I stand, secure the button on my jacket, and push my chair in. “But something just came up.”
My mother’s brows knit. If she’s about to protest, she stops herself. I’m sure she knows it’s best that I leave now before I dredge up any more of the muck and mire she’s spent the past five years burying.
“Beth and Errol … best of luck.” I head to the lobby, grab my coat from the coat check, and dash outside, barely catching her before she makes it to the next crosswalk. “Astaire.”
She doesn’t look up or over or around. She stares straight ahead. When I get closer, I spot her white ear pods.
“Excuse me,” I squeeze between a woman walking a poodle and a man aimlessly scrolling the Wall Street Journal on his phone, and then I tap her shoulder.
She turns to glance over her shoulder just as the light flashes white and the small mob begins to cross.