Less than twelve hours ago, I was about to say I do to another man. To pledge love and fidelity to an Italian artist who likes opera and ordering tuna tartare at midnight. Instead, I spent the evening with a man who cooks killer eggs and rocks out to one of the greatest country singers of all time.
And I loved tonight.
Is something wrong with me for enjoying it?
As we head up the steps, questions clang through my mind.
Is something wrong with me for craving more hot sex from Harlan, rather than missing . . . anything with my ex right now?
Am I, well, a female cad for savoring that sweet conversation in his kitchen? Loving the tales of his daughter? Wanting to know more about his job? Wanting to share stories of mine?
That felt so date-y.
How can I do that the night of my . . .
But I stop that train. Tonight isn’t my wedding night.
It’s a night that seems to exist in its own time and place.
It’s a parallel universe night.
That’s what I tell myself as we turn into his bedroom—that I’m another me right now.
I’m the me who, evidently, wasn’t entirely sure about Silvio.
The me who wonders if maybe his lack of interest in axe-throwing was a sign.
Maybe I don’t know how to judge men or anybody else.
Certainly, I trusted the wrong people.
And tonight isn’t about forever. It’s about fun. It’s about an escape. It’s about a hot, charming, sexy man who wants to give me everything I need.
He sets me down, closes the distance between us, and cups my cheeks. “I haven’t kissed you enough tonight. I need to make up for it now.”
I lift my chin, an eager creature, ready and waiting. “I won’t object to more kissing.”
“Good. You’re about to get a boatload of it.”
A boatload is my new favorite measurement after Harlan drops his lips to mine and kisses me breathlessly. His pillowy lips sweep over mine as he wraps his arms around me, his fingers sliding through my hair.
Tugging me closer, he kisses me deeper.
It’s slow and lush, and it feels like melting into his arms.
My knees go weak as he kisses me with a luxuriousness that makes my bones sing Ella Fitzgerald tunes, that feels like a warm summer day spent lounging under the blue sky.
When he breaks the kiss, he glides his thumb along my jaw, down to my chin, cupping my face.
“Now, I believe I promised you multiples. And your pleasure has always been a favorite thing of mine,” he says.
He brings me to the bed, slides a hand between my legs, and strokes me till I’m gasping and calling his name.
Like I do again a little later, when he pulls me on top of him and tells me to ride him.
I oblige and the pleasure blots out the worries and the questions.
I’m too blissed out to think, as I fall asleep in his arms.
But when I wake, I know something sharp and clear—I can’t start something with him as much as I want to.
I need time to sort out this mess in my head and heart.
I need yoga and wine.
I need friends and me time.
Especially since he makes me coffee the next morning, and it’s life-affirmingly delicious with just a hint of cinnamon.
“You seem like a woman who likes her spice,” he says after I drain the mug.
Already, he seems to get me. What a crazy notion. “I do yoga so I can justify my wine and coffee vices,” I say, as I rinse the cup, then sigh.
“I should go,” I say, a little resigned.
“All good things must come to an end,” he says.
Do I detect a hint of wistfulness in his tone too? Pretty sure I do. And I’m pretty sure I need to do some serious lotus-ing to sort through the last twenty-four hours of my life.
I need to figure out what it means that I nearly married a man, who decided to take a honeymoon with my mother less than an hour later.
What it means that I went home with this hunk and had the best sex of my life on my non-wedding night.
What it means that I want to see him again.
“And it was very, very good, but yes, they do end,” I say, echoing the sentiment, since I don’t want him to think I’m going to Velcro myself to him on the rebound train.
He nods toward the door. “I’ll call you a car service now. And I have some clothes for you to head home in.” After he makes a call, he strides to the living room, picks up some folded items, and offers me a pair of gym shorts and a Renegades sweatshirt. With a smile of gratitude, I take off his T-shirt, and pull on the new duds. I swim in both of them, the shorts slipping down my waist.
He holds up one finger. “I’ve got something for that.” He heads into the kitchen and returns ten seconds later. He hands me an apron with snowmen printed on it. “Take this. Wrap it around your waist.”
I grin in approval. “It’s a life hack for a belt.”
He winks. “You got it.”
“It’s also a Christmas apron. You own a Christmas apron?” I ask, sort of in awe. It’s so freaking cute, I don’t know what to do with how sweet it is.
“I own many. I was born on Christmas.”
Nothing has made more sense than that. “Of course you were,” I say. I tie the makeshift apron-slash-belt and head to the entryway, pull on my cowboy boots, and grab my clutch. “Can you just toss the remains of my wedding dress?”
“Consider it done.”
“Thanks for that. And for tearing it off me.”
“Oh, I assure you, the pleasure was definitely mine.”
“And mine too.” I draw a deep breath. Here goes the hard part. I hate to do this, but I have to. “I really want to see you again. But . . .”
Harlan shoots me a resigned smile. “I know. Wrong timing.”
I smile so damn sadly. “Worst timing ever,” I say, choking up a little.
Yup, the whirligig of emotions knocks me around again. “I think I need to sort out everything that’s happened.” But I can’t stand the thought of walking away. “But what if we try again? Maybe in the fall? That feels like enough time. But duh. The fall is for football. You’ll be busy with the game.”
“I will, but I’d love to see you again. Maybe the third time will be the charm.”
I sure hope so.
When the car arrives at the curb, he sets the Indiana Jones hat on my head, then kisses me goodbye. I glance down at my get-up. “I should return all your clothes to you. Do you want me to drop them off later? Leave them on your porch?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve got plenty of aprons, shorts, and sweatshirts to keep me busy till the fall. Why don’t you return them when you’re ready for that date?”
My heart warms at that. I wish I were ready now. But I’m not. “I will.”
I leave, decked out in his clothes, my new hat, my old boots, and an apron.
I’m a mess, but I’m happier than I was yesterday evening.
And I’m a little hollow too.
Imagine that.
The Fall
10
Katie
One more lap.
I push through the cool, blue water, burst above the surface, then breaststroke my way to the end of the pool. When I hit the edge of the deep end, I slap my palm on the concrete and indulge in several long breaths.