I spent dinner reading over Gabriella’s many text messages. She sent me pictures of her jugs (this was not a euphemism—she was launching new water bottles for women who went to the gym) and her modeling new lingerie she got for free as promotional material for her blog.
I answered curtly, but I answered nonetheless.
There was no point avoiding her the entire ten days. Not only was it cruel, but also unnecessary.
It wasn’t like I had many people to talk to, with my companion hating my guts and a growing number of people on the ship thinking I had two penises and was married to a thieving hooker who gave me gonorrhea. (I noticed Brendan and the Warren couple were sharing a table at the dinner buffet.)
Tennessee was nowhere to be seen, but knowing her, she did not miss the free dinner and kept to herself.
Usually, I studied the itinerary during cruises and planned my days and evenings ahead. Not this time. I was too distracted to be my usual, calculated self. I winged it and walked around aimlessly after dinner.
I ended up in the arcade.
The past seven years, every time I got on a cruise with my family (and oftentimes with a designated girlfriend), I hadn’t had the chance to enjoy the arcade.
It was considered juvenile, and I was in a different chapter in life. A chapter where I played golf and tennis with my father and discussed world politics and the stock market at the library with Wyatt and his balding friends.
I didn’t know when would be the next time I could do this uninterrupted and unobserved by everyone who knew me.
The average age at the arcade was fifteen, and that was only because I brought it up from twelve with my own thirty-one years. Apparently, there was another arcade on the cruise ship, which served alcohol, and that’s where most people chose to be. Everyone around me was at least two heads shorter, with tie-dyed clothes, gelled hair, and disproportioned amounts of cologne and perfume.
I started with some NASCAR racing, switched to Donkey Kong, and then hit the Galaxian. I burned about an hour before I noticed the place was suspiciously emptying out.
Or, to be more specific, everyone was moving toward one side of the arcade, huddling around the air hockey table in clusters of fours and fives.
An air hockey connoisseur, myself, I headed over to the table to see what all the fuss was about.
I should have known from the start the only person with the ability to attract the attention of every male on this cruise was Tennessee Turner.
She leaned forward on one side of the air hockey table, her breasts spilling from her lacy dress like fountain soda at a loosely regulated movie theater.
She pressed her finger pad to striker by the nub, like she couldn’t be bothered with holding the entire thing, stopping the puck from slipping into her slit.
I glanced over at her competitor and found a man who looked to be in his late twenties, trimmed and decent-looking, who actually paid attention to the game and not her jugs (this was a euphemism, by the way).
My pulse quickened. I ignored the weird sensation, chalking it up to the fact I was spending ten days with the village’s official idiot/harlot in the middle of the ocean.
They went on for ten minutes. She smoked the poor guy, then another dudebro—younger, this time—took his place while the twenty-something man retired and returned a few moments later with a cocktail for the lady. And by ‘the lady’ I mean the current bane of my existence.
She wiped the floor with dudebro number two, too, and then with the girl who replaced him, and the middle-aged man who stepped in—he was someone’s dad and had been called to save the day.
Tennessee was indisputably talented at air hockey, I remembered from our adolescent years. In fact, there was only one person she hadn’t beaten in the entire town.
Me.
Even though we were supposed to keep away from one another tonight, I couldn’t turn down competition when one presented itself. So when more and more people gathered and begged to play with Tennessee, I stepped forward, in front of her, from the other side of the air hockey table, and dropped three Benjamins at the center.
“Wanna make it interesting?”
“This, coming from the most boring man on planet Earth.” She pretended to blow on her fingernails, like they were on fire, a sarcastic smile on her face. “What are you offering?”
“Bet I could win this next game with one arm behind my back.”
Everyone around us sucked in a breath.
Tennessee straightened her posture, giving me her all-business look, which I’d been used to from Jerry & Sons. I’d secretly loved it when she waited my booth. Any crumbs of attention from her were welcome.
She arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Weiner, I’m surprised.”
“Why’s that, Mrs. Weiner?”
“I thought I told you to leave me alone tonight.”
“That was before it came to my attention that you were the main event at the arcade.” I made a point of dropping my gaze to her cleavage, letting her know I didn’t only mean her air hockey skills.
She threw me a sex kitten smirk. It killed me that I wanted her and killed me even more that I couldn’t have her, even after I’d been given every advantage to make her mine.
I was the one with the money, the impeccable reputation, and harem of prospective girlfriends. And yet, I couldn’t get more than an eye roll from this woman.
“Honey, I thought it was established you can’t handle me.”
Low whistles emerged from the thickening crowd forming around us. It seemed like half the goddamn cruise ship was watching. I waited for the dread of being caught doing something less than perfect to sour my insides, but it didn’t happen.
I’d never felt more alive than I did in that moment.
“Try me,” I drawled.
“Make that three hundred a grand.” She lurched her chin to the money between us.
“And when you lose?”
“I won’t lose.”
“And if you lose?” I amended. “What do I get?”
“Your pick.”
“I’ll get to pick what you wear for the remainder of the cruise. Take you out shopping and put you in what I want to see you in. I’ll dress you…” I paused strategically, “and undress you as I please.”
The crowd hollered in elation (pun intended, obviously). I was surprised at their responsiveness for a moment until remembering our sham marriage…
Her sharp hazel eyes, the lovely shade of a heart of a tree, flared for a fraction of a moment, before she fixed another sneer on those bright red lips.
“As far as I’m concerned, you can ask me to walk around naked until we touch land again. You’re not winning, so I don’t really care what you want from me.”
“Is that a deal?” I arched an eyebrow.
She gave me a quick nod.
The crowd cheered.
I collected the money between us, stuffing it into my pocket and reached to shake on it. Her hand was cold and clammy. I withdrew from her, hating the sensation her simple handshake had on me.
“Seven rounds or first to score seven points,” I laid down the rules.
“Yeah, I know how to play air hockey, pal.”
She annihilated me the first two rounds, but only because I let her. I wanted to build her confidence, and also to ensure that she thought she had a fair chance. By the third round, I stepped into the game. In our youth, Tennessee and I had always found ourselves competing in air hockey at the local arcade. We were simply the best at it. Rob used to be oblivious to how I looked at his girlfriend while I played with her. Probably because he was busy showing off to the other girls his claw machine talents—that bastard always got the teddy. He had a secret technique he wouldn’t share.
I won the third, fourth, and fifth rounds, and planned to see where the wind blew with the sixth one. Tennessee was good—but I was better, and I also wanted to change her entire wardrobe and bring her back to Fairhope a new, respectable woman and get the brownie points for it.
The perfect Dr. Costello gave Tennessee Turner a makeover and now his sister-in-law’s sibling looks like someone we might let babysit our kids.
“You’ve gotten rusty,” Tennessee commented from across the table, blocking the puck I sent spinning toward her and sliding it back to me with force. She was panting.
“You’ve gotten cocky,” I replied. She wanted to shatter my cool exterior. She was in for a great disappointment.
“Yeah, well, the past few years were just a breeze.” She blew a lock of blonde hair that escaped her hairspray and fell across her eye. “So naturally, I let my guard down.”
“Are you going to complain about your life every time we talk?” I sent the puck careening her way at the speed of light. “Because in that case, I’m not the only boring one here.”
“You should have more empathy for me, you know,” she huffed. “Not all of us have perfect lives.”
I have a lot more to offer you than empathy, if you’d just descend from the cloud of self-pity you’re stuck in.
“Aren’t you two married?” a confused teenager in the crowd wondered aloud, scratching a pimple open on his cheek.
“My life is not perfect,” I said, blocking the puck she sent my way. Damn. She had some moves on her. I forgot how fun she was to be around when we were actually…well, left to be our real selves.
“Of course it is.” She let out a throaty, sexy laugh. “Why’d you dump poor Gabriella? Did you not like the test drive?”
“We wanted different things,” I said curtly.
“What do you want?” Tennessee asked, trying to distract me and slide that puck into my hole.
You, I thought bitterly. I want you.
But I didn’t have nearly enough alcohol in my system to say it, and anyway, I wans’t sure I really, truly wanted her. I mean, I wanted her, but in the same way I wanted four cinnamon rolls. It would feel good to have, but might kill you afterwards.
“Not sure.” I leaned a hip against the air hockey table instead, making a show of getting bored. And, while I was at it, sent the puck straight into her hole. It landed inside in a clean strike. She groaned, hanging her head down as I continued, “I always figured when I found her, I’d know. Four-two to me, by the way.”
She grabbed the puck and placed it on the table again, delivering the strike of a woman possessed by the devil. “You’re getting a little old.”
“Aren’t you nearly thirty?” I asked conversationally. “Did you know that any pregnancy of a woman thirty-five and above is called geriatric pregnancy?”
“You’re a real smooth talker, aren’t you, Mr. Weiner?”
People chuckled around us. I had to remember we had an audience. It helped with keeping my heartrate—and that thing inside my pants—in check.
I won another round, making it five-two to me, and wasn’t in the mood to offer her some grace in a form of letting her win a round.
“You’ve always hated me,” I accused. “Why?”
“That’s bull.” Her mouth hung open in outraged shock. “You’re the one who always looked down on me. Even before I started dating Rob.”
“How so?”
“Who is Rob?” someone asked.
She put the puck back on the table, sent it my way, and nailed it straight into my goal.
Fine. Maybe I was a little distracted.
“Five-three to you.” She winked at me suggestively. “And I once overheard you telling him you thought he and I had nothing in common and that he shouldn’t ask me out. You said girls like me are a lot of work.”
I didn’t want to tell her I had told him that because I’d had a horse in that race.
“And you were.” I shrugged, putting the puck back in its place and starting another round.
“You wouldn’t look me in the eye after I started dating him. You couldn’t bear that he didn’t listen to you, could you?”
Yeah. That’s what it was. Sure.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” I sent the puck spinning again.
“Guess so, but that thing everyone called a mistake?” She held my gaze, stopping the game for a few seconds. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t replace him for anything in this world.”
“Good for you.”
I slammed the puck with my striker and won again. “Six-three.”
I had one more round to win before I put her in a sensible dress and flat shoes. I was probably the only man on Earth who wanted to see the woman he desired dressed like a senior librarian, and not because of some kinky fantasy.
“So how are you going to handle an actual pair of jeans? And I don’t mean the Daisy Dukes kind. Is your body allergic to fabric?” I wondered.
“It’s allergic to nonsense. That’s why you give me hives.”
“I love our love,” I cooed sarcastically.
She made gagging sounds. But she was still here.
“Don’t chicken out on me,” I warned.
“A bet is a bet.”
With that, I delivered the final strike. I straightened my posture, an unbearably smug smirk decorating my face.
“Seven-three.”
The crowd around us clapped and whistled, cheering for me. Tennessee’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out of it. She looked genuinely confused.
“You lose,” I drawled. “Again. You should be getting used to it by now, shouldn’t you, Mrs. Weiner?”
The jest was peppered with a wink, designed to give her a chance to throw another verbal curveball my way. I was even fully prepared to let her have the last word. But she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she squared her shoulders, stepped back, congratulated me on my win, her voice quivering around the words, and ran away.
She wasn’t in the stateroom when I got back from nursing two whiskeys and a headache at the bar. It was eleven-thirty, and even though going to bed early and letting her prowl the ship and sulk like the crazy woman she obviously was was tempting, I couldn’t do it.
I groaned as I traipsed out of my room, stumbling upon Mr. and Mrs. Warren, who’d just returned from the casino, looking lush and unfairly lucky.
“Where’s your little wife?” Mrs. Warren sneered with derision, seconds away from blowing a raspberry at me. I swear if she had a heart attack right here, right now, I’d piss all over my Hippocratic Oath and let her kick the bucket.
“Admiring her flawless face and knockout figure in front of the mirror in our room,” I bit back, still holding a Cyprus-sized grudge against her for what she’d done to Tennessee. “Being with a woman of such beauty is a blessing and a curse.”
“Well, I don’t see no ring on either of y’all’s fingers.”
“That’s right. We’re updating the diamonds in her ring, so we had to send it to South Africa. Best 500k I’ve ever spent.”
“And what about your ring?” She parked her hands on her waist, while Fred waited for her inside the room, holding the door open.
“Mine was lost while we were playing a very grown-up game at the buffet today. Let me know if you find it in your dessert tomorrow morning, will you?”
With that, I proceeded to the elevators.
I looked for Tennessee (almost) everywhere. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of that woman. One second she was the ball-busting, mouthy little thing I’d grown to admire, fear, and want to bed the past decade-and-a-half, and the next, she was sensitive, withdrawn, and shy. Almost like the girl who’d dated Rob.
I knew a better man—or maybe just a man who hadn’t spent his entire life with an imaginary golden crown on his head—would’ve simply owned up to what’d happened in the past and cleared the air.
Growing up, I’d always had something for Nessy Turner. How could I not? In my mind, she was supposed to have been my high school sweetheart. Beautiful, kind, and dignified, with straight A’s and a spot on the debate team (no surprises there).
Even when I’d found out that Rob had a boner for her, I didn’t do the usual Cruz thing and step back. We’d rock-paper-scissored it, three times, in fact, and I ended up winning.
But then Rob went ahead and asked her out anyway, beating me to the punch and revealing the first sign that he was a horse-crap friend in the process.
After that, there was nothing I could do about it because Tennessee told him yes.
She. Told. Him. Yes.
She didn’t like me, and that was a big enough blow to wreck my teenage ego and make me dislike her for the rest of high school.
Of course, in retrospect, I’d wondered.
Wondered what would have happened if I’d been the one to ask her out first.
Would she have said yes?
I suspected I knew the answer to that.
She didn’t like Rob all that much, yet she still gave him a shot. He’d taken her for an ice cream downtown and secretly laughed in the locker room about how he hoped to hell she didn’t order more than two scoops because his ass had been broke that week.
I knew I never would have let us end up in the position she and Rob were in. I’d have never taken her virginity the way he had, unprotected, publicly, with people watching.
And if I had, for whatever reason—if we’d been drunk or high or just completely witless one unfortunate night—I would have owned up to it and married her.
I would have.
But I wasn’t the one she chose.
So, this was my truth.
My two-whiskeys-and-a-beer truth.
And I was taking it to the grave with me.
I ended up finding Tennessee on one of the decks, leaning against the pulpit, watching the black waves crash against the massive vessel. Her hair had submitted to the wind, dancing around her face in ashy, frosty tendrils.
She hugged herself with her back to me.
It physically hurt to see her like this. So vulnerable and out of place.
Not wanting to startle her, I spoke before I advanced toward her.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t turn around to look at me. Instead, her head shook a little, the gesture so light I couldn’t even tell if it was intentional.
“What for?”
“Being an idiot.”
“Consider yourself forgiven. Most men are.”
“That’s no excuse.”
I came to stand beside her and saw that her face was full of tears. Black mascara crawled across her cheeks like spiderwebs, and her nose was red, swollen, and puffy.
She looked less than gorgeous, and my chest felt full and warm. She looked…real. Without all the plastic smiles and dramatic eyeliner.
“I know today has been challenging for you, and—”
“Don’t,” she cut me off.
“Don’t what?”
“Do the whole nice guy shtick. I can’t handle it right now.”
I pursed my lips. She’d had a disastrous day, with a slime ball who’d put his hand on her, a woman who accused her of being a thief—and a whore—Rob, who for reasons undisclosed, took it upon himself to bypass her and speak to their son for the first time ever, and then the cherry on the shit cake was my beating her—then telling her she must be used to losing.
Real class move, Costello.
“For the record, I don’t think you’re a loser,” I said somberly.
“Why?” She spun her head my way, the tears drying on her face caking her distorted makeup into place. “You were right. Hit the nail right on the head. I am a loser. In fact, I can’t even recall the last time I won something. Anything. I’m an embarrassment to my family and will bring shame on my son once he grows up and realizes just how much of a cluster pluck I am. I don’t have a real job, any prospects, or anything to look forward to. And you’re also right that I’m bitter about it. I’m an idiot, a failure, and I—”
I kissed the living hell out of her.
Pulled her into my embrace, circled my arms around her, shielding her from the world, from the wind, from herself, and did what I should have done all those years ago—I put my lips on hers, hoping to hell she wasn’t going to reject me.
Her lips were cold, her nose was freezing, but I didn’t care, because she didn’t push me away. She smelled of her coconut-and-marshmallow cocktail and that high school girl I used to follow with my gaze under my ball cap when no one was watching.
I wanted to open my mouth, dart my tongue out, taste more of her, all of her, but I was afraid she’d withdraw.
She was skittish and guarded all over, like a stray cat, her instincts frayed. She was ready to run any second when it came to men.
So instead of digging my fingers into the ass I’d dreamed about ever since I was sixteen, or pushing a knee between her thighs and making her ride me to Orgasmville, I concentrated on nibbling my way softly from her mouth to her neck, nuzzling my nose against her ear, giving the spot under her earlobe a quick lick, and then blowing air on it to make her shudder.
She seemed to like it, her fingers curling around my dress shirt as she swayed into me. There was something innocent—almost chaste—about the encounter, and it sent a rush of desire through my veins that made my body go haywire.
My cock was so hard I was pretty sure it could tear through my pants if I wasn’t careful. I moved from her neck and her ear to her cheek, the tip of her nose, and crown of her hair, peppering all of them with feather-light kisses that made me ache.
It was weird, I knew.
Intimate more than it was hot.
But I felt like it was exactly what she needed, and after all these years, I thought it was better to have her on her terms than not at all.
“I’m telling you, buddy. These two have the most dysfunctional relationship I’ve ever seen. Did you know he cheated on her with her sister and has two dicks and she gave him gonorrhea? Then he choked her with a black pearl necklace and gave her blisters.”
Our heads reared back in unison to follow the source of this nonsense. We both looked up to see Brendan and a male companion drinking beer on the patio of one of the open bars, looking down at us.
The male companion frowned.
“Wait, her sister has two dicks?”
“No, he has two dicks and cheated with her sister. But she cheated, too. First, I think,” replied Brendan.
“Did you know she’s a thief? And Ramona says he’s some mob guy. Blood diamond stuff. Business all over South Africa.”
Both Tennessee and I burst into laughter, still holding each other close.
“See? They’re shameless. I told you. Most dysfunctional relationship ever,” Brendan cemented.
“You’re not wrong about that one, Brendan.” Tennessee hugged her midriff as she stepped toward the elevators, pulling away from me, and I followed her. “But it’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs.”
“You were right here, sugar pie,” Brendan drawled in his Southern accent.
“We were in the middle of something,” I pointed out to her, my dick nodding in my pants in agreement.
“Consider it the ending. Just got my wits back.”
“Dammit,” I muttered, following her like a lovesick puppy.
We entered the elevator. I was about to turn to her and persuade her with my tongue when another couple squeezed in and joined us.
Double dammit.
Silence filled the small space while the man beside me slid his hand over the curve of the woman’s ass.
At least one of us was getting some tonight.
When we reached our floor, I let Tennessee slip out first, then put my hand on the small of her back when we made our way to our room. I’d now successfully moved from acquaintance to someone who touched her occasionally, and I wasn’t about to give up my new privileges.
“You can drop your hand and the charade anytime now, there’s no one here.” She tried combing her hair back into its usual state.
“No charade. Is wanting to spend time with you a crime?”
“Depends on the state. As far as I’m aware, Nevada’s the only place with legalized prostitution.”
“Stop that right now.”
I hoped to hell Mr. and Mrs. Warren weren’t coming out for a late night snack, because I was bound to strangle both of them if they showed up and did something Tennessee found triggering.
“Let me guess—you want to spend time with me without clothes.”
“Clothes are okay, but not the ones you choose to wear.” I cracked a smile.
“Funny. I always thought it was women who wanted to change men, not vice versa.”
“I don’t want to change you. I want to help you discover your full potential.”
Great.
Now I sounded like her school advisor. Or her pimp.
Either way, it was patronizing. I opened the door, then locked it behind us. She strutted toward the bathroom, her ass swaying from side to side. Back to being a sex kitten.
I couldn’t keep up with this woman’s moods and personalities.
“No one asked for your help, Dr. Costello. Go be someone else’s Captain Save-a-Ho.”
She slammed the bathroom door in my face.
“I’m not coming out until you go to bed. We’re not continuing our little mistake,” she announced once she was in the safety of the bathroom.
I plastered my forehead to the door. “What makes you think it was a mistake?”
I was pathetic, even—and especially—in my own eyes.
Why was I bothering?
I had so many other women to choose from back at home.
“I don’t do one-night stands,” she called out from the other side of the door. “Might sound surprising, even old-fashioned to some, but that’s the way I roll.”
“Doesn’t have to be a one-night stand,” I heard myself say. “Unless the gonorrhea thing is true.”
“Just as long as no one finds out about it, right?”
I groaned.
She had me there. Not that I was ashamed, but…
“Your parents won’t approve, either,” I pointed out.
“No,” she agreed. “Which brings me to my previous statement—no hanky-panky. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret.”
“You’re an infuriating woman.” I pressed my fist against the door.
“And you should be used to hearing a ‘no’ every now and then,” she deadpanned.
I heard her brushing her teeth and removing her makeup using that battery-operated thing that gave your face a deep clean.
“And another thing,” she added, knowing full well I was still outside, waiting for her to grace me with her presence. “There better be a pillow barrier between us when I get out.”
“Like hell, sweetheart.” I withdrew from the door, glaring at it like it had personally wronged me. “You want a barrier, make it yourself.”
With that, I went on to rip the swan-shaped towel waiting on our bed next to tomorrow’s itinerary and tossed them along with the red rose petals into the trash.
Mrs. Weiner didn’t deserve anything nice tonight.
