The time between Thanksgiving and when we left for Philadelphia flew by. I was always at work before everyone else, and almost without fail I closed the office every day. I put out fires, I trained Monica, I even did payroll a few more times. It was crazy, hectic, impossibly frantic. There were days when I barely saw daylight, ate every meal straight from the microwave, and the only time I sat down was to pee. And even then, I was reading e-mails. Please, like everyone doesn’t bring their phone to the bathroom to read?
And through the crazy, the hectic, the impossibly frantic life that I was leading, I was getting my shit done. I was not only handling it, I was actually now ahead of the curve. I’d turned some kind of time management corner and was holding my own. I walked not with a drag but with a bounce; I rushed from meeting to meeting and job site to job site with a renewed sense of purpose. I was tired, but I was happy in a weird way. I was getting the swing of things. I was still stressed, but it was a good stressed.
I was ahead of schedule on the hotel project, and I was even able to start working on a few Christmas projects. If you were very wealthy, you didn’t do your own Christmas decorating—heavens, no! You hired it out. Initially I thought that with Jillian being gone I’d need to contact some of the other design firms we were good neighbors with to farm some of it out, but I couldn’t do it. I needed to make sure that everything at Jillian Designs functioned the same way as when Jillian was actually in residence. So I slept less. And got to work on decking the halls with boughs of Red Bull.
Simon was home. His trip to Plymouth should have kept him busy until right before the reunion, but now he had some free time. Something he usually didn’t have much of. But now he did. After coming home one night to a present in his own shoe from Clive, he agreed that instead of spending a few nights a week over in Sausalito, it would be easier to just move out there and bring the little shoe pooer. So Clive was now a country cat. And he had a stay-at-home daddy.
The two of them had a ball, exploring the new house and spending hours looking out the window wall. Clive had never had so much room, and he relished all the closets and beds he could hide in and under. Simon took over the nightly game of Hide the Pounce, something that I unfortunately didn’t have time for anymore. One chilly night I came home late and found Simon holding Clive up to the window, making paw prints where it was foggy and talking about how far away the city of San Francisco was.
He grinned when he saw me, but didn’t stop talking about how cold the water was and how Clive should not try to swim back to the city. Clive nodded sagely and pressed another print to the window.
Now that Simon had so much free time, he was biking most days, sending me texts and pictures from all over Marin County. He had a favorite restaurant, a favorite place to get coffee in the morning, a favorite deli; he had a new favorite everything.
For the record, his favorite position remained whichever one I was in when he was inside me. And while I was exhausted most nights, I still managed to sneak in naked times with my Wallbanger. Such a hardship.
And with all this free time came unexpected visits. Office pop-ins. Several phone calls a day. He was around all the time, and didn’t seem to understand why I wasn’t around all the time. He logically got that I was working more than ever, and that I was happy. Didn’t stop him from trying to pull me back into bed each morning.
And shit, that was hard. Because it is incredibly difficult to get out of bed every morning when you have a rumpled Wallbanger holding on to your pajamas. Because, and I say this with pride, his favorite position remained whichever one I was in when he was inside me.
Seriously, though, he was around all the time. He’d also reminded me several times that I was not. Hmm.
Jillian and Benjamin were leaving Italy and heading to Prague, planning on spending a few days in the city and then exploring the Czech countryside. I marveled over the pictures she e-mailed me, letting her tell me all about the amazing time she was having with her husband. She was relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen her in years, and she was sure to tell me how much she appreciated her “office dynamo” handling everything so that she could take this time with her new husband. It was weird hearing her refer to Benjamin as her husband; they’d been engaged for so long he’d been her fiancé the entire time I’d known her.
I’d asked her once what made them finally decide to go ahead and set a date. We’d been sitting in the conference room, sampling cakes the baker had brought by one morning, trying to decide which one would be the wedding cake. I caught her looking down at her ring, smiling a secretive smile, and I asked her.
“I don’t know. One day I just looked at him and knew I was ready to be his wife. I’d built my business, I’d accomplished all of the goals I’d set in my twenties and a bunch I’d set in my thirties, and it just felt like the right time.” She grinned, pulling the chocolate buttercream with raspberry filling back toward her for another taste. I had a feeling this one was going to be the winner. It was. “Plus, have you seen his ass? Oh, look who I’m asking, the president of the Benjamin Fan Club,” she joked.
“I’ll have you know I won that election fair and square. It’s not my fault Mimi and Sophia didn’t know we were voting that day. Fair and square,” I explained.
Speaking of my friends, all was quiet on the Sophia and Neil front. They hadn’t seen each other since Game Night, and Mimi was planning to try again before Christmas—something I was trying to talk her out of. But when she invited them both to her Christmas party, neither one tried to get out of it. In fact, they both seemed to be looking forward to it. Who knew who they’d bring this time? They both continued to date, and often, but it rarely went beyond to a second date.
Color me surprised.
In order to jet off to Philadelphia for an entire weekend in the middle of one of my busiest seasons, I worked practically round the clock, evenings, and Saturdays to clear my schedule enough so that I could leave everything behind and just be with Simon. It was never a question of not going; there was no way on earth I was going to let him do this alone.
He was so nervous.
The night before we left he had a nightmare, and today on the plane he barely spoke. When he did speak, he was curt and quick. When the plane touched down, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to apologize right now for being a dick this weekend, in case I am. I’m not planning on it, but if it does happen, I’m sorry.”
I patted his hand, and kissed his nose. “Apology preaccepted. Now show me your hometown— I can’t wait to see your Liberty Bell.”
He half smiled, and took my hand as we left the plane.
• • •
Philadelphia was a city I’d never been to, and I wished I had even more time to explore. But this weekend wasn’t about indulging my reenactment of the Rocky Run up the steps of the art museum, but more about me being wherever and whatever Simon needed. Besides, apparently they moved the Rocky statue from the top of the stairs off to the side anyway. Pffft.
We picked up the rental car, threw our bags into the back, and headed to the hotel. With the trip cross country, it was already dark by the time we got to the part of town Simon grew up, but he lit up when he began to call out places he recognized. And places he didn’t.
“When did that bike shop close down? Oh man, this was the place I got my first bike without training wheels. Why is a minimall there; when did that go up?”
“When’s the last time you were here, Simon?” I asked.
“Um, a few weeks after graduation, I think,” he said distractedly, his eyes going back and forth on both sides of the street.
“You really haven’t been here since you were eighteen?” I asked, astonished.
“Why would I have been back?” he asked, making a turn and taking us right into the middle of the town square.
When Simon said he grew up in Philadelphia, that wasn’t technically true. He grew up in one of the many feeder communities, the smaller townships that made up the outlying areas. I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know he came from Moneyville, USA.
His hometown was plush. And darling in the way all northeastern towns looked to anyone who grew up in California. There was something to be said for growing up in a town that was almost three hundred years older than the one I grew up in. Most of the houses we passed could only be described as estates.
The town square was quaint, with tidy little shops framing City Hall in the center. Two story mostly, with a few turreted three stories on each corner. People were shopping as the lightest dusting of snow fell, sparkling on the wrought-iron railings and—oh my God—honest to goodness real iron horse head hitching posts! Like, where people used to tie their horses to! Like, in olden times!
“Simon, we have to walk around a little, look how cute your town is! Look at all the shops, and, oh, look at the Christmas tree in the middle!” I cried, pointing. In front of City Hall was a large tree, bedecked with red bows, gold ornaments, and white lights.
“Babe, they put up a Christmas tree in front of City Hall in San Francisco every year.”
“This is different; this is so stinking cute! Everything is so old! What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an old Gothic house with a plaque outside. Each window had a wreath; the windows upstairs even had candles too. It was so pretty, it must be of some historical significance.
“It used to be . . . Yep, it’s still a Subway.”
“Station?” I asked, confused.
“No, like the sandwich shop,” he replied, laughing at my fallen expression. “I can’t believe it’s still open; no one eats there. Not when there’s Little Luigi’s. You still want a cheesesteak?”
“Am I breathing?”
“One cheesesteak coming up,” he said, turning the car down the last corner of the town square. “You gotta understand, everything here is old. Every building used to be something else; every building gets reused for something else,” he explained, pulling into one of the parking spots that was diagonal along the square. “Except for that stupid strip mall where my bike shop used to be.”
He turned off the car and walked around to my side. Stepping out, I breathed in the snowy air, feeling it prickle in my lungs. The cold felt good after the long plane ride, and it was nice to stretch my legs a bit as we walked down the block.
As we walked, he pointed out the different shops: the bakery where they made the best sugar cookies, the place where he got his new shoes every year for school, and as we walked and he talked, he seemed less and less nervous.
“Thank God, it’s still here. Little Luigi’s,” he said, where there was a line out the door into the cold night. It moved fast though, and soon we were inside. It was a hole in the wall, with only three tables and a counter. They were grilling the steaks on a big black griddle, peppers and onions sizzling. People were barking out orders, wrapping sandwiches, and the smell was heavenly.
When it was our turn, Simon ordered for both of us. Two steaks, cheese, onions, mushrooms, with both sweet and hot peppers on the side. And the funniest thing happened. When he ordered? This accent came out of nowhere. I’d never heard it before. Not New York or New Jersey; this was very specific. As I listened to everyone around me, they all had it. Some thicker than others, and Simon’s was fairly light, but it had definitely popped up. Huh.
Grabbing a handful of napkins, he spied a family leaving one of the tables and was able to nab it. Leaving me with the table, he went back up for the sandwiches. I’d seen Simon order from a man with ten baskets of spring rolls on his head in Saigon. I’d seen him order sausages from a giant woman in an apron in Salzburg. And nowhere had I ever seen him more at home than he was in this sandwich shop in suburban Philadelphia.
With a wide grin, he returned to the table. He showed me how to spread out the paper to catch the drips, added salt and pepper, then how to hold it so it didn’t spill out over the sides. Then he bit down, and pure bliss came over his face. And he made a sound I’d only ever heard him make once. And he was very happy when he made it.
• • •
“Simon Parker?” a voice said from behind, and he turned with a mouthful of cheesesteak. He quickly swallowed, and stood. An older woman with a sleek silver chignon and a strand of pearls that could choke a horse was looking at him in amazement.
“Mrs. White?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.
“Oh my goodness, it is you! I never thought we’d see you around here again!” She pulled him into a hug. “Where in the world have you been? Last I heard, you were off to Stanford.”
“Yes, ma’am, and I’m still out on the West Coast—San Francisco, actually. How are you, how’s the family?”
“Oh fine, fine! Todd’s with the firm now and practicing corporate law. He’s married, with their first little one on the way, and Kitty just got married last summer, and— You must be here for the reunion; I just can’t believe it’s you!” she said again, hugging him tight. He rocked forward on his feet, off balance, while I looked on, grinning.
She spied me over his shoulder, and looked me up and down with shrewd interest. “And who might this be, Simon?”
He ran his hand through his hair nervously again. “This is Caroline Reynolds. Caroline, this was our neighbor from next door, Mrs. White.” He patted me on the shoulder so hard that I almost took a nosedive into what remained of my cheesesteak. Which was basically just a grease stain.
I reached a hand out to her. “Mrs. White, it’s lovely to meet you. You must be the one to go to for stories about how much trouble Simon used to get into, am I right?”
“I remember everything, Caroline—my mind is like a steel trap,” she said, tapping her temple. “But tonight I forgot to remind Arthur to grab the chicken out of the freezer, so it’s hoagies in the TV room,” she said, waving at the counter man who was holding up two torpedo-looking bundles.
Looking at Simon carefully, she patted him on the cheek. “Simon, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. You’ll stop by while you’re in town? I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, Mrs. White, I’m not sure if we’ll have time since the reunion is tomorrow night, and before that I was going to show Caroline around a bit more. We’re leaving on Sunday, so—”
“Lunch.”
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Lunch tomorrow. You have to eat, right?”
He nodded. I smiled. I liked her.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll see you at twelve.” She nodded, settling the matter. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Arthur you’re coming over tomorrow; he’ll be so pleased!”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he agreed.
“I’ve got to run, see you then!” she called over her shoulder, heading out into the night.
“She’s great,” I remarked, watching as Simon balled up the remaining papers and napkins and threw them into the wastebasket.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“That was good,” I said, patting my stomach.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“So what now?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at the sudden change. The nerves were back.
“What? Oh, um, let’s head to the hotel, get checked in? Yep, let’s do that,” he said, ushering me out of the shop.
We walked silently to the car in the lightly falling snow. This trip was a big deal for him, and I’d just realized what lunch meant: he was going to be next door to the house he grew up in. For the first time in ten years.
He reached for my hand, and into his it went.
• • •
I took a few minutes to clear out my in-box when we got back to the hotel. I was trying really hard to leave the office behind, so I limited it to a few moments here and there, answering only the questions I couldn’t put off until Monday. Then I took a shower, wanting to get rid of the airplane and the cheesesteak smell, both of which lingered. Still damp, I padded out to the bedroom in my towel with another on my head, finding Simon lying on the bed. Hands clasped behind his head, he was staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey, how was your shower?”
“Fantastic, they’ve got one of those rain showers? You should take one before bed.”
“I might.”
Silence fell once more, and I crossed to the bed, sitting down beside him.
“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s nice, seeing the place you came from.”
“Sure,” he said, looking at me for the first time.
I laid my hand on his chest gently. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispered back.
I leaned down slowly, watching his eyes. I gently grazed my lips over his, light and quick. When he didn’t pull away, I kissed him again. He let me, my lips taking his for a third time. I pressed a little harder, and he let me in. I stroked his tongue with my own, feeling him respond as we tangled and twisted. His breathing deepened, his pulse quickened beneath me, and I propped myself above. Not removing my mouth from his, I let my fingers undo his buttons, exposing the skin beneath. Kissing along his jawline, I let my lips tease just below his ear, feeling the sandpaper scruff. I knew what that scruff felt like on the inside of my thighs, and how great was that?
I felt him tense as I flicked my tongue against his earlobe, eliciting a hiss. His hands came up to my waist as I crept back along his neck, kissing lower along his collarbone. Pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his waistband, I threw it wide, pressing myself along his torso. His skin was warm; it felt divine against my own. I needed to feel more of it.
Standing, I kept my hands on him at all times while I gently removed his shirt, then belt, then socks and pants, until I had him naked and wanting. Standing in the moonlight, I dropped my towel.
“Caroline,” he breathed, and I crawled back on top of him. Straddling him low on his legs, I took him in hand. His hands came up to my breasts, needy and kneading. I stroked him, grasping the base and working upward, swirling my hand over the head and letting his hips tell me what he needed.
He panted, his chest rising and falling as I worked him. Up and down and swirly twirly, he was hard in my hands and the single most erotic man I’d ever seen in my life. I gently grazed one finger along the underside, and he thrust hard.
“Not going to last long if you keep that up.” He groaned, his fingers teasing at my nipples.
“That’s not what this is about,” I answered, rising above him. I positioned him, and slid him inside. Slick from just the way he was looking at me, I sank down inch by perfect inch, slowly. Exquisitely so, as he strained to stay still.
Once he was seated fully inside I gave one slow roll of my hips, gasping as I felt him grow harder and thicker. Impossible.
“What’s . . . impossible?” he grunted, every muscle taunt and lean. I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. No matter, he should know.
“That I will ever get tired of this, of what it feels like to have you inside me,” I said, shuddering as he thrust up. I leaned backward a bit, resting my hands on his thighs for leverage as I took him in again. Rising onto his elbows, he watched in fascination at the sight of him sliding in and out of my body. One of his hands swept my hair back from my face, then dragged down my neck, between my breasts, down my tummy and dipped down below.
That hand, making those perfect circles, right at the center of my world, and my hips took over. I rode him hard, rising up and down, as he watched me writhe above him.
“Simon. That’s. Perfect!” I called out, feeling my orgasm approaching. He sat up underneath me, wrapping my legs around his waist, pistoning into me in an unrelenting rhythm, crushing me to him. I shook as I came, his own release chasing him down in a fury.
I held him to me, not letting go, not letting him get away, my body molded to his in a mess of sticky, sweaty skin, sliding and thrusting together, frantic and furious.
He was silent when he came, his eyes burning into mine as I held him to my breast, as he shattered. His head threw back, his strength washed over me, then he fell into me. I held him, rocking, still feeling him inside me as he softened, cradling him against my skin.
“It’s impossible for me to love you more,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
He clutched me even tighter.
• • •
He was white-faced when we turned onto his street the next day, his lips in a tight line. And speaking of tight, with the grip he had on the steering wheel, he was close to tearing it off. When I wasn’t looking at Simon, I was gaping at the houses we were passing. This was old-ass money, moldy blue-blood money. Not a McMansion in sight, only actual estates. Tennis courts, pool houses, and miles of fencing. Still a neighborhood, though; the houses weren’t so far apart that they were isolated. Just a neighborhood lined with stately oaks and gas lamps.
And three security cars. So far.
But it was beautiful. We pulled up to an elegant fieldstone and brick home, Tudor style with black shutters. The little bit of snow that had fallen was neatly shoveled, the path and drive neatly edged. Christmas lights twinkled from inside, hinting at a mammoth tree, and a wreath as big as my bed was on the front door. The house to the left must have been Simon’s, as it was the one he was avoiding looking at entirely. Pine trees along the property line softened the view, but it looked like a brick center style colonial, as grand as the rest of the neighborhood. There were bikes in the driveway. Kids’ bikes.
As we walked up the pathway to the house, Simon let out a chortle. “I can’t believe that’s still here.”
“What?”
“They redid the pavers when I was in elementary school, and her son and I wrote our names in the cement. Boy, did we hear about that one.” He pointed to the first step, and on the corner I could just make out his name. Simon Parker.
“You wouldn’t have made a very good vandal; you signed your full name, for pity’s sake,” I said as he rang the doorbell. I reached out and gave his buns a squeeze, and as he looked at me in surprise, the door opened.
“There you are, right on time!” Mrs. White sang out, opening the door and hurrying a blushing Simon inside. He insisted I go first and I got my own bun squeeze. “It’s so cold out, look at your cheeks, bright red! Good thing I had Arthur make a fire. Arthur, come down here!”
Exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheek, we were ushered into a formal but very comfortable sitting room, where there was in fact a fire crackling. I made small talk with Mrs. White while Simon surreptitiously took everything in: the picture window, the antique desk, the ship in a bottle on the mantel. I saw him take a deep breath, turning as Mr. White came in.
“Simon, so great to see you!” he said, walking right up and shaking Simon’s hand, then pulling him into a one-armed hug.
“Mr. White, good to see you too, sir.”
“I can’t tell you how Penny went on and on about seeing you when she came home last night. How’ve you been?”
“Good, I’ve been good. I heard Todd is married?”
“Oh yes, nice gal. But more importantly, how are you? What have you been up to all these years? Photography we heard, tell me all about that.” Mr. White clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and walked him into the library, which was all wood and full of books, enough to require one of those sliding ladders.
As they disappeared around the corner, I looked over at Mrs. White. She was smiling, but her eyes looked a bit damp.
“Mrs. White, your home is beautiful,” I started, and she turned her glassy gaze to mine.
“Call me Penny.”
“Not until Simon does.” I grinned.
“Mrs. White it is, then; that boy will never call me anything but. Can I get you something to drink, dear?” she asked, gesturing for me to follow her over to where there was lemonade, coffee, and—
“Is that a Bloody Mary bar?” I asked.
“Oh heavens, yes.” She nodded, sweeping under her eyes a bit with a manicured hand. “Olive or celery?”
“Both?”
“I always knew Simon would end up with a smart girl.” She winked, and poured. Lots of Mary in that Bloody . . .
We sat on the couch and chatted, keeping things light. We discussed the design of her home; she was fascinated by interiors and had helped with every room in the house. We talked a little bit about the town, and how many years her family had lived here. Many. And since the men seemed to be taking a while in the library, we eventually moved on to Simon.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see him. Everyone here had resigned themselves to never seeing him again, after he graduated.”
“I didn’t realize he hadn’t been back since . . . Well, since.”
“No, he left that June and that was the last anyone saw him. He kept in touch with a few of his friends for a little while, but he seemed to need the break. We all understood, losing his family so suddenly.”
“I’m glad he came back; this seems like a lovely place to grow up.”
“It was, and it is. Gail and Thomas, his parents, were wonderful people. So tragic . . .” She trailed off, then turned toward the desk. “I think I have some pictures of them, out on their farm. We spent time out there with them almost every summer. Did you know the Parkers had a farm?”
I shook my head. I knew nothing. He shared nothing. Not about this. She rifled through some drawers, then brought out an album. “I think this is it—yes! Yes, here it is. This is the summer Todd and Simon got caught skinny-dipping with the Wilson girls. Those two!”
She laughed, mulling over the pictures. “Take a look at this one,” she said, handing a picture to me.
I hesitated. Simon had never shown me anything about his family. Should he be the one to show me? Curiosity won out, and I took the picture.
First, we must be clear: The word farm means different things to different people. This was no vegetable patch. In this scenario it meant rolling hills, a three-story house, and a picture-perfect red barn peeking through the trees. This was a Pottery Barn farm. But it’s what was at the center of the picture that filled my eyes with tears and made me want to hug Simon for the rest of my days.
His father was tan, tall, and fantastic looking. His mother? Gorgeous. Healthy and vibrant, they stood with their son, just shy of his teenage years. He was at that age when everyone is all elbows and knees, but you could see that this guy was going to be devastating. As I scrutinized their faces, I could see that Simon got his incredible blue eyes from his father, his blinding smile from his mother.
Though I’d never meet them, I’d never have a conversation with the people who shaped Simon into the wonderfully perfect imperfect man that he was today, I knew I was looking at an extraordinary little family.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
“So tragic,” Mrs. White repeated, shaking her head and tsking in a comforting way.
I handed her back the picture, breathing deeply and making sure the tears that had sprung up were under control.
She took the picture, the album, and tucked it away. Taking a breath, she threw her shoulders back and the rest of her drink as well. “Now, what in the world are those boys up to? Arthur? Where have you taken Simon?” she called out, jumping to her feet. I asked if she would mind sending me a copy of that picture. She smiled and said she’d send me the original.
We headed into the library where we found another fireplace, with another crackling fire. Mr. White and Simon were sitting in leather chairs, with glasses next to both of them. Simon’s was empty, but Mr. White’s still had a trace of dark-colored liquor.
Simon’s face wasn’t pale anymore, but his eyes were the tiniest bit red. As were Mr. White’s. They both stood when they saw us, and Simon crossed to me. I mouthed, Okay? He nodded, and took my hand.
“I believe lunch is ready,” Mrs. White announced, and led the way to the dining room.
She disappeared for a moment while everyone settled around an enormous table, with yet another cozy fireplace behind us. As she took her place across from her husband, I asked her if there was anything I could do to help.
“Thank you, Caroline, but I’ve asked our housekeeper to assist us today,” she said.
It didn’t seem at all out of place that for lunch that day, I was served roasted sea bass with fennel and leeks on white china, by a housekeeper named Fran.
Old-ass money.
In the end, it was a really nice time. The Whites fawned over Simon and showed me pictures of him that were taken with their family growing up. They told stories, Simon told stories, and we all laughed a lot.
Simon asked about the family that lived in the house now.
“Very nice people, moved into town from Boston after they were married. They’re both physicians, had their children later in life. Two girls, eight and six. There are several new families in the neighborhood; it’s nice to have kids around again,” Mrs. White said.
“That’s good. It was a good house to be a kid in.” Simon cleared his throat and went to the window, his shoulders tight. The window faced his home.
The fire crackled and popped.
“We should get going. I wanted to drive Caroline around a bit before we get ready for the reunion tonight,” he said, his voice gruff. I started to go to him as he turned. “Thank you so much for having us here today, Mrs. White, Mr. White. I can’t tell you how much— Thank you.”
Time to go.
Mrs. White went to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You come back anytime you like, you promise?”
He nodded.
We left in a flurry of good-byes and number exchanges. I promised to send them pictures from San Francisco when we got back home, and as Arthur and Simon were saying their good-byes, Penny pulled me aside.
“You take care of him. He’s still got a ball of hurt in there that’s never come out, and when it does, it’s going to be hell.”
I nodded. “I’m on it.”
She studied me a moment. “I believe you are, Caroline.” She caught me into a surprise hug.
As we got settled in the car, they waved from the front steps before going back inside.
“They seem like very nice people,” I said.
“They’re the best,” he replied.
As we pulled down the driveway, the trees cleared and I could see the house next door. It was magnificent. Brick for days, circular drive, festive for the holidays. Trimmed hedges, wreathes in every window, even the attic windows under the eaves. An expansive lawn with what looked to be the original carriage house set back from the main house.
“Simon,” I breathed as he slowed down just a bit. “It’s a beautiful home.”
“It was, yes.”
He turned the car away.
Brain wanted to push it, Heart said leave it. I listened to Heart.
• • •
I wasn’t sure if Simon would still want to go to the reunion. He seemed so blue when we left the Whites, after having such a good visit with them. I think seeing the house had shaken him more than he thought it would. But once we got back into town, he seemed to rally. His spirits up, he drove me by his high school, the field where he played Little League, and the place down by the creek where everyone went to make out.
I offered. Can’t blame a girl . . .
But once we got back to the hotel, we did share a shower. To conserve water, obviously. And to make sure my Simon had a little extra pep in his step, I dropped to my knees and sucked him off right there in the shower. Because I’m thoughtful like that.
As Simon and I pep-stepped into the lobby of the Wainwright Hotel, he was cool, calm, and collected. With a touch of afterglow. Dressed in black pants, a white button-down, and a leather jacket, he was sophisticated but cool. A man about town, a globetrotter, a secret cat whisperer who would sell his soul for an apple pie. And he was mine.
We followed the signs for the Newbury High School Ten-Year Reunion, stopping outside the ballroom to check my coat. As he helped me slip the coat down my arms, he whistled.
“Babe,” he said in a low voice, “I realize I said this earlier, but you look fucking fantastic.”
I grinned, spinning around so he could see my dress. I went bombshell, as you do when you’re going to your boyfriend’s high school reunion. Red skirt, black leather boots, and wouldn’t he be surprised later on when he found out that’s all I had on. I figured, go big or go home. And if he needed some cheering up later on, I wasn’t opposed to sneaking his hand under my skirt and letting him get a little touch.
Now we were less than ten feet from the check-in desk, and as we neared the group that was gathered there, he stalled just the tiniest bit. I squeezed his hand, and his eyes met mine. Those sapphires were bright tonight.
“Come on, Wallbanger, show me off,” I teased, and he grinned.
We moved toward the desk, and when he told the lady his name, I heard a gasp behind us in line.
“No fucking way. Simon Parker’s here? He came?”
Word quickly spread, and by the time I had his name tag affixed to the front of his jacket, everyone was buzzing. Walking inside, I suddenly could appreciate the feeling movie stars must have when they get out of a limo at a premiere.
Everyone was staring at us.
