As soon as the door closed, I let out my breath. Closed my eyes. Listened to the rapid fire of my pulse.
What the actual fuck was I doing?
I’d just banged the father of the groom—at a wedding I’d planned—on my desk while I was on the job!
While my parents were seated at the reception!
All that was bad enough without adding in the fact that the groom was my ex-boyfriend.
I opened my eyes and studied my face in the mirror, taking deep, slow breaths until my complexion returned to its normal color. “It’s fine,” I told the person in the mirror. “It’s all good. You’re going to go out there and act like you’re not a harlot with no moral compass who can’t keep her hands to herself or her panties in place.”
I mashed my lips together to make sure the face didn’t argue, then I gathered my courage and left the room.
Normally, I didn’t stay until the very end of a wedding, but tonight I did. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was that I wanted to make sure every single detail at the reception was taken care of for Mason and Lori, maybe it was that the sooner I was alone with my conscience, the sooner I’d have to think about what I’d done.
Zach and I didn’t speak again after he left my office, and I was careful to avoid even looking in his direction for fear of establishing accidental eye contact and bursting into flames.
But peripherally, I noticed that he avoided the dance floor, stuck to the side of the room, and conversed with very few people. Around nine-thirty, I realized I hadn’t seen him in a while and figured he’d gone back to his hotel.
I’d probably never see him again, and the thought left a pit in my stomach.
The wedding wrapped up around eleven, and the bride and groom were among the last to leave. Mason and Lori both hugged me, saying over and over again that this had been the best night of their lives and they could not have been happier.
“It was my dream wedding in every way,” said Lori with misty eyes. “Thank you so much, Millie. I know this could have been awkward, but you never made it feel that way.”
I smiled. “I’m glad.”
“You’re the best, Mills,” said Mason, putting his arm around his wife. “In so many ways, this could never have happened without you.”
“I’m happy for you guys,” I said, and I meant it. “So you’re off to Aruba, right?”
“Yes,” said Lori. “We leave Monday.”
“I’m jealous! Have a great time.” For a moment, I fantasized what it would be like to take a trip like that with Zach. No one around who knew us, nothing to hide, just sun and sand and tropical drinks with little umbrellas floating on top. His hands rubbing sunscreen onto my skin. Crazy hot sex between cool hotel room sheets.
What was wrong with me?
When everyone was gone and the staff was tearing down the room, I retreated to my office, ditched my heels, and fell back onto the small couch. Stretching out my legs, I stared at my toes, refusing to look at my desk, where Zach had taken me so roughly. It was intoxicating to be wanted that way by a man so self-possessed and restrained at all other times. I remembered how he referred to himself when telling me about the affair with Mason’s mom. I was a daredevil with a lot of anger issues and a short fuse.
It seemed like the ghost of old Zach was making an appearance. And speaking of the old Zach . . . he’d been married? I recalled what he said about having a vasectomy—because his ex-wife had wanted him to. I wondered when that was, how long he’d been married—for God’s sake, did he have other children? Was he even for sure divorced? What did I really know about him?
Someone knocked on my office door, and I pulled myself together. “Yes?” I called. “Come in.”
It was Nelson, the manager, with a question about final count for a luncheon we were hosting tomorrow afternoon. I got up to find my phone and check my email, and Nelson noticed the broken glass.
“Shit. Accident? Or did you get mad and throw it?” he teased.
“Accident.” I avoided his eyes. “The count for tomorrow is one-thirty-five.”
“Got it. Want me to bring you a broom?”
“Nah. I know where it is.” I shooed him out. “Go on and finish up so you can get home. It’s been a long day.”
“Thanks. Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll walk you out.”
I nodded, and he shut the door behind him.
Reclining on the couch, I glanced at my three new text messages. One was from Winnie, one was from Frannie, and one was from a number I recognized as Zach’s.
My breath caught in my throat. Should I read it? I decided to defer the decision by dealing with the family messages first.
Winnie wanted to know how everything had gone today. Frannie complimented me on the wedding tonight and invited me to Sunday dinner tomorrow night. I thanked her, replied yes to dinner, and sent Win a note that it had gone fine and I’d call her tomorrow.
Then I stared at the final unread message with trepidation.
I didn’t have to read it. I could just delete it. Then I could delete his number like I was supposed to last night. Forget about him and move on. Did I really need to know more about him or rehash what we’d done? What would be the point?
Nothing could ever come of this. We couldn’t date, for God’s sake. He was Mason’s dad. I had no desire for a secret relationship—I was too old to sneak around. Nor did I want a long-distance relationship. And we were not on the same page in terms of life goals. I wanted a family. He’d had a vasectomy.
We were not meant to be. Every single sign pointed to no.
But . . . I could at least read the message, right? I didn’t have to respond. I could read it and then delete his number.
I opened his text.
Hey. I know I said I’d wait for you to reach out, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I feel like I owe you so many apologies. But as soon as I start typing them, I realize it’s bullshit. Because I’m not sorry. Being with you feels so good, I can’t regret a single thing we’ve done. In my head, I know it’s wrong and can’t go on. But I hope you know that every other part of me wishes it could. I’d still like to talk to you tonight, there are things I’d like to explain, but I understand if you’d rather not.
I read it several times, completely torn. I knew what I should do. And yet, just like Zach couldn’t bring himself to apologize, I couldn’t make myself delete his message or his number. Not yet, anyway. I wanted a few answers first—at the very least, I wanted to know that he was the man I’d thought he was.
Instead of texting, I called him.
“Hello?” His voice made my belly quiver.
“Hi,” I said hesitantly.
“Are you home now?”
“No, I’m still at work. But the guests are all gone.”
“You’re there alone? Is that safe?”
I smiled. Maybe he was the guy I thought he was. “It’s fine.”
“But you’re not going to walk out to the parking lot alone, are you?”
“There are still employees here, and I will walk out with someone,” I assured him.
“Okay. Good.”
“You’re back at the hotel?”
“Yeah. I just packed up. I’m leaving early in the morning.”
“Oh, I thought you were here until Monday.”
“I changed my ticket and got on a six a.m. flight tomorrow. I’ll call Mason and explain that something came up at work.”
“Did it?” I asked hesitantly.
“No. I just feel like I should leave.”
“Because of what happened tonight with me?” I sank deeper into the couch, as if under the weight of additional guilt.
“It’s not your fault,” he said quickly. “I think it’s a combination of intense attraction for you combined with a fear of—of . . . I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
He exhaled. “You’re right. I do. I’m just ashamed to say it.”
“Listen, I think you and I are past the point where we need to feel shame about anything we say to each other. As long as you don’t tell me you’re married.”
“I am definitely not married.”
“Good.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Did you really think I might be?”
“Not in my gut. But there were some surprises tonight.”
“There were,” he agreed.
“So what are you scared of?” I played with the hem of my dress.
“Same thing every guy my age is scared of—getting older. That’s why it’s so stupid and fucking cliché.”
“It’s not stupid,” I argued. “And it’s not just guys. Women are afraid of getting older too. I’m afraid of it.”
“But you’re young.”
“That’s relative. I’m sure an eighty-two-year-old woman would consider thirty-two young. But I always assumed I’d be married with a family at this age. I’m not even close.”
“You want kids?”
“Yes.” I paused. “You mentioned you had a vasectomy.”
“Yeah. About four years ago. Right before I got married.”
“Was it a difficult decision?”
“Not really.”
I chewed one side of my bottom lip. “It’s none of my business, but . . .”
“You can ask.”
“You never wanted kids?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just never did.”
“And your ex-wife didn’t want kids either?”
“She said she didn’t, which was why she asked me to get the vasectomy. At the time, she was very focused on her career. But that changed, and we split up.” He paused. “She’s pregnant now.”
I gasped. “Wait a minute. She made you get a vasectomy, then left you for someone who could father children?”
“She didn’t make me,” he said. “It was ultimately my choice. And she didn’t leave me because of that—she left me because she fell in love with someone else, a producer at the TV station where she worked as a reporter.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was for the best. Honestly, I was not a good husband.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
He laughed, and the sound warmed me. “No?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know you very well, but from what I do know, it’s hard to imagine you were not a good husband—unless you were unfaithful or something.”
“I was never unfaithful,” he said firmly. “I was just gone a lot for work, and she’s someone who needs constant attention. She got lonely.”
“Oh.”
“And I knew she would,” he went on. “I think that’s what bothers me the most—I knew the marriage was a bad idea. Any time I ignore those gut feelings, things go wrong. I should have trusted them.”
“I trust my gut too,” I told him. “In fact, that’s why I called you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. I was starting to doubt you were the man I thought you were, and I wanted to know for certain that I hadn’t been wrong about you. My gut told me you were a good man, but I had some questions.”
“I’m not sure if my answers are confirming your gut feeling about me or contradicting them.”
“Confirming them,” I said, a smile creeping onto my lips. “I still believe you’re a good man, Zach, even if you have some impulse control problems.”
“When you’re around, I do.”
“Just me?”
“Just you.” His voice grew deeper. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
I hesitated, then confessed. “Me either.”
“I wish we could—that we weren’t—” He stopped. “I wish a lot of things right now. But since I’m a grown man who’s seen enough in his lifetime to know wishes don’t come true, I’ll just say goodnight.”
My heart sank. “That’s probably best. But I wish things were different too. In fact, I almost wish you weren’t such a good man.”
Silence. “Millie.”
“Yes?” I could barely breathe.
“I should go.”
Closing my eyes, I swallowed hard. “Okay. Goodbye, Zach.”
“Bye.”
I ended the call, set my phone down, and rested my forehead on my fingertips. Took a few deep breaths.
Well, that was that.
Needing a distraction, I slipped my shoes back on and crossed the hall to the utility closet to get the broom and dustpan. Back in my office, I swept up the splintered glass, trying not to remember how good it had felt to give in to that overwhelming urge to grab him and kiss him and feel his hands on me. I carried the dustpan over to the trash and carefully dumped the broken pieces into the bin, refusing to look at the edge of my desk where he’d taken me so passionately and possessively—he’d apologized for the pace, but it thrilled me to imagine I was so irresistible to him, he couldn’t hold back. And I had no doubt that if I’d let him, he would not have left my office without making me come.
But the truth was, the more orgasms he gave me, the more generous he proved himself to be, the more alive and beautiful he made me feel, the more I wanted him. Taking his hand off me had been the right call.
I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet, swapped my heels for my boots, and put on my coat. After turning off the lights, I poked my head into the kitchen and asked Nelson if he had a minute to walk me out. He said of course, and accompanied me out to the parking lot. The rain had started up again, and I opened up my umbrella.
“I’m right over there,” I said, gesturing at my SUV. “You get back inside before you’re soaked to the bone.”
“I’ll make sure it starts,” he said.
I gave him a grateful look, then hurried to my car, hopped in, and started the engine. After it revved up, I waved to Nelson and watched him hustle back toward the barn. Flipping on the wipers, I buckled my seatbelt and let the car warm up for a minute. The radio was off, so when my phone began to vibrate on the passenger seat, I heard it.
I picked it up and looked at the screen. The number was Zach’s.
I paused for half a second, then answered. “Hello?”
“I changed my mind.”
My heart skipped a beat. “About what?”
“I don’t want to be a good man tonight. I just want to be the one in your bed.”
I closed my eyes. Then I gave him my address.
I made it back to my house first, and I had just enough time to take a quick shower and throw on a robe before I heard his knock. I gave my throat a quick spritz of the perfume he liked, hurried down the stairs, and threw open the door.
“Hi,” I said, breathless at the sight of him. He’d changed out of his suit and wore dark jeans beneath his black wool coat. His hair was tousled from the wind and rain. “Come in, it’s cold out there.”
He stepped over the threshold and I pushed the door shut behind him. As soon as I turned around, he caged me against the door, his arms bracketing my shoulders. He leaned in close enough for me to feel his breath on my lips. “I shouldn’t be here.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Tell me to leave.”
“No.”
“Then tell me you want me as badly as I want you.”
“I could.” I unbuttoned his coat and pushed it off his shoulders. “But I’d rather show you.”
