Consequences aren’t always bad things, either. Maybe going to jail for a weekend keeps someone from getting into a car wreck or hides them from a serial killer. Maybe a house fire frees a family from financial burden. Maybe getting caught in a compromising situation means a jackass named David can finally abandon the wife he kept for publicity more than anything, and paying out millions is just a means to an end.
You know. Whatever.
I stare at myself in the soft hotel bathroom lighting and take a deep breath. What I’m planning could sit on either side of the moral decision spectrum. Legally, I’m still a married woman. Legally, this could be considered adultery. Legally, my lawyer would probably kill me.
But David has already broken our bed. We are already separate, independent entities. We are only tied together in name and tree scrapings, nothing else. There is no more weight to this marriage that ended over a year ago.
“Shut up. Stop thinking so much. Put on the goddamn lipstick.” Lily yells at me over speakerphone. “God help me, woman, if I need to come up there and do it for you, I will.”
“He might get off to that.”
“Probably. But no.” Lily makes a gagging noise. “I’m not getting involved in your mess, Kate. I’m just the instigator, the enabler. You put that nightie on, swipe on some lipstick, and sex-kitten your hair. Fuck that man like you’ve been fucking him in your daydreams.”
“Aren’t you supposed to talk me out of this?” I sigh and line my lips. I almost feel cheap, like I’m selling myself. But wouldn’t that mean I’m in charge of my own agency? That’s almost empowering. “You aren’t supposed to coerce me into it.”
“Shut up. How much alcohol have you had?”
“Enough.”
“Clearly not. I’ll have them send up another bottle.”
“Pinot Grigio, please. I don’t want to stain this thing.” I gesture pointlessly to the white lacy nightie I’m wearing. “My dry cleaner would hate me then too.”
“Everyone’s dry cleaner hates them. It’s a fact of life. Jamie will be up there in three minutes. Chug it and do the deed, girl. If you can pull this off, you’ll have the best revenge possible. We can watch David’s head explode together.”
“Chilled, please.”
“You’re lucky I love you. Three minutes.” Lily hangs up.
My best friend managing one of the swankiest hotels in Los Angeles comes with a lot of perks. Like private doors and free rooms and wine. I need a lot more wine.
A steward, nametag Jamie, shows up in exactly three minutes with a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. Not top shelf, but nothing to sniff at, either. I fill up a wine glass to the top and gulp it down while watching the clock.
Almost thirty minutes passed. What if he doesn’t show? That’d make for an even more awkward event in the courtroom.
“Oh, hello David. Hello lawyer I propositioned but was turned down by. Hello judge who now thinks I’m a whore.”
Like Goodnight Moon, but so much worse.
I’m halfway through the bottle, lounging on a lush chaise and envisioning my demise, when the door makes a clicking sound and swings open. Framed in the hallway lighting stands the man who has made me crazy for a dozen different reasons for the last several weeks.
“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to show.” I say, wine-brave.
Eric says nothing. He shuts the door and takes off his jacket, throws it on the bar near the door. Next comes his tie, effortlessly undone and flung over his shoulder. He advances on me like a panther: sleek, sexy, predatorial. Nothing like the big, bumbling, out-of-shape lion I’m used to.
I take another sip of wine to steady myself. No one has touched me intimately, in a way I enjoyed, in longer than I cared to admit or think about. Watching Eric Stevens advance on me like this has every nerve in my body standing at attention.
Is it hot in here or just him?
“I had some things to take care of.” Eric unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang, framing his impeccable washboard abs.
Abs I’d love to touch, lick, whatever. Forget the whole animal kingdom analogy, this man is carved out of granite like one of the gods they’d paint on pottery. He deserves a statue in his likeness.
Maybe this is all the wine talking.
Eric takes the wine bottle from my hands and presses it to his lips. He drains the rest of it and strips off his belt. His gaze burns through me. The pants drop to the floor and leave him in tight boxer-briefs.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“What are you offering?” I manage. I can only hope to remember this moment in the future so I can high-five myself over it. As it stands, my brain has gone near-hypothermic from the strip show going on before me.