The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(16)

I roll the word around in my head: forever. I don’t know what that means.

I grab a Forbes magazine from the coffee table and start flipping through it, but I can’t focus.

There isn’t a single logical reason why I shouldn’t marry Dave. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do. Getting me the ring I want in exchange for my agreement to be the person I’ve been for my entire life. All he wants is for me to abandon my recent vagaries of nature. Compromises are the support beams that hold up every relationship.

My compromise is only to give up a part of myself that I’m already uncomfortable with.

So why does that seem so impossible?

Suddenly I’m tired. I close my eyes, lean my head against the back of my cream-leather armchair.

I can see Mr. Dade’s face against the darkness of my closed lids. I can feel him, sense him. I feel a throbbing that’s becoming familiar.

This is not good.

I get up and walk to the kitchen and pour Evian into a crystal water glass. Fantasies are normal. I know that. Is this really so different from fantasizing about an actor, a rock star, a male model staring out of a Diesel jeans ad?

Yes. Because I have never touched the actor, the rock star, the model. I’ve never taken off my robe for those people. I have never asked them to take off my panties. I don’t know what their fingers feel like.

I want to close my eyes but I can’t because he’s there. It takes conscious effort to keep him out of my head. Keeping his image away is as challenging as winning at arm wrestling. If I relax, if I let the strength of the memories overpower me, I’m lost.

I sip the water. I know I’m a little lost already because while I can still keep his image away when my eyes are open, I can’t push away the memory of his touch. Even now, as I try, I get wet.

I unbutton the top of my jeans and cautiously slip my hand in.

When I touch myself, I jump, surprised by my own sensitivity. I shouldn’t be doing this, thinking about the wrong man, remembering . . .

My phone chimes and I jump again and quickly look around the room as if there could possibly be someone there to see me. I remove my hand and rinse it under the warm water of my kitchen faucet. Then, with my jeans still unbuttoned and loose around my waist, I leave the room and find my phone next to the roses on the dining table.

And printed across its screen is Mr. Dade’s name. Just a text, a request that my team meet at his office on Tuesday at 9:30 a.m. for a tour of the facilities. There’s nothing there to bait me, worry me, delight me . . . nothing but his name.

And that’s enough to do all that and more.

I press my fingers against the touch screen: I want to meet earlier.

A moment passes, then two before he answers in the form of a question: How early can your team be here?

They’ll be at your office at 9:30 am this Tuesday, I reply, then pause before adding, I’ll be there at 8:00.

Another moment of silence as I wait for his response. Time is stretching out as the knots tighten in my stomach.

And then there it is, his answer summed up in one word.

Yes.





CHAPTER 6





ON TUESDAY I walk into the dark glass building. My heels click against a marble floor as I approach the elevators, and with each click my pulse speeds up, just a little but enough . . . enough to remind me that I might just be in over my head.

I don’t hesitate or look at the board to verify his office number. I know where I’m going; I’m just not clear on what I’m going to do when I get there.

There’s a waiting area outside his office but there’s no one sitting at the assistant’s desk. The door is open for me and I can see a cup of coffee and a small box of pastries sitting on a side table by the window, seemingly forgotten. And then I see him, at his desk, his head bent over some papers. Drops of water in his salt-and-pepper hair catch the light and hint at a recent shower.

I stop a moment and picture that: Robert Dade standing naked in the shower, water washing over him, his eyes closed, lost in his own thoughts and the feeling of the warmth against his skin, quiet, vulnerable to the world. I imagine myself sneaking into the shower behind him, running my fingers through his hair as he tenses with surprise, then relaxes into my caress. I imagine sliding soap-covered hands down his back, to his ass, around his hips, and then stroking his cock until he’s clean and hard and perfect.

The sharp inhale of breath is enough to bring his attention away from those papers before him. He looks up at me, sees the color of my cheeks, and smiles.

I dig my fingernails into my palms and try to focus on the pain. I’ve had days to think this through. I’m not here to engage in fantasies. I’m here to end things. I’m here so I can make a clean break and be the woman I want to be. The signs in national parks tell us to stay on the path. If we wander off them, we may get lost; we might crush the very things that brought us to the park to begin with.