I stabbed my fork into a chunk of lobster. Of fucking course.
My appetite was fading; I fed the bite into Hannah’s mouth. She washed it down with a swig of wine.
“She eavesdropped.” I leaned my brow into my palm. “That e-mail I received in New Jersey … who else would send such a thing, and benefit from sending it?”
We sat in silence, wondering at the depth of Bethany’s anger.
I had broken up with her nearly a year ago, but she wasn’t moving on—clearly. Maybe our saccharine appearance on the Denver Buzz had rekindled her anger. All that talk of love and marriage … and Night Owl, our passion made a public spectacle.
Throwing our happiness in Bethany’s face.
“What if she tells someone?” Hannah plucked at my sleeve. “About Seth and Chrissy. I don’t know who would listen, but … tabloids? Gossip blogs?”
I shook my head briskly, mostly to allay my own anxiety. “No audience for that shit.”
“There’s an audience for every sort of shit, Matt. He’s the lead singer of a pretty major band. You’re … you. And Chrissy and I are sisters. Someone would find that luridly interesting.”
“I told you I paid Bethany a visit. I promised her that if she takes another step in your direction, I will solicit Shapiro’s assistance in finding some grounds to sue her out of every penny she’s got. You know legal threats are very … compelling.”
Hannah frowned. I couldn’t set her at ease, much less myself, and any pity I’d felt for Bethany began to crystallize into hate.
Our entrees arrived. We picked at the artistically arranged dishes, barely denting our small portions. Hannah drank a second glass of wine.
“We want to see the dessert menu,” I snapped at our waiter. He scurried away and returned with it. I barely read the page. “She’ll have the stout float. Nothing for me.”
“Hey. You’re too tense.” She massaged my hands.
With two glasses of good wine in me, I might not be so fucking tense.
I winced at the thought.
“I wanted us to have a nice time,” I said. “I thought I had control of the Bethany situation. But now, with her knowing about Chrissy…”
“Now you don’t have control.”
“Well put,” I muttered.
“But you have me. And nothing Bethany does can drive us apart, especially now that we know her game. So let’s have a good time.”
Hannah tackled the float valiantly. Chin in palm, I watched her, deep within my dark mood, but after a while I shifted my chair closer to hers. I spooned mascarpone into her mouth. Brandy syrup drizzled down her chin. She licked it away and I kissed her. So sweet, those lips, and the way her mouth worked against mine.
Because we were alone, I gripped her thigh and dragged it over my lap.
Her short dress rode up. Her leg brushed my cock.
We laughed and let go of one another.
“Even I wouldn’t try that here,” I said, “with our poor waiter hovering somewhere.”
“Hovering in terror.”
“What?” I licked a daub of cream from her cupid’s bow. We got tangled up again, kissing and snickering.
“You were so mean to him!” She shook with giggles. Her brows drew down in mock severity. “‘We want’”—laughter bubbled out of her, her faux male voice trembling—“‘we want to see the dessert menu! Now! Where is her fucking float?’”
“Ha!” I leaned back and admired Hannah’s amusement—the way it lit her face.
“You know, I’m surprised the prospect of a one-man audience disturbs you.” She stroked her chin. “I read something somewhere about exhibitionism…”
“Not now.” I glowered at her.
“Oh, I know. I haven’t actually agreed yet.”
“Yet?”
She shrugged and sipped her float. Pretty, mischievous Hannah … I smiled at her.
“You don’t have to agree,” I said. “You know, I’ve never done that with anyone.”
She glanced at me quickly. “No?”
“No. It’s something I want … wanted to try, that’s all.” I narrowed my eyes. “With you.”
The image, the idea of exposing Hannah—and enjoying her in front of others—blinked into my mind. I breathed out slowly. Fuck …
“Let’s go,” she whispered in my ear. “It’s too warm in here. I’m tipsy.”
I left our waiter an exorbitant tip. Hannah approved. We held hands and strolled around Denver, both of us a little drunk. I told her about Marion, the realtor Pam recommended.
“We spoke on the phone. She seems very capable. I gave her our price range and she’ll send us some listings before the weekend.”
“What’s our price range?” Hannah smirked. “One million to—”
“I said two-fifty and up.”
“Two hundred and fifty … thousand?”
“Mm. The price of your average suburban shanty. Happy?”
“So happy.” She hugged me around the middle. I lifted her feet off the sidewalk.
“It’s heaven to make you happy,” I whispered into her hair.
Hannah prevailed upon my good mood, asking if she could deliver the food I’d bought for Chrissy. “And the check, too.”
“Sure.” I shrugged. “I suppose so. That whole-grain bread is awful anyway.”
“Let’s get a dog when we have a house.” She swung our joined hands like a child.
“Fine,” I said, “but no cats. I hate cats. A dog would be all right, so long as he doesn’t bother Laurence.”
“He!” Hannah laughed. “What if I want a girl?”
We exchanged a fast, alarmed look. Were we still talking about dogs? I quickened my pace, waving a hand.
“He, she … I’m fine with whatever.”
I felt Hannah’s eyes on me, but I refused to look at her.
“Matt, I—”
“Please. Not now.” Children. I had wanted to talk about this, and now I was afraid to talk about it. What if she said something finalizing and I couldn’t change her mind?
“I know what you were thinking about,” she said.
She pulled me to a stop. We sat on a bench and watched the nighttime traffic.
“I’m not ready.” Her tone was cautious.
“Mm.”
“I might never be.”