We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a mad woman—my hair wild from his hand, eyes needy, mouth panting. He stares at me as if he's afraid, his hands gripping the granite of the counter’s edge, his chest heaving. He suddenly moves, holding up his hands and moving slowly away. “Just … Fuck! Just stop asking questions. Please.” He moves away, and a moment later, a door slams in his wing of the house.
I worked at Sammy’s for three years. You’d think that length of time spent before men, gauging their level of arousal, would have taught me something—maybe the difference between harmless flirting and a danger zone. It would have given me enough experience to steer me in a direction other than the one I am in right now, which definitely feels like danger.
My hands shake. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my tennis shoes slipping through the slick pool of water. I finish off the remaining amount, waiting for my heart to calm. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen, from the freaking smell of Nathan that always lingers in this house. I need to take a shower, to lie down. I stumble to my feet, shoving the water bottle into the trash, and focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. I make it to the door and then to the deck, two questions dominating my mind, possibly the most dangerous ones of all.
What if Nathan finds out?
What if it happens again?
CHAPTER 26
8:30 AM. The phone rings. It’s a foreign sound, Drew or Mark typically walking over if anything is needed. I set down the toothbrush, scooping a mouthful of water into my mouth, and hurriedly rinse. Spitting into the sink, I hurry to the desk, and pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Dumont would like to leave in fifteen minutes. Will you be ready?” Drew’s voice is cold and efficient.
“He wants me to go with him?”
“Yes.”
I hesitate, looking down at my outfit, a Rosit Fenton ensemble. Cropped silk pants and a cardigan set. Bland boredom, which Nathan seems to prefer. “I’ll be there shortly.”
I hesitate in the moment before I open the door, seeing him through the glass, in the dining room, a dark figure in navy. Does he know about Drew? Is this about my father? Where could we be going? I step into the cool confines of the house, holding my head high, fighting to keep my features relaxed. He has a phone to his ear, his words low, and he turns at my entrance, his gaze drifting over me. He nods in approval, and a stab of irritation hits me. Will we ever be the couple that hangs out in sweat pants and pajamas? Will he ever crack a joke, or even a smile? Will I ever see Napa Valley Nathan in the privacy of our home?
He waves his hand, beckoning me to follow, and we step into the bright sunlight of the front drive, where Drew and the Maybach await.
The Maybach. I am surprised, the limo our typical vehicle, the Maybach used when Drew and Nathan are alone. I arch my eyebrow at Drew as he opens my car door.
“Guess it’s not that kind of trip, princess.”
I hope my quick entrance into the car hides my flush. Nathan does typically use the space of the limo to satisfy his sexual needs. In retrospect, maybe that’s the only reason we take the limo. We certainly don’t need that much space.
In the back of the Maybach, Nathan seems too close, the area not large enough for his ego and my nerves. I clasp my hands in my lap, cross my ankles, and try to relax.
Nathan ends his call and glances at me. “I have to go to the courthouse to sign some documents. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and get your new identification.”
I nod, our marriage ceremony completed over a month ago. “I don’t have any of the paperwork with me.”
“Mark has everything we’ll need.”
Of course he does. Mark seems to walk around with every piece of paper anyone might possibly want. He knows the caloric content of french fries, historical weather patterns, and every maitre’d and city official in Nashville. It’s creepy how smart he is, the gift softened by his complete inability to carry on a coherent conversation. I tried to chat with him at a red light once, and somehow ended up hearing him recite pi to fifty-two decimal places.
Nathan gets on the phone, and I settle into the seat.
We leave the courthouse two hours later; my name officially changed, a shiny new driver’s license in hand, one that screamed CANDACE DUMONT in giant block letters. It is crazy, but looking at that license, I finally realized what I’ve done. Married a stranger. Given up on true love. Sold my future in exchange for financial security and a few orgasms a week. I tighten my hands on my license to keep them from shaking.
“I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, and then Drew can drop me at the office and take you home.” Nathan leans forward, his hand wrapping around my knee. I unzip my purse, shoving the license in with fingers that only barely tremble.
I force a smile. “Lunch sounds good.”
In the mirror, Drew’s eyebrows knit in something akin to worry.
CHAPTER 27
Nathan is in the best mood I have seen him in. Unlike the forced happiness that we adopt in front of the cameras, his exuberance seems genuine, his kind looks and loving smile painless in their delivery. We sit outside; he orders margaritas and beams at me across the table, his smile infectious, my own mouth curving in a bewildered response.
“Candace Dumont,” he says the name in wonder, leaning forward and gripping my hand, staring at the stone there. “We should go somewhere and celebrate. Take the honeymoon we never took.”
The honeymoon we never took? I take a sip of water, hoping that the alcohol is on its way, wondering who this man is and what he has done with my serious, all-business husband. “A honeymoon?” I can’t think of a more creative response.
His grin weakens a little, and he shrugs. “The press would enjoy a honeymoon. Plus, I have business in the Caribbean. You’re coming.”
I am able to mask my irritation with the arrival of our drinks. I sip the margarita, and glance around the restaurant. I shouldn’t be irritated. I should be grateful for the trip, for an opportunity to go somewhere with this beautiful man. The mention of press means photos. Photos mean charismatic Nathan, loving smiles, and soft caresses. Photos mean a weekend like Napa—a weekend that will break my heart in its perfection. “When will we go?”