Third Life Page 6

  He gives another one of those half shrugs. It’s a dismissive gesture. As if he’s trying to convince himself that none of this matters very much. “We were young. We tried to make it work but couldn’t.”

  “Who did the leaving?” I’m not normally a nosy or intrusive person. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me this morning.

  “She did.” He licks his lips slowly. “She... she wanted me to be someone other than I am.”

  I’ve finished my coffee, so I set down the cup and roll onto my side so I can see him better. “Who did she want you to be?”

  “She wanted me to be a small-town guy. A settled husband. Father.”

  “You had kids?”

  “No! No, no, no. But she wanted them. We were too young when we got married. We never talked about any of the stuff we should have talked about. It never even occurred to us that we wanted different things out of life. She wanted to move back, and all I wanted was to get away.”

  “Get away from where?”

  “Oh. Didn’t I say? We’re both from the same small town in Maine. She wanted the life we were raised in, and I... didn’t.”

  “I can’t believe you’re a small-town guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you definitely give big-city vibes. Surely you know that.”

  He lets out a slow breath. “Yes. I know that. But I was raised in a small town. What about you?”

  “I was born and raised in Boston. Still live there.”

  “That’s not really what I wanted to know. Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been in love?”

  I open my mouth but close it again. Think before I answer. “I... don’t really know. I don’t think so. Not really. I thought I was, but I don’t really think it was love now. Just kind of yearning from afar.”

  “That doesn’t seem right. All this time and you’ve never been in love? No one special at all.”

  Emotion starts to shudder in my throat as I think about Matt. His brown eyes. His lopsided smile.

  “What is it?” Richard asks softly, turning my face so I’m looking at him again. “There was someone?”

  “Y-yeah. There was. Kind of.” I swallow hard, trying to contain the emotion. I’m not sure why it’s hitting me so hard right now. I haven’t cried over Matt in a really long time. “It never got anywhere, but it might have.” I have to pause to take a shaky breath.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. It’s not... It’s... Six years ago, I was set up with this guy named Matt. It was... amazing. The date lasted for six hours. We talked about everything. I really, really liked him. I felt like he was the one. The one. I’ve heard people talk about that, but I’d never experienced it before. I’m sure we could have... we would have...”

  “Gillian, what happened?” Richard is still speaking softly, but he sounds almost urgent.

  “The next day—the very next day—he was killed in a car accident. Some idiot was distracted by their phone and ran a red light. Matt died. So I never... I never got to...” My eyes burn. My voice is blocked by the lump in my throat. I turn my face away in an attempt to hide it.

  “Shit.” He reaches over to cup my cheek, turning my face back toward him. “Shit, Gillian. Are you serious?”

  I nod. A single tear slips out, and I swipe it away quickly. “And it’s hard because... because I don’t really have the right to grieve for him. I barely knew him. We had one date. He had family and friends who had loved him for years. What I had with him couldn’t even begin to compare to that. But still I... I really think we could have...”

  When another tear slips out, Richard is the one to brush it away. “You lost something when you lost him.”

  “I did. I lost a future I might have had.” I shake off the emotion and manage to smile at him. “Sorry about that. It’s been six years. I usually don’t get like this anymore. Anyway, he was the one time I felt like there was something real there. I haven’t felt that way since.”

  “So what prompted the sex-cation this weekend?” He obviously sees that I’m trying to lighten the mood, and his lilting tone reflects it.

  “I don’t even know. It’s just been building up. The desire to... to do something. Change something. My mom died four months ago. She was sick for a long time with MS.” If I talk too much about Mom, I’ll start crying again, so I quickly change the subject. “And ever since then I guess I just wanted... a second chance. Or something. It finally got to the point where I had to do something about it.”

  “I get that. Sometimes I think I want a second chance.”

  “A second chance at what?”

  He gives another of those half shrugs. “At life?”

  “If you want it, then you should do it. Look how well it worked for me.”

  He laughs and reaches over to move me onto my back, rolling over on top of me. He smiles down at me for a moment before he kisses me.

  He tastes like coffee and bacon. I probably do too. It’s warm and pleasant, and his kiss is deep and skillful. I feel relaxed. Leisurely. Not nearly as uptight as I did last night.

  So when his hands start to move over my body, I don’t stiffen up or pull away. I’m a little sore but not too bad. I think I can manage sex again.

  Might as well get as much practice as I can.

  After this weekend is over, who knows when I’ll have sex this good again.

  WE DON’T LEAVE RICHARD’S hotel room until noon on Sunday, which is when both of us need to check out and get to the airport to catch our flights.

  I’m a little sad that it’s over. Okay. More than a little. But I had a great time, and there’s nothing weird or awkward or negative about my feelings for Richard and the time we spent together as we say goodbye in the hired car we share to the airport.

  He leans over to kiss me briefly. “Thank you for this weekend,” he murmurs. “I had a really good time.”

  “Me too. I won’t forget it.” I smile at him—knowing, knowing, knowing that this is the last time I’ll see his handsome face. The deep experience in his smile and the clever glint in his blue eyes.

  “Me either.” He gives me one more quick kiss before he gets out of the car. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray button-up shirt. He looks mature. Expensive. Sophisticated.

  Far out of my league.

  But we shared something this weekend, and both of us know it. I’m not going to ruin it for myself by stupidly hoping for more.

  I wave at him as he wheels his case into the terminal. My plane is on a different airline, so I stay in the car as Richard disappears.

  I DO PRETTY WELL WHEN I get back home. I tell Ashley all about it. I focus on my work. I agree to let some friends set me up on a couple of dates. Nothing with much potential, but it doesn’t matter.

  I’m trying. If I started my third life on the weekend with Richard, then I want it to mean something. I want to make a few changes in my life.

  And, yes, of course I think about Richard sometimes. I remember every word of our conversations with giggles and shivers. I visualize the way he touched me. Kissed me. Moved inside me. Sometimes it gets me excited.

  But I’m not dwelling. I’m not foolishly daydreaming about his appearing out of the blue one day and announcing that I’m the love of his life.

  I’m really not a stupid person. I know it will never happen. And it’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen for the weekend to have been a good thing.

  My understanding of this is genuine. I’m not lying to myself.

  So I’m shocked beyond all measure when I get a package sent to the post office box I use professionally a month after our weekend together. I don’t recognize the return address—no name, just what looks like a business address in New York—and I’m not expecting a delivery, so I have no idea what to think as I open the box.

  Inside is a champagne flute, carefully packed to prevent it from breaking.

  I’m holding my breath as I pick it up. It’s nothi
ng special. Just a champagne flute. But as I look at it, I realize why it looks familiar.

  It’s one of the glasses Richard and I drank from at the hotel in Fort Lauderdale.

  It has to be.

  What else could it be?

  My heart is pounding in my ears and throat as I lift out the packing material to see if there’s anything else in the box.

  There is.

  There’s a brochure for a very expensive Paris hotel and also a thick, cream-colored card with no decoration.

  On the card is scrawled a few lines.

  I’ll be in Paris for the weekend of March 12. The view from Suite 45 is not to be missed. Join me if you feel like another sex-cation. No pressure. No strings. Richard.

  I stare at the card, my hand starting to shake.

  This can’t be what I think it is.

  Can it?

  Does he really want to spend another weekend with me, in defiance of all the wise, reasoned lectures I’ve been giving myself for the past four weeks?

  I check my calendar quickly. I’ve got nothing scheduled for that weekend.

  I’ll have to think about it. I don’t want to do anything stupid.

  But maybe I’ll go to Paris.

  A MONTH LATER, I’M getting out of the car that’s driven me from the airport to an exclusive, historic hotel in theeighth arrondissement of Paris.

  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon here in France, and I feel like I’ve been up forever. I can never sleep much on a flight—no matter how long the flight happens to be. I did get a first-class seat, so at least I was comfortable. But air travel has never been my favorite, and if I wasn’t so excited I’d be exhausted.

  I’m glad to be here now. I’d never been to Paris before, and I got a giddy thrill as I looked out the window on the drive here, seeing quaint streets, familiar landmarks, and picturesque gardens and cafés.

  But I’m even more giddy about seeing Richard again.

  A liveried bellman helps me with my luggage and takes me to the front desk where a respectable, gray-haired man greets me with a pleasant “Bonjour. Can I help you, ma’am?”

  It must be obvious from my appearance that I’m an American because he switches to English immediately. “I’m Gillian Meadowbrook. I’m supposed to meet someone—”

  “Yes, Ms. Meadowbrook. Mr. Steele told us to expect you. Welcome to Paris.”

  I’m vastly relieved that Richard prepared the way for me. I was predicting some awkwardness as I explained who I am and what I’m doing here without a reservation. The man hands me a key, explains how to find the suite, asks if he can be of any assistance, and then gestures for the bellman with my suitcase to take me up to the room.

  My excited jitters intensify as we ascend in the old-fashioned elevator and make our way to the end of a hall.

  I knock on the door. Since I have a key, I could just let myself in, but I feel weird about that. I don’t know if Richard is in there or what he’s doing.

  The door swings open almost immediately to the sight of Richard smiling at me, smelling like soap and wearing nothing but a pair of sleep pants. His expression is warm—definitely pleased—as he takes my case from the bellman and tips him before I can reach into my purse.

  The bellman lucks out with that. I’m a generous tipper but not as extravagant as Richard.

  Neither one of us has said a word yet as I step into the suite and Richard closes the door and turns the dead bolt.

  We look at each other for a minute. Sparks of excitement ignite inside me.

  “Perfect timing,” he says at last, taking a step toward me. He’s extending his hands. I know what he’s doing. I can see it in the heat in his eyes and the tension in his body.

  He’s about to kiss me. And the kiss will definitely turn into something more.

  “Wait just a minute,” I say, sidestepping with a little laugh. “I just got off a plane. You’re not really expecting me to jump right into your arms, are you?”

  He gives me a frown of exaggerated aggrievement. “Why wouldn’t you? Isn’t this a sex-cation?”

  “Yes, it’s a sex-cation, but I just got off an eight-hour flight! You got to take a shower. You can at least let me take one first too.”

  “You don’t need a shower. You look and smell perfect.” He catches me this time and kisses me slowly, deeply. “Perfect. And I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

  The kiss is good. My body responds. I’ve been waiting for this too. Waiting with a lot of vivid daydreams that led me to use my vibrator far more often than normal. But still... I pull away with another laugh. “If you’ve been waiting that long, you can wait another fifteen minutes. Can I please at least take a shower first?”

  He releases a long sigh, but his eyes are glinting with that clever humor I love. “Fine. What’s a little more torture in a lifetime of it?”

  I giggle and swat at his chest. But then I take a few minutes to open my suitcase and put some of my stuff up. I bought some new things for the trip, and I want to hang a few items so they don’t get too wrinkled. Richard sits and watches me, looking purposefully put-upon and as sexy as hell. Just to tease him, I take longer than necessary in retrieving my toiletries so I can take a shower.

  “You’re pushing it, woman,” he growls.

  I’ve never heard him growl before. It makes me shiver and laugh at the same time. “Okay. I’m going to take a quick shower.” When he straightens in his chair, I add, “By myself. I won’t take long. I promise. Then, if you’re really good, maybe we can do something.”

  Teasing him feels natural, and it distracts me from a little flash of nerves. I’ve only ever had sex with Richard, and that was two months ago.

  It feels like a long time ago now. A hot, hazy memory.

  What if I’ve forgotten how to do it? What if he’ll discover this time that I’m really not very good at it?

  I talk myself out of the anxiety as I strip off my clothes in the bathroom. I’ve been wearing the pants I always wear on long flights. They look sleek and tailored but are made of a thick, stretchy material that’s as comfortable as sweats. I bought some new shoes too. They look more stylish than my normal shoes but are comfortable enough to walk long distances in.

  I’ve also got some pretty lingerie in my suitcase.

  Maybe some people wouldn’t have bought a whole new wardrobe for a weekend trip to Paris, but all my regular clothes are basic and unsexy. I want to look good. I want to feel sexy.

  I want to have a great time this weekend.

  As I promised, I keep my shower brief, soaping up and rinsing off and keeping my hair out of the spray so I can maintain the blowout for as long as possible. Richard respects my privacy and doesn’t try to push his way into the bathroom, despite his impatience, and I appreciate that fact. At some point, I wouldn’t mind taking a shower with him, but now is not one of those times.

  I brought in a simple blue chemise to the bathroom, and I put it on after I dry off so I don’t have to put back on the clothes I’ve been wearing for ages. I apply some deodorant and some ginger-scented lotion that makes me feel sexy.

  Pleased with my preparations, I go back out to find Richard still in the same chair, but now he’s absorbed by his phone.

  I give him a little scowl. “I’m done. But if you’d rather play on your phone than greet me properly, then you go right ahead and—” I can’t finish the sentence because he’s put down his phone, strode over to where I’m standing, and pulled me into a hard kiss.

  It’s a very good kiss. Not as gentle or controlled as he was in Florida. He feels urgent to me, and it matches the jittery tension that’s been building inside me all the way here.

  For weeks now, really. Ever since I had realized that seeing Richard again was a possibility.

  As we kiss, he walks us over to the bed. When the back of my legs hit the frame, I tumble backward. It’s a high, old-fashioned bed, so I only end up halfway on the mattress. My legs and bottom are hanging off, which doesn’t give me
much leverage for handling Richard’s weight on top of me.

  I squeal as I feel myself slipping off the bed. If I fall, I’ll take both of us with me.

  He catches himself on the mattress with a chuckle and hauls me back up, positioning me more securely before he climbs on top of me and kisses me again.

  My head buzzes and my body pulses in response. His tongue is deep in my mouth, doing all kinds of creative things. His hands are moving greedily, pushing up my chemise so he can feel the bare skin beneath it.

  He wasn’t lying about being impatient. I can feel it shuddering off him. He might have been exaggerating his frustration as a way to tease me, but he’s definitely been waiting for this.

  Maybe even as much as I have.

  It’s thrilling. Shocking. It consumes me as much as his touch.

  When he finally drags his mouth away from mine, he stares down at me with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes. “I knew I wasn’t imagining how good it was.”

  “Did you think you were?” I genuinely want an answer, so I’m willing to delay the pulsing of arousal between my legs in order to hear it.

  “I don’t know. I knew it was good. But I wondered if maybe time had blurred the edges of the memory and I was inflating how good it was in my memory. But I wasn’t.” He gives me a quick kiss before adding, “We’re really good together. It’s not just an idea I concocted in my mind for no good reason.”

  “Is that why you wanted to get together again? So you’d know if you were just imagining it?”

  “I wanted to get together again because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Simple as that.” He pulls up enough to grab the bottom of my chemise and maneuver it up my body and over my head. “Let’s get rid of this.”

  I’m completely naked beneath it. His eyes move over my bare flesh with something more than lust. It’s almost possessive, and it’s just about as thrilling a look as I’ve ever seen.

  “You didn’t even know if I was going to show up here this weekend,” I manage to say, fighting through the cloud of sensations. “You didn’t give me any way to contact you to let you know.”

  “I know. I didn’t know if you’d come. But I hoped. And here you are.” He ducks his head down and sucks on that sensitive spot on my side.