Third Life Read online

  Maybe it’s true of everyone.

  I let out a long breath and lean my head toward his shoulder, briefly seeking comfort before I remember what we are to each other. I quickly straighten up. “I guess we better get going.”

  “Yes. I think it’s time.”

  His words sound final to me. I wonder if they are.

  FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS after I get home from Paris, I soak in the lingering pleasure of the trip and remind myself that this might be all I ever get from Richard.

  It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  It would probably be safer for my emotional well-being to just leave it at the two weekends we’ve had. I’m generally a self-aware person, and I can feel how easy it would be for me to get attached to him. To start to place hopes on the relationship that could never be realized.

  Even knowing better, I could do it. It would be so easy for me to start dreaming. And then what’s been fun and thrilling and incredibly satisfying would end up breaking my heart.

  I’m not going to let it happen.

  So whenever I feel my thoughts drifting in that direction, I bring them to a forceful halt.

  This is probably the end. I had felt Richard’s hesitance in our last hour together in Paris, and I remember the finality in his tone when he’d said it was time. It wasn’t accidental. Nothing Richard says or does is ever accidental, and one thing was very clear from our last conversation. He didn’t want me to ask for more than we have.

  I’m never going to do that. I’m not going to be that woman. And not because I don’t want to do it to him. I don’t want to do it to myself.

  So as I’m coming home on a Friday evening three weeks after my return from Paris, I’m thinking about the job I just completed. About the huge check I received for some really good work. About the date I had last week. I decided to try another dating app, and I made a connection with a local accountant. He’s nice. Decent-looking. Smart and with a sense of humor.

  He’s not Richard, but no one is Richard. I’m certainly not going to be stupid enough to start comparing the guys in my real life with him.

  The date went pretty well. He gave me a hug and a brief kiss at the end of it, looking like he felt a little awkward. I understand feeling awkward, so I fully sympathized. I wouldn’t mind going out with him again. I’m wondering if he’ll ask me.

  I’m not thinking about Richard at all when I stop to check my post office box down the block from my apartment. I freeze when I see the box.

  It’s the same size as the other one Richard sent.

  I’m shaking and holding my breath as I reach in to take it. I don’t open it right there, even though I’m tempted. I’m a jittery mess as I walk the few minutes back to my place and head up to the third floor. I unlock my apartment door. Drop my stuff on the table in the entryway.

  Then I grab the box and rip it open.

  Inside is another champagne flute. This one is from the Paris hotel. One of those we used to drink the champagne on the Saturday evening of our weekend there.

  It’s packed just as beautifully and delicately as the previous one he sent me. I lift out the packaging to discover another hotel brochure. This one is in San Diego.

  I find the card beneath it. On this one, he’s just written a date and the number of the room in the hotel he’s reserved. And four more words before his name. No pressure. No strings.

  I understand what he’s saying. What he wants to be clear about. He’s not pursuing a relationship with me, and he doesn’t want me to think it’s anything like that.

  Not that I would ever believe any such thing.

  It’s the last thing in the world I would ever believe.

  I’m staring at the card, processing the swell of excitement rising inside me, when my phone rings. Ridiculously I think for a second that it must be Richard, that he somehow found my phone number and predicted the exact moment I opened his package.

  It’s not him, of course. That would be ridiculous. It’s Ashley.

  “Hey!” she greets me, sounding unusually excited. “Guess what?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? No. Why would you ask that?”

  “I don’t know. Just a question. You were all excited about something.”

  “Not about me. About you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Sean has a friend who wants to meet you.”

  “What? What friend?”

  “A friend. He’s a great guy and really cute. I think it might be the perfect match for you.”

  “Ashley.”

  “What? I thought you were trying to date.”

  “I am. I am. It’s just...”

  “Are you that excited about the guy from a few days ago?”

  “No. I mean he was okay, but I’m not that excited. I’ll meet this guy if you think he’d be good.”

  “What’s the matter?” Ashley’s tone has changed. “Something’s happened.”

  “Nothing’s happened.”

  “Shit, Gillian. Did he... did Richard...?”

  I sigh and admit the truth. “He sent me another glass. He wants me to meet him in San Diego in a few weeks.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “Probably.”

  Ashley doesn’t answer, which immediately makes me feel defensive.

  “Just say it,” I tell her.

  “I don’t have anything to say. Really. If you want to go, you should go.”

  “Why shouldn’t I go? I know I’d have an amazing time.”

  “I know you would. And if that’s all it would be, then you should definitely do it. I just don’t want you to...” She pauses and starts again. “Look, I know what it’s like. To spend time with a guy, knowing there’s not supposed to be strings. Sometimes the strings happen anyway. They happened for me. They happened with Sean. And it was just my good luck that he felt the same way. I could have just as easily gotten my heart broken. And with this guy...”

  “I know. I know he’s not Sean.” My voice is matter-of-fact. It hurts just a little bit to admit it, but I haven’t been fooling myself here. I know there’s no hope for a happy ending with Richard.

  There never was.

  Sean might have been closed off a few years ago when Ashley first hooked up with him, but he was never at Richard’s level of detachment. Never even close.

  Ashley says, “Okay. I wasn’t assuming anything. But I know you like him, and he sounds... pretty damn amazing. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t. I know what I’m doing. And I don’t want to miss out on some once-in-a-life experiences just because I’m afraid.”

  “Okay. Okay. Then you shouldn’t. You need to do what’s best for you. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Promise me that if you start to want more from him or if you start to say no to good things in your real life because of him, that you’ll rethink it. That you’ll get some distance. I just don’t want something that’s been good for you to end up breaking your heart.”

  “I promise. I promise I will. I don’t want a broken heart either. I’m going to be careful. I’ll put a stop to it as soon as it might hurt me. But I’m not there yet. I’m really not. And I want to see him again.”

  “Then you should, as long as you’ll let me and Sean set you up with George.”

  “His name is George?”

  “Yes. It’s George. It’s a perfectly decent name for a really great guy. You’ll let us set you up?”

  “Yes. I’ll let you set me up. But I’m out of town for the next couple of weeks for work. Then I’ll be going to San Diego for the weekend with Richard. So it will have to be after that.”

  “Fine. I’m thinking we might have you both over for dinner. That might be a good way to get to know him without the pressure of the date.”

  “That sounds great. Just plan it for after San Diego.”

  I hang up the call, feeling satisfied with the conversation. I can understand why Ashley
is worried, but I really don’t think she needs to be right now.

  If my emotions get too invested, I’ll put an end to this.

  But I’m not at that point yet, which means it’s safe to have another hot weekend with Richard.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, I’ve flown into San Diego and taken a car to the resort hotel that Richard indicated in his package.

  It’s strange not to be able to connect with him before the trip. To simply trust that he’ll be where he said he’d be. Part of me can’t believe I actually flew to Paris a month and a half ago based on one half-scrawled note from him. At least this time, if he doesn’t show up, I didn’t have to cross an ocean.

  The weather is perfect. Every time I’ve been to San Diego—several times over the years for work—the weather has been perfect. I like the city a lot, but there’s not really a lot of sightseeing I want to do this weekend.

  Mostly I want to see Richard. Not just have sex with him, although I’ll be very happy to do that. I’m also excited about talking with him. Laughing with him. Seeing what he has to say for himself and what expressions I’ll see in his eyes.

  I’m trying to settle my excited jitters as I get out of the car, wave off the bellman who approaches, and head for the front desk. Richard made it easy for me at the hotel in Paris, so hopefully he did the same here.

  “I’m Gillian Meadowbrook,” I tell the smiling clerk. “I’m supposed to meet Richard Steele.”

  “Oh yes, Ms. Meadowbrook,” she says, checking her computer briefly as if to confirm that what she’s about to say is correct. “Would you mind waiting just a minute? I need to get my manager.”

  “Oh. Yes. Sure.” My stomach drops slightly. What the hell does she need her manager for? I have a random visual of someone approaching to tell me that Richard is an international criminal and the target of an FBI sting and I’m expected to do my part in setting a trap for him.

  It has crossed my mind that he might be some sort of criminal. Just like it’s crossed my mind that he’s a spy or an escort or in witness protection or a hundred other possibilities for why he’s so mysterious and vague about the details of his life.

  The most likely explanation is that he’s serious about living with no strings and so he lives his life in a way to make it impossible for anyone to lay a claim on him.

  He doesn’t need to worry about me. An invisible person like me learns very early to never try to lay a claim on someone who doesn’t want to be claimed.

  All this goes through my mind in a rush as I stand waiting until a pleasant, middle-aged man approaches with the original clerk. “Ms. Meadowbrook. We’re glad to have you. Mr. Steele called earlier. He’s been delayed, but we got him checked in, so you can go on up to the room.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I process a wave of relief at this news. Not an FBI sting. Not a cancellation. Just something that came up to make him late. “That’s no problem. Did he say when...?” These people must think I’m crazy for not being able to contact that man I’m planning to share a room with.

  If they think it’s a bizarre situation, neither one of them shows it in their expression. The manager smiles kindly. “He wasn’t sure. Later this evening. He made arrangements for you, however. So we can help you if you’d like to do something this evening. There are a couple of shows and concerts we can get you tickets for. Or we can recommend some good restaurants. Or—”

  “Oh, thank you. That sounds lovely. But I’ll probably just stay here.” A night by myself in San Diego certainly doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world, but it’s not what I’m here to do.

  “Of course. Our room service is excellent. Just call down for anything you need. We also have an excellent spa, if you’d like to schedule any treatments.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.” I smile at the original clerk to include her in the thanks. “I think I’ll probably just want to relax for a while.”

  “Excellent. Heather will take care of you, and if you need help with your luggage...”

  I only have one roller bag, so I tell him I’m fine on my own. Heather gives me my key and directions, and then I’m on my way up to the room.

  It’s a suite. One with a separate bedroom and a huge, luxurious bathroom. I’m very pleased with the accommodations and not worried at all about Richard’s coming later.

  I unpack. Take a shower. Go downstairs to sit by the pool and read for an hour. (I didn’t bring my bathing suit, so I just wear capris and a light top and am perfectly comfortable.)

  When I return to the room, Richard still hasn’t arrived. It sounds like from what he told the manager that he’ll probably be late, so I order down to room service for salmon, risotto, two glasses of Riesling, and a piece of key lime pie. I find something on television to watch while I eat. Then I take the second glass of wine with me to take a long hot bath with the lime and verbena bath salts I find in the provided toiletries.

  I’m very relaxed when the bath is over, but I’m also starting to get impatient.

  We were supposed to have this evening together. It’s after ten already, and Richard hasn’t made an appearance. We only have the weekend, and his delay has cut off a significant chunk of it.

  There’s nothing I can do about it, so I try not to be too disappointed or mopey. I am feeling a bit heavy as I put on one of the pretty gowns I brought with me. This one is a lovely cream color with lace straps and lace at the neckline. It looks feminine. The color is good against my skin. It makes my breasts look particularly lush. It’s not overtly sexy—or sexy in any way. But I’ve bought way too much lingerie in the past few months in preparation for all three trips, and one thing I’ve discovered is that I look stupid in the really sexy, daring stuff. I look unnatural. Artificial. Like a little girl playing dress-up.

  Some women can wear it and it suits them, but it doesn’t suit me. I’m not comfortable in it, which means I won’t have a good time wearing it. So I stick to the pretty stuff I look good in.

  If Richard doesn’t like it... Well, he didn’t have any complaints in Paris. And the lingerie I wear is more about me than it’s about him. I’m not going to make my choices based on a man’s preferences if they aren’t in sync with my own.

  Any man.

  Even Richard.

  I read for a while until I can’t keep my eyes open. There’s still no Richard. So finally I put away my e-reader and turn off the light.

  Hopefully he’ll get here before morning. We’ll still have all of tomorrow and Sunday morning.

  I’m asleep in less than ten minutes after the long bath and two glasses of wine. I sleep soundly, not waking up until I’m vaguely aware of someone getting into the bed with me.

  “Wha—?” I still half-asleep and can’t make my mind work. I fuzzily realize I’m in a hotel room in San Diego, but I’m confused about the man’s body that has climbed on top of me.

  Richard gives that soft, warm chuckle I can sometimes hear in my sleep. He nuzzles my neck and brushes my hair back from my face. “I race through time and space to get here with you, and you went to sleep on me.”

  I’m smiling now as awareness creeps back into my mind. He smells familiar. That very faint whiff of spicy cologne or aftershave. Scotch on his breath. Something warm and natural underlying it.

  Him.

  He’s wearing a suit, and he hasn’t even taken off the tie. A light is now on in the living area of the suite, casting dim illumination into the bedroom. Enough for me to see him. His silvering hair. His blue eyes. The crinkles beside his mouth and his eyes.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He nuzzles my neck again before kissing my mouth. “Hi to you too.”

  “And don’t you dare complain about my going to sleep. I waited and waited and waited for you, and you never showed up.”

  “I know. I’m really sorry. It would have served me right if you’d decided to pack up your stuff and go home.”

  “That would have been kind of petty. Plus it would have been self-defeating since I flew all this
way because I wanted to see you.”

  He kisses me again, and it gets deeper than I expected. I’ve still not quite woken up, and I haven’t gotten any sort of explanation for his lateness, so after a minute I push him away, giving him a playful swat on the chest when he huffs.

  “What happened?” I ask, watching as he stands up and takes off his tie and suit jacket.

  He makes a face. “I had a work thing go long, and I missed my flight. I had to get a later one.”

  “Oh. What a pain. Was everything all right with work? If you couldn’t make this weekend—”

  “There’s no way I was going to miss this weekend.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I was just stuck in a room with a bunch of lawyers, trying to work out a contract for my client, and they were being irrationally stubborn. They wouldn’t budge for the longest time.”

  “Oh. That sounds terrible. Did you get it worked out for your client?”

  “Of course.” He sits down to take off his shoes and socks. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at my job.”

  “It never would have occurred to me that you’d be anything but good at every single thing you try.” My eyes follow him as he stands up, slides off his belt, and then starts to unbutton his shirt and undo his cuffs. I like watching him take his clothes off. It’s just as sexy now as it was the very first time I saw him.

  “Maybe not everything,” he responds, pulling his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it briefly before he leaves it on the dresser with his watch. “But with work, I know how to get things done.”

  “You know how to get things done in the bedroom too.”

  His gaze heats up. “That too.”

  “If you weren’t such an arrogant man, you wouldn’t stand there and baldly proclaim that you’re good at sex.”

  “But you just said I was.” His voice is slightly muffled since he’s pulling off his undershirt.

  “I know I did. But that’s for me to say. Not you.”

  He laughs and drops his pants, stepping out of them and coming back to the bed. “Oh, is that how it is?”

  “Yes. That’s how it is.” I’m smiling up at him rather dopily. Then my eyes move lower and my mouth falls open. “Richard!”