Page 16 of Rules in Love
A blurred, stealth photo was attached as evidence. That damn sexy hair and peachy ass were the last nail in my denial-laced coffin. I wanted that man. The buns, too.
Ideology #3 - DO NOT date men you work withwas a major obstacle. Global architectural domination—well, New York at least—meant adherence to it was essential. A fling with the hot guy at work wasn’t going to get me there. I’d hoped the time away from his blue eyes and dirty-blond locks would assist in breaking the back of my crush, but if anything, their absence, Teddy’s photos, and the odd combination of Austen adaptations andMagic Mikeonly intensified their appeal.
I reminded myself repeatedly,my sexy dreams are just that—dreams.I was not an X-rated Lizzy, and he was not my chair-riding Darcy. No, I was a sexually frustrated architect and mother, riding out the final hours of a toasted-sandwich-making,Peter-Rabbit-watching, scratch-stopping marathon. And at that stage of my life, that had to be enough.
Later that afternoon, as Ben picked up his toys and I peeled burnt cheese off the grill, I received what felt like Teddy’s thirtieth text of the day.
Teddy: Just saw on Asher’s Insta. M.I.X. is doing raspberry margaritas tonight. Whoop-whoop.
It was the injection of hope and adulthood that I sorely needed. Five days slothing around the house in oily hair and baggy sweats with an itchy, whiny eight-year-old was well and truly enough. I loved him with all my heart and soul, but honestly, I couldn’t wait to see the back of the kid’s head.
“Ben, are you ready? Let’s go!”
This was Brett’s week with Ben, but since he was sick, I’d kept him home the extra day. We were a few months into a shared-custody trial. Week on, week off, Sunday to Friday. We were fairly relaxed with the times and days. If one of us had a work thing or an appointment, we were happy to switch things around, and so far, it had been working well. I couldn’t have imagined agreeing to it a year ago, but father and son had formed a bond, and all of us—Brett, his parents, and I—wanted to foster that. My child-free week was usually filled with extra work and tinged with loneliness, but to be honest, I also relished those times.
I couldn’t say I felt the same enthusiasm for seeing Old Bretty, who had made it clear he wouldn’t mind picking up where we had left off in England. Where Brett and I had left off was cherry-popping sex in the back of a Mini Cooper and an unplanned pregnancy. It was not a place I particularly wanted to revisit, henceIdeology #6 - NEVER sleep with Brett, no matter how desperate you become.I told him this in no uncertain terms last month, when he slid his hand around my waist and went for my ass, but he was nothing if not persistent.
Arguably, Brett was still hot, and I could easily see how he charmed the pants off a young me, but part of his original charm was the novelty of his accent. But I was now surrounded by Americans, and it, like Brett, had lost its appeal.
It was a short walk through the park to Brett’s place, and I could practically taste the tangy raspberry of the margarita awaiting me when I buzzed the doorbell. Sprightly footsteps approached, and through the thick, iron-barred glass door, we heard, “Is that my Benny Boo Boo?”
“Grandma! Of course it’s me. You can see me, silly!”
Ben ran toward Hillary as soon as the door opened and was swept up into her lululemon-clad arms.
“Hi, Hillary.” I smiled as she kissed my cheek. “Just finished a class?” The woman was a Pilates nut. At fifty-something, she was ten times fitter than me.
“Sure did, kiddo. It was a monster too. You should come and join me one weekend. Class starts at twelve sharp.” I nodded politely, but there was no way in hell I was doing Pilates with that woman. She would kick my ass, and my ego didn’t need that.
We followed Hillary into the kitchen and were met with the smell of oatmeal cookies and wealth. Both Brett and his father, Bill, were investment bankers, and their success in business was evident. Their home was stunning and utterly intimidating. My childhood couldn’t have been more different than Brett’s, and I was terrified the first time I had slunk through their doors. Thankfully, Hillary was the warm, all-American, bake-an-apple-pie-a-day-while-ignoring-her-husband’s-indiscretions kind of stay-at-home mum that I dreamed of as a kid. As an adult, not so much. As for Bill, in both frequency of sighting and hair color, he was like Moby, the great white whale. I’d met him three times and was not the slightest bit bothered by it.
“Where’s Daddy?” Ben asked, stealing a still-warm cookie and sighing with pleasure as he bit into it.
Hillary grabbed some milk from the fridge and poured Ben a glass as she answered, “He’s working late tonight, darling. I hope that’s okay, Scarlett. He and Bill only called thirty minutes ago. They had a late meeting, and I didn’t want to let you down on such short notice.” There was a definite shaking in her voice. Was she nervous I wouldn’t want Ben here without Brett? In all honesty, I was more comfortable in his absence.
“Of course, Hillary. That’s no problem at all.”
I left after a few cookies, fifty sloppy kisses, and a hundred whispered promises to be good.
I couldn’t say the same for myself. Within minutes of walking through my front door, I was naked and wet. My honey rose bath ball hissed and fizzed in all manner of places. A chilled glass of rosé was within my reach. And Finn Austen was on my mind.
I’d tried to push the image of him out as I lowered my body into the scalding water. I did. Sort of. But my bathtime playlist—specifically Selena Gomez and her talk of being good, messes, dresses on floors, and hands not keeping to themselves—was not helping.
“Finn.” A needy moan escaped my lips, as I rhythmically slid back and forth against the smooth porcelain. My fingers, out of sight and busy amidst the bubbles, were between my legs. I pictured us together as I circled, rubbed, and melted deeper and deeper into the water. Finn had drawn the blinds, locked the door and spread me out like the finest set of plans he’d ever laid his hands on. “Scarlett.” Over and over, he groaned my name as he tasted me. When fantasy-me reached my peak with his tongue, reality-me fell apart on my fingertips.
My bath exit was timed perfectly. It was a long enough soak to do my thing and enjoy the glow, but also over before I turned into a prune. The temptation to collapse into my soft, pillowy mattress was strong, but I resisted and glammed up for the evening. Nails were painted, toes included, and my hair was straightened and styled. I slipped into the slinkiest, naughtiest dress in my closet, and finished the look off with black peep-toe stilettos and my namesake color staining my lips.
“Grant, stunning as always.” Teddy smirked as my shit-hot self skidded into the cab beside him. “Your skin looks amazing. Fuck, you’re beautiful.” His eyes roamed my body as we pulled away from the curb. “You rubbed it out before you left, didn’t you?”
“Teddy!” I squirmed in my seat, trying not to die of shame or laugh like the cab driver. “How the hell would you know?”
“You forget how long we lived together and how thin our walls were? I’d recognize that post-masturbation glow anywhere.” Though unable to see my face, I could feel that I was redder than Mars. “God, Scar, don’t look so horrified. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I did too.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The origins of Margarita Monday laid within my cheapness, sometimes social awkwardness, and the relative quietness of Monday at M.I.X. But thanks to warm summer nights, alcohol, and the promise of refrigerated cooling, the bar was packed. Luckily, Teddy’s friend,Asher Kim, still saved our favorite table by the window.
Exchanging major sex eyes, Asher escorted us to our table, pulled out Teddy’s seat, and winked before strutting away. “Don’t you ever give me shit about lusting over Finn. You two have it so bad for each other.” I laughed, and Teddy choked on air, immediately raising my suspicions. “What? What’s going on? Something’s going on. You have a secret, Theodore, and I demand to know it.”
