Page 42 of Release Me
Chapter Seventeen
REBEKKA
Drinking an entire bottle of Bollinger on an empty stomach probably wasn't my brightest idea. Flirting with Ireland’s biggest player wasn’t either. But it’s Christmas, and I had to mark it somehow, which is why the log fire is roaring, and the Christmas tunes are pumping from the sixty-five inch television on the wall above the mantle.
I scan the penthouse. The enormous open plan area twinkles with the fairy lights I put up last night after a mammoth sized glass of mulled wine. Thankfully, I managed to dissuade my parents from visiting, especially when they heard my in-laws were off skiing.
To some people, it might seem tragic, drinking alone on Christmas Day. Not to me. It was the best—and the only—gift my douche of a husband gave me this year. And I am fucking milking it.
Rian’s phone call was unexpected. And him coming over here is probably unwise. No, not probably—definitely. But I can’t bring myself to care.
I squint down at my attire—boy shorts and Rian’s t-shirt. I wasn't expecting company. I should probably change.Though what does one put on when their husband’s best friend is calling over on Christmas Day?
I pad through to the main bathroom, turn on the shower and strip. Hopefully it’ll sober me up a bit. Then again, who wants to be sober at Christmas? I step in, lathering myself from head to toe in the Jo Malone shower gel Avery gifted me. The hot water hits my back as I scrape my hair up into a messy upstyle, securing it with a ponytail holder.
I’m dicing with death allowing Rian to call. Especially because every cell in my body burns for him. But I can control myself.
I can.
And I will.
It’ll just be nice to have some company.
I’m not going to do anything stupid.
I’m not going to do anything at all.
The flirting is just for fun. We both know we can never act on it. And to make sure of it, I’m going to put something really unsexy on. Yes. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Something that’ll ensure we stay in the friendzone, because whatever else is burning up between us, I know without a shadow of a doubt that Rian can be counted on as a friend. Firstly, I need to get out of his t-shirt because nothing screams stalker like a woman who steals your clothes.
I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a giant fluffy towel and slather on a mountain of moisturiser in the hope that I don’t look my age. Baby Beckett is five years younger than me, and while he said older women are sexy—I’m still not entirely convinced. Maybe because my husband hasn’t looked at me like I was sexy since our wedding night.
I strut through to my bedroom, pull on a white bra and pantie set—nothing racy, I remind myself. I’m not aiming for “sexy”, I’m aiming for “married”. Digging in my chest of drawers, I find a pastel pink Abercrombie sweater and shortset. It’s cute, but definitely not sexy. It’s not particularly festive, but at least it doesn’t scream fuck me, even if that’s exactly what I’ve been fantasising about from the day I met Rian Beckett.
I’m dragging a brush through my hair when the buzzer goes. Three squirts of my favourite Charlotte Tilbury perfume later and I’m ready.
Ready as I’ll ever be, anyway.
I switch off the TV as I’m passing. There’s only so many times one can endure Shaking Stevens in a day. Standing behind the thick solid wood door, I take a deep breath. This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I swore I wouldn't be alone with him again. Not after the last time.
Your husband is in Dubai with his mediocre dick inside his poor unfortunate PA.
Live a little.
I reach for the brass knob and turn it, opening the door slowly. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the man before me. He’s fucking beautiful in that dark, rugged, masculine way that only a man who knows who he is can be.
‘Merry Christmas.’ He thrusts two bottles of Beckett’s Black Label, his family’s vintage champagne,towards me. I accept them, glance guiltily around the corridor—even though there’s no one else up here but us—then beckon him in. He looks both formal and formidable in a black fitted suit and crisp white shirt. The scent of his familiar aftershave envelops me as he steps in.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I murmur, trying to bite back the smile stretching my lips. This is so wrong. So, so wrong. So why does it feel so right?
‘You look fantastic.’ His eyes rove over my bare legs.
‘I don’t have any make up on,’ I blurt. Ha! That’s the least of my problems, and we both know it.
‘You don’t need any.’ His pupils bore into mine,smouldering with sincerity. ‘I’ve told you before, Rebekka, you are stunning.’
‘And you are so good for my ego.’ I usher him in towards the kitchen.
‘I aim to please.’ He smirks, his long legs eating up the space in front of him.
