Got your email. Food Network? Really?
It’s Ransom. Holy shit.
My finger hovers over the message field on my iPhone, but I don’t tap in a reply. Not yet, at least. I know I need to; this is strictly a business matter. But why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?
Thought it’d be perfect for you, seeing as you love to eat good food. They’re always looking for celebrity judges.
There. Short and sweet. That should answer his question. And if he fights me on it . . .
The phone vibrates again before I can consider his reaction any further.
Yeah. That’s true. And if all else fails, at least I’ll get a free meal out of it.
Like you hardly need to worry about that. I’m still pissed you didn’t let me pay for lunch. It was a business expense, after all.
I’m smiling down at my phone, thinking about his earnest attempt to be a gentleman. Just as the waiter was approaching with the bill, Ransom quite literally shoved a wad of bills at him before I could object. He didn’t even see what the damage was, but I’m guessing it was enough to cover our meal, and a hefty tip.
Don’t worry about it. Next time.
Next time? Will there be a next time? Other than business-related meetings, can I allow myself to break bread with him again?
The answer is a resounding no, but I’m trying not to hear it. I don’t respond.
You ever seen the movie Edward Scissorhands?
I nearly chuckle aloud.
Uh. Who hasn’t? It’s only one of the most iconic films of the 90s.
Johnny Depp fan, huh?
I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
I blush. Oh shit. Just the mention of a bed brings back memories of those dark satin sheets. I may not be able to listen to Jay-Z ever again.
I’ll keep that in mind. It’s on TBS right now. Watch it with me.
I know I really, really shouldn’t, but—Hello!—Johnny Depp. So in essence, I’m not doing this for Ransom. I’m doing it for my own selfish reasons.
I turn on the TV, just in time to see Edward, in all his Goth glory, give some poor, sex-deprived lady a haircut so good that she moans in ecstasy. My cheeks flush in the dim lighting of my bedroom, and I glance over at Tucker to see if he’s noticed. Of course, it’s just paranoia; he’s dead to the world, snoring softly on his side like he has since 10 P.M.—bedtime. I turn my eyes back to the movie and am quickly engrossed in the story and that strange, sad, beautiful man.
It’s fucked up, you know.
I frown down at the cryptic message, wondering if Ran-som accidently texted me something that was meant for someone else.
What is???
He answers immediately, as if he was already typing in an explanation.
To be wanted and celebrated by everyone, but be completely misunderstood. To be a novelty. Nothing more than a show dog.
Did you just compare yourself to Edward Scissorhands?
Idk. Guess I did.
Someone thinks an awful lot of himself.
LOL. But it’s true. No one really knows you in this business. They know what they see on TV and in the tabloids. But you’re a stranger, surrounded by people who think they love you.
His words bring me up short, and I take a few extra moments to formulate an appropriate response. I don’t want him to think that his honesty has scared me away, so I hurriedly tap in some stupid emoji that I instantly regret.
:-/
Sorry. I can’t imagine. But at least you have your band. And what about your family?
I don’t know why I ask him. It’s way too personal and something I shouldn’t give a damn about. I’m his publicist. Not his shrink. If he wants to talk about his feelings, I happen to screw a pretty good shrink twice a week. Three times on holiday weekends.
Still, I stare down at my phone, waiting for a response.
They’re not around anymore.
Shit. I didn’t want to know that. I didn’t want to feel . . . anything . . . about him. But now I know that he’s alone in this world. And I can’t unfeel the twinge of sympathy that seizes my chest.
I won’t respond. I won’t let him believe that I care, even if I do.
We continue to watch on, and young Winona’s bitch of a boyfriend cons Edward into getting in trouble. I’ve always hated this part. It wasn’t fair—he did nothing wrong. Yet, the townsfolk’s perception of his crime has caused them to all turn against him in a vicious witch hunt. They loved him before when he seemed exotic and mysterious. They all couldn’t wait to covet his talent. They all wanted a piece of that strange, sad, beautiful man, but not to love. To own. And the minute he fucks up, he’s no more than a freak. An animal they just want to put down.
After the movie is over, I look to find that Ransom hasn’t written more. I turn off the TV and the lamp on my nightstand then settle into bed. Just before I drift off to sleep, I reach over and power down my phone.
Chapter Eleven
I don’t hear from Ransom all day Thursday, so I definitely don’t expect to on Friday. However, I can’t help but feel somewhat slighted that he hasn’t texted, emailed, sent a carrier pigeon—something. Not that he should. Not that I should want him to. Which really is just poetic justice, considering that apparently I am on a roll when it comes to rejection.
I woke up oddly refreshed, ready to make Friday my bitch and start my weekend. Maybe I was still on a Ransom Reed high or just excited for some downtime. Either way, it was odd for me, seeing as I was not a morning person.
Tucker was already up, of course, and had just finished his 6 A.M. workout with his trainer. I could hear the shower beating down against sweat-stained skin and frosted glass, and a jolt of excitement ran through me like electricity, lighting up my nerve endings like a Christmas tree. I slunk to the bathroom and silently slipped out of my nightgown, and joined my husband under the steaming hot spray. He started at the first feel of my arms wrapping around his taut torso from behind, but it took him only a second to realize my intentions, and he turned to face me.
“Good morning,” he murmured against my lips before capturing them between his. I opened for him—morning breath be damned—and let him drink in my desire. My nails ran a slick path up his back before raking down to the dimples above his ass. I felt him grow between us, nudging my belly, and I brought one hand to that rigid intruder. I began to stroke him—softly, at first—letting the water collect in my hand to heighten the feeling of warm slickness. He moaned and delved into my mouth deeper, his hands grasping my hips, my ass, my breasts.
I wanted him. Needed to feel him filling me in the worst way. I turned around and pressed my chest to the cool tile of the shower wall, my back arched to give him better access to the heat between my thighs, not that he’s ever needed help finding it. His hands were on my shoulders, gently gliding down my spine to the arch of my ass, then . . .
Nothing.
I turned around to see what could be the hold up, to find Tucker studying the mosaic rocks of the shower floor. A frown dimpled his forehead and he panted, causing the water dripping down his face to shiver before dissolving into a thin spray. Then without looking up at me, he turned back to place his face under the hot spray.
“I have a client first thing, babe,” I thought I heard him say. I can’t be sure. It was hard to hear over the roar of blood rushing my face. Moments later, he stepped from the shower, abandoning me to the heavy veil of steam and water to hide my frustrated tears.
By the time I had collected enough dignity to step out of the humid safety of the shower, Tucker was gone. And I was left with the blaring reality that my life—my boring, mundane, beautiful, stable life—was trickling down around me, pooling at the soles of my bare feet.