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I’m beyond sexually frustrated but something about using Brontë for a quick release before meeting up with my ex for dinner just feels wrong.
Brontë and I haven’t had a conversation about what we are, but I don’t think it’s really necessary. We aren’t anything… We’re either a dirty little secret or a huge mistake just waiting to implode.
We both know that whatever this thing is between us will be short-lived and just an exciting little story for her someday, once she’s left my company and moved on with her life. A pit forms in my stomach as I think through those thoughts. Something about her far beyond her physical beauty pulls me to her, like an invisible string tying us together. But what are my options here? Let myself fall for her and tell her only to have her laugh and tell me it was just a fling? Or worse, that she never saw me as anything more than a way to get back at her dad.
I hate that I’ll just be a memory in her life someday, but I hate even more the idea that she would ever see me as a regret.
I check my watch before pulling my car into traffic. I have fifteen minutes before I’m late to dinner. I step on it, driving a little more recklessly than I’d like but I make it. I step out, handing the keys to my Rolls-Royce Wraith to a very eager-looking attendant and head inside.
“Evening, Mr. Archer,” the host says with a warm smile. “Your party is already seated. Right this way, please.”
I follow him through the dimly lit restaurant to a private table, shaking a few hands and reciprocating a few head nods along the way. It’s pretty impossible for me to go anywhere anymore without some associate stopping me for a quick chat or a piece of advice.
“Your table, sir,” the host gestures to where Venus is sitting patiently.
“Thank you.”
“Long time, no see.” She smiles as I bend down to kiss her gently on the cheek.
“Likewise, Venus. You look beautiful as always.” I take a seat and reach for my water, attempting to bide my time so I don’t just come out and ask why the hell she insisted on meeting with me.
“So how’s business?”
“It’s business,” I reply, knowing she doesn’t really care. Venus was never good with small talk or the day-to-day inconveniences that me owning and running a company entailed. Business bored her, even if it did allow her to live an exceptionally posh life on her father’s dime.
“And your social life?” She hooks a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me.
“It’s social.” I smile, motioning for a waiter.
“Evening, sir. Your waiter will be out in ju?—”
“Just need a scotch on the rocks in the meantime, please,” I say, interrupting the young man who nods. “Macallan, please.”
“Right away, sir. And anything for you, ma’am?”
Venus smiles and gently shakes her head.
“So who is she?”
“Who is who?”
Venus gives me a look, one I’ve seen a dozen times while we were together.
“You know, you’re not as clever as you think you are.”
I laugh and a new waiter returns with the scotch which I gladly welcome considering the territory we’re heading into. He introduces himself and tells us the specials, handing us some menus with a promise of returning in a few moments.
“There are only two reasons you would refuse to meet with me for so long, let alone ignore my texts and calls. One is you’re dead, which clearly”—she holds out her hand toward me, dragging it up and down—“you’re not. Or… it’s another woman. One you either haven’t yet told about me or don’t plan on telling about me.”
I savor the burn of the scotch as it lingers on my tongue before numbing my throat on the way down. And for some reason, either the liquid courage or the reality that I don’t want to hide how I feel about Brontë, I tell her.
“She does know about you.”
She tries to remain stoic, unbothered, but I see the tendon in her throat tense when I say those words.
“Everything?”
“Everything, meaning?”
