Page 36 of Elevator Pitch

I take a walk at a local riparian preserve, which is quite opposite Chicagoland’s Forest Preserves. On the sandy paths between large man-made water tables filled with ducks and other waterfowl, my mind wandering as I circle the ponds and cut through the middle of the preserve on the various trails.

Cameron and Ross both cross my mind along with the variety of differences between them. I’d known Cameron since high school and Ross for less than five months with no more than four encounters, yet I felt more attracted to him as a stranger than the man I’d once called my husband. I don’t like to think about Cameron’s adultery. I often don’t think about that time in our lives, but sneaky reminders creep up on me, like last night, laying silently staring up at the ceiling, feeling awkward and tense in my own bed, distant from the man beside me.

I wasn’t sexually experienced or wise on dating, and when I asked Ross about cheating, the question came about because I figured he’d have a better perspective on how to separate my mind from my body. Not that Ross and I were doing anything physical. We were sleeping beside one another. But I couldn’t dismiss the sensation fluttering inside me. That rumbling pull to know more about him. The attraction was real. For years, I have crushed on Ross. Like I’d once longingly stared with heart-filled eyes at Cameron when we were teenagers, before he noticed me.

I worry that despite being older and wiser, I am setting myself up for the same kind of failure. Perhaps not giving twenty years to a man, fifteen of them in marriage, but still, failure all the same. Because my feelings were evident, even if only lusty desire, and I’ll need to work on keeping my emotions under control. I couldn’t risk the physical attraction turning into a mental connection, like Ross Davis held some secret key to unlock my heart.

One thing that didn’t worry me was taking advantage of Ross. I would never throw myself at him, despite the playful smack on his backside this morning.

I also didn’t want Ross thinking about his late wife while he was with me. Silly, considering he’d been in a long-term relationship with Chandler Bressler, and several short-term ones with supermodels and beauty queens. If he’d been through all those women, a sense of guilt was no longer on his mind.

I didn’t know what I should feel guilty about, but the familiar twinge was present all the same. Like maybe I was using Ross for some ulterior, unknown motive. I couldn’t imagine what that mysterious reason would be. It couldn’t be that a warm body in my bed made me feel safe and secure. Or that the presence of his arm over me was a comfort. Or that his side wedged against my back, keeping us connected even when he rolled away, made me feel important to him in some way.

Those feelings would be as ridiculous as this arrangement.

On that note, I head back to my place and watch the Anchors’ afternoon game on a sports channel.

And, the Anchors win.

Chapter 11

[Vee]

When the knock comes to my front door around nine, I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I am. I open the door with a flourish and stare at the man waiting on the stoop.

Ross is dressed in pants made of a light-weight material and a plain T-shirt, exposing the colorful inked arm I have yet to inspect. In his hand, he holds a bottle of wine. The moment reminds me of the night he stood outside my hotel room door, cradling a crystal bottle of scotch.

“I got your message,” he says, watching me from where he remains on the stoop, and I stand inside the condo entryway.

Earlier in the day, I sent him a congratulatory message to which he replied with a simple, “Thank.” Not a thank you; not even a thanks, the S glaringly missing on the end of the word.

“I got yours,” I tease, leaning against the open doorway. “Not a very verbose man, are you?”

He chuckles. “My kids complain about that all the time.” He glances down at the bottle in his hand and lifts it higher. “But the first person I wanted to share the good news with was you.”

“Because the experiment worked?” I tip my head against the door, my heart hammering because I’m excited for him, while wishing he was here for more reason than winning a baseball game under the duress of a superstition. Like he wanted to share the winning moment because of me.

His mouth purses. A smug smirk forming. “Because it worked.”

Without an additional invitation, I press off the door and step back, allowing him space to enter my place. Presumptuous? Because I’m assuming he’s here for a repeat of our sleeping arrangement.

“I thought we could celebrate together,” he says, walking through the living room to the bar-like counter that separates the living space from the kitchen area. “Have an actual drink.”

“Versus a fake one?” I tease, moving around him and the counter to enter the kitchen and find wine glasses.

“Versus coffee.” His voice drops low, gritty even, like wine implies something more intimate than a caffeinated drink.

Stretching up on my toes for the wine glasses on a high shelf, I wiggle my fingers for the first stemless glass when I sense Ross’s warm, bigger body behind me, his spicy cologne invading my senses. He brushes against me. One hand lands on my hip to steady me, while his tattooed arm reaches over mine, stretching for the glass.

“I got ’em,” he says near my ear, his voice that sandy sound, his proximity close, as he squeezes my hip.

“Thanks.” I lower my arm and glance over my shoulder, meeting a heated gaze from him. Time seems to stand still a moment, then two.

Ross clears his throat, blinking once before retreating, and I’m left feeling a bit breathless and light-headed from both his nearness and his touch.

I search through a drawer for a wine bottle opener, noticing my hands are shaky. Ross rounds the counter with the glasses in hand. Once I find the corkscrew, Ross holds out his palm, doing the honors to open and then pour each of us a glass of rich red.

“You don’t seem like a wine man,” I admit.