The Everlasting Chapel (9 page)

I consider my options. I could try changing
the tire myself. Well, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m wearing
wedges and a can-hardly-breathe-it’s-so-damn-tight miniskirt. I can
just imagine how uncomfortable it would be, not to mention cold,
squatting, hoisting the car up, getting the flat tire off, putting
the new one on… I’ve changed a tire before, but that was with my
father’s help
and
I was wearing pants,
and
it was in
the summertime.

I wrap my arms across my chest and shiver.
It can’t be more than twenty degrees out right now, and I’ll freeze
to death before I even manage to locate the car jack.

I’ll see if Vivian can come help me. I call
her number, but no one answers.

Shoot! I try not thinking about calling
Michael. Not only will he be very suspicious that I am driving this
car, he’ll also notice that I’m wearing the same outfit I wore last
night. It’s hardly something I want to start explaining to him.
Besides, I know the second I tell him or just as soon as he finds
out that I slept with Spencer, the guilt will start to surface. No!
I refuse to feel guilty about having a great time!

I go through my list of options again, but
it’s useless. There is no one else—unless I call 911. They probably
don’t consider a flat tire an emergency. If it weren’t for the
wedges and my miniskirt, I’d walk home. It might take me three or
four hours to get there, but it would be worth it to not stir the
pot with Michael.

Reluctantly, I dial Michael’s number. He
picks up after two rings.

“Hello,” he says.

Oh, dear. It is way too good to hear his
voice again. But then I remind myself how he was a prick last night
and what a great time I had with Spencer.

“Hi…um…I was calling you because…I kind of
need your help.” Why is this so difficult?
Because you’re eating
crow!
my alter-ego yells at me.

“Are you okay?” His voice is slightly
alarmed.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Everything’s fine, I just…I
have a…do you know how to change a flat tire?” I say, kicking the
darn thing. Aren’t Audi’s supposed to be indestructible?

“Oh, okay. Well just tell me where you are,
and I’ll be right there,” he says.

Really? Just like that? For a second, I’m
speechless. Oh, yeah. I should be open with him before he arrives.
“Just before you come…I wanted to let you know I’m not driving my
Honda.”

He pauses a few seconds before asking, “Did
you finally spend some of your money?”

“No.”

“Did you rob a dealership?”

That makes me laugh. “No. I just…” I need to
just blurt it out and let the pieces fall where they may. “I spent
the night at Spencer’s.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Just tell me
where you are and I’ll be right there.” His voice has fallen a bit,
and it makes me feel horribly guilty.

Dammit! Why the guilt?

And what—no snide remarks or angry words? No
reaction at all? At least yell or something! Say you won’t come!
I’m almost disappointed because it makes me think he doesn’t care.
Which obviously he doesn’t or he wouldn’t have divorced me, I
remind myself. I give him my approximate location, climb back into
the car, turn the heat up all the way, and wait.

Fifteen minutes later he arrives. When he
steps out of his Range Rover, my heart starts to beat faster. Much
faster. He’s wearing charcoal gray sweats and a matching sweater,
and there’s a faint patch of moisture on the front of his chest.
Damn sexy man. Why can’t I just not crumble into a thousand
smithereens every time I see him? Highly self-conscious about my
outfit, I step out to greet him.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t interrupt your
work out,” I say. His eyes rake the length of me, and my inner
muscles clench.

“Scarlett, no matter what time of day or
night, you can call me, understood?” he says.

I wait for a scathing remark, but it doesn’t
come. He doesn’t even mention my outfit, nor does he ask about it.
Does he not remember what I wore last night?

“I’ve called my company and they’ll be
fixing the tire and towing the car to your place. Would you like to
come back to my house so I can get cleaned up?” he asks. “I have an
important meeting I need to be at in a bit, but I can take you home
before then.”

Cleaned up? My thoughts immediately go back
to our encounter in the shower. Hot, Slick. Wet. Skin. His hands on
me. His tongue on me. Inside of me. Our bodies sliding across each
other. I suppress a wince that wants to come out.

“Sure.” I manage to spit out. I snatch my
purse from the car and lock the vehicle. Michael helps me get into
the front seat, and I can’t help but notice how he glances up my
skirt when I get in. Then he walks around the SUV and gets into the
driver’s seat.

Not a second after he closes the door, not
only does the car start smelling like his cologne mixed with sweat,
but the atmosphere in the vehicle changes. It’s charged. Dark.
Dangerous. Sensual. From the corner of my eye, I see him watching
me, but he doesn’t say anything. Finally, once he’s been staring
for a ridiculously long time, I turn to look at him.

His perfectly chiseled face is so close to
mine, and his hair is messier than usual, making me want to reach
out and run my fingers through it. Tug at it.

Not thinking about it!

He says, “I’m sorry about last night. I
didn’t want it to come across as me wanting to control you. And I
didn’t want you to feel rejected. However, there is a reason I did
reject you. I promised myself I wouldn’t…be with you in that way
again until you knew for sure you wanted to try again. I suppose
it’s my way of proving to myself and to you that you mean so much
more than just a quick fuck. Obviously telling you this didn’t have
the effect I hoped it would, and in the moment it came out all
wrong.”

I feel my face turn hot, and I have to look
away in shame. I pretty much slept with Spencer because Michael
turned me down, didn’t I? To get back at him and to define my
independence.

It’s official. I’m a slut.

He places a hand on my knee, and an energy
surges straight up to the deepest part of my core.

“I love you, Scarlett Hansen. I don’t care
what you do or what types of jobs you have had. I made a huge
mistake, and I’m trying my best to figure out how to fix it. But I
need your willingness to do that, and I need you to let me know if
I’m on the right track.”

“It’s just too hard between us,” I say.
“Everything is so complicated. With Spencer, it’s so easy. I’m so
tired.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and I squeeze my lips
together.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to try
anymore?” His voice is flat.

I look him in the eyes, and honestly, I have
no idea what I want at all. Being here in his presence again, it’s
almost as if I want him even more than before, and quite honestly,
it scares the shit out of me. Because with just one touch, he can
melt my mountains of ice, and with just one glance, he makes me
want to surrender everything to him.

That can’t possibly be healthy—it
isn’t
healthy. But then it also occurs to me: part of me
believes what we have is too good to be true. But is it really? Am
I trying to make it not work because I don’t think it’s real?

On a conscious level, of course I understand
that the love I felt for him, was real. I also understand that our
relationship was all a façade, and could never have worked. He did
do the right thing when he divorced me. The old had to die if we
were to have anything new.

Yet, I’m still afraid of these strong
feelings, and on a subconscious level—the whirlwind affair, the
billion and a half dollar deal, how much and how soon I loved him,
how wickedly amazing the sex was—it seems more like a very unlikely
fairytale. A fairytale that will never come true.

When I don’t answer, he asks, “Do you want
to be with him?” There’s an unmistaken tinge of pain in his voice,
and he withdraws his hand.

I let out a cry. “I don’t know. Everything’s
been so difficult lately, and I just don’t even know what I want
anymore. I need more time, and I don’t want to be pressured into
it.”

He sits back and thinks for a moment. “I’m
not giving up, Scar. No matter how hard things are or how hard they
get. Do you understand? You belong with me and I belong with you.”
He runs a frustrated hand through his cinnamon hair.

I will not start to cry! I swallow again and
again, and keep blinking the tears away. It’s so much easier with
Spencer. With Michael, every fucking thing is complicated. We can’t
even have a normal conversation!

“Okay, here’s what I propose,” he says.

I give him a look, and he laughs and then
sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay, bad word choice. Not a proposition,
just a plan,” he says. “I’ll take you out on a date once a week.
Can you spare me a few hours once a week on either Friday, Saturday
or Sunday?”

“Before we do, in case you weren’t aware, I
need to let you know I slept with Spencer last night,” I blurt
out.

He takes a long, slow, controlled breath. “I
figured as much. But currently we have no commitment, so until we
do, you are at liberty to do as you please.”

Does he really mean that or is he just
saying that? “Are you kidding me? Doesn’t it bother you at all that
another man’s hands, tongue, and cock have been inside of me?”

He glances at me, a vein popping out of his
forehead now. “Scarlett…”

“That he sucked on my breasts…” I say,
lingering on the word ‘breasts.’

“Scarlett…” he says a little more
sternly.

“That he made me come over, and over,
and—”

Without warning, he lunges over to me,
reaches behind my head, pulls me in, and crashes his mouth to mine.
His sudden move startles me, but before I can muster an ounce of
protest, all my reasonableness has vanished and I am left with
nothing but the ability to surrender to the kiss. His hand moves
down to the nape of my neck and as he pulls there, his tongue slips
into my mouth.

Oh. Dear. God. He tastes so good.

He is intense, passionate, and angry even,
as he claims me back with the ruthless kiss. Every ounce of me
wants him, and I know every ounce of him wants me, too. I can feel
it in his savage kiss. Will he be able to keep his promise of not
having sex with me until I am ready?

Hell…ready is a very lose term.

Oh, shit.

I am so ready for him.

Dripping wet ready. Right now I would give
him anything he asked of me, forgiveness included.

Unable to contain myself, I climb out of my
seat and straddle him. When I feel how hard he is, I gasp into his
mouth and grind myself against the bulge hiding underneath his
pants. All I want, all I need is him buried deep inside of me.

His one arm reaches around to my back, and
the other grabs my ass, pushing me down harder over him as he
thrusts upwards, his hard-on pressing viciously against my clit.
Oh…I might just come right now. I never knew dry sex could be
so…oh, God…

I let my head fall back, and when I do, my
back presses against the steering wheel, making the horn go off. I
startle to a jump, and then I start to laugh. Michael laughs, too,
and I look him in the eyes.

“What am I going to do with you?” I say,
leaning my forehead to his, half-laughing, half-crying.

He pulls back a little and looks at me in
all sincerity, his gaze filled with so much adoration and love,
that I start to cry. What a rollercoaster ride.

“I’m so sorry I messed up,” I say. Somehow I
manage to speak around the strangled feeling in my throat. Helpless
to stop it, I feel the muscles in my face contort into a myriad of
emotions. I press my palms against my face, embarrassed about my
sudden outburst of sadness, but there’s nothing I can do about it
when this horrendous ache resides within me. I feel like I’m losing
my mind. One second I’m on such a high I can hardly contain myself,
but before I know what hits me I’m trembling with anxiety, unable
to escape the harrowing darkness around me.

Michael grips my wrists and lowers my hands.
He lifts my chin so our eyes meet, and then he traces his thumb
across my cheek.

“I’m the one who messed up,” he says. “I
never should have let you go. Is there still a chance for us?”

If I gave him yet another chance, will it
last? At the moment I don’t care, although I’m not sure if I’ll
feel the same tomorrow. Or the next time he breaks my heart.

“Obviously we still feel something for each
other.” I laugh through my tears. “But we need to talk. A lot.
Like…for months.”

“Okay,” he says, stroking my hair, giving me
a soft smile.

“Okay,” I say. I lean down and kiss him
softly on the lips.

10

As we head back to Michael’s place, I try to
hide my nerves. I glance over at him from time to time, but he
doesn’t seem to notice how I’m drinking in every part of him: his
messy hair, the stubble lining his jaw, his long fingers gripping
the wheel. Oh, those hands…

All of him just makes me shudder with molten
desire, makes me want to be his again—forever. My body is telling
me what it wants to happen. Hell, I can’t think about anything
other than the aching need that’s simmering between my thighs—the
need that’s been there since…well, since we met.

God, I want him to claim me back, taste
every part of me again as his tongue roams my body, and have his
cock fuck me until I have no choice but to call out his name in
wild ecstasy.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This
is insane. My mind is flashing a big, orange neon sign, telling me
that I must be crazy to even think about getting back together with
Michael. He’s going to break my heart, and I can’t handle that.