“Andrew.” He grabs the rest of my bulletproof coffee and drinks it, then slams the glass on the counter like he’s Thor, demanding another tankard of ale. “You came to me a few months ago to ask for help dealing with your fear.”
“Don’t use that word,” I snap. “It wasn’t—”
“Feeeeaaaaarrrrrr.” He draws out the word slowly, eyes glowing, boring into me like a laser. “And I came up with a plan. When I work with clients, my training programs are all-encompassing, and designed for success. Your wasp lessons were maximized for optimal outcome. Eradicating fear was the goal.”
“Quit calling it—”
“Feeeeeeeaarrrrrr.”
My hands curl into fists, the wedding band digging into my palm. He looks just like Declan when he says that damn word.
“Look.” I grab my hand towel off the bike and start to walk away. “I’ve got a call with some officials in Bhutan in ten minutes, and then I—”
“You said Turkey a few minutes ago.”
Shit.
“Turkey, Bhutan,” I say, dismissive like my dad.
“Even I know those are very, very distinct countries and cultures, Andrew.” He gives me a sour look.
“Investors blur together. They’re all the same.” That’s a huge lie. “I don’t have time for this.”
Not a lie.
“You taken your fake wife out on a real date in daylight, Andrew? Outside?”
I freeze. It’s a split second pause, but he catches it.
The huff of dismissive reaction makes my blood boil.
“Look, Vince, shut the hell up.”
“I’ll shut up when you man up.”
“I’m plenty man.”
“Not if you expect your woman to live like a vampire. You bite her already and turn her into one of you? Humans need sunlight. Air. A man who doesn’t live in fear of an insect’s shadow.”
I’ve never told Vince why I live a carefully-constructed life. A life designed to mitigate risk. A life that reduces down to near-zero the chance that I’ll be stung.
A life that makes sense.
“She’s agreed to your weird-ass lifestyle crap?”
My head feels like a balloon within a balloon within a balloon filled with glitter and jelly beans. I can’t have this conversation.
“She’s off limits as a topic.” I take the ring from my palm, slide it back on, and give him the bird.
His eyes narrow, hands on hips, breath steady. “You’re hardcore, Andrew. Seriously. I don’t say that lightly. I work with guys like you. Most of you are a dime a dozen. That’s why I don’t work with most of you. But you’re not the strongest client I have.”
“Vince, you train Olympic weightlifters. Of course I’m not.” He’s playing head games. Won’t work on me.
“Not that kind of strength, man. I’m talking about inner strength.”
He might as well have sucker-punched me, gloveless, while wearing brass knuckles.
“Fuck.You.”
Vince shrugs, shaking his head slightly, never breaking eye contact. “There you go. Baring your fangs when you should be showing me your belly.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Real strength comes from being vulnerable without flinching. Real strength comes from admitting when you feel weak—and asking for help to become strong again. You did that when you came to me and asked for help with the wasp thing.”
I snort. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”
“And now you’re backpedaling.”
I roll my tongue in my cheek and say nothing, pivoting away. My hand shakes as I reach for a folder.
“It’s Monday. We used to meet on Fridays at two out at that park in Waltham. You gonna be there?”
“Do I pay you to bully me?” I’m not answering his question.
I’m not answering because I don’t know the answer.
“No. You pay me to train you.”
I shoot him a dirty look.
“The bullying is a bonus.”
As he walks out, I hear him say to Gina, “Two o’clock Friday in Waltham. Add it to his calendar.”
Balls.
But I don’t object. I’m man enough to admit he’s right.
Just not to his face.
As I’m bending down to sit in my office chair, eyeballs deep in some contract made up of more legalese than a pre-nup for Rupert Murdoch, in breezes a bundle of creamy flesh, lush hair, big, round eyes and red lips that don’t even get a chance to talk before I’m across the room, kissing them. She’s soft and sweet, tasting like honey and tea, and her curves melt under my hot hands.
My hot hands that wear our wedding ring.
For a marriage that didn’t happen.
But it will, I think as the kiss deepens. The shift from talking smack with Vince to having her skin pulsing into my palms is dizzying.
Or maybe that’s just the effect of having Vince beat the shit out of every electrolyte in my body.
As she makes a small sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, my thumb migrates, the pad resting lightly on the pulse at her collarbone, seeking to feel the sound. Our hips press into each other, my erection painful in these cramped, tight shorts, and all I want to do is free myself, then be caged within her warm, wet madness.
Losing myself in her is the best form of escape.
Her hands slide up and down, one north to the nape of my neck, one south to the curve of my ass, which tightens at the initiation of her touch. Her hand is insistent, demanding, righteous and full of assumptions.
She acts like she has the right to touch me like this.