by Katy Evans
“You’re right. Delete.”
I delete the text. And I feel good. I feel empowered.
I always wondered if he’d ever reach out but always worried that when he did, I’d feel weak. I’d be tempted to go back—to go back searching for a sign that he’d actually cared, that none of it was a lie. But I’m not in love with him, not anymore. Maybe I never was. Certainly not in the way I have feelings for another guy now.
Gina and Rachel look at each other, perplexed, before Gina gives me a stern glare as if to say, “What is going on, though?”
“It’s complicated.”
How to explain to them?
I miss Cullen like my morning coffee, a ritual I can’t do without. If I skip my morning cup, the rest of the day is screwed. Is that how I see Cullen? As the man who came into my life and fucked up the rest of my days?
Is this—whatever this is—as serious to Cullen as it is for me?
If so, then his big game is so screwed.
I look at my besties, hoping they have words of encouragement because I can use some advice.
Gina sighs. “Okay. Start over. Let’s go back to where we were before Emmett called and that look of near-retching appeared on your face. Let’s go back to the swoony face you were wearing when you landed because Cullen stole your heart.”
“He didn’t,” I lie. “We’re friends. We had a moment in Vegas and it was fun and sexy and hot as . . .” My voice trails.
Whatever it was . . . it ended.
Whatever it could’ve been . . . it’s over.
For both our sakes.
Gina reaches over the seat and takes my hand. “Start at the beginning and tell us everything.”
“I don’t know where to start.” I want to tell them that I’ve fallen for my own playboy and that I need to break it off. That I need to go off him, like a drug.
“Oh that’s easy,” Rachel says, deliberately trying to keep things light. “Just start with the sex.”
WIN AND WYNN
Cullen
With my damn seat at the championship now secured, I tell Mike that I’m checking out tomorrow. I hang up and start packing, wondering what Wynn’s doing. I reach for my phone to call her the second my ex’s name lights up the screen.
Perfect.
“Hi, Sondra.”
“Cullen.”
“Glad you returned my call,” I greet. “I wanted to see Adam next weekend. I’ve got a big tournament and I’d like to spend some time with him after my big win.”
“I don’t think so, he’ll be busy doing homework. I wasn’t really returning your call, I’m calling because we need to discuss an allowance for Adam. He’s playing sports now, Cullen. And Mr. Baxter thinks he has a real gift for the cello.”
“The cello?”
“Yes, Cullen. You do know what a d minor—”
“Stop,” I grate out. “How much?”
“Six thousand a month should do it.”
“What?”
“You have the money, don’t you? I mean, seems a shame that a big player like yourself wouldn’t have the money. See? That’s the reason there was no way I’d ever consider being with—”
“Stop. Right this minute or you will not get another damn dime from me.”
Something just snapped. I didn’t want to be the long-distance father anymore or the ex-boyfriend that Sondra calls whenever she wants to replenish her wardrobe.
I won’t yield to her demands anymore. And I won’t spend the rest of my life talking to her several times a week. Adam is old enough to pick up the phone and ask me for what he needs. He’s old enough to answer my goddamned calls.
Call it stubbornness or too many years of playing Sondra Says.
I’m sick of living like this.
I think of Wynn. Hell, that look in her eyes when she saw a picture of Adam. That same look flashed on her face when the kid bumped into us the morning she left. I noticed the wistful expression on numerous occasions.
Wynn wants kids. I want her to be a part of Adam’s life, nearly as much as I want her to play a part in mine.
“How DARE you speak like that to me!”
“You know what, Sondra? I was a kid when I fell in your honey trap, a real kid. Not even eighteen. And for the first time in over a decade, I’m going to say what you should’ve heard all those years ago.”
“Oh? And what are you ‘going to say’ now, Cullen?” She coughs. “I can’t hardly wait to hear this.”
I’m reveling in this because it’s a turning point. So for the first time in eleven years, I cross Sondra, and I do it for myself, for Wynn, for my son, for the family I’ve never had.
“I’ll see you in court, Sondra.”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll see you in court. You’re not keeping me away from Adam now. He’s older and he needs his father. And I need him.” And I want Wynn to know Adam. I think they’ll like each other very much.
I disconnect the call and settle in my chair. And as I close my eyes, my last thought is how much I need both of them.
* * *
I’m on the plane at sunrise. I like leaving the city at dawn. It’s the only time when the place looks serene, at least to me. The sun is orange with a captivating ring of light blue clinging to its circumference and it looks like its cradling our plane as we fly east.
I swivel my chair to face Wynn’s empty seat.
I lean my head back and groan at the tangled wire of emotions. When did my thoughts become a scrambled mix of Wynn and winning?
When did it get so damn hard to leave a woman’s bed?
Or let her leave mine?
When did I begin to think in terms of ‘us’ instead of me?
I should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. From the dirty little dreams to our late night conversations, I’ve been treading thin air since the day I first saw her.
And that day . . . was absolute torture. I spot the wet bar and go there to stand, bending down to peer out the small window as we find our cruising altitude. That’s when it hits me. I was standing right about here when I realized she was the ONE.
What the hell is happening to me?
I return to my seat and drag both hands through my hair. I’m staring at Wynn’s chair and inhaling the rich fragrant leather, angst-ridden because I can’t catch her scent, that quiet smell of lust and sex and expensive perfume.
I wish we were at the start of our trip all over again.
She was excited that day . . . and maybe a little scared. And I wanted to fuel that excitement and replace that fear with utter joy.
Fuck, Cullen, get with the program. She’s not here and you’ll soon have a game to play.
What can I do to get her out of my blasted head? Forget the way her sexy little body tensed the first time I touched her, the way her wide eyes followed mine as I pressed my finger against her damp panties.
That look was damn priceless.
I dream about her. Hell, I dreamt of her before I ever held her in my arms.
The thing is, I never saw Wynn’s face in those dreams but yeah . . . I intuitively knew she was the one there arching, moaning, singing that beautiful O song.
I can’t help but grin now. No one sings that tune in a better pitch. When Wynn opens her mouth and lets the pleasure have her, those sounds are better than the act itself.
Well maybe not better . . .
FUCK. I’m hard thinking about it. Hard because I want her there with me. HARD because if she were there now?
She wouldn’t have to ask about the Mile High Club.
She’d earn her damn wings.
SHUFFLING
Wynn
I’ve been busy with Pepper getting everything ready this past week, busy unpacking crates full of paintings and having them stretched and hung. I’m exhausted, and still can’t seem to get a good night’s sleep. There’s been no word from him. Is he over me already? Did he get some other lucky charm? One who sits on his lap and claps when he wins or goes down on
him or something?
Ugh. I’m so jealous I can’t stand it.
I flip over in bed and grab my cell phone. No messages.
When Cullen and I first met, he was determined to help me get over Emmett, like it was his duty and mission. Now I wonder if there’s anyone out there who can help me get over Cullen?
Why did I fall for this guy? Why didn’t I listen to Livvy when she tried to tell me to stay away?
Why’d I listen to my heart?
Why didn’t I listen to my head?
I groan and stretch. If I don’t get some sleep now, I’ll never make it tomorrow.
It’s my biggest gallery exhibit and I can’t blow it because I’m mourning a guy who tempted me with a love that never was.
I can’t do this, not now.
Cullen seems like a lonely creature by nature. Pining over our times in Vegas won’t do, especially when it won’t happen again.
Later, after the exhibit . . . then I can toss and turn and dream about my sexy and lovely Silver Eyes.
Yawning, I just need . . . sleep.
He leans down, his breath skimming my ear as his fingers trace the line of my back. “Wynn? Are you awake?”
Cullen: I groan his name out softly and I snuggle closer to his warmth, dragging his arm around my waist and tracing the thick veins in his hand.
His cock mashes against my butt and I want him to drag me up to all fours, want him to sear me with his kisses. Those sweet kisses he places along my spine and shoulders, nape and cheek.
What is he waiting for?
My body is alive and sensitized. I flip over and stare up at him, seeing the hunger and desire and unmistakable need. God, I love how he looks at me, how he watches me.
No one has ever looked at me like HE looks at me.
I’m dying for him.
And he knows it.
He drags me to his lap and teases me with the lightest touches against my hip. I groan at the feel of his cock, starting to kiss him all over. From his throat, dropping a line of kisses down the center of his chest, and lower. Lower . . .
He groans. “God, yes, baby,” he says when I curl my hands around his thick length.
And I think . . . oh yes, please, now! He shouldn’t have had to wait this long.
I eye that gorgeous, straining piece of male flesh. My mouth is watering. I’m dying to taste, dying to lick that speckle of translucent moisture straight from the pulsing head.
I dip my head and my tongue snakes across the crest, pulling him to my lips.
My smoldering-hot Cullen. He tastes like . . .
“Wynn! Damn it, wake up!”
Gina shakes me so hard I swear some bones might snap.
“What is it?” I’m startled awake, looking around in panic until I spot her. “What are you doing here?” I yank the blankets over my head. “Whatever happened to a little privacy?”
“Hurry!” She yanks me straight up and throws clothes and towels at me as she rushes me to the bathroom and slams the door. “And I don’t know who you were doing in that dream, but hurry and finish him in the shower!” She laughs. “Pepper has been trying to call you all day!”
“What?” I stare at my surroundings, blinking wildly at the vanity and towels and shampoo and soap. “What time is it?” I stick my head out to see if I can see the clock on my nightstand.
“Four o’clock.” She shoves me to the bathroom once again and slams the door. “And don’t worry. Pepper’s in charge. Saint and Rachel are there now helping her. Take a minute to pull yourself together. You have time.”
I open the door again and tilt my head in the air. “Do I smell coffee?”
“From about five hours ago. Full pot. Untouched. Guess your timer didn’t shake you. No wonder. Whoa. What a dream you must’ve been having.” She gives me a gentle look of understanding. “He’s not worth this, Wynn. You’ve waited for this day. It’s your big day. Don’t let him ruin it.”
I slam the door in her face. Behind closed door, I call out, “He didn’t ruin it. You did that all by yourself when you woke me up!”
“Ha! I had to shake you out of it before I got an eyeful of something I wouldn’t soon forget!”
I open the door and glower again. “Don’t you have a husband to do?”
She shrugs. “Checked him off this morning.”
“Such a chore,” I tease. “But seriously? I can take it from here, thank you very much. Give me forty minutes?”
“Wow. Must’ve been some dream.”
“What can I say, he brings out the best in me.”
“See you at the gallery,” she calls out.
It doesn’t take long to pick up where my dreams left off, but the hot water rolling across my back and hips does nothing to soothe the ache or still the burn.
I need my hot gambler and those wicked silver eyes.
I need Cullen . . . every thick and delectable inch of him.
And my heart needs him just as much.
ANTE UP
My beautiful gallery is my dream come true. I can’t believe I nearly slept through my alarm because of Cullen, plus I was up so late last night going over all the details and final touches for the show.
We’re showcasing ten of New York’s top up-and-coming contemporary artists and everyone who’s anyone will be here. Lifestyle bloggers and pretty much every new journalist in the city lines up for their press badges. While I want to keep the elusiveness about our show, I also don’t want to turn away those who can make me or break me.
My artists deserve exposure.
We’re giving them as much as they can stand.
When I arrive, I’m glad to find that all of the volunteers, including my friends, are performing their delegated duties smoothly according to the schedule I painstakingly made for tonight’s exhibit.
“Hey, guys.” I greet Rachel and Saint, joining them at the champagne fountain. “Thank you so much for helping tonight.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Rachel says, giving me a sideways hug.
“Don’t mention it,” Saint says, nodding at the door as a few of his rich friends enter. “I brought a couple of friends. Let me say hello first, then I’ll introduce you.”
“Act like you know them,” Rachel says. “We sent the invitation on your behalf, remember.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve been in Vegas. I didn’t lose my sense of business while I was away.”
“Just checking.”
I lean to her, tongue in cheek. “I was well fucked. It gave me inspiration and a lot of motivation.”
“I’m sure,” Rachel replies drolly.
I drag in a breath and whisper, “If you only knew . . .”
“I have some idea. You’ve spent most of your time in bed recovering since you returned,” Rachel says, laughing. “Now come on. Tonight isn’t about your Playboy. You’re going to pose with your guests, give these bloggers something to report, and make Mr. Carmichael eat his heart out when he turns on his computer tonight.”
“It’s a nice thought.” Even as I say it, I know better. My Playboy is probably pulling up a chair to another poker game by now.
I hope you kill it, but I’m killing it even more tonight. Art is art, after all. I breathe out roughly and in a barely audible voice, whisper, “Wow, now I’m talking to him in my imagination?”
“To who?” A rough voice behind me makes me turn around. A part of me is hoping desperately to find Cullen and yet greatly disappointed when I find Isaac instead.
To make matters worse, Pepper is looking at him like he just brought in takeout from Wings on the Corner. I could wring her little neck, but decide there will be time to steer her away from this guy later.
“Good evening, Mr. Ingram. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for the invitation.” He’s cool, distant. And for some reason, I don’t remember inviting him.
“I ummm . . .” Can’t find the right words.
He holds out his arm and leads me to the side.
“I’m interested in several charcoals. I’d like to discuss them privately?”
Great. Just what I need at the start of my show. Someone who wants to drag me out of the spotlight.
“Smile!” A petite blonde runs up, flashes her camera, takes a few shots, and while I’m trying to regroup, I realize that I looked like a deer in headlights.
Gina and Tahoe are coming in behind her. I wave them over and Gina holds up a finger then points at the champagne fountain.
Who ordered a champagne fountain anyway? Won’t that be expensive? And doesn’t it look cheap?
Too many things are going on but I grab Isaac and the little blonde at the same time. “Can you take another shot, please?” I grit my teeth and instruct Isaac. “Lean in and act like you’re having a good time.”
“I am.”
“Then don’t frown,” I hiss.
“I don’t know how to smile.”
“Then think about my assistant over there. She’s looking at you like you’re sex and candy all wrapped up in one.”
The look on his face is priceless but I’m not sure it’s a smile. It doesn’t suit him, but I think I looked like the gallerist, professional and polite.
Plus, the picture will drive Cullen wild.
He continues to frown before he says, “You’re probably wondering who invited me.”
“I am,” I admit, waving at Mr. and Mrs. Benson, an older couple responsible for buying my first painting. I’m relieved they’re here. They’ll buy.
“Cullen.”
My heart leaps at the mention of his name, and my stomach coils up like a pretzel. “Yes, Cullen is . . .” I pause, shake my head, and say, “Why are we discussing Cullen?”
“He invited me . . . by way of Lucas.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who Lucas is?”
“My brother. He’s quite fond of Cullen. He’s the big brother he probably wishes he had.”
“I see.”
As if cued, the music playing in the background is from Lady Gaga and “Poker Face” is piped into the gallery.
“Anyway . . . I assume he’ll be here.” He hesitates, taking in the way my face suddenly goes pale, before he says, “Listen. I don’t know if I can help because there’s a big difference in waiting for a brother and waiting on a lover. If you need to use me some other time, you know where to find me.”