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I walked to a swinging bench and sat down. Chelsea moved beside me, sitting cross legged and turning so she could face me. I heard the laughter of the tennis players and their coaches as they were apparently being charmed by Trish in the distance.
I’d hoped to skip this part. Maybe forever. But Chelsea was right. We couldn’t make a functional relationship on the fact that we liked to sleep together. For me, I didn’t really need to know anything else about her. I knew there were dark corners I’d discover someday—little secrets and fun facts. But I also knew how I felt when I was around her and how different it was than being around anyone else.
“Trish and I weren’t just together. We actually got married. Five years ago. It was the kind where we went to the altar in plain clothes and signed some papers afterwards. I’d been trying to fill a void for so long that she came along and I guess—” I trailed off, shaking my head. “I guess I thought love was the sort of thing you had to build from scratch, like a business.”
“You married her? Wait, you said this was five years ago. How long after we…”
“A month, maybe two.”
Chelsea paused. “What void were you trying to fill, exactly?”
“The one that opened up after you walked out of my life.”
It was true, too. I’d been too stupid to see it at the time, but it was so true it stung. It had always been Chelsea, and I’d burned myself a hundred times trying to find a way to replace the way she’d made me feel.
“You hated me,” she said.
“No. I wanted to hate you. I didn’t want to need anyone or anything. Then you fucked that up, didn’t you?”
Chelsea looked up in thought. “I guess while we’re confessing, I should confess that I thought you were a grumpy, unforgivable asshole from the moment I met you. And I wanted to die when I realized I was going to apply to work for you. And I may have wished once or twice that a lightning bolt would strike you dead while you were on the toilet.”
I frowned. “These aren’t the kinds of confessions I was hoping for.”
“But,” Chelsea said, holding up her index finger. “I also used to tease the boys I liked in school. And I maintained that cooties should’ve been classified as a deadly virus by the CDC until late middle school. So I guess what I’m saying is that you can’t always trust what I say or do when it comes to my feelings.”
“What can I trust, then?”
She gnawed on the inside of her lip, staring down at her hands in her lap. “The fact that I’m here. With you. That my heart is pounding, and my body feels alive. I want this, Damon. Whatever it is. I want it.”
I cupped her cheek, pulling her toward me for a kiss.
I wasn’t the sentimental type, but I discreetly made sure I remembered every fucking sensation I was feeling. I memorized the soft warmth of her cheek against my palm. I focused on the velvety touch of her wet lips and the heat of her tongue. I listened to the insects chittering and the leaves of the trees rustling over our heads. And I thought about how inside—deep inside my chest—there was a void that I’d never quite managed to plug up. Except right now, with my hands on Chelsea, I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t even find a trace.
She pulled back after a few minutes of kissing with a small smile. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? I thought you were going to do something cliché like a personal chef making us dinner by candlelight.”
At that moment, the front door slowly opened. A nervous looking man in a chef’s hat stuck his head out, and I was glad Chelsea’s back was to him.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I discreetly waved my hand for him to go back inside.
“You’ve got to give me more credit than that,” I said.
“From now on, I will.” She hugged herself tightly against my chest.36ChelseaDamon was adorably embarrassed when we eventually went inside the house. He mumbled something about dinner, which was exactly as cliché as I’d teased him about.
He’d apparently arranged for a meal to be cooked and served in the decadent dining hall of the house. The whole building screamed colonial 1800s, big dresses, and coattails. It was charming, and I found myself swiveling my head when we sat down to admire the paintings and ornate wood paneling covering the walls. “This place is beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Damon unfolded his napkin and set it in his lap. “In my defense, there are no candles.”
I yanked the pull cord on the lamp between us, grinning. “A lamp-lit dinner. It’s like you’re deliberately trying not to be cliché now.”
