Page 33 of Elevator Pitch

“When you spend the night with a woman, do you feel like you are cheating on your wife?”

I deeply exhale, feeling like a soft punch hit my gut. “Jumping into the deep end, are we?”

Her head shifts on her pillow, her face angled toward me. “Is that question too much?”

Again, I wish I could see her expressive eyes. Instead, I focus on her face in general. “No, it’s not too much. And yeah, I guess I did feel a little like I was cheating on Patty. At first.”

In the twelve years of my marriage, I hadn’t been with anyone else but my wife. Up until the bitter end, she had been my heart.

“I didn’t date for a long time,” I explain. “Probably more than two years.” However, I’d had sex in the interim. Random, one-night stands. Quicky hookups. Like a devil inside me had been unleashed. The anger and rage consuming me at the loss of my wife.

However, returning to casual sex in my late thirties did not offer the same thrill as the recklessness I’d indulged in during my early twenties. Instead, I fell in lust with several starlets and models of varying ages, resulting in short-term stints and several months-long situationships like Chandler.

“But at some point, I accepted that Patty wasn’t ever coming back, and I had not cheated on her while we were married. I’d been faithful and loyal.” I’d loved her. Until death parted us.

Silence falls between us for another painfully long minute. I wonder if Vee has fallen asleep on me. Then her head rolls, profile outlined once more. “My husband cheated on me during our marriage.”

Fuck!

“And yet I’m the one who struggled to accept I was not cheating on him once he was gone.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Vee.” Some men are such dicks. Women, too, as I’ve witnessed by Ford Sylver’s ex-wife flaunting her affair with his fellow teammate. “But you got through those emotions, right?”

Is she feeling adulterous right now? I roll to my side facing her, wanting to reach out to her, wanting to reassure her that we aren’t doing anything remotely similar to infidelity. But I’m afraid to touch her. Afraid she won’t want my touch.

“Vee,” I whisper. “When you spend the night with a man, you don’t still feel like you’re cheating, do you?”

With her face still aimed toward the ceiling, she brushes at her cheek. Shit. Is she crying? Did I press too hard? Did I push this arrangement too fast without thinking it through? Thinking enough of her?

“Vee.” My voice cracks. I’m fucking this up and taking her down with me.

Slowly, I press up on my elbow, desperately wanting a better glance at her face. The light filtering in from the outside offers only enough illumination to see her cheeks are dry, her eyes not glistening, but she refuses to look directly at me, even knowing I’m staring at her.

She rolls her head back and forth on the pillow once. “I’m okay.”

“But when you spend the night—”

“I don’t spend the night,” she cuts me off. Despite the dim lighting, I see her eyes flash momentarily to me, and then away, as if she’s embarrassed or ashamed. “I’ve never spent a night with a man other than you.”

The shocking reality is like the crack of a bat on a powerful hit.

“And no, I don’t feel guilty. I was just curious.”

Her eyes are still pointed away from my face. Her head even shifts, drawing away from my concerned gaze, but I remain pressed up on my arm, staring down at her. Taking in the line of her cheek, the shape of her nose again, and the roll of her lips.

“Good night, Ross,” she whispers, putting an end to this confession.

I collapse back to my side, still watching her, mentally making out her profile. Her mouth when she smiles. Her eyes when they sparkle. Wishing for that snortle sound she makes to dissolve the tension between us.

I roll to my back, hyperaware of Vee’s closeness and yet sensitive about the distance between us. Her arms remain on her chest, holding the blanket near her collarbone. I cup my forehead for a second, stunned by what she’d just admitted. Her husband’s adultery and the fact she hasn’t slept through the night with any man other than me. I’m honored in the strangest way.

Do I tell her her admission is important to me? Do I explain how I feel special? I don’t speak. Instead, I lower my arm and slowly stretch for her with my fingers.

“Vee,” I whisper, knowing she isn’t sleeping yet. “Give me your hand.”

There’s something about her fingers that brings me comfort, and when she lays her palm against mine, I rub my thumb the length of her pinky. Then, I shift so I’m stroking down each digit, until I sense Vee relaxing beside me.

And while my body settles into the bed, my thoughts continue to race, wanting to know everything there is to know about Vee.