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11 - ADDISON
Iowe you an apology for Robert as well, Addison. And for my less than warm welcome,” his mother said as I sat down and stared at the soup, my appetite all but gone.
“That’s unnecessary. This entire situation is less than ideal.”
My words to his father were more worrisome than anything else this evening. Not because I regretted them, his father could go deep-throat a cactus for all I cared, but because somewhere between the first time Simon called me honey and tonight, my armor cracked, and he snuck inside. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment he became more than whatever fake thing we were pretending to be but came up with zilch.
Simon was handsome, extraordinary, and deserved someone who didn’t keep her heart buried behind a brick wall. I had to repair the cracks he’d already made and remember the scars on my heart weren’t something that would fade with time. The scars were pockmarked and damaged—my constant reminder never to let anyone close enough to hurt me again.
Me—I was just the girl who slept with someone’s fiancé.
That was the tip of my relationship fuckup iceberg. Simon deserved a girlfriend who didn’t have reporters with vendettas—one who had a clear path for her future.
What about what you deserve?A careless voice tried to whisper that Simon was different, that he could be so much more if I’d let him. I shoved the wayward thoughts away and focused back on Katrina.
“You’re right. The situation is less than ideal,” Katrina answered, picking up her white wine and taking a drink. “But who knows how long it would have taken Simon to introduce you otherwise? It’s also easy to see how much you complement each other. Robert has a lot on his mind, but it doesn’t excuse his behavior. If you’re willing to give us a second chance, please come back for Sunday brunch. Beth and her family will be here.”
“Thank you for the kind offer.”
I was careful with my wording. Meeting his parents was one thing, but his sister was another, and I didn’t want to put Simon in an uncomfortable position if he wasn’t planning on introducing us.
“Do you think Simon made it to his father or detoured to the library?”
“Oh, you do know him, don’t you? I’m sure he’s in the library and would appreciate you looking in on him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kelly.”
“Please call me Katrina.”
“Thank you, Katrina. Excuse me.”
I stood up from the table, and she nodded, picking up her white wine again and giving me a kind smile.
“What a left turn this dinner had taken,” I whispered to no one as I walked out of the dining room and toward the entranceway.
Once I made it back to the double staircases, finding my way back to the library wasn’t hard. As I pushed open the door, my eyes traveled over the dimly lit space. I took off my cardigan, lying it on a nearby chair. The fading light cast shadows across the books, and as I stepped in further, I saw Simon sitting in a high-back leather chair swirling his martini glass between his long fingers.
His right leg was crossed over his left knee, and his gaze was so focused on the liquid I was sure he hadn’t heard me approach. But as I stepped closer, he held up one hand, and I stopped, frozen in the middle of the entranceway.
My feet felt like two cement blocks as he stood and downed the drink, setting it on a table beside him, and deftly unbuttoning the top three buttons of his crisp, black oxford. His cufflinks came next, and he dropped each one on the marble floor, the sound echoing like a thunderbolt in the quiet space.
The noise startled me, and I stepped back, but he raised his hand again and I froze, awaiting his next move. My cheeks burned as he stared like he could see into my soul.
I was ready to let him.
I was ready to show him my secrets and pain because something in the way he looked at me showed his vulnerability. It was how he told me boring facts and how his fingers traced my thigh as I confronted his father. All thoughts of keeping my distance were pushed to the back of my mind with each step he took toward me.
The closer he got, the more defined his features became. His pupils were blown entirely black, and his perfectly styled hair was a wreck.
A whiff of something invaded my senses.
How could he smell so good from so far away?
It was a mix of the gin, the books, and something uniquely Simon.
Peppermint and apples.
But what stood out more than anything, what had my legs rooted firmly in place, was the raised bruise directly above his pulse point. The bruise shaped perfectly like a pair of lips.
