Hat Trick, page 8
“Hey, Emily. Nice suit.”
“Hi, Marcus. Thanks.” She resisted the urge to primp under his gaze. He had that effect on women, always had. She tilted her head and contemplated him a moment—her “like George Clooney, only a taller silver fox” of an ex, according to Hour magazine, which had just put him on their “most eligible” list. The bastard. He’d been eligible a grand total of three months when they’d added him to the metro Detroit list. His gray-blue eyes sparkled in a way that somehow set her teeth on edge while at the same time made her want to rip his suit off.
He fiddled with his key fob some more. Even the normally talkative Michelle stayed quiet, as if sensing silence was necessary. “So, how’s the soccer team thing?”
“Fun, harrowing, cool, and frustrating all at once, thanks for asking.”
“Hey, Mommy, could me and Daddy come to the game tomorrow?”
Emily looked down at her daughter’s face—a small echo of her own. “Oh, honey, Daddy won’t want to—”
“I’d like to, actually,” Marcus said, surprising the hell out of her. “I mean, if it’s all right. And it’s ‘Daddy and I,’ Shelley.” The girl kept her gaze fixed on her mother’s, ignoring the grammar correction.
“Uh…sure. I need to be there early and stuff. The women’s team plays first.”
“Women’s team?” Marcus snagged their daughter’s backpack.
“Yeah,” Emily said, a little disappointed the moment between them was over and disgusted with herself for even thinking that. “It’s a way to hopefully get some support for them. Put them on before the men’s matches.” Suddenly exhausted, she dropped into the bar chair she’d vacated earlier.
“Well, I’m game, if Princess Shelley here is.” Marcus crouched to be on eye level with his daughter.
Michelle put her hands on his suit-jacketed shoulders and kissed his cheek. “I’m game. Can we go shopping first?”
“Whatever you want. But you need to clean up your room at my place. You left it a mess last time.”
The little girl stamped her foot. Emily prepared herself for Marcus to placate and bribe her into a better mood. But he stood and leaned against the granite counter, his gaze on hers. “I’d take you both out to dinner before the game, if you want.”
Emily frowned at him, but experienced a tiny thrill of…hope?
No. Horny. Definitely horny.
She made a point not to lick her lips as she looked at him. He was as gorgeous as ever, but seemed somehow reduced, or perhaps just more on her level. Either way, she had a sudden, bright, and clear vision of what she wanted right then—and it involved her, her ex, and a long stretch of private time together.
“No, it would have to be more like a late lunch. I have to be at the stadium at four thirty.”
“That’s all right,” he said, surprising her. Marcus didn’t like deviating from the usual schedule. He ate lunch at noon, dinner at seven. No exceptions. She leaned on her elbow, keeping her gaze on his, owning the flirty vibe she exuded and smiling when he caught it.
“Yay!” Michelle jumped up and down and tugged on his arm. “Daddy, let’s go. You promised me PF Chang’s, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, patting her head but keeping the full intensity of his stare on Emily. “Okay, baby. Emily, could I interest you in dinner tonight, then?”
She shook her head and chuckled, breaking the stare down. “Marcus, you’re pitiful.”
“Oh? How’s that?” He grinned and slung Michelle’s bag on his shoulder. It looked out of place with its be-dazzled pinkness against the deep charcoal gray of one of his better suits. She knew them all, still. Could practically feel their expensive, smooth finish under her fingertips. She pressed her palms onto the cold granite, berating herself. “Here, go to the car.” He handed their daughter the key fob to his beloved Jag. “I told you how to press the brake and turn it on, right?”
“Yes!” She darted out the side door without another word to either of them.
“How am I pitiful? Last time I checked, I’m the hottest gray-haired dude on two legs in a five county radius.” He stayed up in her space, making her sweaty and flustered. Ridiculous. She’d seen everything about this man up to and including how badly he snored, plus his penchant for fucking hot little numbers in his bank’s conference rooms.
“I heard you broke up with what’s her name.” She kept her eyes on the wine in her glass, already sensing her weakness, her need to have something, someone, even if it were her lying, cheating, hottie of an ex-husband.
His heavy sigh reminded her of what she’d hated toward the end of their marriage. “Yeah. It wasn’t…well, anyway.”
“None of my business, sorry.” She let her gaze flicker away from him, but recognizing how very much her body was taking over, urging her forward.
“No, not really.”
They were silent a few seconds. “I miss you,” he said.
She scoffed and sipped wine, attempting to gather her thoughts. “You never were good at sleeping alone.”
“Come to dinner with us.” He put a hand on her shoulder and let it slide down to her elbow. She allowed him to do it, damn her own eyes. “Please?”
“Fine,” she said, grabbing her purse. “But I’m driving myself.”
Two huge glasses of wine, every possible appetizer, and two giant bowls of noodles later, Emily caught herself trying to recall if she’d shaved her legs that morning. Michelle was beside herself, ecstatic that her parents were in the same room together, much less enjoying each other’s company. Marcus was full-frontal charming, making both of them laugh with his dumb knock-knock jokes and silly puns.
At one point when Michelle had gone to the bathroom and Emily was struggling with her last bite, Marcus reached across the table and put his fingers to her lips, snagging the dangling end of a noodle with a wide grin. She frowned at him and touched her napkin to her mouth. “Don’t be so…” She stopped and slumped down in the booth.
“What?” he asked, sucking the noodle half into his mouth. “Charming? Perfectly wonderful?”
“Annoying and manipulative.” She slid out of the booth. “I’m going to the bathroom, then I’m going home and…oh, shit.” Her left ankle betrayed her and buckled. Marcus had an arm around her waist, holding her up before she could blink. The strange moment, reminiscent of her klutzy move at the DIA with Declan, caught her off guard. Tears formed and one actually dripped down her cheek. “Let go of me,” she whispered.
“It’s all right, honey.” The soft words, spoken in his bedroom voice, nearly forced her back to the booth seat. But she squared her shoulders and stomped away in the general direction of the bathrooms.
She peed, washed her hands, splashed water on her face—all in the carefully forced movements of the severely tipsy—and seriously horny. By the time she returned to the table, Marcus had paid and was playing hangman with Michelle on a small notepad with his bank’s logo on it. She smiled at the sight of them, foreheads close, studying the silly game, and she pondered how very much she’d wanted away from this man a year ago. And how quickly and easily their ten-year marriage had been nullified with a few signatures.
She put a hand to her neck, sensing her racing pulse. Dear Lord but she wanted him, now, in her bed. But alas, he was headed to his condo with their daughter, with promises of real hot chocolate—the kind made with milk as opposed to the kind Emily made with hot water—and a movie.
Get a grip, Emily. Marcus is now officially outside your realm and should remain that way, no matter how disgustingly needy you’ve become, no thanks to daily observations of the way Declan MacGuire moves around the soccer pitch during scrimmages.
She shut her eyes, conjuring images of him, of Declan, hoping to banish all fantasies of some sort of reunion with Marcus that she sensed hovering around their edges, like an overeager understudy in the big play.
“Mom!” The sound of her daughter’s voice hit her ears. The girl stood, clutching her phone and tugging on Emily’s arm.
“What, baby? You all set for your sleepover at Daddy’s?” She bent down to give Michelle her full attention, hoping to staunch the rising, alarming urge to throw herself at Marcus, not unlike how she’d done once, all those years ago at the bank’s lake retreat.
“Angela wants me to come over, so we can practice our dance routine.” She held the phone out so Emily had to take it and put it to her ear at the exact moment she met Marcus’s eyes. He was leaning against the booth banquette; tall, casual, and fucking perfect, tempting her in that suit just like he always did.
The bastard.
She turned away from him and spoke with Angela’s mother long enough to determine it was a legit invite. Michelle went bounding over to her father and jumped up to give him a hug, then grabbed his hand and led him to the door, leaving Emily to take deep breaths and get her head around thoughts of how this night might end.
“Leave your car,” Marcus called out in his typical preemptory manner. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
Emily stopped, her keys clutched in her hand. Marcus held his passenger’s side door open and beckoned her with a finger. His eyes shone in the halogen’s glare. Emily swallowed hard and, in direct contradiction to her near year-long “I don’t need a man” pep talk, climbed into the Jag’s front seat.
“You can just take your backpack, right, honey?” Emily kept her gaze ahead, her hands together in her lap, fingers threaded together.
“Yeah,” the girl said from behind her. “She’s on Cambridge, Daddy.”
“I know. I remember,” he said, putting the sleek sedan in gear and heading out onto State Street. Emily attempted to ignore how every nerve ending she possessed was humming, eager for him, for his lips and hands on her again.
They stayed silent for the brief drive to Burns Park, Michelle humming along with the mindless pop music oozing from the satellite radio. Emily recognized the tune—something the team played during their warm-ups. She put a palm to her burning hot face at the same moment Marcus’s hand dropped onto her leg when he pulled up to the front of a giant Tudor-style house in one of Ann Arbor’s older, established, professor-type neighborhoods.
She let him keep it there while Michelle climbed out, blew them kisses, and ran up the long front walk to the porch. After waving at Angela’s mom, Emily put her hand on his, picked it up, and placed it on the steering wheel. “This is not happening, Marcus.”
“What isn’t happening?” He pulled out onto the deserted street, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the back of her seat. Instead of pointing out his insistence on being obtuse, she glared straight ahead, willing herself more sober and less damp between the legs.
He whistled along with the radio. She stayed quiet. Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the driveway of her house—of their house—not talking. “Well, thanks for dinner,” she said, forcing herself to move. This was all too much, with too many memories of the good times they’d shared and not enough of the shitty ones crowding her brain, making her eyes water.
She fumbled with her keys, finally dropping them on the slate tile porch. Before she could retrieve them, Marcus had slid his own key into the lock, turned it, and held the door open. His smile was a little sad, but his eyes…oh dear Lord help her…those eyes, they glimmered in the light thrown from the foyer.
He held out her keys. She grabbed them and made her way inside, slipping out of her shoes and dropping her purse on the hall table. When she turned, she was shocked to find him still in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” She waved a hand, anger slowly but surely replacing her lust. “It’s your damn house. Come on in. Kiss me. Fuck me. Whatever it is you’ve decided you want to do.”
He stood still, head tilted, giving her a curious, searching look. “Is that what you want me to do, Emily?” His voice, normally low and gravelly and bone-chillingly sexy, had gone flat and neutral. Not shifted into seduction mode as she figured he’d do the second they dropped Michelle off for the night.
She crossed her arms over her wrinkled work blouse. “I don’t know, to be honest. But I’m…shit.” She turned away from him and headed for the kitchen. After a couple glasses of expensively filtered water, she turned, not at all surprised to see him there, taking up more space than should be allotted to one man, in a room he’d once spent so much time in, with her, with them, as a family.
A rogue tear slid down her cheek. In a blink he was there, wiping it away, running his hands up her arms, into her hair, pulling her up so their lips met for the first time in a year, but in such as a way it was as if he’d never left. His mouth was firm, in control as his tongue breached her lips, probing, slowly, questioning how far she wanted to go. Emily’s body lurched into high alert, skin pebbling, scalp prickling, nipples hardening under her utilitarian cotton bra.
Everything about him filled all her senses—the crisp fabric of his bright white shirt under her hands, the soft silkiness of his thick hair between her fingers, the rich, starchy, leathery smell of him in her nose. He kept his hands in her hair. Didn’t roam around, grab her boobs or her ass or anything—just kept them connected via the most mind-blowing, toe-curling kiss in her memory.
He broke it off softly, leaving her gasping and gripping his biceps before snaking her hands up around his neck. She wanted him so badly at that moment—wanted a connection with somebody who knew her, understood her, that she didn’t have explain herself to—it manifested as an actual physical pain in her chest. But he took her arms and pulled them from around his neck, kissed both her cheeks, her nose and her lips once more before taking a step away from her.
She nearly fell over into the space he created between them. Her eyes went straight to his crotch, noting the obvious indication of his desire to take this a step further. And why not? They were consenting, formerly married adults. They knew each other’s buttons and could press them, get off, itch scratched, and move on. At that moment Emily wanted nothing more than for Marcus to scratch her damn itch, two or three times.
Shoving out thoughts of Declan and the sound of her own conscience, she lunged for Marcus, determined to get him undressed and between her thighs as fast as possible. He moved away, running a hand across his lips before reaching down to adjust his zipper. She bit her lip, curious, frustrated, and so horny she could taste it in the back of her throat.
“What?” she said, her voice croaky. “I thought you came in here for a reason.”
“I did,” he said, putting a hand on the counter. “But…we can’t. I can’t.”
“Why not? Run out of Cialis?”
He winced, then smiled. “Ah, Emily, I have missed you, even your smart mouth.”
“Well, let me remind you what I can get up to with my mouth.” She reached for him but he grabbed her wrists and stared at her, pissing her off and turning her on even more.
God, you are one sick loser, Emily.
She shook her head to dispel her inner critic.
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m gonna have to pass.” He clenched his teeth. She sensed his lust—smelled it all up in her nose, felt it curling around in her head.
“Why?” She jerked out of his grip and grabbed the water glass, suddenly thirsty, wishing he’d act like Marcus and not some kind of mature, thoughtful human being.
“I love you, Emily. It’s why she left, you know. She figured it out before I did.”
“She,” Emily said around the mouth of the glass. “Your girlfriend, you mean? The latest one?”
“Yes.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I decided that I wanted us to try this again.” He jerked his chin, indicating the kitchen and, Emily assumed, their lives in it. “I want to get back together. I want to be a family again. You can keep your job.”
“Oh, gee, thanks for that.” She scoffed, but something was shooting around in her brain—something that she’d never thought she’d feel in relation to Marcus Keller. “I…”
He held up a hand. “No, I’m not rushing it. We rushed it the first time. And as badly as I want to be here…” He took the short step between them and had his hand up her skirt and between her legs so fast she yelped. “And here.” He pulled that hand out and cupped her breast gently. “And here.” The hand slid up her neck and into her hair as his lips hovered over hers, not touching but oh so tempting. He stepped away again. “I won’t. Not yet. Let’s call this one, okay, Em?” He thumbed her chin. “I’ll get someone to drive your car over in the morning.”
Speechless, she nodded, emotions awash in her that she had no explanation for. “Thanks,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, lingering a little, licking her lips, then withdrawing, his eyes full of regret. “Sweet dreams.”
Marcus turned and walked out, leaving her clutching the bar chair, legs weak, panties damp, and brain spinning with the strange turn of events her life had made in the space of twenty-four hours. After brushing her teeth and putting on her usual T-shirt for sleeping, she saw a text on her phone.
She climbed into bed and snuggled down to read it:
Marcus: Thanks for dinner. And for humoring me. I want you back, Emily. Body and soul. But I’ll wait a bit for the body part.
She typed out a quick answer: Why wait? I’m here, alone in an empty house. And I’m horny as hell now, you jerk.
His reply made her want to faint from lust and no small amount of fulfilled-fantasy I-earned-this relief: I’ll make it worth the wait. You know that. See you tomorrow for the soccer thing. And for the record, I never stopped loving you.
Chapter Nine
She slept, by recent habit, in the guest room of her huge house. It had become her haven—the way she forgot how much she’d wanted to be here in this echoing, overbuilt pile of bricks with the George Clooney-only-taller banker husband, her one kid, and time for nothing but yoga classes and whatever else she did to stay in tip-top condition for her job—that of wife to Marcus Keller.
She woke to the sound of her doorbell and hauled herself up, grabbed her robe, and headed down the back stairs. Yawning, she peeked out the sidelight and saw a giant bouquet of white roses, calla lilies, and other various plants standing on two legs. Confused, but slowly coming to terms with the fact that there was a human being holding it, she opened the door and accepted the delivery.
