Fire and Ice: A New Adult Erotic Romance Read online

  On the balcony is Caleb, only he’s not looking at me. He’s staring straight at George.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it.” Athena, in a silk robe, paces her suite. She does look contrite, I’ll give her that.

  “I don’t even know who added his name to the list,” she says. “It must have been the wedding planner I fired.”

  The door that leads to the adjoining suite opens. David sticks his head in. “Which one?”

  Athena casts him a death glare. He retreats.

  “Hell,” I say, “just when I was—”

  “Having fun?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Shut up. I was about to say, ‘over him.’ Just when I was over him.”

  “Right. Maybe up here.” She taps her head. “But here?” She taps her chest, left side, but actually misses the heart. “Not so much.”

  “I don’t love him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you haven’t forgiven yourself for doing so.”

  That lances me. I wonder how long this string of humiliation will continue, starting with that 747 and ending where? Nowhere good, that’s all I can tell.

  Athena plops down on the bed next to me. “It’s okay to love lousy men. Remember Trevor?”

  Athena’s first boyfriend? “I’d rather not.”

  “If you don’t date an asshat, or a sociopath, or a narcissist, you’ll end up marrying one. How else will you learn to see all the warning signs? You can’t get that from a book.”

  “You’d be surprised,” is all I say, even though I know she has a point. How else do you learn? And how is it some women never do? Will I be one of those? I think of Anna Karenina and Vronsky, her god with clay feet. Why can’t you detect the clay, even when you scratch the surface? How did I not see it with Caleb?

  I won’t make that mistake with George.

  “You’re lucky to have David,” I say.

  “God, don’t I know it. If I have to give him head every day for the rest of our lives just so he’ll stick around, I swear, I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him that,” I say. “It will be my wedding gift to him.”

  She gives my shoulder a shove. We sit in silence for a moment before she asks, “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “Because really? You could use a good cry. Have you had one lately?”

  I lean back, grab a pillow, and throw it at her.

  It isn’t a good cry, but the pillow fight helps.

  Chapter Four

  WHEN I STEP INTO the lounge, the first thing I see is Athena on the balcony. The photographer’s assistant is arranging the skirt of her wedding dress, but a crinkle or two hardly matters. She is glorious, and has, of course, picked the perfect setting for her wedding—the snow white dress against the backdrop of evergreens, the rustic wood beams of the lodge, the coffee and cream of her skin.

  She steals my breath, my big sister. She is so beautiful, my heart aches.

  I join the other bridesmaids who are hovering just inside the double doors that lead to the balcony, where an in-floor vent ruffles their skirts with warm air. Yes, Athena will make us stand in outside. The photos will be spectacular. We will be frozen.

  We’re all clad in red velvet, my dress darker than the rest, a blood red to their candy apple. It suits me. Our gazes all focus on Athena, or do, at least, until George walks into the lounge, tuxedo-clad and equally glorious. Then, as if on cue, we exchange glances.

  “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” Jada intones. “I have had impure thoughts, a dozen at least. Oh, hell, I’m going to lose count.”

  We laugh and the wire of tension—that both binds and repels us—eases.

  “That is one fine looking man,” Miriam says. “Honey.” Here, a manicured hand lands on my shoulder. “If you want to throw him back, just let me know. I’ll dip my line in the water.”

  “She always does,” Sienna whispers.

  I stifle a laugh. “We went running,” I say. “That’s all.”

  Miriam huffs. “And he ended up on top of you. That’s my kind of workout routine.”

  Yes, I think, the weekend’s worth of humiliation has only just begun. Then Caleb steps into the lounge, and I realize it may never end.

  My sister, the angel of my life, swoops down then, overturning the umbrella contraption the photographer uses for lighting and ruining the work his assistant has done with her dress.

  “Our two favorite people!” she calls out, stretching a hand toward me and one toward George.

  We are both compelled. Athena possesses that kind of force, and we walk forward until she has us in her clutches and is pushing our hands together. “Do them first,” she says over her shoulder to the photographer. “I need to fix my makeup.”

  Off she flutters—surrounded by a coterie of bridesmaids in candy apple red—to do absolutely nothing to her makeup.

  “What was that?” George says into my ear as the photographer poses us near the balcony’s rail. His breath is unbelievably warm. I could stand here all day as long as he spoke a few words every minute or so.

  “A rescue.”

  “And who needs rescuing?”

  “Apparently I do.”

  “Step closer together,” the photographer says.

  George and I each take a micro step. He looks as pained as I feel.

  “Have you known each other long?” the photographer asks.

  Neither of us have an answer for this.

  “Right,” the man says. “Just met.”

  He poses us as if we’re lifelong friends. I assume the role I always do: Athena’s little sister. When I glance up at George, the photographer snaps a picture.

  “Sweet,” he says. “Hold it just like that.”

  Discontent rumbles in George’s chest. “I hate this,” he says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not you. I hate having my picture taken.”

  “Me too.”

  “I worked my way through college modeling part-time.”

  Oh. “And I did not.”

  He laughs. “It was small time stuff, underwear ads for local department stores, things like that. I’ve hated having my picture taken ever since.”

  Underwear ads. My mind whirls. If only Miriam could hear this. “Is that why you left the corporate job?”

  “Side of beef? Cog in the machine? You’re a clever girl. So tell me, who’s the surly guy standing in the doorway?”

  Yes, Caleb has a way of making his dark presence known wherever he goes. “Someone I used to know.”

  “Used to know?”

  “Used to date,” I admit, although I’m loathed to.

  George raises an eyebrow. “The key words being used to.”

  “Actually, the key word is unfortunately.”

  This makes George snort. This does not please the photographer, who swears. Or Caleb, who probably does the same, although with my face tipped up toward George’s, I can’t tell.

  “He’s … a bit dark,” George says.

  Ah, Caleb, who was once the dark lord to my Persephone. I stepped from the shadow of my sister only to stand in his. I thought the dark suited me. I thought his moods were deep, that brooding equaled intelligence, that it took a special soul to understand him.

  “I think he might be planning my execution,” George adds.

  Knowing Caleb, that is entirely possible.

  “Now,” the photographer says, “Let’s try something different. Take her chin between your index finger and thumb.”

  George clutches my chin.

  “Good, good. Now, tip her face toward yours—not too much, we’re going for brotherly here, not the cover of a romance novel.”

  George complies and I feel the pulse in my neck against the frigid air.

  “Okay, great.” The photographer readies his camera. “Lean in and give her a kiss on the forehead.”

  George’s lips graze my skin, the h
eat of his mouth matching that of my body. We will set the resort on fire, melt all the snow, and ruin the rest of the pictures. Athena will kill us.

  “I’m a dead man,” George whispers against my forehead.

  If Caleb doesn’t kill us first.

  The kiss tracks lower until it ends with a sweet brush of my lips.

  “Totally worth it,” George says.

  Chapter Five

  THERE’S A SPLENDID SORT of isolation in being a member of the wedding. No decision on where to sit or by whom. No awkward whispers about whether I’m here alone. I’m Athena’s sister, so of course I’m here. Half the attendees witnessed George’s kiss, and are now informing the late arrivals. Besides, alone is a state of mind.

  I hear no whispers about how tragic it is that our mother isn’t alive to see this day. No stray word about Benedict (my father) or James (Athena’s). Those two girls, all alone … poor things … she raised her you know, like a mother would ... gave up so much …

  Yes. I know. But none of that can touch me. Caleb can’t touch me. He is out there in the sea of guests, somewhere on Athena’s side, I imagine. But who knows? This is Caleb and he may even now be telling some great aunt how he attended college with David, or grad school, or grade school. Or all three. When it comes to lying, Caleb is exceedingly flexible. He can turn a lie in on itself until you’re certain it’s a truth.

  I stand in a bubble created by satin and velvet, rose petals and lace. I don’t dare turn around, don’t even dare a single glance over my shoulder, although I’m longing to gaze at Athena in her wedding dress, and Uncle Jaffrey, proud and straight-backed, ready to walk her down the aisle.

  With a drill sergeant’s rigor, Athena has instilled absolute discipline in all of us. We will not gawk at David’s groomsmen, in particular the best man. We will not wave at friends as we walk down the aisle. We will be serene and solemn. No chimpanzee grins is the day’s order. When I point out that chimpanzees grin out of fear, Athena merely says, “All the more reason not to.”

  We will not spoil her day.

  I’ve vowed to make damn sure Caleb won’t, either.

  The music shifts. An usher leads David’s grandmother to her seat, followed by another with his mother. Athena’s sorority sisters shift and shake out their velvet. I am a statue.

  And then I am not. I follow the sea of candy apple red down the aisle and take my place opposite George. I cut my eyes toward him and catch his grin, his wink, and I flush as blood red as my dress. I stay that way for most of the ceremony.

  At last, David does it, he lifts Athena’s veil, they kiss as husband and wife, and I know he has brought her home. Relief knocks me breathless. My knees have liquefied. If not for George catching me—once again—I would sink into a blood red velvet puddle at the base of the altar.

  “Hey, there,” he whispers. “You okay?”

  I gulp. I nod. I am extremely unladylike. To my credit, I manage to not grin like a chimpanzee.

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  “Maybe not, but I think I’m starting to see.”

  “She has a life,” I say. “Her life, all her own. They can have babies or travel the world or do anything. But it’s all hers, all theirs.”

  “And not yours.”

  “That’s the point,” I say, wondering if being this earnest comes across as being not earnest at all.

  He pushes at a curl that’s been tickling my eyebrow. He smoothes it and the lines that I’m sure mar my brow. “What about your life, Peri?”

  I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too strong, too intense, too sincere. My stomach clenches. I had a life once, the one Athena built for me. And when I stepped from her shadow and tried to build my own, the pieces crumbled and slipped through my fingers. I shake my head as if this can shake off his question.

  George still has my arm tucked in his when we reach the receiving line. That’s when my splendid bubble of isolation bursts. I must paint a smile (but not a chimpanzee one) on my face. I must make small talk, and not-so-small talk. I must field questions about my life with Athena and our lives now apart.

  I will have to shake Caleb’s hand. I will have to touch him. I will have to remember. Three things I do not want to do.

  George gives my hand a squeeze. I lift my chin. I will not let Caleb ruin Athena’s day. And while I’m at it, I wonder if I can stop him from ruining my life.

  * * *

  “Surprised to see me?”

  It’s the sort of line that begs for a sarcastic reply. But I’m inept at this too, the witty banter with the ex. Besides, I’m amazed that the first thing Caleb says to me in more than six months revolves around him. Truly, there is something remarkable in that level of narcissism.

  “Actually, yeah,” I say, “since you hate Athena.”

  “Oh, please. When have I ever said I hated her?”

  That’s just it. He hasn’t. He never says anything outright, not if he can help it. And when you accuse him, he’ll demand proof.

  “I thought we could be adult about this,” he adds.

  Adult? Really? “This?” I say. “Which part of it? The part where you show up to ruin my sister’s wedding? The part where you lied to all our friends? The part where I find you in bed with another woman, on the sheets that I bought for us?”

  Two spots of color stain Caleb’s cheeks, but otherwise, his skin has taken on a gray hue. The receiving line goes silent, the bridesmaids and groomsmen peer down the line at me. I am the one ruining my sister’s wedding.

  George reaches a hand forward, yanking Caleb from his spot in front of me. “George Connolly,” he says. “Known David for years. In fact, he used to beat me up and steal my lunch money.”

  Inane chatter, but I see what it’s doing, what he’s doing—pulling everyone’s attention away from me. And he continues to pull Caleb, past Uncle Jaffrey, David’s family, and even Athena and David, and straight into the dining area. He has rescued us all.

  “Honey.” Miriam’s voice floats down the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen. “I hope you’re planning on doing something about that.”

  I don’t know if she means George, or Caleb, or both.

  Chapter Six

  AT THE HEAD TABLE, I sit next to Athena. It’s not the traditional seating arrangement, but then, we lack the requisite family members to pull that off. David’s grandmother has taken charge of Uncle Jaffrey, ensuring his glass is filled with only water. They sit quietly together, the two oldest people here.

  I tip my head back and whisper, for at least the fifth time, “I’m sorry.”

  “God, would you stop.” Athena holds a champagne glass, but like me, hasn’t taken a sip. “Besides, what’s a wedding without a little drama?”

  “Decent? Perfect? Not ruined?”

  She snorts and the sound is completely at odds with the intricate lace and seed pearls of her gown.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I think George has taken on the Caleb-containment mission as his own.”

  “What?” I scan first the head table, then the guests assembled below. I spot neither Caleb nor George, and a pang cramps my stomach. “That can’t end well,” I mutter.

  “Caleb might be an asshat, but George is a big boy. He can handle himself—and Caleb, if it comes to it.”

  This is what I’m afraid of, I think. Other people handling Caleb. George has already stepped in, more than once. He is a classic knight in shining armor. I am not a girl who deserves that. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever.

  Besides, I long for a sword; I want to fight my own battles.

  I remain in glorious isolation at the head table while David and Athena dance their first dance, then trade partners, bringing David’s family and Uncle Jaffrey to the floor. I rest my chin on my hand, a drowsy warmth flowing through me—one that’s helped along by the hot chocolate a waiter has brought me, but that I suspect George ordered.

  Then his hand is there, next to mine, palm up.

  “Shall we?” he asks.

 
; I take his hand, and he leads me to the dance floor. I don’t feel that burn on the back of my neck or a paranoid tingle in my spine. I can’t detect a single sign that Caleb is still here, and I’m so grateful that when George pulls me close, I melt into him.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his hand, at the small of my back, draws me closer still. My face can nestle perfectly in the crook of his neck. I breathe in aftershave—for he did take a razor to all that stubble—and soap, and something about the way he smells reminds me of warm milk and nutmeg. Then there are his hands, strong and steady, the sort of hands that might lift you up but never hold you down.

  If I know one thing, it’s that.

  Who starts the migration, I can’t say, but the circles we make around the dance floor grow larger, and larger, until we’re dancing at the very edge. Then, it’s just a matter of George twirling me into a dark hallway.

  And then he is everything I’ve wanted since seeing him on the plane. His mouth finds mine, mine finds his. His breath is heavy, mine light and fluttery. We take nothing slow. We both know there is nothing but this night, these next few minutes, and we will make the most of them. We will make a memory to last a lifetime.

  We both know how to deal.

  At least, that’s what I believe. I believe up until the moment George takes my chin in his hand. His voice ragged, he says, “Slow. Let’s take this slow. I have a redeye in the morning, so I’ll understand if you don’t want to take this anywhere at all.”

  “Slower?” I suggest, because I don’t want to slow down, not now, not when I know it’s for only this night. I can have this wonderful man for this one night. That is more than enough, more to hope for, even.

  “All right then. Slower.” His laugh is warm against my ear. His forehead comes to rest on the wall next to my head. He doesn’t pull away, but his hands have slowed their journey along my sides.