The Ground Rules (8 page)

We just clicked, didn’t we?

W
ELL
, I’
M
S
TILL
A
LIVE
.

I haven’t died of curiosity, after all.

I slide one leg over the other, mildly tempted by the bar wedged in the middle console of the town car. I’m not much of a drinker at all, but my nerves are shot. I take in the interior of the car—sleek taupe leather interior, television screen and satellite radio, dark windows.

Weston has arranged for a car to pick me up after school. I’ve sent the girls with Carla, a mother at the school who lives near our house. Chloe was beyond excited because Carla’s daughter Maya is one of her best friends at school.

I grab a water bottle from my briefcase, wondering if I’m properly dressed for the upcoming events. I am wearing my usual “school uniform”—a pencil skirt, a white blouse, and tortoise framed glasses. I spot my reflection in the window and regret not taking the time to put in my contact lenses—I look positively librarian-ish.

I’ve brought my laptop and my notebook, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what to expect is kind of exciting, but extremely annoying as well.

I spend the hour-long ride trying to figure out what this meeting might be about, fantasizing about Weston and wondering what he might be wearing today. I could be making the most of my brain cells and coming up with a genius business idea—a solution for dripping juice bottles, a kid’s jacket zipper which is actually easy to zip up, or something like
Baby Einstein
—that was genius—I wish I had thought of that. I could be coming up with a revolutionary business idea right at this moment and become rich and famous.

But no…I prefer thinking about Weston’s arms in a fitted button shirt.

We all make our choices.

Edward, Weston’s driver, a red-cheeked, cheerful man in his fifties, drops me off in front of Hanson & Hersch Developments, Inc. Edward and I share an awkward moment when he sprints out to open my door, and I’m practically outside the car already when he reaches me.

“Let me take care of that for you, Miss.”

I smile up at him, slipping out of the car. He addresses me as “Miss,” not the dreaded “Ma’am.” I like him already. I just really don’t know how it’s done—this way of life the one percent are so used to.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never had a driver before,” I confess. “This is all new to me.”

“It’s easy…really,” he replies with a cheeky smile. “Just let me wait on you, hand and foot.”

I laugh. “I’m the one who’s usually waiting on others. This is going to take some getting-used-to.”

He laughs as he closes the car door behind me. “Call me Edward,” he says, offering his hand.

I smile up at him and shake his hand. “You can call me Mirella…or Miss, if you prefer,” I add with a playful smile. “I like the sound of that. It makes me feel young.”

“Miss Mirella, it is,” he says with a mischievous smile, his cheeks a deeper shade of crimson.

Hanson & Hersch Developments, Inc. is an impressive structure—about twenty stories high, slick and all glass. I shield my eyes with my hand, stretching my gaze to the top—the glass reflects the rays of the sun, and the effect is blinding.

I’m a little intimidated when I enter the lobby and make my way to the receptionist. I have the sensation of having traveled in time, and it seems I find myself in 2050—modern, curvaceous shapes surround me—futuristic chrome lighting fixtures hang from the ceiling, and everything is white. The walls are white. The curvy plastic chairs, which look extremely uncomfortable, are also white. The weird bean-shaped front desk is…yes…white.

I hate white…it is so sterile. I want color. I want warmth.

The receptionist, an ultra-skinny hipster type, greets me with a smile. I introduce myself and inform him Mr. Hanson is expecting me. The receptionist speaks into a mouthpiece as he taps away at a computer. “A Mrs. Keates is here to see you. Can I send her up?”

“Yes, Mr. Hanson,” he says. “Yes, that’s great.”

“Mr. Hanson would like to come down and greet you,” he informs me, and directs me to take a seat on one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs.

I sit down, surprised to find the chair to be extremely comfortable. I look around. This is not what I had envisioned. I’ve pictured Weston in his office before, dressed in his sleek suit, surrounded by colleagues, making important business decisions. I’ve always pictured the walls mahogany, the furniture stuffy, the lamps Tiffany, and the lighting dark. But yes, this fits Weston better.

This is very “Weston.”

I spot Weston right as he rounds the corner. He’s all smiles and gorgeous as usual. I jump to my feet, giddy as a school girl.

Settle down.

Right…not likely.

“Hello, Mirella,” he says as he offers me his hand. I shake it, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I can’t quite keep eye contact—my eyes drift to his sleek, black suit vest and fitted checkered button shirt, open at the collar. No jacket. No tie today. I like this casual look.

His gaze sweeps over me. “How was the ride here?” So he’s checking me out too.

“Wonderful,” I answer as we enter the elevator—all mirrors.

What a job it must be to clean this thing.

He presses a button and turns to look at me again. Our reflections stare back at us from every angle. Weston’s presence is so much more imposing than mine—I look like a little church mouse, standing next to his tall frame.

He doesn’t seem distracted by the mirrored walls—he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we’ve entered the elevator. “I like your glasses,” he says, a slight curve to his lips.

I don’t think he’s purposely trying to be seductive…but he is. And I want to tell him to stop it. This instant.

The elevator chimes, and he motions me out. He leads the way to a receptionist desk.

“Please hold all my calls for the moment, Kathryn, if you could.”

“Not a problem,” Kathryn says, smiling at me. She seems like a jovial woman, and well put-together—hair in a bun, slightly graying at the temples, a classy red suit perfectly hugging her slim figure.

Weston promptly introduces us. “This is Mirella Keates.”

I stand a little straighter and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is my assistant, Kathryn,” Weston explains. I remember he’s mentioned her before, although he probably doesn’t remember the conversation at all. Unlike me, he most likely doesn’t have
every single word
I’ve ever said, catalogued in his memory, retrievable at any time.

His office is similar to the lobby—very bright, contemporary, and highly organized. Books and publications, contemporary sculptures and models are wonderfully displayed on glass shelves. His desk is all glass. All glass! And the items resting on it are aligned in perfect symmetry. The pens in his glass pencil holder are all black and identical, tops pointing up—no ugly plastic white pens from
Don’s Supersaver Drycleaner
.

He rubs the back of his neck as his gaze travels to the two retro, white tufted leather chairs by the large window. “Please take a seat.”

I’ve seen those kinds of chairs in fancy decor magazines, and I’ve always wanted to sit on one. As I make my way there, I walk past his glass desk and slide my fingers along its edge, itching to grab something and mess with it. I reach for one of the black pens and flip it upside down.

He smiles at me. “I see you’ve come to make trouble.”

God, he is beautiful.

I smile back at him as I head to the sitting area and plop my rear on one of the fancy chairs.

Comfy.

I take in the Chicago skyline as I gingerly set my briefcase on the floor and cross one leg over the other, trying to appear sophisticated.

“You look very charming today.”

Well, “charming” wasn’t quite what I was going for, but I’ll take it. “You too,” I say with a sly smile.

Okay, this is definitely not a business meeting. At least, it doesn’t feel like one.

He paces back and forth across the room and finally stops at the well-stocked bar and coffee station. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

I’m not thirsty. I’m not hungry. I’m simply dying of curiosity—I can’t wait to find out what this mysterious meeting is all about.

Finally, he takes a seat—not on the sofa, but rather on the coffee table, right in front of me. He rubs his hands on his fitted charcoal pants, and his right knee bounces up and down—I can’t help but notice. His leg stills when he catches my wide-eyed stare. Whatever this meeting is about…it has turned him into a bundle of nerves.

He’s so close…I can see the gold speckles in his eyes.

Yes, this is
so definitely
not a business meeting.

I have a tiny momentary lapse of judgment and itch to kiss him. But still having my wits about me, I tilt my head away.

He closes his eyes for a second and clears his throat. “First, I feel I must warn you…” he starts as he rests his hand lightly on my knee. My heart unexpectedly hammers in my chest, and I stop breathing for a second. His touch feels wonderful. I don’t think he’s ever touched me before. He jolts his hand away, as quickly as he’s put it there. “You’ll probably be shocked,” he starts, the pitch of his voice uncharacteristically high, “by what I’m about to say.”

Shocked?

I’m insane with curiosity, and my stomach is completely tied up in knots.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Feel free to ask me any questions. I’ll try to answer as efficiently as I can.”

“Yes,” I say, completely attentive. Heck, if I had been this attentive in school, I could have become a doctor.

He bites his bottom lip. “First, I want to tell you how much Bridget and I enjoyed meeting you and your husband.”

“Us too.”

You have no idea.

“The truth is,” he carries on, not quite making eye contact, “we were truly amazed,” he adds, pausing for a second, perhaps searching for the right words, “by this connection we seem to all have.”

He’s felt it too. It wasn’t just me.

My heart beats at rocket speed, and I wonder, for a fraction of a second, if a heart can beat too fast. “Yes…I agree. We just clicked, didn’t we?”

“Very much so.”

I find myself staring at his mouth, aching to run my fingers along his five o’clock shadow. I could never. And I shouldn’t.

I definitely
shouldn’t.

“First…first off,” he says, scratching his brow. I can sense whatever he’s about to tell me is not easy. “As you know, Bridget and I have been in a committed relationship for many years. And we love each other.”

My heart sinks.

He’s brought me here to let me down gently, to tell me to back off—complete with car service. How classy.

“I feel I must tell you before I go on,” he says, looking out the window. I wish he could just settle his eyes on me and say whatever it is he wants to say. He stares down at a copy of
Architectural Digest
on the table and presses a finger against the cover.

Seriously?

There is no way in hell he’s looking at pictures of crown molding and marble floors right now.

Thankfully, he isn’t—he just can’t seem to make eye contact.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

He gazes up at me and smiles. There’s such vulnerability about him, I just want to reach out and hug him.

“Well actually, this might be hard for you to understand,” he finally manages. “I know from our conversations that you were raised in a Catholic family.”

I have absolutely
no idea
where he’s going with this.

He stares off into the distance, yet again. “Well, the truth is,” he trails off, his knee still bouncing up and down frantically. “Hell, I’ll simply get right to it. No sense in beating around the bush…”

He takes a long breath and doesn’t utter a word for the longest time, and I sit on the edge of my seat, barely able to contain myself, waiting for him to tell me.

Tell me what, I’m not sure.

But I want to know.

“Bridget and I…” he starts. “Bridget…she and I…are in an open marriage,” he finally confesses.

I think my eyes actually bulge out of my head for a second, like that guy in the
Guinness Book of World Records
. And I
still
don’t quite understand what he’s telling me.

It seems he senses my confusion because he goes on. “I like you very much, Mirella,” he tells me, his gaze soft. The nervous energy seems to have faded. “I’m very attracted to you.”

My heart hammers in my chest.

He wants to sleep with me. But I thought we’d covered that already. I’ve already told him I could never cheat on Gabe.

He rubs the back of his neck—he seems almost pained. He wants me to understand what he’s telling me. But I still don’t. I’m so confused.

“And Bridget is also strongly attracted to Gabe,” he adds, his gaze not leaving mine.

Suddenly, it all falls together.

My heart drops, just like it does on one of those roller coasters at the amusement park. I feel nauseous.

I’m no idiot—I’ve put two and two together.

Two and two together
.

That’s exactly what we’re talking about here.

I can’t hide the shock from my face. “You want us all to—”

His leg starts to fidget again. “I realize you and Gabe most likely don’t have the same arrangement Bridget and I have.”

Of course we don’t. Most normal couples don’t.

I have no words. He’s taken them all.

“We simply want you to discuss it, consider it.” His tone pleading. “Even if it’s just for five seconds.”

A hundred questions come to mind, like a tidal wave.

“A foursome?” I ask, my eyes wide. I am definitely
not
into that, if that’s what they have in mind.

“No,” he says with a smile. “More like…uh…an exchange.”

“Couple swapping?” I ask, knowing this is exactly what he’s talking about.

He smiles again. I swear, that smile of his might just completely do me in one day.