Triangles (26 page)

been married?” The question dropkicks me right back to Geoff. “Wait. You don’t happen to be currently married, do you?” 489/881

His look is more confused than amused.

Never been, so I’m not now. Why ask?

“Long story, involving the last guy I went out with having a secret wife.

Which is why he and I are not dating any longer, although he didn’t think being married to someone else should interfere with our relationship.”

Ah, and he never mentioned his spouse
before developing a liaison with you.

“Bingo. Or as they say Down Under,

aye, mate.” Like I’m suddenly an expert on all things Australian. S
ome blokes
are dingoes. Another mimosa?

“Absolutely.” Something to tease the egg and salsa out from between my teeth.

Tell me about your daughter.

How is it, being a single mom?

“Better than being married to her father, and that’s a fact.” I give him a short 490/881

rundown on Harley—a basic primer

on living with a thirteen-year-old girl.

Robin takes it in. Offers a wry grin.

And to think I’ve missed out on all that!

IT’S BEEN A VERY LONG TIME

Since I’ve gone out with a man

who even pretended this much

interest in me as a woman.

Me as a mother. Me as a sister.

Me as a human being. Robin listens

more than he talks about himself.

Asks all the right questions. Laughs at all the appropriate times. Gives compliments freely. He’s handsome,

in a down-home sort of way. Has

a career he loves, not just a job he puts up with, and he’s not afraid to spend a decent chunk of his hard-earned cash on a pricey Sunday brunch for two

at one of my all-time favorite places.

He’s in relatively good shape. Has

a really great smile. Most likely

isn’t married. And all that makes me wonder, one: what’s wrong with

him? And, two: if there’s nothing

at all wrong with him, why me?

THOSE QUESTIONS

Simmer at the back of my brain

while we finish our mimosas.

The bill comes, and he puts down

a card, then excuses himself to

use the restroom. I watch him go,

designer shorts and polo shirt

revealing lean muscles and tanned

skin. Not bad. In fact, very, very

nice. So what
is
wrong with him?

When he returns, he has a back-

pack slung over one shoulder.

He offers a hand.
You don’t have to
get back right away, do you? I thought
we might take a walk.
How could I refuse, either the walk or his hand?

It has also been quite a while

since I’ve strolled, holding hands

with a man. Any man, let alone

one like this. Now question two

starts nagging again: why me?

We head up the beach, along

the softly slapping water. “Hang

on a sec.” I slip off my sandals,

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let my bare feet squish into

lake-licked sand. “Much better.”

Great idea.
Robin follows suit.

Here, let me take those for you.

Both pairs of shoes disappear

into his pack and we continue

for quite a distance, leaving

Camp Rich and its bustle behind.

Eventually, we come to Pope Beach,

with its thick stands of evergreen

and shrub-curtained nooks of sand.

It is much quieter here. A few people picnic in scattered groups, but

when Robin draws me into a private

alcove, it feels like we’re all alone on the planet. From his backpack, almost like magic, he produces a terry cloth blanket, a bottle of champagne

and two glasses. “You’ve got to be

kidding! If I drink anymore, you’ll have to carry me back to your car.” He hands me the bottle—Perrier-Jouët—

which, unreasonably, feels cold.

No worries. We can always nap.

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He spreads the blanket, sits, and

reaches for the wine. It opens

with an inviting
pop!
Oh, why not?

PERRIER-JOUËT

Is like liquid diamonds—brilliant.

A tiny bit sharp. Cost, relative to taste.

Robin and I sit, just touching, beneath a cascade of light. I can smell sun on his skin, the scent distinctly masculine.

By the time we finish the wine, my heart rate has escalated, and when Robin

coaxes me to lie back, I think it might implode. He settles beside me, one hand stroking my thigh, the other fiddling with my hair.
I love that you keep it
long
, he says. I should stop this now with my usual no-first-date-kiss rule, except we’re already kissing, and it’s been so long, and I don’t want to stop. This kiss is spectacular. And maybe it’s the Perrier, or maybe Holly is rubbing off on me, but when his hand slides up under my dress, I don’t stop that, either. I look into his eyes, find desire more intense

than my own. Yet he asks,
Is it okay?

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I reach for his zipper. Mouth. Tongue.

Skin. Serious skin. Red champagne haze.

Over me. Under me. G-spot deep inside me.

THE G-SPOT

Arguably a woman’s favorite

trigger, yet few have any idea

what the
G
stands for.

Some say

it must be “gynecologist.”

Completely inaccurate,

although Ernst Grafenberg

happened to be one.

There’s

a clue. Still confused?

consider the first letter

of his name. Ah yes. The
G
.

Back in the forties, when

no

medical professional worth

his new sulfa drugs believed

women had orgasms,

good ol’ Doc G begged to disagree.

Such

an argument (not to mention

eyebrows) he raised when he said

a girl could ejaculate! Today,

the debate continues, and the best

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thing

about it, for all concerned,

seems to be the research.

Holly

RESEARCH

I kept telling myself (not to mention my best friend) that my forays into the extramarital underworld were

all about research. Looking back, not that I’m looking all that far behind me, maybe I believed that’s what they were.

I don’t think I believe that now. Nor do I believe I’ve finished exploring the sexual underbelly. That night,

talking with Bryan about possibilities like clubs where couples play openly with other couples or singles or even just with each other in front of a crowd left my mouth watering for a taste of it.

Problem is, it also left me hungry for less time with Jace and more with Bryan.

I have to wonder what it’s like to be together with someone equally intent 500/881

on no-boundary experimentation.

Bryan and I married the wrong kind

of people. Which means, essentially, we married the wrong people. Period.

CASE IN POINT

After the fairly huge rejection

by my probable birth father

a couple of days ago, I’ve been

distraught. Okay, I was totally

stung, not only by his refusal

to develop a connection, but much

more so by his refusal to even

acknowledge that he ever had

an out-of-wedlock relationship

that resulted in a baby. Me.

He’s a bigger bastard than he

made me, not to mention a

coward. All of which I wanted

to say in a return email. But Jace

counseled against it. Said it might be construed as harassment.

And then he launched a not

totally unexpected attack.

I told you to leave it alone,

didn’t I? Will you listen now?

Okay, yeah, he did give me

those exact instructions.

And yeah, the outcome was

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what he thought it would be.

But how can he ice so solidly?

After two days, I have to

talk to someone. I try

Andrea first. But when

I call, she launches her

own story—Aussie Robin

and champagne brunch

and sex on the beach.

Okay, that part is pretty

good. But by the time

she finishes, all heady and

over-the-top happy with

the recollection, I don’t

want to rain on her three-

ring circus. After I hang

up with her, I text Bryan.

SORRY TO BOTHER YOU.

BUT ANY WAY YOU CAN

SNEAK OUT FOR A DRINK?

I COULD REALLY USE

AN EAR RIGHT NOW.

It only takes a few minutes

for his response to come.

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YOU’RE RESCUING ME FROM

WRITING LESSON PLANS.

GIVE ME AN HOUR, OKAY?

SIXTY-THREE MINUTES LATER

Bryan and I are sitting in Wine off the Vine, my new favorite wine bar.

It’s almost enough just to be here

with him. But a couple of glasses

of good cabernet make me open

my mouth. I start with Mama and Papa.

How they adopted me and why. Move

all the way through Mikayla’s search and to the results. “I guess it was stupid to have any real expectation that

I would find my birth parents, let alone hook up with them. But the closer

we came, the more I found myself

wanting that connection. Jace says

I’m being ridiculous …”

Why? I don’t think so at all.

To be that close to realizing

a lifelong dream, only to

have cold water thrown in your

face? Your feelings are valid.

I realize my eyes have been

fixed on the table. I bring them

level with Bryan’s, which hold

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nothing but sympathy. Well, maybe

mixed with a little lust. “Thank you.”
For what? Telling you the truth?

He slides his leg over, hooks mine, draws it closer.
Where does Jace
think you are right now?
His hand begins to circle my kneecap. Slowly.

Maddeningly. The shush of his

fingers against my nylons is giving me goose bumps. “I told him I was

going out with some friends from

my writers’ group.” Not quite a lie.

His hand stops circling and he

spears me with those pippin

eyes.
Look. I keep thinking about
the last time we were together.

Not so much our little game of

confession, although picturing you
with Sahara was, frankly, quite
the turn-on. I thought our flirtation
was only good fun. But the truth is,
I can’t get you out of my head. I’m not
sure what that means, or where we can
go from here. I only know I want
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to be with you as often as possible.

Right now, I want to kiss you

more than just about anything.

SOMETHING SHIFTS

Inside of me, like

stepping to one side

and suddenly I can see.

I know I shouldn’t

do this here, but find

no way to stop myself.

Brash as lightning,

I bring my face into

his, trace his lips with

the tip of my tongue

before covering his

mouth with my own.

The kissing we did

the last time

I saw him was hot.

But this kiss is steeped

with intimacy. I keep

it relatively short, and yet

when I pull away I can

barely catch enough

breath to power words.

“Something sort of

like that?” I manage.

Bryan’s smile is half

amused, half predatory.

Not quite,
he says.
But
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practice makes perfect.

WE DECIDE TO PRACTICE

Midweek, casino hotel rooms go for

next to nothing, and there just happens to be a casino right down the block from Wine off the Vine. The room

isn’t the fanciest, but it’s clean and the bed is decent, something we barely

discern before we’re kissing again.

Kissing longer. Deeper. With intent. Passion.

So much passion, fear flickers in tiny surges, fueling the electricity traveling my veins as if they were high power lines.

Fear of falling? Fear of flying? Not sure, but it’s a spectacular aphrodisiac.

Bryan takes complete control, something very different for me. But I like it.

Love it. Give myself up to it, and