Page 5 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

He studies my face for a moment. It’s obvious he wants to ask me for details. That he doesn’t is somehow both sweet and satisfying. It also makes me comfortable enough to reveal a little more.

“It wasn’t anything dramatic. He’s not a bad person. We just…grew apart.”

Then he started sleeping with his assistant, but it was already over between us by that time and had been for years.

The end of a marriage is never the day the divorce is finalized or when the papers are filed. It’s not even when the love dies, because love comes and goes and can always be found again if both people are committed to doing the work.

The end of a marriage is the day you realize that whatever your partner says or does makes no difference to you one way or another.

So when I found the text messages from Brittany on Nick’s phone and stood there feeling blank when I should’ve been crying hysterically, I knew it was time to call a lawyer.

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty years.”

It hangs there between us, a number not that much smaller than the entire time he’s been alive.

“Do you regret it?”

“Being married?”

“Yeah.”

I shake my head. “You can’t regret the choices you make in good faith. I was young and in love. Things don’t always have to last forever to be considered a success.”

“Even though you got divorced, you think the marriage was a success?”

“I do. I learned a lot. About myself, mostly, but about life too. And I got my daughter out of it, so yes, I think my twenty-year marriage that ended in an amicable divorce could be called successful.” My chuckle is dark.

“Not that my mother agrees with me. She would’ve pushed my dad in front of a speeding car or put rat poison in his coffee before she’d divorce him. ”

“‘Until death do us part,’ one way or another, huh?”

“Exactly. My poor father probably slept with one eye open every night.”

Carter’s about to ask another question when Fabrizio returns with the wine. He presents the bottle to me for approval, then opens it and pours a measure into my glass. I sniff, swirl, and sip, closing my eyes as the dry spice and juicy berry flavors coat my tongue.

“ Perfecto, Fabi. Grazie. ”

“Prego.”

He bows slightly, then fills my glass. He fills Carter’s next, trying not to be obvious that he’s giving him a curious once-over. I come here often, but always alone.

He’s probably wondering if Carter is my nephew.

I don’t care what he thinks, though. This isn’t my grandmother’s generation. Women work outside the home, we can get mortgages and credit cards in our name without needing a husband to co-sign, and we can enjoy dinners with younger men without shame.

We can even have hot sex with them if we want.

Hot, sweaty, satisfying sex on all fours in front of a full-length mirror.

“I’d love to know what you’re thinking right now,” says Carter as Fabi retreats.

“It’s a good thing you don’t. Try the wine.”

He obeys me without making a disapproving face as Nick always did if I forgot to add a “please” in front of any request. I know it’s not fair to make comparisons, but the difference between the two men is so striking, I can’t help myself.

I also can’t help but wonder if he shares Nick’s distaste for performing oral sex.

Judging by the way Carter’s gazing at me while suggestively running his tongue along the rim of his wineglass, probably not.

“Are you being purposely provocative, Mr. McCord?”

He bats his lashes innocently. “Me? Provocative? Never.”

We share a smile. I wonder if he’s ever made love with a mother before or if all his conquests have perfectly flat and tight abdomens where stretch marks and C-section scars would otherwise be.

How bizarre that I’m entertaining this line of thinking. I am not having sex with him. It’s a meal, nothing more.

We make small talk and drink wine. We order appetizers and entrees. We share a few laughs and a few awkward silences, our eyes meeting again and again in a way that excites me, but I wish didn’t. In the middle of my tortellini, I realize I’m grinning down at my food like a lunatic.

I’m enjoying myself. How inconvenient.

“You have a killer smile.”

I glance up from my plate to find Carter staring at me intently. Ignoring my fluttering pulse, I aim for nonchalance when I answer. The man is obviously an incurable flirt. There’s no need to encourage him.

“That’s what all the boys say. How’s the lasagna?”

“So incredible, I’d cry, but I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“Quite the contrary. A man who can cry without shame is a hero in my book.”

“In that case, I’m about to burst into tears.”

I press the grin from my lips and silently admire how the candlelight turns Carter’s skin to burnished gold and glints off his hair in sparkling platinum highlights.

I typically prefer dark-haired men, but the beauty of this blond Adonis is undeniable. That cleft in his chin has a certain appeal too. And the shadow on his unshaven jaw adds a rugged aspect to his looks that I like.

I debate the merits of telling him that but decide to go with something less superficial than his appearance.

“I’m going to pay you a compliment. Try not to let it go to your head.”

“Wait, let me get ready.” He props his elbows on the table and cups his hands eagerly behind his ears. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“You’re different than I thought you were.”

He lifts his brows. “That’s your idea of a compliment ? I’d hate to hear what it sounds like when you’re being critical. My poor ego might never recover.”

“Maybe if you’d stop talking for half a second, I could elaborate.”

Leaning back in his chair, he makes a zipper motion across his mouth, then smiles.

“You’re very friendly—”

“What, like a Labrador? I’m a family-friendly dog?”

“Carter. Be quiet.”

When he drawls, “Yes, ma’am,” and slow blinks, I swear my last stores of estrogen are released directly into my bloodstream. The surge of heat that courses throughout my body is liable to set the tablecloth on fire.

“You’re friendly in a way that’s unexpected. Like what you did for that boy at the gym. It was very decent of you.”

He studies me in silence for a while. “You thought I was a self-centered rich prick.”

I make a head motion that’s neither yes or no. “I didn’t really know what to think. You were extremely cocky at that board meeting. And your family has a certain…reputation.”

“As cutthroat. We are. But only in business.” He pauses, then chuckles. “That’s not totally true.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, if I were my oldest brother Callum, I would have already kidnapped you and locked you in my basement.”

I say drily, “He sounds like a real charmer.”

“He’s an arrogant, controlling, overbearing asshole, but I have to admit, the guy knows how to get things done.”

Though his words are less than flattering, there’s no animosity in them. I’m curious about his family. “Are you close?”

“We see each other all the time at the office. But close? As in, tight? Not really. Callum’s not close with anyone except his wife.” He laughs. “And I’m pretty sure that’s just Stockholm syndrome.”

“Sounds like that’s an interesting story.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, which I take to mean he doesn’t want to elaborate. Instead of peppering him with more questions about his oldest brother, I pivot to the middle one instead.

“I heard about Cole’s car accident when it first happened, but there’s been nothing in the news since. How’s he doing?”

“For someone whose personality used to be as dark as a dungeon in Dracula’s castle, he’s doing great. I credit his fiancée. The woman is a saint.” He smiles. “You’d like her.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s a badass too.”

Swirling my wine, I smile back at him. “You don’t know that I’m a badass. Maybe I’m a sheep in wolves’ clothing. A marshmallow masquerading as a meanie.”

“Oh no, I know exactly what you are.”

The boldness of that statement intrigues me. As does the intimacy in his eyes. Something about his expression suggests his knows all my darkest secrets.

“And what might that be, Mr. McCord?”

Gazing straight into my eyes, he doesn’t hesitate when he answers.

“My future wife.”