Page 13 of Infidelity Rules

Tight jeans. Tall boots. Clingy, pale blue shirt.

That’s my final decision.

I’ve been through more than half my closet trying to figure out what to wear to see Marcus and it’s starting to get stupid. Dress or skirt? Jeans or pants? Casual or super-casual athleisure wear? Do I even OWN athleisure wear? How is it different from my plain gym clothes?

These are things I don’t understand.

But enough already. My bedroom looks like a flea market at day’s end with jeans and scarves and bras and blouses flung everywhere.

It’s just coffee Quinn, get ahold of yourself.

I take a deep breath, pull on my boots (Heels, no less! There’s room for height next to Marcus’s six-foot-five frame. Yay!) and give myself a final once over in my full-length mirror.

Butt: not bad. Need to keep after my donkey kicks at the gym though.

Boobs: just a teeny bit of cleavage.

Hair: clean and a bit wild. It is what it is. It has its own personality.

Smile: nothing in my teeth. Tongue thoroughly brushed.

I’m ready. For what, exactly, I don’t know.

.....

I walk into Monkey Roasters and see that Marcus has already arrived.

He’s planted himself in the back of the cafe in the so-called “living room” section, which is outfitted with overstuffed chairs, ottomans and a tangle of wayward plants, spilling out of pots and haphazardly climbing upwards and outwards with abandon.

Sort of like my hair, in fact. And sort of like what my gut feels like right this minute — a big jumble of crazy.

Marcus immediately stands as I approach and gives a long, low whistle. All I want to do at this moment is leap into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist. And he’s strong enough and tall enough that I could pull it off without toppling us. That would be a first.

“Quinn,” he says, grinning and pulling me to his chest for a hug. “Gorgeous as ever.”

The man is actually a head taller than me, so I get to lean my cheek against his chest. I inhale that intoxicating man-scent of his and start to automatically categorize the aromas as I would a glass of wine — fresh cut pine, salt, mountain air, black licorice …

He tips my head up so that I’m looking directly into those merry blue eyes.

I’m a goner.

“YOU,” he says, “are in my head. Your voice, your smile, your laugh. Those lips ...”

He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me even closer.

“Oh yeah?” I say, smiling up at him from underneath my eyelashes.

Stop flirting Quinn! Just stop! What are you doing? Uh oh. There I go. I’m reaching up to kiss him. Yup, that’s what I’m doing. Oh boy. It’s on.

He meets me halfway and places his hand behind my neck. It’s a warm, soft, wet kiss. He gently uses his tongue and I can barely remain standing. Every part of me wants to feel every part of him — skin to skin.

We gently pull back (we are in a coffee shop after all) and Marcus takes my hand and leads me to a private corner table tucked behind the crazy plants.

I’m thinking about how much I want to sit on his lap and whether it would be appropriate behind this wall of unruly plants when he pulls me toward him again, placing his hands on my hips.

“Perhaps this secluded table is a bad idea,” he says with a smile. “I can’t even keep my hands off you in the open. You are a dangerous, dangerous woman.”

I smile and lead him toward the table regardless.

“Okay,” he grins. “But I can’t promise I’ll behave.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Quinn , I shout to myself. Get a grip. You are not dating this man. You are dating Zack. Nice, cute, married Zack.

I resist the impulse to sit on Marcus’s lap and take the chair he pulls out for me instead.

I desperately need a moment to clear my head and am grateful when a dude with a bushy beard peers around the plants and asks if we want anything to eat or drink.

Marcus and I glance at each other and both nod. “Coffee,” we say in unison.

At this, the bearded dude lights up and, with painstaking detail, starts to describe every possible type of coffee drink available in the universe.

My eyes glaze over when he starts mentioning flat whites and long blacks and piccolo lattes and the true definition of a perfect macchiato.

When he starts launching into milk frothing versus steaming versus scalding, Marcus steps in.

“Well, you are clearly an expert, but I think I’m going to sorely disappoint,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Just a plain black coffee for me.”

I smile gratefully at Marcus for halting the coffee dissertation and ask for the same, but with cream and sugar. I like coffee but I’m not into the fancy drinks. I’m already looney enough about wine, I don’t need another intense beverage habit.

Bushy beard dude shrugs and turns to fetch our boring drinks, clearly labeling us as misguided coffee imbeciles, the kind who buy pre-ground supermarket coffee, shove beans in the freezer and occasionally enjoy a cup from a fast-food window.

As we wait for our drinks, Marcus excuses himself briefly to take a work phone call and I use the few moments alone to gather my thoughts and steel myself for what’s to come.

I can’t date a single man. No-strings-attached dating never works, even if that’s the goal at the outset. Somebody always winds up wanting more.

Except for married men.

I have to tell him I’m seeing somebody else. I take a few deep breaths, think about Zack and try to calm my nerves. I’m so jumpy that I’m not sure caffeine right now is wise.

My heart is slamming against my rib cage, my stomach feels on the verge of turning inside out and I’m starting to sweat. I don’t think I can do this.

I don’t think I can let Marcus go.

Marcus returns just as our coffee arrives and we sit in silence for a few moments, grinning stupidly at each other.

He pulls my chair closer to him, taking both my hands in his.

Uh oh, I think. He looks serious.

“Quinn,” he says, “I asked you to meet me here today not just because I wanted to see you, but because I have something I need to tell you.”

I look right into his blue, blue eyes and I have no idea what to think.

Do I want him to say something creepy — like he’s already in love with me and wants to be my husband — that makes it easy to let him go?

Or something wonderfully sweet and charming that will render me senseless and unable to do anything but give in?

Stop thinking Quinn. Pay attention. Let him speak.

“Quinn, I am married.”

Did I just hear him right? Did he just say that he’s married ? Oh thank you Jesus! I start to feel tears well — tears of relief and pure joy — but Marcus sees them differently.

“I am so, so sorry,” he says, still holding my hands. “I wanted to tell you before things got too far. I wanted to be honest with you.”

I stare at him, speechless.

“I understand if you want to end this,” he whispers. “But please know that I don’t. I am in this. And I’m crazy about you.”

.....

Marcus throws money on the table and we race to the door so fast the coffee dude’s beard blows in the ensuing breeze.

We dash across the street and into the park where Marcus takes me in his arms and we start feverishly kissing and kissing and kissing.

I’m now backed up against a tree with my arms around his neck and my body pressed against his, my hip bones pushing into the tops of his delightfully muscular thighs.

He picks me up and pulls my legs around his waist.

OH. MY. GOD. We are violating a tree. What are we, teenagers?

I giggle and Marcus joins in with a deep laugh, spinning me around and gently placing me back on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as our bodies press up against each other yet again. “I just cannot keep my hands off you.”

“And I like it,” I say.

“You know,” he says, brushing my hair back from my face and kissing my lips. “My hotel is just a few blocks away ...”

And we are off.

My old track coach (who not-so-kindly referred to my running speed as so slow I appeared to be a statue) would be amazed at how fast I can move. Apparently, it just takes the right kind of motivation. Motivation that comes in the shape of a six-foot-five-inch, muscular wall of man.

.....

We get to his hotel suite and Marcus picks me up and carries me directly into the bedroom.

This should be cheesy as all get out. It really should.

But I’m enchanted. It’s as if some crafty, stay-at-home-mom came into my world and literally bedazzled it with sequins and glitter and jewels.

Everything is brighter, shinier, more alive around Marcus.

I am buzzing. I fear if I touch my own skin I’ll get an electric shock.

He lays me down on the king-sized bed as I will my body to stop trembling.

What is it about this man?

My nerve endings are at military attention.

I can’t decide if I want to tear all his clothes off and straddle him or slow things down and savor it.

Get naked? Slow it down? Naked? Slow?

I don’t know why I bother. Marcus is clearly in control.

He lifts both my legs in the air and slowly unzips my knee-high boots.

He tosses them to the side, pulls me up off the bed and directly into his chest as we start kissing again.

It’s gentle at first but quickly accelerates into a frenzy of touching and tongues and his hands on my ass, pulling me tightly against him.

His shirt is suddenly off (when did that happen?) and I’m mesmerized by his broad, smooth, well-defined chest. I wrap my legs around his waist as he backs me up against the dresser, still clutching me to him, his lips on mine.

And then I hear a loud, incessant beeping. What is that?

“Oh no no no,” Marcus groans, mid-kiss. He swats his phone off the dresser and starts to kiss his way down my neck, to my collarbone, now at the tops of my breasts — oh yes!

Oh no! That beeping is back.

“Ah. Quinn,” Marcus says, taking my face in his hands. “That’s work paging me. Earlier in the coffee shop, they called to give me a heads-up they might need me to fill in for another pilot.”

He gently puts me down. “I have to take this.”

I nod, trying to get myself together. Whoo whee that was seriously fun. And I am seriously turned on.

Marcus looks at his phone and shakes his head. “Quinn, I have to go. That pilot owes me BIG TIME.”

He takes me in his arms and nuzzles my neck. “You have no idea how sorry I am,” he groans.

“It’s okay,” I say, smiling and trying to tame my wild hair with my fingers.

“Don’t,” he says, grabbing my hands. “I love the way you look right now.”

I grin and give him a kiss. “Go fly your plane. You know where to find me.”

“I do, but I don’t want to leave until I know when I’m seeing you again.”

Oh thank goodness he’s married. I am utterly smitten with this man.

Marcus tells me he’ll be back in town soon and wants to take me to dinner.

Done.

“Dinner, among other things,” he says, grinning and pulling me up against him. “Clear your schedule.”

.....

I’m at home, grinning like an idiot and recovering from the best foreplay of my life when I get a text from Dezi.

Dezi: You at Persimmon tonight?

Me: I am.

Dezi: Great! I’m bringing Elliot by for a drink. Give you two a chance to meet.

Me: YES! Cannot wait to meet the Cheese King. Dinner too? Can set you up with a reservation.

Dezi: I’d love that but Elliot has a date night planned, so we’ll be stopping by late just for a drink.

Me: See u tonight.