Page 28

Thomas

Stella in a little white dress sipping an old-fashioned is alluring. Stella in a slinky gown while entertaining a group of people is an absolute vision. But Stella in the tiniest bikini the world has ever seen while smiling slyly over her shoulder? Fuck me for declaring that I was okay with being just friends—I’m not feeling remotely friendly toward her right now.

“I’m so glad you convinced me to come here,” she says on a dreamy sigh, gaze drifting to the crystal-blue Maldives water. “This is so beautiful.”

It’s not nearly as beautiful as the sight of her standing on the deck of our overwater bungalow, but since saying that is verboten, I just mumble “Yeah” and shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

In reply, Stella playfully rolls her eyes and tosses her waist-length braids over her shoulder. They’re vacation braids , she explained when she came home from the salon with the new look. So I don’t have to worry about my hair for the trip. I didn’t tell her I already knew that thanks to Amara’s influence, because I love her little explanations of things she thinks I won’t understand.

Two weeks have flown by since the gala, and with as busy as Stella has been, I haven’t seen much of her. Honestly, our flight out here was the longest amount of uninterrupted time we’ve had together lately. She spent most of it passed out, though, too exhausted from the fifteen-hour workdays she’s been pulling. When we landed and transferred to the seaplane that would take us to the resort—which I made sure was not an A.P. Maxwell International property—we exchanged a few words to check in on each other, but that was it.

My fingers are crossed that we’ll get to spend some solid time together on this holiday, because I miss talking to her. I miss the jokes she cracks at my expense and how she can take it as good as she dishes it out. I miss feeling like I have a partner in crime.

“I’m gonna go for a swim,” she announces. “Then maybe we could find something to eat?”

I nod. “Sounds good. Joshua and Amara should be here in the next few hours, so we’ll meet up with them.”

“Can’t wait.”

And then she dives into the water so smoothly that I need to ask if she ever swam competitively. There are so many things about her I still want to discover. I’m praying I’ll get a chance to during the ten days we’re set to spend here.

I almost regret booking us the two-bedroom villa. Maybe if we were forced to share a bed again we could have a little pillow talk or some late-night chats, anything to get her to open up to me. We were getting there before, and then I fucked it all up, but I’m determined to change that on this trip.

I’m determined to learn everything about her—because that’s what friends do, right?

A few hours later, Stella is dressed in a floor-skimming cotton skirt and a tiny top that leaves the dramatic curve of her waist exposed, her hand resting in the crook of my elbow. Our arms look almost comical next to each other—Stella’s shimmering brown skin has only grown deeper after hours of basking in the sun while mine still looks like I’ve never seen a ray of light before. I’ll pick up some color after a few days, but for now, I’m content admiring Stella’s glow.

Good God, man, stop being such a simp.

“I’m excited to meet your friends.” Her grip on me tightens as she flashes a grin. “Mainly so they can tell me all the embarrassing stories about you.”

I eye her, amused. “Is that why you won’t let me hang out with you and Janelle? So she won’t spill all your secrets?”

“Maybe,” Stella says breezily. “Although you and the world already know about my worst moment, so anything she told you wouldn’t be so bad.”

We can relate there. There’s nothing Joshua and Amara could reveal that would be worse than my Lorenzo rant. They could tell her anything about me and I think I’d be glad for her to know it. To know me.

“Is that them?” Stella murmurs as we step into one of the resort’s many restaurants.

I stop and follow her gaze to the couple standing near the railing of the outdoor seating area. They’re not hard to spot, because other than Stella, they’re the only Black people here. “That’s them.”

“Fuck,” she exhales. “We’re not the most beautiful couple in the room anymore and that makes me furious.”

That’s one way to pay them a compliment, but Stella’s right no matter how she phrases it. Joshua and Amara are a striking pair.

“My conceited wife,” I warmly tease her.

She turns that sparkling grin on me again. “If only you’d known what you were getting into when you married me.”

“Oh, I knew from the start.”

“That’s right,” she muses. “You did say you liked cocky women.”

“I still do. Very much.”

Our eyes lock and something charged arcs between us. It steals my breath for a second, tempting me to lower my lips to hers in an attempt to reclaim it—or at least steal hers too. Stella’s not unaffected either. I can see it in the way her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, how she swallows hard, her gaze sweeping over my face as if she’s searching for a reason to keep abiding by the rules we’ve set.

She must find it, because she clears her throat and glances away, snapping us both out of the moment.

“They know the truth about us, right?” she asks, nodding in Joshua and Amara’s direction.

I don’t miss the slight waver in the words, but I don’t call her out on it, even though I’m desperate for us to stop ignoring the potent attraction refusing to ease, despite the lies we keep telling ourselves that we can move past it. We haven’t yet and I doubt we will unless we do something about it.

For now, I play along. “They do.”

“That’s a relief,” she says as I nudge her into walking again. “You know I can put on a show, but I hate lying all the time.”

Then maybe we should stop lying to each other , I want to suggest, but again, I crush it down. “You can be as honest with them as you want.”

Just a shame we can’t do the same with each other.

As I suspected would happen, my friends like Stella more than they like me. Tragic, but understandable.

I’ve been (happily) pushed to the side as they’ve gotten to know her over the past couple of days. Stella and Amara have practically taken up residence in the ocean, doing their best mermaid impressions from sunup to sundown. They shut up whenever I swim closer, giggling and snickering and making it abundantly clear they’ve been talking about me. The only time they separate is when Amara and I go off on Jet Ski or speedboat adventures, our spouses with less daredevil spirits left behind to enjoy drinks on the beach.

Stella and Joshua always seem to be engaged in some sort of deep conversation when we drag ourselves back to land, but when Stella’s attention finds me, she lights up so brightly that it makes Joshua eye me in a way I can’t quite decipher.

Christmas arrives with little fanfare, barely acknowledged past the gifts we’re exchanging before heading to dinner. With a ￡20 price limit, the items range from useless and laughably offensive—like the key chain Amara got for me from D’Ambrosi—to actually thoughtful and kind—like the vinyl record Stella gives Joshua from an Afrobeat artist that I told her he liked…a full month before it’s slated to even be released. I don’t ask how she pulled that off, and while the price tag technically didn’t break the limit, it certainly required more work than ￡20 could cover.

Her gift for me? A sunset-orange Stella Margaux’s–branded apron.

“You look good with my name on your chest,” she teases as she watches me tie the strings in a neat bow around my waist.

It’s only fitting that I toss her a McMorris T-shirt with my name and number on it. “Then you better wear mine on your back.”

She cackles and tugs it on over her dress, preening for Amara, who pulls out her phone and snaps photo after photo. As the women venture out to the deck for their shoot, Joshua shifts closer to murmur, “I get it now.”

I cut him a look, but he’s staring out at our wives pretending to be models. “Get what?”

“Why you married her.”

I snort, rubbing my thumb over my wedding band. I haven’t taken it off since the end of the season. “I don’t think anyone knows why I did that.”

“Then I get why you want to stay married.”

“I never said I wanted to.”

It’s his turn to shoot me an unamused glance, seeing right through me. I know I’ve been transparent about my attraction to Stella, and I know my actions speak louder than anything I could ever say. He’s never seen me this dedicated to a woman.

This isn’t an argument I’ll win, so I deflect. “Why do you think I want to stay married to her?”

Joshua pauses to consider his answer. “Because she makes you laugh.”

“ That’s enough of a reason?” I scoff. “Come on, be serious.”

“Not on its own,” he clarifies, “but it’s part of it. She…matches you. Matches your humor, your drive, your kindness. She’s thoughtful in the same way you are. Supportive without expecting anything in return. I’ve never seen that in any of the other women you brought around. And certainly not from Figgy.”

“Are you really saying Stella is my perfect match?” I press, incredulous.

But Joshua only shrugs, leaving the silence to linger and my thoughts to swirl. Honestly, some days it feels like Stella and I are polar opposites, two people from vastly different worlds and upbringings and life experiences. And yet I can see exactly what he means by us matching each other. We just…fit together.

“If the situation were different, she’s the kind of woman I’d want to seriously date,” I say before I can think better of the confession.

Joshua snickers. “Oh, so you’re finally ready for a girlfriend now that you have a wife?”

“The irony isn’t lost on me.”

“So why don’t you try?” he suggests.

“She doesn’t want a real relationship.”

“Are you sure?”

“Considering she has rules that have made it pretty clear, yeah, I am.”

Joshua’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, forcing me to glance over and witness the dismayed set to his mouth. “Since when have you been a devout rule follower? You’ve always searched for a loophole, Thomas. If you weren’t a driver, you’d be the most brilliant solicitor.”

“Glad you think I’m smart.”

He squeezes harder, right in the tender part of my trapezius, clearing away my sarcasm. “Right now I think you’re a ridiculous excuse for a man who can’t pull his head out of his ass and make his feelings clear.”

I wince, both from the physical torture method and his biting words. “God, you’re sounding more and more like your wife every day.”

“Love will do that to you.” Finally, he lets up, slapping me hard on the back before returning his attention to the laughing women outside. “Seriously, mate. You’ll never know what could happen if you don’t try.”

By New Year’s Eve, I’m in hell.

I thought living with Stella would prepare me for a whole week of being together on holiday. How different could it be?

Vastly, as I’ve discovered.

Stella at home doesn’t walk around nearly naked, sporting a new bikini every morning that makes me wonder if she’s tormenting me on purpose. Vacation Stella has relaxed shoulders and easy smiles. She’s loud and funny and quick to grab my hand to drag me off to whatever activity is slated for the day. She peacefully naps wherever she can find a space, whether that’s on the couch in our bungalow or under an umbrella on the beach, curled up like a cat with her face burrowed in the crook of her arm. Sometimes I even tuck her braids behind her ear just so I can get a better view of the peace on her face.

Yeah…I’m not faring remotely fucking well.

Thankfully, we only have two more days here before we head home. I don’t have a clue what our dynamic will be like when we’re back, but it won’t be as difficult to keep my eyes—and hands—off her once she’s bundled up against the English winter. I almost miss her cashmere tracksuits, though I can’t deny the sight of her in a white crochet bikini is dangerously appealing.

Tonight she’s wearing some sort of tight black bustier dress that pushes her tits up and slightly over the cups, tempting me to press my face into their softness. She’s done her makeup heavier than I’ve seen all week, darkening her eyes with shadow and winging out a line that makes every glance she tosses sultry. And her lips, painted wine red like the first night we met, are simply lush. If someone said they could bring the woman of my dreams to life, it would be Stella in this moment. Or really, Stella in any moment.

I fear if I tell her that, it will scare her off into the ocean, never to be seen again. So I settle for taking her hand and spinning her in a circle before saying, “You look stunning.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she commends, taking in my black suit and white shirt with a few buttons undone. “We match.”

Logically, I know she’s only talking about our color coordination, but I think of Joshua’s words. She matches you. The more I’ve considered it, the more I’ve come to see what he means. We do match. We’re alike in so many ways, and even in the ways we aren’t, everything still aligns.

“We do,” I agree. I press my luck and lace our fingers together. “Looking like a real couple. Who’d ever think this was fake?”

Stella gives me another one of those beguiling laughs from deep in her chest, and all it does is push me farther down the rabbit hole of desperation. I need more from this woman, whatever she’s willing to give. I’d let her use me in return, let her sink her teeth into me and tear away whatever she wanted. She could burn through me and I’d fan the flame.

Again, Joshua’s words haunt me. You’ll never know what could happen if you don’t try. There are options for what that could mean, some better than others. But something has to change—has to give. We can’t keep dancing around each other like there isn’t some sort of string tying us together, getting shorter and shorter by the day. I’m going to drive myself mad if I don’t do anything about it.

“Hey, actually, can we talk?” I say as she recovers from her laughter. My heart picks up the pace, threatening to beat out of my chest, because what the fuck am I doing?

Stella glances at the clock on the wall. “We’re already late for dinner,” she says regretfully, clearly not knowing what’s coming for her. “What about when we get back?”

That will be far past midnight, and who knows how many drinks we’ll have had by then. It might help my cause, but there’s a chance it could also lead me to say all the wrong things.

Still, I swallow hard and murmur, “Yeah. Sure.”

But I don’t know how much longer I can hold this in.

I want to be with my wife—for real. Even if it’s just temporary. Even if it’s just for a night.

Even if that’s all I ever get.