Page 11 of What You left in Me

My thumbs move swiftly, tapping out a reply.

Me:You and your donors?Always stealing you from me.

The reply is instant, like he was waiting for me.

Julian:I’d rather be stealing you. In that bed upstairs. Still damp from your shower?

Heat flashes across my cheeks. My pulse trips over itself. God, he knows exactly how to make me blush, even through a screen. He also knows my exact routine.

I bite my lip and type back, fingers flying.

Me:Maybe. What would you do if you were here?

Julian:You don’t want the details, sweetheart. Not while you’re sitting in your mother’s kitchen.

My laugh bursts out loud and too sudden, so I press the mug to my mouth to muffle it, even though no one’s watching. My thighs clench together under the stool, the warmth spreading too fast. He’s ridiculous and perfect. I just wish he would actually do the things he promises. Our sex life is almost non-existent these days. He loves me, does everything I could ever ask for, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself sexually satiated.

God, that’s not fair,I admonish myself as soon as the thought flits into my head. Do I really want to be one of those women? I’ve basically got Prince Charming. So, what if he doesn’t enjoy sex as much as I’d like him to? He’s perfect in every other way. That matters more. I’ve got a partner most would kill for.

Me:You’re evil. I can’t stop smiling now.

Julian:Good. That’s my job. I love you, Ari. I hate that I’m not there to hold your hand through all of this.

See? Prince Charming!

His words melt me from the inside out. I close my eyes and picture him exactly as I know he must be: loosened tie hanging from his neck, crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, his dark blond hair a little too messy from running his hands through it between calls. I can practically see the crease in his brow and the half-smile he gives saves for me, our secret when no one else is looking. God, he’s probably standing in some marble hallway in D.C. looking like he just walked out of a glossy magazine. And all I can think is if he were here, dressed like that, I’d jump on him the second he stepped through the door. Iwouldn’t even make it to the bedroom. I’d let him take me right here on the island until my legs gave out, letting him claim me over and over until I passed out.

Fuck, I wish.

I want him. Fuck, I want him. But more than that… a part of me wants him to want me. Be hungry for me. The kind of primal hunger that has a man wanting to rip my clothes and make me come until I’m begging for a break.

I’ve got enough social graces to not text him that, though. Instead, I tell him I love him too and leave it at that.

Good thing, too, since that’s the moment Mom breezes in, beautiful in her combination of designer neutrals and her favorite pearls, her hair swept back like she’s hosting a Vogue feature and not an outdoor activity.

She doesn’t even look at me before she asks, “No Julian?” And doesn’t wait for me to answer before she adds, “We’ll have to adjust the seating chart,” punctuated with a sigh.

I take a careful sip of the sweetened tea, hiding my smile. “Political emergency. You know him.”

Her lips pinch, but I don’t let it touch me.

Not when my phone buzzes again, my screen lighting beneath the counter.

Julian:Tonight, have your phone on. No excuses. I need to hear you before I sleep.

The grin spreads across my face before I can stop it. Because, just like that, I don’t care if he misses the weekend.He’s still mine. Always mine.

###

By mid-morning, I’m trailing after Mom in the garden, blinking against too much sun. Marquee tents have sprouted everywhere like invasive mushrooms overnight, their white canvas bellies puffed with wind, and strings of lights dangle overhead like constellations someone’s trying to pin in place.

Florists swarm the side paths, draping roses and hydrangeas over archways as if we’re preparing for Versailles and not a lakeside anniversary party in Willowridge. Clipboards glint in the sunlight, the lists clipped into them all several pages thick. Someone’s barking about delivery trucks blocking the driveway.

Two hundred guests,Mom said.

Apparently, Senator Kline is flying in.

From every direction, more and more words roll out like a sermon; each one is filled with unnecessary seriousness. I nod along robotically, murmuringof course’s andthat sounds lovely’s like the dutiful choir.