Part 3 (1/2)
At this point, I don't want to see the show anymore-I want to sit with them all night.
The bill comes, and Weston insists he's got it, and Gabe protests, which is a little awkward. But when Weston points out he's ordered a three-hundred dollar bottle, Gabe smiles and says, ”It's all yours.” It's quite evident these two are not struggling to pay the bills like we are-the posh perfectly fitted clothing, his expensive looking watch, and the gigantic diamond on her finger tells me so.
When the waitress comes back with her payment gadget, Weston pays the bill. Gabe and I thank them profusely. And the waitress also thanks him abundantly when she sees her tip. From her reaction, you would think the guy has given her his left kidney.
”Weston always leaves an extravagant tip. I think it's too much. They're only doing their jobs after all.”
”Well, you've made her day, that's for sure,” I point out.
”Well, if I can make someone's day, then I suppose I've done my job.”
What a sweetie...
We say our formal good-byes at the door since we are heading in different directions. Bridget hugs us both tightly and tells us how delighted she is to have met us. We thank them again for the wonderful dinner. Weston gives us both a firm hand shake, very business-like-he doesn't strike me as a hugger at all.
As we walk away, his eyes linger on me, and he seems...almost sad.
I wonder if he feels the same way I do. I'm a little saddened by the fact that I will never see these people again. We shared a wonderful meal and pleasant conversation, but now we're off in our own directions, to our respective lives.
Our paths will never cross again.
We race to the theater. Gabe pulls me through the crowds. His stride is much longer than mine, and I find myself actually running a little to try to keep up with him. Racing in my very high heels, I suddenly wish I had worn more sensible shoes. Thankfully, we make it to the box office, just in the nick of time.
The show is great, but as wonderful as it is, I have a difficult time focusing on the story-my thoughts are still in that restaurant, on that face. I replay all the words that were said, which really were not many.
I am shocked by the reaction I've had to this man, so sudden and powerful. Desire has struck me when I least expected it. I'm not a l.u.s.tful woman but for a fraction of a second, I picture his beautiful face, and I long to touch it, and I crave the feel of his hands on my skin.
I shake my head a little. I've gone completely mad.
I barely know this man-he's a stranger.
But I can't deny the reality...I've never been so affected.
By anyone.
Chapter Four.
Just imagine him...
”WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THE SHOW?” Gabe asks as we walk back to the parking lot.
I don't know what to say. h.e.l.l, I don't remember the show. All I could think about was him. I might just be certifiably insane. ”I...uh...it was great.” It must have been-the set design and music were amazing.
”You seemed distracted.” Gabe is nothing if not perceptive. He knows something's up. ”Were you thinking about Mr. Perfect?” he jokes. He always teases me about my silly crushes-the hot guy who renovated our bathroom, the kids' optometrist. He joshes because he knows it's harmless-I've been faithful to him for almost twenty years.
I laugh a little, but somehow this time feels different. ”No...who's Mr. Perfect?” I ask playfully.
”Oh, you know who I'm talking about.” He smiles wide. ”Don't play coy with me.”
”You're referring to Weston?” I say casually with a little smirk. But for the first time since we've been together, I feel like I'm putting on a show, like I'm lying to my husband. There's just something about Weston...it's different this time.
”You totally have the hots for the guy, Ella,” he says with a cheeky smile. ”Ella” is what he calls me-unless he's mad at me-then it's ”Mirella.”
Who am I kidding? My husband knows me too well. There's no sense denying it. ”Well...” I hesitate a little. ”He is attractive, if that's what you mean.”
He laughs. ”Oh...it's more than that, he's totally your type...good-looking, charming, and well-dressed, with a little bit of nerdy.”
Gabe is all smiles-he doesn't seem too concerned. And why would he be? We will never see Bridget and Weston again. And Gabe and I have always been open like this-I think it's what has kept us faithful to each other over the years.
I laugh a little. Yep...there are no secret crushes in this relations.h.i.+p.
”Well, you're one to talk,” I say, trying to steer the focus off me. ”You and Bridget were practically all over each other.” I still can't get over how flirty she was with him-another woman's husband, a father.
”Yeah...she's gorgeous,” he admits-like I hadn't noticed. ”I'd like to tear that little prim and proper outfit right off her.”
Unlike me, Gabe is not one to hide his thoughts. He usually spreads them all out on the table for everyone to see. We've been together so long, I've gotten used to his occasionally questionable sense of humor.
He grabs me by the waist. ”I'm kidding. You know that, right? You're my only one, Ella.”
”I'm sure she'd love it. She was all over you.”
”You think?”
”Of course, look at you.” I swear, sometimes Gabe doesn't realize how gorgeous he is. He's not traditionally handsome-he's a little rough around the edges, and he's definitely got that ”bad boy” thing going.
”You're the s.e.xy, rugged guy,” I point out. ”I bet she'd die to slum it with you,” I add, a playful smile on my lips.
He laughs.
”I'm sure Mr. Perfect wouldn't mind slummin' it with you either.”
I laugh nervously. He wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
”I don't think so,” I say, sheepishly. ”He doesn't see me that way, I'm sure. Men like him go out with women like Bridget.”
Gabe stops dead in his tracks and looks at me. Suddenly his beautiful hazel eyes are serious-they look almost black in the darkness. He grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. The heel of my shoe sc.r.a.pes the sidewalk, and I look up at him, suddenly alarmed.
”Trust me, Ella, a man knows when a guy wants to f.u.c.k his wife.”
I'm shocked and speechless.
Really? Is that what he saw?
Could he be right?
The thought arouses me. More than I care to admit.