Many thanks again to you wonderful readers who send feedback my way! You honestly have no idea how much it means to me, and I wish I had time to answer each one of you personally. :) As always, special kudos to miscreant rose, Cls2011 and KP for their feedback and support. You have no idea how many drafts I send these women, and I appreciate the fact that they read through each of them more than you know.
I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters. But mercy-I adore these two idiots! ;) And I hope you enjoy the chapter.
"Christ," Charles mutters, shaking his head, his stomach dropping to his knees in five seconds flat. "She told you I had a mistress?"
Mary is silent, but she nods, her fingers twitching, her lips tight.
"Freda was going for the kill, wasn't she?" he continues, trying to make things lighter, failing miserably in the process. Shit. This conversation is off to an even worse start than he imagined.
Her face twitches as she tries to smile, and he sees how nervous she is, how she wants to believe in him—needs to believe in him, and he squeezes her hand, holding on to this woman for dear life, this woman he loves with everything he has and then some.
"If there was another woman, I'm sure you had a reason," Mary begins, her gaze falling to their joined hands, but he slips one out of her grasp, tugging her chin upward until their eyes are fixed upon each other.
"There was no other woman, Mary," he assures her, praying she senses the truth of his statement. "I give you my word."
He feels her relax into him, her eyes processing his assurance as her brows unfurl and a small smile tugs on her lips.
"I believe you," she breathes, and he takes a full breath, his lungs expanding greedily, his heart speeding at the fresh intake of oxygen. He then holds her to his chest, wishing he could pull her into his very skin, thanking God, the universe and anyone else who happens to be listening that she is here with him now. She loves him. And she believes him.
His bones feel like jelly.
His lips then brush her cheekbone, marveling at its softness, craving further contact, and her fingers cup the side of his face, forging a new connection between them both organic and fragile. He feels a sense of completion somehow, one he has never known until this moment, one that rocks his bones and warms nerves still frayed to the breaking point.
"I knew it," she whispers, and she's shaking, he realizes, or is that him? It doesn't matter anymore, for they are clinging to each other, breathing the other one in, touching skin, holding on, refusing to let go of what they've just discovered.
"I knew she had to be lying, but I…"
She cuts herself off, her face paling in an uncomfortable manner.
"But you wondered," he finishes for her, continuing to stroke her cheek with his thumb.
She sighs, her head hanging, her eyes now shut.
"Yes," she admits. "I did, and I'm sorry."
"Shhh," he silences her, dotting a kiss to her lips once, twice, touching his nose to hers, noting just how cold hers has become. "It's understandable, Mary. God, we've known each other a matter of weeks, and there's so much we still have to learn."
She nods, and he shudders, loving how close they have finally become, hating his nearly ex-wife has managed to erect barriers when walls were just coming down.
"Why would she say something like that?" Mary questions, drawing back just enough to look at him fully. Her eyes are still moist, and she looks young, exposed and extremely vulnerable. God, he hates that his past has brought about that expression, and he bites back curses he'd like to hurl at Freda, lashing himself with them instead.
"Because she believes it," Charles shrugs, his brows creasing. "She accused me of having another love many times during the end of our marriage."
"Why?" Mary questions again. "Because she was unfaithful, she assumed you were, too?"
"Because Freda is an insanely insecure and selfish woman."
He sighs, raking his fingers over his scalp, searching his addled mind for just the right words. His body tenses again, and her hand moves down his arm, her touch steadying him in the midst of this unforeseen hurricane.
"She felt threatened," he continues. "The moment I did something she didn't expect, or made a choice she didn't like. Freda is a woman of demands and ultimatums rather than discussion and compromise, although at first she disguises this fact under an unreasonable amount of charm."
She makes a noise in her throat, one he cannot quite decipher.
"Lucy said that," Mary states. "That she can be charming when she chooses to be."
"You wouldn't believe it, I'm sure, after what you've just experienced," Charles adds with a shake of his head. "But it's the truth. When I met her, she was like an entirely different person."
He feels the bed shift beneath them and sees her face wince in pain.
"God, your knee," he cuts in, helping her adjust and fluffing her support pillow, watching her carefully as her expression relaxes bit by bit. She breathes in and out, letting him massage the back of her neck as muscles unwind. "Do you need anything?"
She shakes her head, but he hands her the water glass left for her by Lucy all the same, shrugging feigned innocence as she narrows her eyes. She obligingly takes one drink followed by another and sets the glass back on the bedside table, licking her lips and staring him down.
It's time, he understands, time for full disclosure between them, time to lay all of his cards on the table, and his heart jumps into his throat before plummeting straight down at least eleven stories. He can't lose her, not now, not when they've just shared so much, not when they're on the cusp of what he knows he needs like air. She then taps the spot beside her on the bed, and he smiles, he can't help it, loving her more in this small moment than he realized was possible.
She loves him. She needs to understand him. And he owes her the truth of his past.
He walks around to his side of the bed, kicking off his shoes before propping up a couple of pillows against the headboard and crawling in to sit beside her. She has partially warmed the sheets already, and he wants to absorb this small essence of her as he settles in and catches his breath, readying himself for an extended journey to a past he would rather forget. She takes his hand then, her thumb moving over his knuckles, making him bite his lower lip to keep himself from becoming overly-emotional.
"Tell me," she breathes, her head tilting to check his expression. "How you met, why you married, why you divorced."
"Oh, is that all?" he queries in mock-defense, and she tosses him that look he'd like to bottle, one that looks like she's torn between sending him to his room without supper or serving him up on a platter. "Anything else you'd like to know?"
"Smart ass," she fires back under her breath, her acerbic tone tickling his dimples and ribs, making him want her all the more.
"Shall I pour us a drink first?" he quips, and she eyes him steadily, her pupils thinning into narrow slits. "I think I may need one by the looks of things."
"You'll need a bottle if you keep putting me off," she retorts, unleashing a knot somewhere under his rib cage as a puff of air eases out of his lungs. He kisses her nose then, hearing a low growl emitted as a warning in his direction, and he leans back slowly, licking lips that feel nearly as cracked as a dried up sea bed.
"It's not a pretty tale, Mary," he states, his toes suddenly cold, his tongue awkward and thick. "It's rather ugly, I'm afraid, and I'm not certain how I'll appear to you once it's all out in the open."
"I've seen you naked," she returns, nearly making him choke on his own saliva. "I think that qualifies me to handle anything."
"Flatterer," he remarks, throwing his own brow her way. "And I thought you appreciated my ogrely wares."
She tosses him a small, sideways smile, and the fight suddenly goes out of him, all reserves of wit and bluff falling away as her free hand moves to push a lock of hair off his brow.
"They're growing on me," she whispers, her own vulnerability showing again, and he feels small and insignificant, like a gnome attempting to woo a princess with a badly written script.
"Was it that bad?" she presses, her tone now concerned, and he squeezes her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss into her skin he hopes she feels as deeply as he.
"Yes," he confirms. "I'm ashamed to say that it was."
The muted sounds of traffic punctuate the silence, and she waits for him quietly, glancing his direction, holding his hand, but giving him room to collect his scattered thoughts.
"I met Freda in New York," he begins, seeing her as she had been then—vibrant, almost girlish, or so he had thought at the time. "We both worked for McMahon and Stephens Publishing, I as an editor, she as a marketing assistant."
"Do editors rub elbows with marketing assistants all that often?" she breaks in, shifting slightly.
"No," he answers. "We rarely saw each other at work, actually, until one day we ended up sharing a lift." He sighs, pressing his lips together at the memory. "She was wearing green, I remember, and she commented on my suit—how well she liked it, how well I looked in it. We then realized we were fellow Brits and struck up a conversation, one we continued over lunch the next day."
"So you liked her?" Mary inquires, her brow quirked at an angle that was almost comical. "Or at least the fact that she flattered you."
"I wouldn't have taken her to lunch, otherwise," he grins, earning himself a smile and a hand squeeze in return. "I do have my standards, you know, although my judgment at the time was seriously lacking."
"It had been bowled over by a push-up bra and a green dress, I take it," she muses, and he wrinkles his nose at her before puffing a breath out his cheeks.
"Probably," he returns. "I did notice her breasts, unfortunately."
"Men," she sighs, and he leans into her shoulder. "You're so damned predictable."
"Sad, but true," he agrees, reaching over to stroke her nipple, making her squeak and smack his hand. "See? We can't help ourselves, I'm afraid."
"Idiot," she bites back, and he chuckles under his breath, hearing a hum of laughter resonate from her, as well.
"I was homesick, I remember," he resumes, and her hand presses into his palm, her attention all his yet again. "I missed my family, I wasn't satisfied with my job, I was debating over whether or not I should change careers. And then she was there, somehow, and she was cute and sexy." He looks at the woman now beside him, shaking his head at himself. "God, she wanted to know everything about me, and I was foolish enough to tell her."
"She used it against you?" Mary questions, her shoulder nudging his.
"Eventually," he admits, inhaling deeply. "With a gleam in her eye and my wallet in her purse."
He stops then, knowing he sounds bitter, not wanting to come across as a spurned ex-husband out to belittle his former wife.
"We wanted very different things, you understand," he amends, his thumb tracing patterns over hers. "Something that didn't come to light until after we'd been married a few weeks."
"But how did you decide to get married in the first place?" Mary asks, angling her body towards him as best she can. "What prompted you to propose to that woman?"
He makes some sort of noise in his throat, and he turns his body in her direction, wishing he could just shove this entire segment of his history into a locked box and toss it as far as it will go into the Atlantic Ocean, weighted down by chains and anchors for good measure.
"I'm not sure," he confesses. "I really wish I knew."
"Bullshit," she retorts, taking him off-guard, making him laugh out of the blue even as the wind is knocked out of his sails. "I mean it, Charles," she contends, punching his arm. "Stop avoiding the question."
"Ouch!" he exclaims. "What was that?" He rubs where she made contact, wanting to kiss the hell out of her, even if her eyes are shooting daggers at him at the moment.
"What you deserved," she replies, her nostrils flaring in time with her eyes. "Now tell me, damn it. Why in God's name did you marry Freda?"
"Christ, you're demanding," he sighs, moving just out of her reach before she can hit him again, chuckling in spite of himself.
"And you love me for it," she interjects as she leans back in to her pillows, brokering no room for an argument. "So get on with it, Lord Ogre. I'm not going to sit here forever."
He's still grinning, he realizes, and it changes things somehow, the bitter taste on his tongue surprisingly absent.
"As my lady wishes," he hums, just the thought that she actually is his lady, at least for the moment, making him feel as giddy as teenager. "And I wish I could give you a clear concise answer, Mary, I really do. But I can't. I'm not sure why exactly we decided to get married when it became painfully obvious within a few months that it was one of the worst decisions either of us had ever made."
He pauses, shifting his body until he was facing her fully.
"I asked myself the same bloody question over and over again," he continues, scratching his scalp. "And the best I can come up with was that I was lonely and desperate to have something steady in my life, or something I believed to be steady at the time. She was there, she was beautiful, and she made me believe that she loved me, really loved me."
He stops, wondering why he feels like he has just run a marathon in bad shoes, his breath somewhat labored, his palms sticky and warm.
"And you loved her?"
His pulse speeds ahead of him, and he shakes his head, wishing he knew, feeling like a blasted idiot for being so inadvertently evasive.
"I thought I did," he blurts, despising the uncertainty of his tone. "I mean, I loved the person I thought that she was. But I missed so damned much, things I should have seen, warning signals I'm sure I purposely overlooked because I wanted what I thought was real."
"We do that, don't we?" she contemplates, and he gazes at her profile, wondering what exactly is playing through her mind. "When we want the idea of something so badly we're willing to fabricate whatever it takes to convince ourselves its reality."
"Matthew?" he questions, and she nods, biting her lower lip self-consciously.
"That's how it was at the end," she voices. "More trying to fit pieces together that just wouldn't fit than anything else, even though it had been glorious once upon a time."
He exhales loudly, engulfing her hand in his own.
"That's how it was for my marriage," he states, staring out the window before returning his gaze to her. "At least on my part, although glorious might be pushing things just a bit."
She leans on his shoulder, and he cups the side of her face, kissing her forehead as they sit again in silence, digesting what has already been spoken.
"It was after a party," he continues, toying with a lock of her hair. "The corporate Christmas Party, actually. We were both drunk, well, at least I was. I'm not certain if she was, too, or was setting me up for the kill."
"She wanted you to propose, you mean?" Mary questions, and he nods in response.
"I'd just been offered a promotion," he clarifies. "A big promotion as Chief Editor for the London Office. I was already doing well financially, but a job like that would have nearly doubled my earnings. Freda was elated for me, or so she said at the time, and she started telling me just how badly she wanted to move back to England."
"All those pounds made her dizzy," she murmurs, and a puff of air flying out his nose.
"She may have swooned," he expounds. "And I, like a moronic love-struck co-ed believed every word she said to me."
"How effective was her sob story?" Mary asks, and a wry laugh escapes him.
"The stuff Oscars are made of," he muses, adoring the smile he receives in return. "She missed her mum, her father was ill, her sister needed her help with her nieces and nephews since her husband walked out on her two weeks ago. It was really quite tragic."
"I thought Freda hated children," she notes, leaning forward just a bit.
"She does," Charles confirms. "And she and her sister despise each other. Did I mention that her father is healthier than I am, and that she and her mother rarely speak?"
"God," Mary utters, shaking her head. "She did do a number on you."
"I think she did an entire number line, to be honest," he admits. Then her lips brush his cheek, and he nearly crumbles, the difference in what he has now and what he thought he had then so stark it is like comparing a Rembrandt to a three year old's chalk drawing. "I told you, Mary, I was an idiot."
"But you did believe her," Mary contests. "I mean, you were honest with her about your family, so why should you suspect deceit on her part?"
"Because I was warned, and I chose not to listen."
The admission burns his larynx, his stomach rolling uncomfortably.
"By whom?" she questions, sitting up as tall as possible.
"By her former lover," Charles murmurs, racking his fingers through his hair yet again, knowing it had to resemble a degenerate hedgehog's quills by now. "A co-worker of mine."
"Shit," Mary breathes.
"Pretty much," he agrees. "Clint told me she was an opportunist who saw my potential and thought I could be her ticket to bigger and better things. He warned me that she laid it on thick at first, only to strike back with venom once you crossed her."
"He learned from experience, I take it," she interjects.
"Firsthand," he confirms. "And I blew him off."
"You thought he was bitter," she theorizes, and he nods, feeling more and more like the idiot she accused him of being earlier.
"She gave me a sob story about how he had been unfaithful and had broken her heart," Charles confesses. "And I believed every word and tear. It turns out he was smarter than I was and figured her out after a couple of months. He ended things, she didn't like it, and…"
He pauses, he cheeks feeling hotter by the moment.
"And what?" Mary asks, her eyes narrowing in confusion.
"And then I entered the picture," he sighs, biting the side of his cheek. "Three weeks later, mind you, and I fell for her act, hook, line and sinker."
She sighs into him, her fingers squeezing his.
"You can't blame yourself for that," she reasons. "At least not too badly."
Her brow is en pointe, her expression nearly impassive.
"I thought you were on my side," he huffs, doing his best to appear mortally wounded.
"I am," she states with cool precision. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to coddle you unnecessarily."
"Gods, woman," he guffaws, his head falling back to the headboard. "It's a good thing I don't bruise easily."
She studies him then, watching him with a precision that makes him shiver.
"I think you bruise easier than you realize," she surmises, her own gaze faltering as she clears her throat. "Or at least will admit to. I think we both do, actually."
His fingers move into her hair, rubbing her scalp, holding her close, an ache for her welling up until it nearly takes his breath.
"Don't tell anyone, alright?" he whispers, watching as her eyes close then refasten on his as she nods her agreement. Then her hand is on his face, her lips hovering close, her nose brushing his until their breathing is woven into a shared tapestry.
"My lips are sealed," she assures him, skimming her thumb across his mouth.
"Well, don't seal them too tightly," he teases, unable to stop himself from kissing her, from nudging her lips open, from drinking of her mouth until he feels half-intoxicated, wanting to drown in her kisses and be swept away by all that she is.
She makes a low humming sound as she kisses him back, angling her head to grant them both better access. He could lose himself in her mouth, in her mind, in her body and soul and that damned sharp wit of hers. She draws back slowly, and he kisses the tip of her nose.
"You're not stalling again, are you?" she quips, her tone low and drugged, and he chuckles as he reclaims her mouth, absorbing her own laughter on his tongue.
"I'll never tell," he hums, those blasted eyes of hers pinning him point blank to his spot.
"You're impossible," she breathes, inhaling with force.
"And you love me for it," he retorts, throwing her own words back at her as she attempts to bite back a smile.
"Go on," she commands, elbowing him lightly. "How did she get you to propose?"
"At the party, of course," he confesses. "After several shots and too many toasts. Then we ended up at my place, had sex I don't even remember, and the next morning we drank several pots of coffee, or I did, at least, while she began planning our elopement to Niagara Falls."
"Niagara Falls? Really?"
She's nearly gaping at him now, and he feels his cheeks heat on the spot.
"Oh, it's always been my private dream to get married at Niagara Falls, Charlie," he mimics, his voice cracking on the falsetto as she stares at him unblinking. "I've never told anyone that because I was sure that they'd laugh at me, but you won't, will you darling? I know you won't, you're ever so good to me."
"She called you Charlie?" Mary gasps. "And you still married her? You're more idiotic that I realized."
"At least she didn't call me Charles Wesley," he shoots back in defense. "God, I always knew I was in more trouble than a convicted felon when Mum resorted to using my middle name."
She grins at this, wriggling her brows in his direction.
"Charles Wesley," she voices, trying the name out on her tongue. "At least your mother has good taste."
"Touché," he acknowledges before tossing her a coy grin. "Although I am here with you, aren't I?"
"Watch it," she warns, and he smiles at her, absorbing her presence all over in a way that makes him feel like he can weather anything. "So you got married at Niagara Falls?" she continues. "Without your family? Just like that?"
"Pretty much," he sighs, feeling somewhat deflated. "With a view of the Falls for the ceremony and a honeymoon suite with a heart-shaped jacuzzi."
"What more could a girl want?" she goads, and he slides her look she consumes with a knife and fork.
"I'm just thankful she didn't ask for the Taj Mahal," he adds, only half-teasing. He then settles back into the pillows, looking at her with a shrug. "I was supposed to report to my new position in mid-January, so the timing worked out well. It's just…"
"Just what?" she asks, knowing he's holding something back from her. "Tell me, Charles Wesley, or I'm calling your mother."
"Hold your horses, Mary Jane," he insists, enjoying her sputtering at his deliberate misuse of her middle name. "What? It's much simpler than Josephine."
"Nowhere near as simplistic as your sense of humor," she fires back. "Go on."
He sighs, his eyebrows shrugging for him.
"I don't think either of us really thought it through," he confesses, staring at her wall. "I know I didn't, not the way I should have thought through the prospect of spending my life with someone."
"She was playing you," Mary cuts in, pushing herself up taller. "That much is obvious."
"True," he admits. "But I wasn't completely up front with her either. And it cost me dearly in the end."
He sees her facial muscles working, watches as she attempts to work out what he will say next.
"I let her believe that I was going to accept that promotion," he sighs, feeling a sting of guilt as he always does when he thinks of his deception. "I knew she wanted me to, and I loved making her happy."
"But you didn't?" she asks, her curiosity pulsing hot between them. "Why on earth not?"
He feels hot all over suddenly, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his upper lip.
"Because I wanted to write," he breathes, his voice cracking uncomfortably. God, he feels small, sharing this bit of himself so very personal, so vital and so essentially him. "I have since I can remember. And I knew if I didn't dedicate myself to pursuing that dream when I had the opportunity, I'd never give it a proper go and end up as nothing but a glorified editor of other people's work."
She's silent, gazing at him as if she's seeing something she's never seen before, and her eyes narrow as her fingers reach out haltingly to touch his face.
"A writer?" she echoes, studying him to see if the title fits. "You're a writer?"
"Guilty," he returns, one side of his mouth drawing half-way up his cheek, wondering just what the hell is running through that mind of hers.
"That's what you're doing on your laptop all the time?" she surmises, her lashes blinking in a frenzy. "Not editing, but writing? Why you can work from here without reporting to an office?"
He nods, and she makes an appreciative noise, a smile breaking out across her face.
"Why in God's name haven't you told me this before?"
She looks almost girlish in her eagerness to understand, and he feels like a bird freed from its gilded cage, trying out his wings properly for the first time.
"I don't know, actually," he blushes, his face burning in time with his ears. "I suppose I wanted to surprise you at some point, but that does seem rather foolish now."
"You have surprised me!" she exclaims, pushing herself up as tall as she can manage. "But it suits you, somehow." She pauses then, her finger tracing an invisible line in the air. "You didn't think Freda would support you, I take it?"
"I hoped she would," he sighs, twisting his rear to keep it from falling asleep. "But I wasn't certain. I'd saved up, you see, for years, putting money aside into a fund I could live off of so I could finally give writing full-time a shot."
"That takes some gumption," she states, her eyes sparking with what he hopes is admiration. "And it's hard. I did the same thing so I could go into business for myself."
"Precisely," he breathes, feeling lighter by the moment. "Did you face any opposition, though, from people who thought you were half out of your mind for taking that sort of a risk?"
He sees her lips tighten, and he senses her answer before it ever leaves her lips.
"Of course," she answers, her hands fidgeting. "Not everyone sees the benefits of risking so much on something that has no guarantees, especially if it involves leaving something relatively secure in the process."
He nods and she smiles, leaning her head towards his until they touch.
"Freda exploded when I told her what I wanted to do," he expounds. "When I told her I was going to turn down the promotion and try my hand at following my dream." He blows air out his cheeks, rubbing dry lips together. "It didn't matter that we had the money—she had a decent salary—McMahon and Stephens had seen fit to find her a job in the London office since we'd gotten married. And as I said, I'd saved up enough to live comfortably, even though we would have to mind our P's and Q's."
"She wanted more," Mary surmised softly, the texture of her voice rubbing against raw nerves like spun silk.
"Much more," he confirms. "She had ambitions for me I never knew about, and none of them involved me taking a chance on being a writer."
"So what happened? After you told her of your plans?"
"Besides exploding, you mean?" he quips with a heavy sigh. "She tried to talk me out of it, told me over and over that I was throwing away our lives and my full potential, that I was an idiot for not seeing how becoming Chief Editor could lead to even bigger and better things in the publishing world, and that most writers have shit for brains, anyway. That's why they require editors."
He sighs into the room, his chest tight and heavy.
"I really should have told her everything before we got married," he confesses. "That deception was my fault and mine alone. I'm certain she would have left me before our whole fiasco of a marriage ever took place had I just been completely honest with her, and with myself."
"Probably," Mary agrees. "But aren't couples supposed to see each other through life's changes? For better or for worse?"
"I think in mine and Freda's case it was for worse or for bloody hell," he grins, and she makes a noise of appreciation. "But I can't blame her for everything. She had a right to know what she was getting herself into with me, regardless of how she behaved afterwards. I failed her in that way."
"We all fail," Mary interjects, "On a regular basis. But we have to keep going, don't we?"
They sit in silence again, touching and thinking, connecting themselves together in a new fashion.
"I kept going from bar to bar," he finally confesses, and she chuckles deeply, the vibration from her chest tickling his arm.
"Which is where you found me," she muses with a sigh. "Setting such a good example of how to handle heartbreak while you throw your dignity to the dogs."
"I've never seen anyone throw it with such style," he quips, a lazy growl meeting his statement. "You truly have a gift, you know."
"Mama will be so proud," she muses, earning herself a kiss to her forehead. Her touch intensifies, and he is stunned at how easy it is just to be with her, even in the midst of laying out parts of his past that hurt to re-examine.
"I'm so glad I ventured into that bar that night," he states, caressing her knuckles repeatedly. "It was worth all of the shit that led up to it, you know, meeting you there, all drunk and adorable."
"Adorable my ass," she bites back, making him laugh yet again, the surprise of being so intimate with her like this one he revels in to his toes. "I don't even want to know what I smelled like."
"Only like half a distillery," he shrugs in an exaggerated manner. "Not an entire one."
"I'm so relieved," she quips, and they exhale together, fingers touching, lacing themselves together in a new pattern. His throat then begins to clog, and he tries to swallow down what feels stuck.
"I let Freda read my work, then. To try to convince her to believe in me."
He stops, clearing his throat so forcefully it nearly it turned into a cough. She pats his back then rubs up and down his spine, waiting patiently for what hurts to voice.
"She told me I should grab the editor's position and be thankful for it."
He feels her grip tighten in his hand as the one on his back fists in his shirt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her eyes rounding exponentially.
"Don't be," he returns, reveling in her quiet acceptance of his most personal side. "I needed to know that it wasn't me that she loved, but rather what she thought I could give her. It took me a while to accept it, unfortunately, and I tried to make something out of what never existed while she found someone else without batting an eye. Once she told me about Elliot, I had no fight left in me. I let her go with a sigh of relief."
"And she had the nerve to stand here in my flat and accuse you of having a mistress," Mary states, the bite in her tone unmistakable. His lips twitch as he scratches his nose.
"My writing," he explains, watching as she processes his answer. "That's what she called my writing—my mistress, my one true love. She told me that's what destroyed our marriage, that my commitment to my own fantasy was greater than my commitment to her, that her affair with another man was simply the natural result of being a neglected wife."
"Bitch," Mary exclaims, and he laughs unexpectedly, barking until he's coughing again and she's thumping his back to the point of pain.
"Ow," he exclaims. "That's enough. Don't bruise a lung while you're at it."
"Just cough it up," she sighs, rubbing his spinal cord again. "You'll feel better."
"I just might at that," he grins, stopping to look at her, to study her, to wonder just how in God's name a woman like her is sitting here with the likes of him. "You don't mind, then, that I write for a living? It's not exactly the steadiest of jobs."
"Why would I mind?" she queries with a quick toss of her head. "It's what you love, it's what you want to do. Unless you're secretly selling government secrets under the guise of espionage fiction, that is."
"I'm not that clever, unfortunately," he muses. "And please don't agree with me on that."
"Hmm," she notes, something still off in her expression. "So she left you because you couldn't give her what she wants, but now she's trying to take you for everything you have? This makes no sense, Charles."
He sighs and scratches his scalp, hearing her sharp intake of breath.
"Unless," she begins, her mouth open as she points at him wordlessly. "You've done very well for yourself as a writer."
He shrugs unconvincingly, watching her as she stares him down.
"I've done alright," he admits, and she smacks his shoulder, making him wince yet again.
"For God's sake, what have you written?" she questions. "And why haven't you told me any of this before now?"
"It just didn't seem all that important," he replies, rubbing his upper arm. "And I'm a bit wary of women who enjoy bruising me on a regular basis."
"Not all that important?" she restates in disbelief. "This is your life, your livelihood. What, do you write porn or something like that, something you don't want me to know about?"
He's out and out laughing at this point, and she crosses her arms over her chest, her face scrunched in an exaggerated pout. It's unfair that she can look so damned adorable while doing a poor imitation of a discontented chipmunk.
"Nothing like that, I assure you," he chuckles before flickering his brows in her direction. "But perhaps you can inspire me to branch out into that arena."
"Don't get your hopes up," she instructs him. "Or anything else up for that matter." Her facial muscles relax then, and she shakes her head at him incredulously. "So what do you write if you're not crafting one-liners for men trying to get under women's skirts?"
"Just stories," he answers, raising his hands in mock self-defense. "You know. About life, love, the pursuit of happiness, men trying to get under women's skirts…"
She chuckles and nudges him playfully.
"Not that you would know anything about that," she muses, her tone low and languid. "So do you write under your own name, or do you use a false one?"
He eyeballs her, knowing the cat's about to be let out of the proverbial bag, wondering why he's so reluctant to just get it all out in the open.
"Both, to be honest," he tells her, swallowing hard. "I go by C.B. Wesley."
Her eyes widen exponentially as the shock of what he's just told her begins to sink in.
"You're one of last year's break-out authors," she exclaims, her mouth gaping open as her lashes blink repeatedly. She looks a bit like Lucy Ricardo, he thinks, and he nearly laughs in spite of himself, knowing she'll kill him five different ways and then some if he does. "You…you…why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now," he argues. "And to be honest, I enjoyed getting to know you just as me, and I wanted you to know me for who I really am. People sometimes respond differently when they're aware you've experienced a bit of success, and I, I..."
He pauses, searching for words that have deserted him at an inopportune time.
"I like just being me around you," he confesses. "How we bicker, how we kiss, how you pout and whine when you don't get your way…"
"I don't pout," she insists. "And don't think you'll be getting any special privileges around here, Mr. Wesley." She sighs, licking her lips in a way that makes him crave her mouth in places he shouldn't be entertaining at the moment. "Shit, she's trying to take your earnings, isn't she? That's what her visit today was all about. She thinks something big is happening for you, and she wants a sizable chunk of it, of the very thing she tried to talk you out of doing."
He nods, and her hand covers her forehead as a clear picture finally comes into focus.
"My new book," he offers, reclaiming her other hand completely. "The follow-up to Skimming the Abyss. You see, a friend helped me self-publish my first novel, and it did surprisingly well. Now I have four different publishing companies clamoring for the rights to re-release Skimming and publish the new novel, including my old haunt. I've never been so doggedly pursued in all my life."
She smiles, out and out smiles, and the effect is brilliant, sending sparks of light all over his spirit.
"Good for you," she states, her hand tightening in his. "God, that's wonderful, Charles." Her brow then creases as something strikes her. "Is she still with McMahon and Stephens?"
"God, no," he exclaims. "She didn't last long once she found a rich lawyer to see to her every need."
"Why am I not surprised?" she muses, and he can't help but agree. "But she should have no right to what you earn on this book. Your divorce will be final before it's published."
"Which is why she keeps dragging her feet, and why Elliot encourages her to do it," he explains, gratified by the low sound of outrage emitted from her lungs. "She wants to take away what she swore I could never do, her final fuck you to her dear ex-husband."
Mary leans forward then, connecting more dots in her mind.
"You proved her wrong," she mutters to herself, gazing at him as something clarifies. "Freda told me you did two things she could never forgive. You took a mistress, and you proved her wrong. This is it, isn't it? The fact that you have become a successful writer when she was adamant that you couldn't?"
"I would assume so," he agrees, still adjusting to the fact that the air is perfectly clear between them. "It sounds like something she would say."
"We won't let her, you know," Mary insists, leaning towards him with a gleam in her eye. "There's no way in hell that woman is going to take anything else away from you. We'll fight her on this, Charles, every step of the way, and we won't back down."
The side of his mouth twitches upwards repeatedly as his mind rushes to catch up with what she's said.
"We?" he questions, cupping the side of her face, feeling as if he's just been awarded a Pulitzer and an all-expenses paid trip to Bora-Bora. "We'll fight her?"
"Damn straight," Mary asserts with a flare of her nostrils that makes him tingle with anticipation. "Let's see how just how well Freda the Frolicker fares when she faces off with an Ice Queen and her Ogre."
