by Jennifer Weiner
Daphne’s turning 26, and instead of going out with her friends, she’s stuck at a wedding. Thankfully, she runs into a hot guy from her past...and they get reacquainted. And by get reacquainted, we mean tear each other’s clothes off, and make damn good use of that hotel suite.
I stood at the edge of a tent with my rain boots sunk in mud, listening to raindrops plink down on the roof of the tent, thinking that this was not how I wanted to spend the weekend of my 26th birthday. Ideally, I’d be back in Manhattan, making plans with friends. Instead, I was in the New Jersey suburb where I’d grown up, on the lawn of a fancy hotel, attending the wedding of my cousin Matt, a 40-year-old personal trainer with a ponytail and an attitude, to a 25-year-old who said she was an energy healer and claimed her name was Sunshine.
“You know I met your father at a wedding,” my mom reminded me that morning in the hotel room they’d gotten for the day, a place for my brothers and me to get dressed and for my parents to sleep if they opted not to drive home after the party.
“I know,” I said, turning so she could zip up my dark blue satin dress. I’d heard the story dozens of times—how she’d been a friend of the bride and he’d been the best man, how their eyes had met while the happy couple were saying their vows, how they’d danced until the band went home and talked until the sun came up, how they’d eloped eight weeks later. It was romantic. It was also, as far as I was concerned, impossible. These days, if you met a guy at a wedding, you’d sneak into the bathroom to look him up on Facebook and check him out on Twitter, and you’d probably have already seen pictures of his three most recent girlfriends by the time he’d crossed the dance floor with your first drink. There was no such thing as handsome strangers, only handsome men you hadn’t Googled yet.
I was reaching into my clutch for my cell when I felt someone tap my shoulder from behind.
“Excuse me, Daphne?”
I turned and felt my breath catch. The shoulder tapper was gorgeous, with thick black hair swept back from his high forehead and big, solid shoulders. He had strong features, a square chin with an adorable cleft in its center, and he was smiling at me, eyes crinkled in the corners.
Blast From the Past
“You don’t remember me?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“High school. We were in English class together for four years. You really don’t remember?”
I shook my head, groping desperately for a name, regretting the tequila shot I’d snuck while my parents and brothers waited in the receiving line.
“Caleb Armstrong.”
“No way.” I stared, trying to connect the good-looking, broad-shouldered man in front of me with the pale, goofy, bespectacled kid from English class who would memorize David Letterman’s monologue every night so he could recite it to our class the next morning.
Caleb shrugged. “What can I say? I was a late bloomer.”
“You look incredible!”
He was at least six inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than he’d been in school, with an air of confidence that he hadn’t come close to projecting back then. “You look good yourself.”
I shifted my weight, tugging at the top of my strapless gown, hoping that I, too, had improved since high school, where my look had featured a distractingly orange fake tan, high-waisted jeans, and belly shirts (in my defense, Jennifer Aniston had rocked all the above). In the past 10 years, I’d gotten more comfortable in my non-orange skin, realizing that my wide-set hazel eyes and shiny brown hair were assets, especially if I didn’t wear a pound of black eyeliner. A half dozen boyfriends, a little more confidence, rock climbing for my shoulders and Spinning classes for my butt, and I was looking better at 26 than I had at 16.
I sipped my wine to buy a little time. “Bride or groom?” I asked Caleb.
“Actually, I’m here on business.”
“What do you do?”
His eyes sparkled. “What do you think?”
“You write for David Letterman.”
“Close.”
“You’re a spy.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and finally, I was able to connect the dots back to high school. When he laughed, he sounded the same. “No. I sell television advertising.” He looked me over, not even trying to hide it. Over his shoulder, I could see my brothers approaching.
On impulse, I grabbed Caleb’s arm. “Hey, you want to get out of here and go somewhere quiet?”
He looked surprised but said “sure” and followed me.
Screw the Reception
In the lobby, every chair was taken, occupied by elderly wedding guests who’d come in out of the rain. The bar was crammed three deep. I hesitated only a moment before leading him to the lobby and pulling the key card for my parents’ room out of my purse.
It felt reckless, but I had known him, once...and it was my birthday. I deserved a treat. I unlocked the door and led him into the room.
“So...,” he said and let his voice trail off. He was looking at me like he’d already seen me without my dress...and like he loved what he saw.
I could have taken the chair in the corner and made small talk about high school. I could have sat at the desk and asked about his grown-up life. But on my birthday, I didn’t want to do either of those things. What I wanted was a present, an unexpected gift.
So instead of sitting on the chair, I lay down on the bed, lifted my arms, and slid the pins out of my hair. The wine I’d been sipping all afternoon had made me loose-limbed and lazy. I’d taken off my rain boots as soon as I’d stepped in the door, and my bare feet were curled up underneath me.
“Come here,” I said, patting the blanket. “Unzip me.”
He sat behind me on the bed and slid my zipper down. The halves of the dress parted, and I felt his lips on the back of my neck, his hands piling my hair on top of my head so he could kiss me just beneath my ear, then my cheek and then, finally, turning me around to face him, my lips.
Naughty Reunion
Caleb moved down my body. When he closed his warm mouth around my right nipple, I leaned my head against his chest, sighing. I didn’t resist as he eased me onto my back, sliding the dress down over my hips until I was naked except for my thong.
I opened my eyes a slit. He was on his knees, face flushed, hair messy, still fully dressed, but I could see his erection pressing against his pants. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Daphne.” Then he practically dove on me.
First, his lips were against my neck, then sucking hard at one breast, then the other. His hands gripped my thigh, and his feet prodded at my own, spreading my legs insistently. He took his time, easing his body down on mine, placing lingering kisses along my neck and chest, pausing to suck at my earlobe. “You’re gorgeous.”
I ran my hands across his broad shoulders, down his back, cupping the tight curves of his ass. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He kissed his way down my belly, parted my thighs, and gently, slowly slipped his fingers into my folds until the tip of his index finger was right where I needed it to be. I gasped, lifting my hips. His lips curved against me in a grin as he moved his fingertip back and forth. When I felt his tongue where his finger had been, I groaned. It was so sweet, so good, his tongue trilling against me, fingers working in and out at precisely the pace my body required. How did he know? I heard myself sighing, chanting, over and over, “Oh, god, don’t stop. Oh, god, don’t stop....”
He didn’t. I felt the shuddering start in the depths of my belly and spread to my thighs, which clenched tight against him. My hips rose off the bed, pumping hard into the air. It went on and on, my body contracting against his fingers, his tongue working against me...and then, almost before I knew what was happening, he turned me over, pulled at my hips until I was balanced on all fours, and slid the length of his member against my hot and pulsing center.
I was still somehow collected enough to gasp, over my shoulder, “Wait...Caleb, are you....”
“Oh. Hang on.” Leaning back on his knees, he pulled a condom out of his pants pocket and rolled it on. “Push back against me,” he breathed, setting the sheathed tip at my entrance again. I pushed, and he slid inside me, both of us gasping...and then, with one hand on my hip and one hand on my shoulder, he began to move, pulling me back against him, filling every inch of me. I’d had plenty of sex, but it had never been like this—I’d never felt so good, so perfectly matched, and so perfectly filled. We kept moving together, the sensation and pleasure building and building, until at last Caleb shuddered, holding still a moment before collapsing on my back, driving me down.
A Sweet Surprise
He kissed my ear and whispered, “I have a confession.”
Oh, god. I felt my heart contract. “What? Are you married?”
He laughed. “No. And it’s not a bad confession. You might like it.”
“You better just tell me.”
“Well, I’m not here on business.”
I rolled away. “Let me guess. You don’t have a job. You live at home.”
Again, he laughed. I kept talking. “You’re in such good shape because in prison there was nothing to do but pump iron. And you’re going to kill me and use my skin to make a girl suit.”
He chuckled some more. “Paranoid much? No, I don’t live at home, and I’ve never been in jail. I was here because I knew you’d be here. My mom ran into your mom at the grocery store, and she mentioned that your cousin was getting married here. My mom knew I’d always liked you.”
My head was spinning. “Wait. What? You liked me?”
He turned me to face him. “I had a crush on you. You never noticed?”
I shook my head. I’d had a boyfriend my junior and senior years and hadn’t really noticed Caleb. But now....
“Your mom told my mom you’re single,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“My mom’s got a big mouth.”
“But she’s right?” I heard the question in his voice, the teenage quaver, and I smiled, holding my arms open until his naked body was pressed against mine. “Happy birthday,” he said, and I kissed him until he stopped talking.
About Jennifer Weiner
Jennifer Weiner is the author of nine novels, including Good in Bed and In Her Shoes, which was made into a movie starring Cameron Diaz. Weiner’s latest, Then Came You, came out July 12. Check out our Q&A with Jennifer at cosmopolitan.com