Mel did not see Keith for almost a week after that. The way he’d refused to let her end things on Friday had brought up her confidence. He seemed serious about her, seemed serious about wanting to continue seeing her. She’d confessed, silently to herself, that perhaps the person who was truly afraid had not been him, but her.
And then he’d sprung the grenade on her: He’d told her about Josephine Devonshire. He’d told her about an ex girlfriend called Elizabeth Francis (slap!) and, finally, another called Maxine—who, according to him, probably lost all benevolent social standing in all of Sussex. Last he heard she lived in Scotland now.
He’d invited Mel to Easter Sunday. And explained why. He’d explained how, if they had any chance of weathering storms together in the future, the first player to put down was his meddling mother. Josephine Devonshire would need to understand that Keith was serious about Melissa Daniels, and then back down. The best way to do that would be to walk in proud and officially announce to the world, simply by their presence, that they were an item, and all naysayers be damned.
Mel agreed, but had told Keith they’d need to spend some time apart until then. She wanted to see him! Wanted to see him every day! Which is exactly why she shouldn’t. Mel was a mother first. If she had to sacrifice her heart because of the meddling attitude of a matriarchal cow, she wouldn’t let her son suffer because of it. Children pick up on these things, and it can affect their future happiness. (She’d read that in Mother & Baby.) And if Josephine Devonshire was set on making any future with Keith impossible for Melissa Daniels, Mel didn’t need yet an additional week of loving Keith more and more, just so that that her heart would veritably snap in two when the inevitable end came.
Play it safe for now, she decided.
But then came the second problem, the one Mel actually started to feel dread for: Delilah Ramsey.
Mel only found out about her six days later—Thursday to be exact, the day before Good Friday. She’d been putting away some shopping, secretly hiding her sundaes and Magnum Ice Creams so Jacob wouldn’t see them, when her phone rang. Keith explained the most recent blow-up he’d had with his mother. He explained how she was insisting on bringing this supposed match-up for him, and how this match-up would likely do her best to make Mel feel small and unwelcome. “I understand if you don’t want to come because of it,” he said.
“Do you want me to come?”
“I do. I so do.” His answer came instantly. “Melissa, I’ve taken my mother’s bollocks for years. I know how to deal with it. But I don’t want you to be disrespected by these people. They can be...so shallow.”
“I’m not looking for their approval. I’m looking to show them that I’m here to stay despite them. If I back down, we will have lost the first battle.” This had been her morning mantra for the last week.
Keith knew this already himself. But he’d needed Mel to decide it. “OK.” Then, after a long pause, he said, “I miss you.”
A tear stung her eye. “I miss you, too.”
“I’d love to see you...before Sunday.”
“It’s a long weekend starting tomorrow. Jake’s with me all weekend.”
“We could make a day of it on Saturday. The three of us?”
Mel had cried for Keith. She’d cried on Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night. And she didn’t even know why. She’d even eaten her entire monthly batch of sundaes on, well, Sunday!
She missed him. She missed him walking in the door. She missed him stepping into the kitchen and frying up a steak after an hour of...mm-hmm...aerobic exercise. She missed his aftershave, hugging him in the bathroom after a shower. She didn’t even miss the sex so much as such. Sure, she missed feeling him inside her—deep inside her—missed the feel of her sweaty butt rolling over his thighs as she rode him. She missed being turned by him, having her leg lifted, and being thrust into by him. Of course she missed these things. But it hadn’t been the things as such that she’d missed.
She’d missed how close they’d felt together during those things.
She knew he felt the same.
She was afraid. She appreciated this. His family was powerful. He was powerful. She thought of Mr. Darcy—oh, Mr. Darcy!—but this was no Jane Austen novel, and this wasn’t the nineteenth century. She was too old (she believed) to be made a fool of.
And what of this Delilah? Mel had googled her. She’d discovered that Delilah Ramsey was high up on the British Socialite scale; that she came from noble birth. But, worst of all, Delilah Ramsey was almost ten years Mel’s junior! She had breasts firmer than a water balloon about to pop. Her legs reached the sky and her silky black hair made her blue eyes only more enticing.
Delilah Ramsey was every thirty-something woman’s nightmare. The Teenage Terminator, Freddy Krueger with Nail Polish. Mel could bitch-slap her, sure. (And she even wanted to a little, just for the fun of it.) But rules were different in “high society.” One bitch-slap, and the person doing it is ostracized for eternity.
Delilah had one of those smug little smirks you only saw on the collage covers of Now Magazine (which is precisely where Mel saw it—online version.) Delilah was sexy, confident, attractive. And she fucking knew it.
Mel had neither the time nor the desire to go up against a hussy like that. What kept Mel talking to Keith was that she felt she might not even need to go against the tramp after all. She could tell—especially now, with him hanging on the line, waiting for her answer—that Keith seemed serious about her.
Mel would go along. If he was serious, she’d tough it out with him, sure.
And, so far, he seemed serious indeed.
She wanted to wait before he met Jacob, wanted Keith to see him first in a social setting where it wasn’t just the three of them; nothing that could be misconstrued on Jacob’s part.
Of course, she had the added little dilemma that her son was a freaking genius and would probably figure it all out the moment he saw his mommy with the rich man...
“Mel?” Keith urged. “Saturday, the three of us. What do you say?”
“Sunday,” Mel said. “He’ll meet you on Sunday. I just...have to be careful with him, Keith.”
“I understand.” Sorrow filled his voice like a tumbling avalanche. Mel hung on the phone a second longer.
Then he clicked off.
And she died a little inside.
On Saturday night, Mel dreamed of Keith.
The dream’s colors were red and gray. There was smoke in the dream, as if from a cigarette, but it was all around them, as if coming from a great fire. The smoke tasted like peppermint.
She was in a room, maybe. She couldn’t tell. It was dark, the occasional flash of white light washing over her skin.
It was cold, and she was nude.
Keith appeared. One moment he hadn’t been there, the next moment he was. His hard hands were on her waist. He pulled her naked form to him and her breasts touched his chest.
She watered below. Warmth seeped out of her. She felt her lips part and, even though they weren’t touching him, she could taste his salt, feel his length along her tongue.
His finger eased below, pressed into her. She tried to gasp, tried to tell him how good it felt, but couldn’t. She looked down below, saw his hugeness, wanted to grab it but was paralyzed.
He’d stimulated her too much already. She needed to snap. It was unnerving. She had to explode!
Hard breaths filled the air. They sounded like music, like drums.
Before she knew it, she was on her back, he was above her, and inside her—from one moment to the next!
And. He. Rode her.
She howled for him, cried out for him, longed to feel his shaft push up against her, but, somehow, the feeling now eluded her!
Why can I not feel him?, she wondered.
All senses except touch let her know that he was indeed above her, thrusting into her...but somehow it wasn’t happening. “Harder,” she said. “I can’t feel you. Harder!”
He roared, pumped wildly into her but she still felt nothing. Desperation swallowed her. “Harder, please, harder!”
He came.
She didn’t.
She looked down. He was outside her, white juice seeping from his manhood. He wiped her off with a towel.
But she’d felt nothing.
Then she awoke.