CHAPTER NINE
NFL inquiries. Grueling interviews with a parade of investigators facing him down like a firing squad. Living caught in the grip of being viewed as a criminal. None of it was as brutal as silence. The silence had all but wrecked Simon since his interview over a week ago. At Veronica’s urging, he’d taken a solo road trip to Burbank, California, to tape an exclusive talk show interview. Veronica had put him in direct contact with the host, advising that he get himself in front of a sympathetic audience. What he would say, what facets of himself he would share with the audience, was solely up to him.
“This is your game changer,” Veronica had insisted. “It’s your play. Run it.”
Simon had walked onto the set with every intention of being conversational and engaging—but even he knew that he’d come off as reticent and self-justifying. Over and over again, he’d deflected the host’s attempts to unlock his past. She hadn’t been malicious—in fact, she was witty and brash and funny as hell—but her questions had scratched the surface of his childhood and the person he most wanted to shield from his current life. The damage to his career and reputation had already managed to touch his younger sister, even though he never associated himself with Gunner, Oregon.
People in that town remembered him, and Erin talked too much for her own good. Still, she was better off there than with him.
After discussing the ongoing investigation, the host had set aside her note cards, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Simon, last season the league fined you a hundred and fifty grand for punching your own teammate on the sidelines. What the fuck happened?” A gasp had rippled over the audience, and she’d promised cookies to her producers who would scramble to bleep the expletive.
“I sent a pass down the field with precision,” Simon had explained. “I didn’t overthrow the ball, but it looked that way because the receiver intentionally hesitated at a critical moment. I wasn’t happy about it, he bumped me with his shoulder and I hit him. Gut reaction. I could’ve—probably should’ve—walked away, but I felt something was off. And I was right. Watch the clip again, listen closely to the audio and you’ll hear something new. After I threw the punch and we were both being hauled to the tunnel, the receiver pointed to his jaw and said to Luca Tarantino, ‘This is going to be extra.’”
After that, the dynamic of the interview had shifted, and he’d known that the truth had finally begun to hit home.
In the eight days that followed, he’d been met with nothing but silence. No word from his attorney, because nothing had changed. No update from his agent, either. Not even a text from Veronica, who was likely waiting for the episode to air, waiting to see for herself whether he’d pissed on the opportunity she’d offered.
The stretch of quiet smothered him with a profound sense of aloneness. All of the unknowns surfaced—as did the sad reality that in this uncertain darkness he had no one but himself to count on.
He didn’t know if working with Veronica Greer in this last-ditch effort would help…didn’t know if she’d offer up a pretty smile and walk away if the damage to his professional future proved too deep. Hell, he didn’t know what she’d do if her plan to manipulate him into the hearts of the press and the public actually worked. Would she just congratulate herself on a pet project well done and walk away anyway?
Simon hated that the thought of her marching out of his life disturbed him. He couldn’t stand that she was beginning to get to him on a level that was deeper than he wanted to recognize. He detested that eight days of silence between them could weaken him to the point that he didn’t even want to find a random woman to distract him.
Then, once the episode had aired, she’d called him. And he’d lost his damn mind.
He’d just returned from the woodworking shed on his six-acre property. Exhausted, sweaty, and ready to call it a night, he’d half listened to his voice mail messages until he’d heard her voice—all honey and spice.
“Saw the interview,” she’d said. “Can’t get into it now, but I do have a couple of suggestions. I’ll be admiring art all night at Great Exhibitions on the Strip, in case you’re a glutton for my nitpicking.”
His mind had stayed on Veronica as he’d let the hot shower spray beat down on him. Staring through the water and steam, he’d worked the tension from his hot, hard flesh, imagining what they could do and be together if only it made sense. They each had every reason to seek someone without baggage and trouble. But maybe he couldn’t quit surrounding himself with trouble, after all. And maybe she was drawn to it more than she wanted to accept.
Simon had been even more in tune with her when he’d arrived at Great Exhibitions, where he’d had absolutely no problem locating her. Wrapped tight in a short dress and pointy-toed shoes that could probably puncture a man’s foot straight through, she was more fascinating than any painting or sculpture on display.
Once their eyes met, he’d known he would touch her. He’d followed her into a room that was vacant and dark, except for the filmy city lights penetrating the domed ceiling. Framed pieces of what he was pretty sure was impressionist art had lined the walls. White sheets had been draped over sculptures and more paintings, and the air smelled distinctly of clay and chemicals.
“It’s been just hours since the show aired,” Veronica had said, hitching her purse strap over her shoulder, “and already networks—local and national—are getting swept up in the ripple effect. You handled yourself well, acted like a gentleman. I only suggest that if another golden nugget like this comes your way, you show the world that you weren’t some lost boy who happened upon professional football. If your sister decides to cooperate with the press—”
“She won’t.”
“God, Simon. For such a hot-tempered and passionate man, you are unbelievably cold when it comes to your family.” Even though she’d spoken softly, her words had seemed to echo through him. “Don’t you even miss her?”
He’d given her a drawn-out beat of silence, and it’d felt briefly relieving to pass on that torturous feeling to someone else.
“Whatever,” she’d finally whispered when he reached for the door. There was the musical tattoo of her heels on the floor as she’d rushed up to him. “Then I have one last suggestion for you.”
“What?”
Veronica slipped into the space between his body and the exit, blocking him. “Miss me.”
He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t get drawn into touching her, or being the first to make contact tonight. “Veronica, I miss you in ways a good girl like you might not want to hear.”
“I may be small, but I’m not fragile or afraid. Words are only words. They don’t shock me.”
“Which is what you want—to be shocked.” Simon had betrayed himself by touching her anyway, lifting her wrists between their bodies. “I miss you when I’m fucking my fist and I wish your hands were on me instead. But those are only words, right?”
He’d guided her hands—not to his body, but her own. Cupping Veronica’s palms over her breasts, urging her to squeeze her flesh and moan in answer to the pressure, he’d muttered, “Miss me, Veronica. Imagine every explicit, dirty move I can make on your body, and know that I can take it further.”
In unspoken invitation, she had parted her legs, and he’d stepped between them, bringing his knee forward. All it had taken was a bend of her legs before she’d straddled him. Her eyes fixed on his, she’d ridden him, rocking herself against him as he worked her hands on her breasts.
“Know that you and I are greedy, selfish people, and fucking won’t be enough. Then realize that I’m not within reach, and maybe—maybe, Veronica—you’ll understand my hell.”
Veronica’s orgasm had her writhing, trying to back away from the sensation as she bit down on her lip to stifle a moan. In answer he’d maintained contact, had pressed his knee against her pussy, and she’d cried out his name in a voice that had sent a new degree of want unfurling through him.
But, satisfied that she’d gotten a taste of the fire they could ignite in each other, he’d released her hands, moved her aside, and left the gallery.
She had made the rules between them, and it was up to her to break them.
Now, not even forty-eight hours later, as Simon and his legal team wrapped up a videoconference with ESPN, he regretted that she wasn’t with him. This morning the NFL had finally issued an official statement confirming that he was no longer under investigation for being on the take. Since his talk show interview, web clips of the in-game misconduct incident had seen a substantial boost in views. ESPN had gotten hold of his attorneys this morning, and by sundown he’d found himself besieged with interview requests.
In the polished lobby of Washington, Yozeman & Birch, while Simon waited for the building’s valet to bring his car, he checked his phone. Two text messages. One from his sister, Erin.
I ALWAYS HAD FAITH IN YOU. GET IN TOUCH. XOXO.
And one from Veronica.
CONGRATS. THE LEAGUE GOT OFF ITS ASS. IT’S NOT OVER YET. ONWARD.
Simon didn’t respond to either message. As Veronica reminded him, the war wasn’t over. All he’d done was establish that he hadn’t been a dirty player. Yet the media still buzzed with speculation that his quarterback skills had gone to hell, and his reputation was a long way from repaired. Especially since it hadn’t been golden to begin with.
That had been his own doing. He’d swaggered into the NFL with a chip on his shoulder and taken for granted the privileged lifestyle football had lent him. He hadn’t let himself cope with leaving Oregon and losing both parents on his way to success. All that change might’ve made him crazy. Pretending not to be affected, as if nothing could get to the heart of him, had gotten him through. But a broken heart could overrule a rational mind any day.
In a suit and tie, Simon was already presentable enough to make an appearance at the Bellagio’s Prime Steakhouse where his agent, Shaw Bordeaux, and his wife were treating their daughter and her friends to a damn expensive dinner and a Fountains of Bellagio show in celebration of Sally Bordeaux’s seventh birthday. He’d given his agent his word that he’d stick around to talk business—in spite of the fact that the thought of a swarm of hyper second-grade girls sparked the beginnings of an epic headache.
Shaw had been his agent since Simon’s sophomore season in the NFL. He knew his shit and—though he was a cynical, glass-half-empty type—he’d never turned his back on Simon in the wake of all the trouble he’d landed himself in over the years. Even jobless, he still had Shaw in his corner, as an agent and a friend.
Armed with a porcelain doll, Simon stepped into the restaurant to be immediately bombarded by sticky-fingered little girls in party hats and frilly dresses.
“What’d you get her?”
“Lemme see!”
“I’m Sally’s best friend. Let me see first!”
Shaw and his wife, Ramona, hustled forward to steer the mob of kids to their four-star meals at the elaborately decorated tables, but the girls squirmed free, mulishly hanging around as Sally flew to him with her hickory curls bouncing and a gap-toothed grin dominating her freckled face.
“Uncle Simon, you’re here! I knew you’d come. Mommy said all of Daddy’s friends are un-re-liable…Did I get the word right, Mommy?”
Ramona cleared her throat. “Well enough, Sally. Simon, can I get you a glass of champagne from the bar?”
“Ramona Bordeaux, that’s the closest you’ve ever come to apologizing to me. I’ll take that champagne before you change your mind.”
“Wise decision.” But she was smiling as she lightly socked his shoulder.
Sally was staring intently at the pink-wrapped package under his arm. “Is that a present for me?” Batting those big green eyes, the kid all but melted his heart. Amazingly, in spite of what he’d been through and who he’d become, he still had a heart capable of melting.
Simon handed her the gift. “Of course it is, Mustang Sally.”
She beamed at the nickname he’d given her when she was still in diapers, testing her father’s patience every time Shaw had been forced to merge his duties as a father and a sports agent and had let her tag along with him to work.
Tearing at the gift wrap and jetting off like a pale pink cyclone, Sally showed the doll to her friends and left him to pick up the scraps of colorful paper and ribbons.
Shaw led the way to a table cluttered with dinnerware but free of cake frosting stains and freakish-looking balloon animals. Grown-ups’ table. Hallelujah.
“I’m starting to think that nickname’s having a self-fulfilling prophecy effect,” Shaw said.
“What, is she changing too fast for you and Ramona to keep up?” Simon took a seat and a moment later Ramona was there with his champagne before she stomped off again to tend to the distinct screeching sounds of little girls yelling at each other.
“Hell, yes. It makes me worry about the future. Me, in my fifties, trying to keep up with a teenager? Won’t be fun.” Shaw chuckled, then, sobering, said, “So, ESPN made contact. All that means is they want information on the investigation and have figured out that you’re the best shot they have at getting it.”
“What does that mean for me?”
“Nothing concrete. A hope that one of the franchises will grow a pair of nuts—” Catching himself and remembering their environment, Shaw cleared his throat. “A hope that now a franchise will be forward-thinking enough to sign you up. Three weeks are going to go by effin’ fast, Simon. If we’re going to get you on a roster, we’d need to get you in serious talks this week. I have a list of clubs with weak offenses I know who’s hungry for a franchise quarterback.”
Ramona plopped down onto the chair between them. “Simon, you had yourself a bit of a victory today, so I’m not going to ream you boys out for leaping into football mode in the middle of my only child’s birthday party.” She leaned and kissed Shaw on the lips. “But I will ask you to take the conversation outside.”
“Fair enough,” her husband said.
“And, Simon,” she added, getting up. “Not that I’m rushing to make myself president of your fan club, but I didn’t think that even a hellion like you had turned dirty.”
Simon contemplated that while he downed the rest of his champagne. The moment he’d been released from the team, he swore he was in this fight alone. Getting the shit kicked out of him when he’d moved to Louisiana as a teenager had taught him to fight alone—for survival. Yet the suspicion and jadedness were starting to chip away, unveiling truths that might always have existed but he hadn’t been inclined to see.
Setting aside his glass, he saw his agent frown. Then he realized a trail of kids were skipping toward their table, as if in a bizarre conga line, with Sally leading.
“Um, I have a question,” she announced, glancing behind her at the giggling girls.
“I’ll give you and your dad some privacy, then,” Simon said, preparing to go.
Sally stopped him with a shrill “Wait!”
Shaw pinched the bridge of his nose. “Indoor voice, Sally.”
“But you yell on the phone all the time. Plus you say all the bad words.”
“Yeah, well, this is one of those ‘do as I say, not as I do’ cases. What’s your question?”
“It’s not for you, Daddy.” Sally twirled a curl around her finger. “Uncle Simon, since I have a new party dress and you love me and I love you…Um, how about we have a wedding today?”
Damn, he was not expecting this. Simon looked to Shaw for assistance, but the man had averted his face and his shoulders were shaking with piss-poorly contained laughter. To make it worse, the few grown-ups who’d overheard the girl’s proposal were gushing, “Awww!”
Sally’s face was so hopeful that even Simon couldn’t justify walking away without setting her straight. “I appreciate that you love me, Sally,” he said carefully. “But we’re friends, and the friendship kind of love is different from the kind that makes it okay for two people to get married. Plus, you’re not old enough to marry anyone.”
The other girls groaned with disappointment. Then Sally protested, “Today’s my birthday. I’m seven. Mommy bought me roses ’cause I’m a big girl now.”
“Right. But you’re still a child. I’m an adult. Adults marry adults. So how about we stay friends, just as we are? That okay with you, birthday girl?”
Sally slowly nodded. “Okay.” Then she and her friends hurried from the table, and within a few short moments they were pigging out on cake, the marriage proposal as good as forgotten.
“A little help with that would’ve been friggin’ great,” Simon said to Shaw.
Shaw, whose complexion had turned ruddy during his laughing fit, took a fortifying breath as he shook his head. “A girl’s first choice is always the bad boy, huh?” Seeing Simon’s dark glower, he put up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “C’mon. I’m going to have a cigarette.”
“Quit the vapor already?”
“Didn’t work for me. Or the patch. Or the friggin’ gum. Want one?”
Simon had more than his share of vices, but cigarettes had never appealed to him. He waited while Shaw lit one on the garden patio.
“That talk show interview,” Shaw said. “The Villains’ GM orchestrated that. She’s been whispering in your ear for a couple of weeks now, and as genuine as she might seem, she is J.T. and Joan Greer’s errand girl. I’ve got to wonder if this is more of a business tactic than a Good Samaritan act. Corday looked good on Monday night, but he’s had a shaky start with that shoulder. Finn Walsh says he’s got confidence in their backup QBs. What if that’s all talk, though?”
“Shaw, I’m not going back to that mentality. The deal is Veronica helps me sign with another team this season and I don’t come knocking on the Villains’ door asking for my job back.” Except it was more textured, more complex than that.
“Just because you’re no longer being investigated doesn’t mean you’re going to get an offer. A cynic asshole’s born every minute. Spoken from the best of the breed. As good as you are, you’ve got baggage. Organizations don’t want that. You can talk to the media from sunup to sundown, but you’ll be spinning your wheels. Show the NFL that you’re a new man. A man committed to the American dream.”
Shaw looked at him through a haze of smoke. “Why not try the family plan and get yourself married? Ever heard of Tiffany Wilder-Gardenshire? Her grandfather’s an oil tycoon, and she’s one of the country’s top philanthropists under thirty. Cancer research, church funding, environmental rescues—she’s all over it. Get a woman like that to wear your ring, show the world that you’re the settling-down type, and you’ll see results faster than you would doing anything else. A connection between the NFL and the Gardenshires would be a win for the league and for you.”
“What the fuck are you really smoking?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Shaw said dryly. “There are worse things than getting hitched, and worse reasons to do it than for financial or social gain.”
“Is that your and Ramona’s story?”
“Karma must’ve been on my side the day I met Ramona. I don’t deserve her, and I worry that one of these days she’s gonna have that epiphany. But until then, I’m a happy man.” Shaw cracked his neck. “Simon, all I’m trying to show you is a possibility that might work out. Marrying Tiffany, or someone with similar connections, can resuscitate your reputation. Marriage is just like any other business. It needs to make sense. Love and all that—it’s kid stuff. Inconsequential.”
“Afraid I don’t see it that way, Shaw. Not everything in this life is just business.”
“Careful, Simon. Your small-town values are showing.”
“I can thank my lucky effin’ stars for the few values I have left.”
Shaw didn’t push the issue further, only disposed of his cigarette and shook his head the way he did whenever he thought something was a damn shame.
His wife poked her head outside, scrunching up her face at the residual fingers of smoke fading into the air. “Babe, we’d all better start herding the kids outside if we don’t want to miss the last show.”
“Then let’s go.” Shaw gave Ramona’s ass a slap and guided her inside.
Simon followed, cutting a quick path through the restaurant. He’d almost reached the exit when Ramona called after him, “Won’t you be joining us for the show?”
Just when he thought he was free…
◆◆◆
As always, Veronica was early. She was having dinner at the Bellagio with her mother and Grace’s mother, Willa, at seven sharp. When it came to the ladies’ appetite for gossip, Veronica’s foresight was 20/20. She could all but visualize them left alone at a table, indulging in wine and small talk about Willa’s recently married daughter, who’d be returning from her honeymoon in a few days. Naturally, the chat would shift to what pointers the expert Willa could offer to Joan’s three unmarried daughters, starting with the one they’d be dining with tonight.
So Veronica had taken extra-special care to park at the Bellagio at six. That gave her a one-hour cushion to gamble at the casino, tour the hotel, screw around with a fidget spinner, or find a quiet little nook to will away her anxieties.
On a whim she set her sights on the lake walkway, eager to check out the fountains show’s new repertoire.
A tepid October breeze tickled her legs as she walked in her cream high-necked swing dress toward the assembly of onlookers outside the casino. The magic had already begun. Glittering spurts of water shot up from the man-made lake, in time with a popular Broadway show tune.
“Lady, I can’t see.”
Veronica looked down at the tiny finger prodding her hip. A girl in a ruffled dress stared up at her, saucerlike brown eyes fluttering.
“Uh, where are your parents?”
“Pearl, you’re not supposed to talk to strangers!” Another girl, this one in a pale pink bubble dress and shiny Mary Jane pumps, wiggled between them. “We’re supposed to stick together, ’cause that’s how the buddy system works. I’m going to tell my parents you’re not following the rules, and they’ll tell your mom—”
Veronica crouched down, interrupting with, “Where are your parents, then?”
“Kissing,” Pearl supplied in a singsong voice. “So there!”
“Are not!”
“Are, too. My sister said lots of grown-ups come here and watch the water show and it’s romantic and they kiss. Oooohhhh.” Pearl smirked. “Sally’s parents, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
Sally thumped her buddy’s arm, drawing a sharp yelp. “They’re not in a tree. They’re standing over there.”
Veronica looked to the group. Over a dozen little girls stood in pairs, with a handful of adult chaperones. All seemed captivated by the show.
No one was kissing, though it was apparent that the man and woman snuggled close belonged to Sally. When the man turned his face to say something to the woman, Veronica recognized him.
“Sally, is your last name Bordeaux?”
“Yes.” The way her delicate eyebrows rose over a pair of green eyes conveyed, What’s it to you?
“I’ve met your father.” As if the initial tense meeting with Shaw, when she’d officially released his star client from the team’s roster, hadn’t gotten them off to a rocky start, he’d recently visited her office to dissuade her from “being an enabler” and puffing Simon up with delusions about his career prospects. Emotion had made her sloppy, though, and she’d fired off a rant that revealed she was more invested in Simon’s future than an ex-employer ought to be.
“She’s met me, too,” a man said.
Veronica wanted to thump herself for reacting to Simon’s voice with a full-body shiver. He winked at her, and despite the articulate greeting her brain had woven, all that came out was an unintelligible, strangled noise that sounded like “Hooo.”
The kids flocked to him, Sally tattling, “Pearl snuck off, Uncle Simon. She didn’t follow the rules.”
“Sally thumped me!”
“Apologize,” he said. “Tell each other why you’re sorry, shake hands, and move on.”
Grumbling, “Okay,” the girls faced each other.
“Sorry I broke the buddy system rules,” Pearl said. “Oh, and for singing the kissing song about your parents.”
“Sorry I thumped you,” Sally replied, putting out her hand, which her friend shook with an infectious laugh.
“I only snuck off because I couldn’t see the water,” Pearl insisted to Simon. “I was asking this lady for help. Who is she?”
“This is my friend Veronica,” he said. “Let’s get you two hooligans back to the group. And this time, stay put.”
A smile worked its way to Veronica’s mouth as she watched him escort the girls to the rest of their party. The man was emotionally orphaned, had gone years without family connections, yet his heart wasn’t as cold as people assumed.
He’d make an incredible father.
It startled her that the thought could flood her with hope.
In another few minutes he was in front of her again, and her heart was bouncing in her chest. “What’s up, friend?”
“The lady speaks,” he said with a teasing grin. “What was that strange injured-owl noise you made?”
“I was choking.” On lust. “How’d you wind up chaperoning a pack of kids?”
“It’s Sally Bordeaux’s birthday. If I’d thought you’d be out here, I would’ve smuggled you a slice of birthday cake. I know how much you enjoy cake.”
Veronica could swear the back of her neck tingled. Simon had tasted her there. He’d defiled her slice of wedding cake, too, but somehow in retrospect he was more turned on than offended. They’d done so much more since then. She’d drunk from him, and he’d made her come at Great Exhibitions. Dry-humping in an art gallery…What wouldn’t she do if she got him alone again?
“I’m having dinner at Picasso, with a matchmaker.” Watching him closely, she saw his jaw tighten, then release. What she’d said had gotten to him. It satisfied her when she knew it shouldn’t. “The matchmaker is Grace’s mother. My mom’s joining us. Make no mistake—neither is pleased with my romantic track record—but I’m not on the prowl for a match.”
Simon’s gaze cruised her slowly. “How long have you been single?”
“Months.”
“You’ve been alone every night since then?”
Veronica moistened her lips. “Yes.”
His knuckles brushed her from shoulder to elbow so swiftly she wasn’t sure if she’d daydreamed it. “That’s a damn tragedy.”
“I get by.” His eyes narrowed with intrigue, and the word how passed his lips. She scrambled to avoid answering. “So, you’re a badass athlete, a chivalrous Sir Galahad type, a man who’s more constructive than destructive, and you’re wonderful with kids. Churchill described something as ‘a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’ I’d say you fit that description.”
“Then we have something in common.” Simon came closer, and she felt a naughty thrill as his scent fell over her. “Guess you’re finding out there’s a lot about me you won’t see in my file.”
“I wish I could take my time discovering you,” she whispered. “But we don’t have the luxury of time. I’m on your side, if you haven’t figured that out by now. Football is what’s most important to you, and I’ll do whatever I can to get you in the game. Next step is simply this. Let yourself be seen involved in a cause that people care about.”
“Veronica—”
“Simon, I know your secret. I know in here—” she tapped a finger to her temple “—and here—” she tapped her heart “—that you’re not a hardhearted bastard.” She stepped around him to start heading for Picasso. “Think of what you care about, and go there.”
Once she was within the safe confines of the restaurant, she fanned herself with her clutch.
“Veronica, are you feeling all right?” Joan asked as she approached. She reached as though to press the back of her hand against her daughter’s forehead, and Veronica was about to smile at the tender gesture until she realized that Joan was only attempting to smooth her windblown hair. “Freshen up in the ladies’ room, why don’t you?”
Beside her, stately Willa Smart added, “We’ll order you tea.”
“I’m fine. I was just outside watching the fountain show.” I’m lying. I’m not fine. I’m about to claw out of my skin because I’m so hot for a man I can’t have.
“That was senseless. We’ll have a lovely view of the lake right from our table.” Joan gave Willa an exasperated look before she held Veronica at arm’s length for an inspection. Concern dimmed her usually vivid eyes as they inspected one arm then the other. Was she searching for something? “Always think sensibly, Veronica.”
Veronica watched Joan greet the hostess with her perfect smile, perfect posture, perfect not-a-strand-out-of-place hair. Never would she measure up to her mother. Continuing to try would only make her a wannabe Joan Greer. But what was wrong with being an original Veronica Greer?
Joan strode back to her. “Come to the table,” she said under her breath. “You look like a lost puppy just standing here at the hostess’s station. Men are staring as if they want to take you home.”
Veronica opened her purse, her ears hot and her palms damp. “Just have a call to make.”
“Go, then. Want the tea or wine?”
“Wine.” A bottle ought to get me through this dinner….
Veronica chastised herself for the bitchy thought. “Thank you, Mom. Be right back.” Joan was already sashaying off to join Willa.
Outside the restaurant, Veronica dialed slowly, giving herself every opportunity to change her mind. If it rang three times with no answer, she’d hang up and let that be the end of it.
Simon answered on the first ring.
“That night at the art gallery…” Closing her eyes, she blocked out everything but the truth. “That night, in my bed…I missed you. With my fingers. Three of them.”
Veronica hung up, not giving him a chance to get a word in edgewise. Let him untangle the undertones of what she’d said, the magnitude of what she was capable of wanting. Doing. Wanting to do again.
In the restaurant, Joan waved her over to the empty seat next to her. “Why is it, Willa, that my girls insist on vexing me?” She finally turned to Veronica. “I had assumed you’d take an opportunity to fix your hair and makeup. You look feral tonight.”
“Oh.” Veronica picked up her wineglass. And smiled.
Feral. She liked the sound of that.