“Seriously, Luka, it’s abreast cancer charity,” she huffs. “What’s your problem?”
My problem is that I can’t stand the idea of a hundred other men looking at her perfect, naked body, paint or no paint. She’s my wife, and fuck if anyone else is going to enjoy what’s mine.
Her phone dings. She checks it and then slips it into her clutch. “My car’s waiting for me. I have to go.”
Without waiting for my reply, she darts around me and disappears into the entryway, her heels tapping on the floor. The door opens and shuts, and I’m left in silence. I don’t realize that I’m squeezing the water bottle until the plastic starts to give way beneath my palm.
I shouldn’t care that she goes. She’s working, like she’s supposed to be. Our contract states that DRM will keep her modeling, get her plenty of gigs and exposure. But this event…it just doesn’t fit with the wholesome image I had in mind.
I can’t let her do this without me.
As usual, I’m going to need to supervise her gig and make sure she’s not taken advantage of. That she’s staged in such a way as to accentuate her style and beauty, and not just her sex appeal. I realize my thoughts are laced with bullshit as I’m thinking them, but I don’t care.
Grabbing my cell, I call my assistant and tell him to look up the number for the contact person at the charity. “Tell them Danica Rose is sending two models instead of one.”
“Two?” he asks. “Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”
Brooklyn
Chapter 8
Where you at, girl?Mateo texts.
With a grin, I type back,Almost there. Get those paintbrushes ready.
Despite Luka’s attitude about it, I’m excited to participate in the charity event tonight. My husband can turn up his nose all he wants—I’m going to have a good time doing my part.
Initially, I wasn’t totally sure I was looking forward to the body-painting aspect of things. Not that I’ve ever had a problem with nudity, but spending hours standing still while getting painted with images from classical art seemed like it would be incredibly tedious. And what if I had to use the bathroom, or suddenly got an itch I couldn’t scratch? My main reason for saying yes was that I love charity events, and because fighting breast cancer has had a special place in my heart ever since my nana passed away from it when I was in high school.
In the weeks leading up to the event, though, I started to get more and more nervous. Just knowing I’d have to spend my night mingling with the kind of rich men who think their money buys them the right to ogle and paw at you—ugh. Been there, done that. Part of me was even considering backing out. But then the event organizer sent an email to let the models know who their painters were going to be, and I found out that they’d matched me up with none other than Mateo. I’d actually yelled “Yes!!” in the middle of a local farmer’s market as I read it.
I called my bff right away, a heavy tote full of pears, apples, green beans, and carrots tucked under my arm. Mateo had answered on the first ring. “Is this my future canvas calling?” he’d teased. “Just saw the email Sharon sent out to everyone.”
“You didn’t tell me you were signing up!” I’d squealed. “It’s lucky I got you.”
“I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” he’d said. “And besides, I only volunteered on the condition that I got to work withtheBrooklyn Zoric, so luck had nothing to do with it.”
We’d talked for a few more minutes, and all my anxiety had melted away. Trading in a lonely Saturday night dealing with Luka’s mercurial moods for one hanging out with my best friend sounded like the best plan ever. I’d been having a really rough time at home since returning from Paris, and my shame over betraying Luka kept me from confiding in any of my friends, Mateo included. Even invites from my new sisters-in-law to get brunch or shop or see a movie got rejected one after the other, with me blaming jet lag and then my work schedule. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to put on a happy face for Tori and Emzee. Or for anyone.
But now, finally, I won’t have to. I’m looking forward to spending these precious hours with my bestie. And even though I’ve been trying to keep my marital problems under wraps, I know Mateo’s going to figure out what’s up. He’s like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out personal drama. Maybe it’s finally time for a little sympathy—or even some advice.
On top of that, I can’t wait to see what he whips up for my body mural.
Considering all the stress I’ve been under at home with Luka, I don’t even care how long it takes to get painted, as long as Mateo and I can laugh and have fun. I need it. My husband and I aren’t making a single bit of progress, and I don’t know how much longer it’ll be until I break.
He’s been coming home extra late from work, and though I hate myself for it, I keep my door cracked open until I hear him walk in the door. It drains me to constantly wonder where he is, who he’s with. What he’s doing. My mind inevitably strays to Paris and the lipstick on his collar, that flight attendant on the way home. I hate knowing that I’ve turned intothatwife, the one always pining for her husband because keeping tabs on him is priority one in her life.
Mateo greets me at the door with a huge smile as I walk into the venue. We embrace tightly and do our little hug-dance and it feels so good to be wrapped up in the arms of someone who genuinely cares about me. My body might yearn for the sweet sexual delight of being dominated by Luka’s body, but at this point I’m also craving basic human touch. I live with the sexiest man alive, yet I don’t even get a simple hand on my shoulder, or kiss on my cheek. It feels like forever since someone has touched me.
“God, do I have plans for you!” Mateo hugs me tighter before we break apart. “And p.s., you look fantastic.”
“At least someone noticed,” I say, trying to soften my bitter tone with a smile. It feels so good to be complimented. Have I been that deprived? Maybe my ego is just needy.
Mateo fingers my dress with a sassy click of his tongue. “Looks like you’re ready to hit the club and pick yourself up a man…or five. Trouble in paradise?”
Bingo. I knew there was no point in trying to hide anything from him. Butterflies flit in my stomach. Now is definitely not the time to get into the ugly details. “Let’s not talk about it.”
