“May I borrow your car tomorrow morning?”
Grey looked up from the paper he was hardly reading. He stared at Maggie. “Skipping town?”
Her mouth quirked just a smidge. “I need to go somewhere.”
He closed the paper and folded it along its crease. “I can drive you.” He answered.
She swallowed and looked out the enormous windows at their pretty stunning view. “It will be early—I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He pulled his coffee cup toward himself and lifted it to his lips to test the temperature. It was still pretty damn hot, but whatever, he wanted some fucking coffee. He took a small sip and, deciding he wouldn’t quite scald himself, took another. He toyed with the idea of putting some whiskey in it. “What’s open so early on a Sunday?” He puzzled with his brows drawn together. He couldn’t quite decide on the whiskey.
She fiddled with her necklace and kept her eyes out on the vista. She’d hardly touched her breakfast. “I want to attend mass.” She replied quietly.
Oh. Grey resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. “Isn’t there a chapel here at the resort somewhere?” He asked, putting down the mug and reaching for another chocolate almond croissant. He wasn’t much of a breakfast person normally, preferring to have only juice or a protein shake before going for his daily run, but he was on vacation. He’d go to the fitness center much later in the day. And the croissants were phenomenal. She hadn’t answered so he glanced up, tearing a piece of flaky, buttery pastry from the whole.
She looked, well, he wasn’t sure, but she looked a little disappointed, a little guilty maybe? “That isn’t the same.” She told him quietly, in a tone that made him wash over with pin-pricks of embarrassment. He shrugged and then pushed his shoulders down and reclined in his chair. She was acting as though he’d made some bigoted slur for Christ’s sake. How the fuck should he know? He figured a Christian denomination was a Christian denomination. It wasn’t as if he were suggesting she attend temple or go to a fucking mosque for fuck’s sake.
“Ok.” He replied and popped some croissant into his mouth. They’d been getting along. For the past few days. It hadn’t been awful to be in her presence, and, he’d decided that when they were in eachother’s company he would try to keep things as even-keel as possible, at least until they were back in Cedar Falls, back on their home turf and had room to go their separate ways. He’d agreed with himself upon an unspoken truce, and so, he kept some of his more uncharitable opinions and snide remarks to himself whenever possible. If she wanted to go to church, let her go to fucking church. It was really none of his fucking business.
She looked surprised. “Ok?”
“Yeah. Ok.” He said and took another bite, this time getting some of the dark chocolate center. Fuck, these were good. Definitely not a breakfast food one should indulge in on a normal basis. Actually, if Grey thought about it, these little fuckers shouldn’t even be categorized as a breakfast food; who the fuck had decided that these delicious desserts could masquerade as any part of the three squares? “D’you know how to drive stick?” He asked after he’d swallowed.
Her eyes got wide and then she looked severely disappointed. “No.” He watched her reach for her decaf tea. “I guess...” She sighed and sipped. “If you could lend me just a little money I could take a cab.” She said, unable to meet his eyes.
He felt an uncomfortable squirming in his gut. He didn’t like it at all when she brought up money. And more than that he detested being asked for it in that way—like he was her father holding the pursestrings on her allowance or something, or like he was some wealthy lord to bestow his generosity on the peasants. “Maggie you aren’t taking a fucking cab to church. I can drive you.”
She took a sharp breath in and seemed to hold it. “I don’t want to bother you.” She repeated, staring into her tea cup.
He rolled his eyes and finished his croissant, dusting the flaky crumbs from his fingers and reaching again for the virgin black coffee. It was going to taste like ass after that French confection. “It’s not a problem.” He said gruffly.
“I’d walk, but the nearest Catholic Church is farther than I think I ought to walk…” ‘in her condition’ went unsaid.
“Christ.” Grey snapped. “You’d rather walk miles than be in the car with me?”
Her head popped up and her eyes looked alarmed. “No, no, that’s not what I meant!” She hurried, looking anxious.
For some reason her reaction made him feel worse. “Then let me drive you to church.” He said and practically forced himself to put the coffee mug to his lips to prevent any of his fiery opinions to spill forth. Truce, he reminded himself, shut the fuck up.
“Thank You.” She said, and it sounded like a great effort. Grey smiled into his coffee mug. Maybe she’d promised to hold her tongue too. Maybe they had both vowed to make peace for the time being.
“How early are we talking?” He asked, squinting a little. Why did religious folks have to make everything such an ordeal? He seemed to remember a theology course he’d taken, remembered something about discomfort and sacrifice and subjugation, but after two almondy, chocolate filled croissants he couldn’t un-fuzzy the logic behind making yourself miserable to get into heaven and he yawned.
“There is an eight o’clock mass.” She said. “There is another at eleven if you’d prefer.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And is there a matinee?”
She smiled. “The early masses tend to be over quicker.”
Hmm. So the little saint wanted to attend but didn’t want to linger. “Why’s that? Isn’t it the same show?”
She tilted her head and gave him a half-amused, half-warning expression to which he responded with a mild smile. “At the early mass, the seven or eight AM mass, there’s usually less singing. Fewer people.” She shrugged. “Even the sermons seem, um, condensed.” She said carefully. “It is much more bare-bones, like at a daily service.”
He crinkled his brows and rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes. “Sounds like the priest just wants to get back to bed.”
To his surprise he heard her laugh. The sound of it made him smile. He reached again for his now nearly-empty coffee.
“That’s not entirely unlikely. Sundays are a long day for him.” She bit her lip around a playful smile.
She was a very pretty girl, Grey thought, looking at the way the morning sunlight caught on the curves of her dark brown curls, the way her large chocolate eyes sparkled and danced when she was playful. He forced his eyes to look elsewhere. One side-effect of the truce that Grey did not care for was it seemed to confuse his body into thinking it was alright to find her attractive again. It was not alright.
Grey reprimanded himself several times a day and reminded himself that he wasn’t ever interested in exes. Not in that way. Occasionally, very occasionally, he’d had a casual fuck with an ex, but just to scratch an itch, just because it was easier than playing the game with someone new. But screwing an ex was not all that fun, not especially satisfying, and more often than not he’d rather just wait for the new piece to give it up to him, or go pick up some easy thing at a bar.
So it was frustrating that he had to keep reminding himself of this fact while he was around Maggie. He’d been there, he’d already had that, there was nothing new to learn or do with her. Not really. Not especially. So why the fuck did his body insist on reacting to her as if they’d never fucked?
Sometimes the way the light would caress the soft caramel color of her skin made him almost ache to reach over and touch her. Every now and then she’d lean over to reach for something and the heavy curve of her ample breasts would catch his eye and make him a little breathless with the need to take her nipples into his mouth. He almost could not resist watching her gorgeous round ass whenever she walked away from him—a fact that made him very grateful that she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. And those lips? It wasn’t fair at all that she had a pair of the most beautiful, enticing, perfect lips he’d ever seen. Fuck. And when she nibbled on the lower one like she tended to do when she was embarrassed or playful or even absently when she was worried or confused? Seeing her do that produced such a visceral impulse inside him that he found it increasingly difficult to hold himself back from taking her face in his hands and devouring her mouth with his.
Because, of course, he despised her. Well. Ok. He despised what she was doing to him. What she’d done. Trapped him like this. Fucked-him-over.
So why the fuck had he consistently gone hard when she’d come out of the shower in her towel every night? It didn’t make any sense at all and he needed to get a grip.
“Um.” He could kick himself in the balls for letting his thoughts wander so freely. He was getting semi-erect now just thinking about her in any state of undress. What the mother-fuck was his problem? “So, how long are we talking?” He asked, running a finger absently along the soft edge of the folded newspaper.
“For an early mass?” She thought for a moment. “I’d guess forty-five minutes.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the table. “Sounds doable.” He said.
He heard her replace the tea-cup in its saucer. “What do you think you’ll do?”
“Do?” he asked, still trying to think of anything else besides her petite form writhing under his. He never thought about his exes like this. It was unnerving. It must be because he was being forced to be in her company like this. He’d never had to interact too much with his exes. He made sure of that. He made smart choices about the girls he fucked for just such a reason. It made life unpleasant for him to have some weepy bitch sitting next to him in sociology class, or some venomous cunt hurling insults at him at the gym.
“While I’m at mass.” She clarified.
He looked up. “I thought I’d go with you.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”
His brows rose. “Is that… is that against the rules?” He’d never been to a Catholic mass but it was a free country, right? And they did always seem to be recruiting, trying to lure new congregants—it must be allowed.
“Well, no, not really but—“ She looked faintly exasperated. “Why?”
“Why not?” What the fuck else was he going to do on a Sunday morning in a resort community? Nothing would be open for business and he didn’t fancy loitering about in an eerily quiet town park while he waited for her to finish up her devotional.
“You aren’t Catholic.” She explained.
He shrugged.
They stared at one another. He felt like he was challenging her somehow, though he hadn’t intended to do so.
“Will you be respectful?” She asked, her tone somewhere between timid and commanding.
He smirked but nodded. “I’m not a complete asshole Maggie.”
She raised one dubious eyebrow and he burst out with a laugh. “I’ll behave.” He promised, raising his right hand as if in an oath.
She pursed her lips and didn’t reply, only reached for a plain croissant. He was relieved to see her at least making an effort to eat. They fell into a silence while she munched and he toyed with the idea of yet another breakfast pastry.
“You plan on raising the, uh, your child, Catholic?” He asked, the idea occurring suddenly.
She swallowed the bit she’d been chewing and stared at him. Something like fear flashed across those big brown eyes and it took her a long moment to make any response at all. Then, very slowly, she nodded.
He let that hang between them for a long moment. Then, “Even if I object?” He asked, keeping his tone conversational, theoretical.
She looked wary now, as if he’d pulled a gun and was asking for her wallet and valuables. “Yes.” She said, her voice a little rough. She cleared her throat and waited for him.
“Baptism and first communion and the whole works?” He asked mildly.
Again she gave him a slow nod. “Yes.”
“And if I disagree?” He felt his lips twitch but he kept his face a perfectly bland mask.
She never took her eyes from his. “This isn’t a subject for debate.” She said quietly.
Oh really? “Non-negotiable?” he asked almost sweetly.
“Yes.” She was nervous. Constricted.
“You’re putting your foot down?” He asked lightly, pleasantly.
“Yes.” It sounded like a plea of guilty in a court of law: resigned and heavy.
“Would you divorce me over it?”
Her nostrils flared and she blinked but she kept right on meeting his stare. Her front teeth captured her full lower lip and he forced himself not to notice too much. This was important.
“Yes.” She whispered, a pained expression contorting her face.
He smiled. “Wow.” He marveled. “Showing me all your cards.” He joked lightly. “Not a wise strategy, Maggie.”
Her eyes finally fell, her lashes fluttering. He got the uncomfortable feeling that she might cry.
“This isn’t a game.” She said in a low, thin monotone.
He was quiet while he pondered. Irreconcilable differences. It was a good story. They could tell people they’d married in a mad passion but came to realize that they were fundamentally incompatible due to disparate religious views.
“Why?” He asked suddenly. He wasn’t sure he cared, either way, but he needed to understand why a woman who had played such an incredible game of hardball with him, who had needed so desperately for him to marry her and pretend to all the world that they were a couple, why she would throw it all away after working so hard and so carefully to secure her future and his fortune.
“Why?”
“Why is it so damned important that the kid be Catholic?” he asked. “You’d risk everything for a religion?”
She washed over pale. “Un-baptized babies go to hell.” She said with an earnest vulnerability that shook him to the core.
Grey let out a low whistle. Holy Fuck. That was some rough fucking guilt-trip dogma. Her God sent babies to hell? Christ. He searched her eyes. She believed this. She knew it to be the awful truth and he understood that no amount of reason or rational thought would dissuade her from this macabre superstition. Knew that even if she could understand the notion to be absurd logically, emotionally she’d always be afraid that it might just be the truth.
“Well we can’t have that, can we?” He asked softly, unable to entirely stifle his facetiousness.
Her brows drew together. “Don’t you dare mock me—“ She said and he saw tears spring to her eyes, though they seemed too righteous to spill.
He spread his hands as if in surrender. “I’m not.” He insisted. “I won’t.”
Her chest was heaving and she was forcing inhalations and exhalations through her nose. God, he liked her when she got all fired up. It almost made him want to needle her further, but not on this subject. He was dimly aware that his parents had raised him better than that.
“As long as we’re laying our cards on the table—“ She said in a heated tone “I might as well explain to you that if you marry me in a catholic ceremony you forfeit your right to protest the baptism of the child.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly. “You’ll have to promise that any children will be raised catholic.” She explained. “So if you plan on pressing your advantage you’d better do it soon. Because when we get back to Cedar Falls my father will have Father Ruiz standing by.”
She glared at him and he felt his mouth open in faint appreciation of her—well –her balls.
“Thanks for the tip.” He said with a half-smile. He watched her fume for a moment and felt plagued with guilt. Her father. Christ. The man was intimidating. Like a fierce little bull or something. Grey knew it was ridiculous to be intimidated by a man several feet shorter than himself and many sizes rounder, but nevertheless, something about Hector Ramirez made Grey think twice about his instinct to seize on this info and run to a lawyer.
Grey thought about what the man had said to him, at the Riverside Bistro, when Maggie’d gone to the ladies room and his mother had gone to make a phone call and his father had wandered up to the bar or somewhere, leaving just Grey and his new father-in-law. Grey could still feel the depth of his alarm at having been left alone with the man, left with no choice but to fend for himself. Grey’d never felt anything as remotely nerve-wracking and uncomfortable in his life as Mr. Ramirez staring him down, sizing him up, and looking more displeased and distrustful by the second.
“I know why she’s done this.” He said bluntly and Grey had only blinked. “But I don’t know why you have.”
The man was sharp. And keen. And Grey knew he was the type of fellow who could smell bull-shit from a mile away. He kept his mouth shut, deciding to respect the man by not making excuses or trying to lie.
“But whatever your reasons—“ Warned Hector, a steely glint in his heavy-lidded eyes, “You’ve made that girl your wife—“ The import and impact of the word as Hector annunciated it rocked Grey right in the solar plexus. As if it were more than a legal complication. More than a silly title they’d slapped on to bandage a terrible mistake. When Hector said the word it gave Grey pause. “And now you’d better treat her like one.” The man glared at Grey for another heart-stopping moment before tossing back the remainder of his tequila drink.
“Yes sir.” Grey had said.
Then the man fixed his eye on his new son-in-law and Grey had been sure his balls might never descend again. “You hurt her, you treat her wrong, you step one toe outta line and you will answer to me. Do you understand?” Grey knew he’d betrayed his alarm in his face, but he’d nodded his understanding just as his mother had sailed back over to the table and begun gushing about how lovely the man’s daughter was, how thrilled she was to be family with the Ramirezes now, and some other pleasant, bubbly, bullshit. Grey had promptly downed the rest of his weak Bloody Mary and ordered another—which his mother cancelled because he needed to drive.
Grey pulled himself out of his momentary fog when Maggie pushed her chair back from the little breakfast table and stood. “Not feeling well?” He asked, almost reflexively.
She glowered at him. “What are you going to do?” She demanded.
Oh. Right. The divorce. He was tempted. Sorely tempted. But he looked at her, glanced at that silver medal at her collarbone and sighed. “I fold.” He said, a small smile playing around his lips. “I’ll stand before your priest next week. I won’t have the soul of an innocent on my conscience.” He said jokingly.
But she only looked more furious. “How many?” She demanded hotly.
He was at a loss. “I’m sorry?”
“No, you aren’t. How many?” She repeated heatedly.
“Maggie, I—“ He was lost. He’d given in, he’d agreed to the catholic ceremony, he’d said he’d throw away the golden chance to wriggle out of this marriage largely unscathed.
“How many abortions have you paid for?” Her face was reddening and her hands, while clenched in fists, were shaking.
His eyes narrowed and he felt his stomach sour. “That’s none of your business.” He told her in a low, menacing voice.
“How many?” She repeated, her voice rising.
He didn’t want to fucking talk about this with her. He began to re-think his decision.
“Grey!” She snapped, one hot tear escaping and making a quick path down her cheek. “How. Many.”
“One fewer than I’d like.” He growled savagely and she gasped. He winced. It felt distinctly as though he’d slapped her, though he hadn’t moved from his place at the breakfast table. He watched her make a trembling sign of the cross and back away from him, her lips moving silently and her eyes welling with tears. She turned and moved quickly toward the bathroom and he sighed.
So much for the truce.
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