Even when I asked him for an explanation, I still felt confused. Apparently DCR stood for Debt Coverage Ratio, the ratio of net operating income to annual debt servicing. It was expressed as a function of net operation income divided by annual debt service. Oh, OK, thanks, that really cleared it up.
He never sounded condescending or patronizing, but he had to see it too, the way our lives were running along two completely separate rails that would never stand a chance of touching. Even if touching felt really, really good.
There in bed with him as he slowly awakened, his hand running along my thigh, his lips down to my shoulder, I felt it all over again. That intense click. That sense of belonging in the truest sense.
I hadn’t thought I would. But maybe, just maybe, he and I had what it took? Maybe the connection between us really was stronger than all the differences in our lives? You only lived once. I had to give it a try.
After slipping out to take advantage of modern conveniences like running water and flushing toilets, I slipped back between the sheets to nestle into Colt’s warm embrace. He gave a deep, throaty growl of satisfaction, drawing me over his broad chest, his hands running down my back, caressing the curves of my rear.
“This is where you belong,” he murmured as I traced my palm along his chest. And we didn’t manage to leave the bed for another few hours.
We never should have left the bed. First, Colt made me an appointment with a personal shopper, as if I needed an entire makeover.
“Get something to wear for tonight. And tomorrow night.” He had booked us into a million places and events during my brief stay. I couldn’t even keep track of our itinerary.
“What, my sweatshirt and yoga pants aren’t going to cut it?” I joked. But the answer was decidedly no.
The bitch who got paid to upsell clients at Saks and Bloomingdales acted like she’d never dealt with anyone with curves before. And who knew, maybe she hadn’t?
“You don’t have time for the kinds of alterations you’d need,” she kept saying as I struggled with zippers and popped out of tops and couldn’t even pull some bottoms up over the junk in my trunk. This was why I’d always hated shopping, the way so many clothes made it feel like there was something wrong with me, that I needed to change who I was to conform to some designer’s ideal of a woman’s body.
Hannah had fun with clothes, but she was skinny with the slim hips and B-cups of a model. Plus she knew how to sew and alter anything she didn’t like. I simply opted for clothes that didn’t fight with my body to begin with. Baggy T-shirts and soft, worn jeans or yoga pants gave me the freedom to just be me, boomin’ curves and all.
Almost giving up, the personal shopper finally found a couple of dresses made of stretchy enough material that they’d cover my figure. I’d never felt like such a whale in all my life. Especially since she insisted that I pair them with punishing undergarments like something out of a Medieval torture chamber. Sucking and tucking and firming my middle, I stood there in them barely able to breathe.
She wouldn’t set me free without my first visiting the nail bar to buff, polish and paint my fingernails and toenails. And then the blow-dry bar to “do something” with my mane. I knew I should enjoy all the pampering and primping. Wasn’t this the Cinderella makeover all women dreamed of? And part of me did. The stores were glamorous and the women all around me looked a lot like the posed mannequins draped in designer threads.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Colt was trying to re-shape me to fit into the mold of his life. High-flying and fancy as that life was, I could feel a defiant voice growing inside of me. I tamped it down, let the people poke and prod and beautify me, but that voice was getting louder and more insistent no matter how often I told it to shut up and enjoy the ride.
Saturday night he took me out on the town, a limo shuttling us from one glittering and glamorous locale to the next. My head swam with it all. I also couldn’t breathe too well in the torturous “shaping” lingerie I was wearing under my dress. It made me think about how Victorian Era women used to pass out when their corsets were pulled too tight.
Colt knew everyone. Literally. Every place we went, all he did was move from circle of welcoming people to circle of adoring people. Everyone thought he was the shit. And I was one of them, I had to admit.
He looked amazing in a dark tailored suit, all freshly shaven and trimmed. But I saw barely any trace of the rugged island man who’d saved my life. He looked every inch the Christian Gray fantasy, the commanding dominance in his stance, the wealth and power he had at his fingertips. And he gave me all kinds of tingles, he did. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we had now was a pale imitation of what we’d had together on the island. After that kind of intensity, the rhythm, flow and sync we’d reached not just making love but in every aspect, even glittering parties at the heart of New York’s social life dimmed in comparison.
The next day Colt had a party planned in my honor. He wanted me to meet his inner circle, comprised of 50 or so friends, family and business associates. His mother and his younger sister, Gigi, would be there, as would his brother who, oh by the way, was a freaking rockstar.
“Your brother is Ash Black?” I asked in disbelief as we enjoyed lunch at a French bistro.
“The one and only.”
“How has that not come up before?” If I had a famous rockstar for a brother, I might mention him. A lot.
“We had a few other things to discuss when we were on that island.” He grinned, but then proceeded to fill me in, explaining how he and Ash had barely ever lived in the same place at the same time. But now Ash lived in New York and had radically reformed his crazy partying ways after falling for a children’s librarian. They’d married a year ago and were now expecting a baby.
“Hard to believe.” He shook his head. “Ash was always the wild one. And Heath’s wedding is in June.”
“Your other younger brother is getting married too?”
“I’m the last Kavanaugh bachelor standing.” He gave me a wink. “At least for now.”
I busied myself with the plate before me, arranged almost too beautifully to touch. Three kinds of perfectly ripe tomatoes sliced into thin circles with fresh herbs and a drizzled sauce. It was easier to wonder what was in the sauce that made it so creamy yet light at the same time, than wonder what Colt might be hinting at. I felt so wild over him yet so strangely disconnected at the same time. Was he not experiencing the same kind of dissonance?
That night, getting ready for the party, I had a pit in my stomach the size of a watermelon. Looking at myself in the mirror, I felt those warring sensations again, hoping all these fancy New York people would like me but also kind of wanting to give them all the middle finger. My mother had embarrassed me plenty over the course of my life with her flaunting of tradition. A nudist colony wasn’t exactly the typical kind of place for parents to live. But some of her defiant attitude had rubbed off on me. I had too much non-conformist in me to just flutter and fawn and pray everyone liked me. I wondered if I would like them?
“What is this place?” I asked as we emerged from the limo. It had a crimson awning and two flags flying overhead, one the good old stars and stripes but the other just had a big H.
“The Harvard Club.” Colt stood at my side, a reassuring hand at the small of my back. “I’m excited for you to meet everyone.” Leaning down, he gave me a light kiss at my ear and whispered, “You look amazing.”
I took a deep breath and tried. I really did. I tried to not be put off by the gold detail on everything and the way the staff acted so deferential I half expected them to dip into a low bow. I kept a bright smile plastered on my face as we entered into the cocktail party, as if I’d ever done anything like it before, all the women in heels, all the men in ties. I felt like I’d suddenly woken up in a foreign country with rigid, proper and formal customs.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so excited to meet you! And I’m so grateful you’re both all right!” Colt’s younger s
ister, Gigi, was one of the first to come over and introduce herself. I instantly recognized her as the strawberry blonde and silver-gowned woman I’d seen on Colt’s phone when I’d first met him. She was honestly so friendly and nice she almost put me at ease. Almost.
“Were you terrified?” she asked, her pretty blue eyes wide.
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “But your brother was amazing. He knew just what to do.”
She laughed merrily, and started telling me a story I very much wanted to hear about how much Colt had not wanted to go to the wilderness camp their grandmother had insisted he attend. Apparently, 14-year-old Colt had really not wanted to spend a month roughing it at a stripped-down sleepaway camp in the woods of Maine. But their Gram had insisted, and what she wanted, she got.
But we were interrupted. “So you’re the jungle woman.” Some man who reminded me very much of a peacock broke into our conversation, looking me up and down then up again. “Colt was a lucky man to get stranded with you.”
I guessed technically it was a compliment, but I didn’t like the way he said it. He introduced himself as Leonard, the COO of Kavanaugh Investors, and Gigi excused herself. I got stuck talking—or listening—to the pompous bore until more people came up and talked at me while I sipped champagne and tried to keep track of what they were all saying.
Colt introduced me to a middle-aged woman who held herself so stiffly it almost seemed as if she were afraid of breaking. “Caroline, this is my mother.”
“Oh, so pleased to meet you!” I felt all wrong as she gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was dressed extremely conservatively in a black wool suit, perfect for funerals. Or parties, if you were Barbara Atwater. She’d remarried, Colt had explained. “That’s a really pretty…” I struggled with the right way to pronounce the word brooch. Was it a long o sound, or did it rhyme with roach? “jewelry piece,” I finally murmured, deflated.
“How do you do.” She tilted her head, and then left.
“She’s like that with everyone,” Colt reassured me, back by my side. “And she’s not a fan of parties.”
Or me, I thought but didn’t say. I could see Colt was doing his best to try to make me feel like I fit in. Even though the opposite was clearly true.
It was when I ducked into the Ladies’ Powder Room that things really went downhill. I was taking a moment to wash my hands and do whatever it was women did when trying to look perfect, fluffing their hair and powdering their noses. A certifiable ice queen came and stood at the sink next to me, surveying me coolly in the mirror.