Page 20 of The Rejected Wife

His throat moves as he swallows. I realize then, he was worried I’d refuse him. As if I could? I still want him. But he's right; this thing between us is serious enough that I also want to get to know him better.

"Come on, let’s get something to drink."

12

Priscilla

"Fall in love with showing up for yourself?—

especially on the days it feels the hardest."

-Cilla’s Post-it note

"You’ve got to stop feeding me like this." I chew another forkful of the pasta, savoring the creamy, complex textures of the dish. Turns out, he was hungry. So he wanted, not only to have a drink, but also to eat.

He whipped up what turned out be an Aglio Olio e Peperoncino—pasta with olive oil, garlic, hot pepper and parmesan cheese—in very little time.

After pulling on my blouse and skirt, I was content to sit at the counter and watch his graceful movements around the kitchen. I was right. The man can cook.

I’m surprised that after I called it off after we were on the verge of fucking, he wasn't upset. Instead, he made me dinner—a very delicious dinner—and seems happy to sit here talking to me. Which is what he professed he wanted to do all along. So, I shouldn’t be surprised. Especially after he’d accused me of holding him to a stereotype. In fact, he’s not given me any reason to doubt him so far. So why is it that, after wanting to jump into bed with him, I changed my mind at the last minute?

His size was an excuse. I acknowledge that. On some level, I suspect I’m not ready to take that last step physically. I’ve always thought being a virgin wasn't a big deal so it wouldn't matter when I decided to sleep with someone. Especially not when I’ve pleasured myself with toys. But there’s a difference between a silicon appendage being inside me and the real thing. And it’s not only because the dimensions of my vibrator pale in comparison to how big he is.

Perhaps, on some level, I sense that giving myself to him physically would mean giving him my heart. And I’m not ready yet. Not when there’s so much about him I don’t know.

I’ve been waiting for the right person and the right circumstances to give up my virginity. I'm still convinced he’s the right person, but giving up something I’ve held onto that’s important to me is scary. Maybe I just need more reassurance that he’sthe one,even if my heart already insists that he is?

He pours us each a glass of white wine; it's clean and dry on the palate. I may have left home at eighteen, but thanks to my parents’ moneyed background, my tastes were already refined by then. Enough to appreciate the kind of quality ingredients only money can buy.

"I love taking care of you." He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass down.

A melting sensation swirls in my chest. This man seems hell-bent on breaking the stereotype I have of alphas as being selfish and not nurturing. I’m also not used to a man who is so open with his feelings. I certainly wouldn’t have expected that from someone like Tyler—who’s a billionaire, who looks like Adonis, and lives and breathes confidence.

I’m stereotyping him again. Something he gently reprimanded me for. Not sure how to respond to his comment, I content myself with pointing to his almost empty plate. “You eat quickly.”

He pops a shoulder. “A leftover from my military days, when I had to eat on the go and in shared dining rooms.”

Nowthat,I want to know more about. “When did you join the Marines?"

“I was eighteen when I joined the Royal Marines; twenty when I went on my first call of duty. Led five more before I retired at thirty-two. That was two years ago. I joined the family business and have run one of the Davenport Group of companies ever since.”

He’s nine years older than me. “Why did you enlist?”

He takes a sip of his wine, his expression contemplative. “My uncle served. As did my older brothers. My grandfather thought it would be character-building. And that it was great PR to further the value of the shares of our group company. That’s not the reason I joined, though. I did it because…I wanted to.” He fixes me with a serious look. “It was a calling. A compulsion, even. I was born into a family with plenty. It felt like I should give back something to the country and the community which gave me so much.”

His tone tells me his sentiments are genuine. The expression on his face adds gravitas to his words.

“It’s unusual to come across someone who feels called to do something for the greater good,” I finally say.

“You mean, it’s rare for someone from my background of privilege to do something other than join the family business—” His lips kick up. “Which I did, ultimately.”

“But only after you served your country,” I point out.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal.” His lips twist. “There were many moments—especially in the midst of a tough mission—when I questioned the sanity of why I had signed up to do this, but?—”

“But you persisted.”

He breathes in slowly, cracks his neck as if composing his thoughts. "There was a time, when I first joined the Marines and was back from my first mission… When I saw friends upfront being killed and innocents among the enemy being slaughtered… When the clarity of what I’d signed up for… When the futility of what I was embarking on became clear to me… It was my lowest phase.”

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