Page 8 of That Weekend in Paris
For a long time, Dillon was fine with that. She appreciated a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. And, truth be told, if it hadn’t been for the changes in her over the last couple of years, that budding confidence that gave her new awareness of her own value to the publishing company, he probably never would have noticed Leanne Henry.
The Vanderbilt intern had certainly noticed him and made no secret of it on the afternoons she appeared at the office to put in the three hours required for her undergraduate degree. The flirtation had started simply enough. Leanne commenting on his cologne, pointing out how nice the color of his shirt was as a contrast to his eyes. And what man didn’t like those things? Especially after several years of marriage when neither partner felt the absolute need to go overboard with the compliments and admiration they had once doled out to each other with such generosity.
He hadn’t encouraged her at first, enjoyed the attention for sure, but he knew better than to mess with fire, and Leanne Henry was definitely fire.
In fact, as time went on, he reminded himself of one of those poor moths that kamikazed themselves into the flames of the firepit he and Dillon liked to turn on late in the evening with a glass of wine. He’d tried to rescue them numerous times. Not only because he knew it made Dillon see him in a favorable light, but also because he hated to think that any living creature could be so destined for self-destruction. Josh wondered now if he had identified with those poor, doomed moths even then. No, Josh refuses to accept that. True enough, he had flown right into the fire that was Leanne Henry, but he’d be damned if he was going to sacrifice himself to Dillon’s wrath as well.
He’s worked too long and too hard, accomplished too much to hand any of it over to her. Any more of it than the law requires him to, anyway. He’d hired the best divorce attorney in Nashville, one known to play as dirty as necessary, and he’s okay with that.
He has no desire to be cruel. But he’s tried to play nice, offering Dillon a few of the artists on the Top Dog roster who, truthfully, would probably end up being dud signs. He isn’t about to hand over any of the known names he’s put his blood, sweat, and tears into developing.
He opens the set of French doors that lead from the kitchen to the deck overlooking the large expanse of grass, so perfectly manicured it rivals the local golf club’s turf. He remembers coming home from the office late one afternoon to find Dillon lying on her back, staring up at the clouds, the green grass a blanket beneath her. That had been in the early days of their marriage when she had been extraordinarily happy to see him at the end of the day.
He’d crept down the stairs, tiptoed across the grass and dropped down to surprise her with a quick kiss. She had laughed, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him to her. Things had gotten hot and heavy there in their backyard. And if she hadn’t stood, taking his hand and pulling him across the yard and up the stairs into the house to their bedroom, he could have made love to her right there on the back lawn with any neighbors who wished to see welcome to do so.
That had been the attraction he felt for her back then. He grieved for that feeling sometimes, in moments when his guard was lowered, and he wasn’t letting himself think about all the ugly moments that had taken place between them since that afternoon.
Most of them were his fault. He admits that. He’d thought he could have his fling and keep what he had with Dillon at the same time. But could a person really wear two masks requiring such distinctly different emotions?
His sex life with Dillon had been more than enough for him. He couldn’t even explain then why the thing with Leanne had gone from zero to sixty practically overnight. The sex with Leanne was a completely different level of expectation from what Dillon had wanted from him.Three and four times a day was more in line with Leanne’s needs.
It hadn’t taken long for him to begin to feel as if he had signed up for a beginner 5K and found himself in the middle of a throng of New York City marathon runners. Only he wasn’t prepared to go twenty-six miles in one stretch. His shoes didn’t have that kind of tread. The marathon had been exciting at first, but when it became clear after the first week or so that he would be expected to run that kind of race daily, even the thought of sex began to exhaust him.
He supposed that was what had initially planted a question mark in Dillon’s mind. She had noticed his lagging interest and gone out and bought a series of outfits that would have once had him carrying her up the stairs to their bedroom and locking the door.
He’d even gone to his doctor and explained his inability to keep up with his sex life, leaving out the more pertinent details, of course. He let the doctor think he was talking about his performance within his marriage and not the fact that he was having an affair with someone twenty-some years his junior, a young woman he absolutely could not keep up with.
He’d taken his prescription for the little blue pill home, trying it the next day when he thought it might be of the most use. But the thing about Leanne was he never knew when she would pop into his office for a quickie or how many times in one day that might occur. And so there were days when he would find himself trapped at his desk hiding evidence of his readiness even at times when there was no need to be ready.
He drops his head back now, stares up at the clear blue sky above him, and laughs a little. He certainly should be able to laugh at himself. There had been times when it was that ridiculous, and he felt bad for the pain he had caused Dillon.
But does he owe her the business he’d spent his entire adult life growing all because of one bout of incredible stupidity that most people would call a midlife crisis? He doesn’t think so.
Maybe he’ll call his cutthroat attorney and ask him to lower the heat a bit. All things considered, that is probably fair, but letting Dillon steal Klein Matthews from him, no, that isn’t going to happen.
Dillon
“Freedom lies in being bold.”
?Robert Frost
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I feel completely refreshed and wide awake.
The first thing I need to do, the thing I have admittedly been dreading, is to call Klein. No point in putting it off becausehe’ll be expecting Josh to be here. And once he realizes I’ve come in his place, there will be the obvious questions as to why. Delaying isn’t going to lessen the awkwardness of it.
I pick up my phone, tap into Contacts, and scroll for Klein’s name, making the call. It’s four rings before he answers. I am just about ready to hang up, let cowardice overrule my common-sense resolution to get the initial contact over with.
“Hello?”
I hear the question in the greeting, and I stammer a bit. “H-hello. Klein. It’s Dillon. Dillon Blake.”
“Hey, Dillon,” Klein says cautiously, and I realize how silly I must sound, acting as if he doesn’t know who I am.
“So, this is admittedly a little awkward. But here goes. I’m in Paris.”
Silence. Pause. “With Josh?”
“No. Actually, it’s just me. I came instead of Josh.”
