The Ground Rules Part 19

"Do you always spend Sat.u.r.days with your kids?" I ask him, enjoying a spoonful of my soup.

"I try. Before we had them, I was a real workaholic. I worked twenty-four seven. But the kids have changed me."

"Kids will do that," I point out with a smirk.

"You must really love children."

"I do."

"You are probably a great mother," he adds, cutting into his beef.

I laugh. "I like to think so. I strive to be."

"Did you have a good mother?" he asks, and I'm taken aback by his question. He occasionally has an uncanny way of jumping from small talk to more intimate conversation, skipping all the stuff in between, and completely ignoring social decorum. But I kind of like that about him.

I don't really want to answer his question, but I feel I almost need to, since he asked it.

"My mother was a good mother until she fell madly in love with another man."

"Tell me more," he says, probably not realizing he's being very nosy.

"She met him at a cafe. He was a professor of French literature, guest lecturing at the university. His name was Gilles. He was French and handsome, impeccably dressed, and he swept my mother right off her feet. She was thirty-three." I hesitate a bit before telling him the rest-it's not often I talk about this. "I was only six. My youngest brother was only one. I met the man just once, but I remember him clearly. She ran away to live with him in New York...and took the baby."

"I'm sorry. That's horrible," he says with wide eyes. "Did your father raise you?"

"Yes...me and my two older brothers. My dad's great."

"Yes," he says, fork hanging mid-air. "He would have to be."

"What were your parents like? What's your family like?" I ask, realizing I really don't know much about him. In my mind, I've already concocted my own story-and it involves a sprawling mansion, a successful family business, impeccably dressed parents and siblings, possibly a game of croquet-a real Kennedy-esque picture.

"Well," he starts, pausing to take a sip of wine. "Coincidentally...speaking of professors...my father was also a university professor. At Oxford. Physics. Apparently a genius mind, according to my mother. He also owned dozens of patents. He was an inventor of sorts," he explains, trailing circles along the bottom of his gla.s.s. "My parents were both academics. My mother was just a student when she met him, and before long, she was pregnant."

"With you?" I ask, fully engrossed in his story.

"Yes. With me. And my father didn't want a thing to do with me...or with her, for that matter."

His childhood was not the one I had imagined at all. In fact, it sounds even worse than mine.

"What's worse?" I venture. "Your parent leaving you when you're six...or before you're even born?"

He ponders my question for a beat. "Six, I would venture," he says, his voice soft. "I never knew him. I never had a chance to even form a connection. You on the other hand..." he trails off, putting down his fork.

"What happened to you?" I ask. For some reason, I want to know every detail.

"Well, my father supported us financially-he was a wealthy man. My mother hired a British nanny...a real Mary Poppins type." A smile curves his lips. "Her name was Elizabeth."

"Like your daughter?"

"Yes. We named Lizzie after her."

"She meant a lot to you?"

"She did. I loved her more than my mother," he says, without the slightest indication of guilt.

"Was your mother not kind?" I'm prying, but the intimate feel of the conversation allows it.

"She was very distant. She was very independent. Sometimes I sensed she wasn't very fond of me."

"What would make you say that?"

He sets his gla.s.s down and looks out at the Chicago skyline. "Occasionally," he pauses for a second, "she would look at me with contempt in her eyes, and tell me I looked and acted exactly like my father."

"I'm sorry," is all I can say. I'm no child psychologist, but even I know something like that could really mess up a little kid.

And suddenly, I feel I understand him a little better...and I want to offer him my affection...my love. I don't want to leave him. And I certainly don't want to hurt him.

I was concerned I wouldn't be able to go through with the break-up. I worried his striking eyes or his drop-dead gorgeous smile would pull me in. But I never realized he would pull me in...him.

I drop my fork and gulp a mouthful of water. I am officially royally screwed.

"I apologize," he says. "I really didn't mean to be so somber...but you asked."

"I did," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's fine."

I smile thinly at him and neither of us utters another word.

We opt out of dessert and head toward Weston's secret destination, whizzing in his town car. I am getting very used to being driven around.

"You don't drive much, do you?"

"I really don't like it. I like to multi-task and work, and I can't very well do that if I'm driving."

"Time is money right?" I say, crossing a leg over the other. And I notice him glance down at my stocking clad legs.

"Exactly."

"So, how much money are you wasting with me right now?"

He gives me that s.e.xy smile-the one which makes me crave him. "A lot. But it's not wasted. Some things are worth it."

I bite my lip.

I want him.

I shake my head a little.

"So, you're not a car guy?"

"Not really. I have a few. But I consider them a necessity rather than a luxury. Occasionally, if something is weighing on me, I like to go for a drive to cool off, but that's about it."

"Wow. You're really not like other guys, are you?"

"That's what I like to think."

"How far?" I ask, curiosity killing me.

He reaches for my hand. "About ten minutes." I intertwine my fingers in his, thinking this day is not turning out as I had planned. I decide I'm going to commit, or not commit, but a decision needs to be made. And if I do what I really want to do, I'll be having a rather explosive conversation with Gabe.

I can't seem to peel my eyes away from him-I like this version of him-casual, more laid-back, less rigid. He seems more human.

"C'mon," I urge him, giving him my s.e.xiest smile. "Tell me where we're going."

He presses a finger against his lips. "I'm not saying a word."

He looks happy. I've made him happy. And suddenly, I feel so powerful.

When we get to our destination, I recognize the place as soon as I see the large pillars standing tall at the front of the cla.s.sic building. I've been here with the girls...they love Shedd Aquarium.

"Well, that explains the fish tie and cufflinks," I say as he leads me up the stairs to the entrance.

"You've noticed those? You're very observant."

He has no idea that I've mentally catalogued practically every detail of him-what he's said, what he's worn...everything.

"So, you like fish," I say as we stand to buy tickets.

"All sea life really. All underwater creatures. It's another world."

"Do you dive?" I want to know more about this obsession.

"I try as much as I can. And I go snorkeling with Bridget and the kids. Do you snorkel?"

"No." I laugh. "I'm a decent swimmer but breathing out of a tube really freaks me out. It panics me every time I try."

He looks at me and smiles but doesn't say a word.

"What?"

"Well, maybe one day, I can teach you," he offers.

I laugh. "I think I'll pa.s.s on that. Where do you do all this snorkeling?"

He pulls out his wallet to pay for the tickets. "Mostly Hawaii. We have a place down there."

Of course...they have a place in Hawaii.

"Well, if you're going to teach me in Hawaii, I think I've changed my mind," I joke, knowing very well he'll never take me to Hawaii.

He laughs. "Have you ever been?"

"Nope," I tell him, not elaborating. I've never been anywhere it seems.

The cashier hands him our tickets, and we make our way to the exhibits.

He leads me, occasionally putting his hand on the small of my back as we walk through the Caribbean exhibit. We're surrounded by colorful fish, beautiful coral, sea turtles, green eels, and rays. He's right...it is quite magical when you take the time to appreciate it.

I enjoy walking along with him as he tells me about the sea life. I can tell he's very pa.s.sionate about it-he's a walking encyclopedia, telling me interesting facts occasionally. I like seeing him this animated-he's usually so subdued. He's like a little kid...an adorable little kid.

"You've always liked ocean life?"

"Since I was about two, according to my mother," he says, not quite looking at me. "It was an obsession. Apparently, I ama.s.sed a giant collection of all the sea life books in existence."

"The whole Jacques Cousteau collection?"

He laughs. "Of course."

Every now and then, he looks over at me with the slightest hint of a smile, his beautiful almond shaped eyes driving me insane. It seems no matter where we are...I am hopeless when it comes to him.

"Which sea animal is your favorite?" he asks.

I've never considered it. After a moment's thought, I decide. "The sea turtles, I guess."

"Good choice," he says, taking my hand in his. "They're beautiful. You should see them in their natural habitat...they're incredible."

I sigh a little. I would love to see that with him, to see all those wonderful creatures he loves. Bridget is the one who gets to share those experiences. And unexpectedly, I feel a little pang of jealousy, and I try to shove the thoughts away. I've mentally trained myself to not think about her...but sometimes, it's very challenging.

We finally make our way to the jellyfish exhibit, and I'm absolutely mesmerized-mushroom-shaped, almost transparent creatures, glowing, bopping and swaying against the glowing background, pumping like hearts-it's a magnificent display of nature.

We stand there for the longest time, just the two of us, watching them, not saying a word. I sense Weston's presence behind me with every cell in my body-his breath on my shoulder, his hand on my waist. His lips brush softly against the back of my neck. I close my eyes and suddenly feel limp, like one of those jellyfish, bouncing, floating...

I think about what I vowed. About everything I promised myself. I shouldn't be doing this. I don't want this.

But I don't just want him...I need him.

I turn toward him, and his lips meet mine. My mouth opens for his, and his tongue teases. His mouth tastes like spearmint. His kiss is soft and incredibly sensual. I feel myself melt into him and completely lose sense of my surroundings.

We hear voices in the distance, and I jolt away. He looks at me, his eyes filled with longing.

A mother and her son walk over to the display. The chubby boy looks about twelve or so, and I'm not sure if he spotted us. He might have. And I suddenly feel kind of embarra.s.sed. He flashes us a metal-filled, mischievous smile, and it's confirmed-the kid caught us.

Weston looks over at me, and we both smile.

I pull him to me. "Take me to your car."