My husband was casting furtive glances towards the bar. He was trying to be discrete about watching a bridesmaid and groomsman glued together. They were from the wedding reception being held at the hotel. We were celebrating our tenth anniversary with a weekend getaway there.
A wedding hook-up. No question about it. You could see it in the unabashedly lustful way they gazed into each other's eyes. In the excitement they could barely conceal. The way he played with her hair and gently stroked her cheek. How she caressed his hand—wondering, I was sure, what it would feel like when it explored her sensitive flesh.
Two strangers brought together by a mutual friend's nuptials were shelving their regular lives and stepping into a romantic Brigadoon that would evaporate when they headed in different directions. But first, they would spend the night screwing each other silly.
My husband's watching them didn't surprise me. I was doing the same. What did surprise me was the expression on his face. After so many years together, we could virtually read each other's minds. But I didn't know what that look meant. Envy? Curiosity?
"A penny for your thoughts."
He blushed and took a sip of coffee. "The truth?"
"Always."
"I was wondering if you were ever that girl. I know we agreed not to talk about our pasts. So I'm not asking for details. But since you brought it up, I was just wondering if you ever had wedding sex with a stranger."
I looked down for a few seconds, then back up with my best woman-of-mystery-with-a-dark-and-dangerous-past expression.
"I appreciate that you're respecting my privacy. But I think after 10 years we're entitled to know at least some of each other's secrets." I took a deep breath and looked away. "I honestly don't know," I sighed. "There were so many weddings, so many cute guys, so much tequila ...," I trailed off. "I really don't know what happened once my posse and I popped the cork. We'd start drinking as soon as we arrived on Friday. My head would clear on the plane back home on Sunday. I wouldn't even remember how I got to the airport. I imagine I was a real wedding slut."
I tried to look at least mildly ashamed. "I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear."
Wil chuckled.
I tried to look deeply offended. "I confess my deep, dark secret—I was that girl on steroids—and you laugh?"
He just smirked. "Have I ever told you that when you lie, the corner of your mouth turns up ever so slightly? ... So, no wedding sex? The truth this time."
I laughed. "OK, I was impossibly shy at that age—so right, no bridal banging. But to be honest, I envied the girls who could." I glanced at the bar, only to find that the couple had disappeared. "OK. Fair is fair. What about you?"
"Same story. Wanted to. Never happened. At that age, I didn't have the slick moves I have now. So wh—"
I burst out laughing. I couldn't help myself. In my experience, there was no way that the words "Wil" and "slick moves" could go together.
I expected him to laugh. But he just sat there looking downcast. He abruptly got up, went over to the bar, took a seat and signaled the bartender. Afraid I'd ruined our anniversary, I quickly followed and sat beside him.
"Wil. I apologize. I di—"
He looked straight at me with a look so smoldering I was startled. "I'm sorry. You're mistaking me for someone else. But I'm glad you have, because I've been admiring you since the ceremony this morning. Here. This is for you." He slid a shot of tequila, a salt shaker and a wedge of lime in front of me.
I don't know what surprised me more. The British accent that made me tingle in all the right places? The confidence he exuded? The fact that he'd ordered us tequila—which he never drinks. Then I remembered he'd taken a one semester drama course in college. I never knew he was such a good actor.
We clinked glasses and went through the ritual. The burning in my throat was replaced by a welcome warmth. He waved at the bartender, who poured us another. We drank again. My brain was already starting to dance.
