Exception (64 page)

When the idea was first introduced, she was only basing her feelings off the books she’d read her whole life. Every time a leading man offered a set of rules for his love interest to follow, it usually involved freaky, kinky stuff—which was definitely not her cup of tea—or controlling behavior. She remembered thinking that, surely, Taylor wouldn’t be bargaining such sadistic terms, which had eventually led to another concern: a prenup. It’s not that she would have minded, but it would have stung a little, if he lacked the trust in her she thought he had. Fortunately, none of these were the case.

Emily smiled, remembering that first night back, the night the rules were set. She traced her memory back to that early morning, lying in bed wrapped in Taylor’s arms, when he brought up the first rule.

“Rule number one,” he said, “we don’t wear clothes at home unless we have company.”

“And by that you mean . . . no sweats or pajamas?”

“By that I mean no sweats, pajamas, robes, dresses, shirts, pants, coats, suits, sweaters, skirts, socks or underwear. Unless it’s really sexy lingerie—then it’s okay, but other than that one exception, we stay buck-naked.”

The
idea, like the smirk that was on his lips, had been equal parts adorable and mischievous, which caused Emily to swoon again at the memory. She found herself giggling, recalling how she nervously tried to create humor in order to control the emotions that had flooded through her. “And am I supposed to cook naked?” she’d joked lightly. “What if I burn my boobs, like Robin Williams in
Mrs. Doubtfire
?”

He’d thrown his head back in laughter; it was a sound, even in memory, that never failed to warm her heart. They had laughed together for a good five minutes, probably because their tiredness, at the time, had made the whole thing even funnier.

After the boob problem had been remedied via a silly suggestion that she should wear a French maid apron while cooking, Emily had come up with a rule of her own.

“Now my rule,” she’d said. “No matter where we are or who’s with us, we can never spend more than half an hour without kissing. Doesn’t have to be a full on French, it can be a peck or one of your nose kisses, even an old-fashioned kiss to the hand, but if we’re in walking distance from each other, your lips are required to touch my skin every thirty minutes or less. As much fun as flirting from afar was tonight, I’m not looking forward to repeating that torture.”

“Spending two hours without a kiss really felt like torture to you?” She remembered Tay’s surprising insecurity when he’d asked that.

“Are you serious?” she’d asked looking deep in his round and hopeful eyes. “Tay, not feeling you with me has always been torture, even when you were just my best friend. And now that I know you taste like mint and lime with just a dash of pepper, I’m completely addicted to it. I need your kisses more than I need my coffee in the morning, so no arguing. Kisses every thirty minutes or less, agreed?”

“Agreed,” he’d answered, leaning forward and delivering a long and slow kiss to her lips.

“Ready for rule number three?” he’d asked against her lips. After one last peck, Emily had nodded and settled back on her pillow to face him. “Rule number three is we live together, not only on weekends. I want us to really live together.”

Emily remembered the uncertainty she’d felt over rule number three, and smiled, as she recalled Taylor pinching her lips together between his fingers when she’d started to argue.

“Just hear me out,” he’d said. “I know you have a life here. You’ve got the twins, the Webbers, Old Joe’s and the book clubs. I also know you’re giving the idea of applying for a PhD some serious thought; and I’m not asking you to give that up. I would never ask you to give up a life you love Ems, not ever. But I also don’t want to spend four out of seven nights each week sleeping without you; that was hell even before.”

“But you live in New York, Tay,” Emily remembered her guilty response. “You have a life and a business. You can’t just walk away from that and move here.”

“Who says I can’t?” he’d refuted. “I have a business in New York, Ems. My life is wherever you are.” Emily remembered the heavy sincerity in his eyes when he’d said that. “When I bought the gallery, the place was shit: tons of debt, no clients and a bad reputation. Nate said I was crazy for buying it, but in the year I’ve owned it we’ve turned the place around. We’ve got nice clients, great artists wanting to work with us, and it’s actually making money— and the best part is that I loved every second of that process. So, if I did it there, why not do it somewhere else?”

Emily still remembered the shock she felt in that moment. “You’re saying you want to buy and rebuild another shitty gallery?” she’d asked him, wide-eyed.

“Yes, that was one of the things I was discussing with Nate last night, and he agrees that it’s a good move. And not just because we can buy it cheap and profit later,” he’d said with a tentative smile. “He really likes you, more than I thought he would actually, so he’s invested in helping us have our happily ever after. He even emailed me back at OJ’s tonight to let me know he’d already started looking for something close by. In the meantime, I’ll find and train someone to replace me at the NYC gallery and we’ll commute. I’ll stay here from Friday night to Monday morning as I always do, and you meet me in New York later that day when you’re done with everything here and stay until noon on Thursday. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s only gonna be for a few months, and that way we only need to sleep one night apart a week. You can even use that night for your alone time with the twins.”

She remembered being rendered speechless for a long while after that, as joy and happiness had filled her heart. Once her mouth had begun working again, she wasted no time, agreeing with a huge smile on her face.

“Perfect.” He’d smiled back. “Now rule number four, I’ll help you maintain this place.”

“Hey, rule number four was supposed to be mine.” Emily remembered her futile argument with the stubborn Taylor, and when he decided to claim his new rule as an appendix of rule three and also tack on all financial responsibility of both homes himself. After a lot of bargaining the two agreed, reluctantly, on both ends, that Emily would get at least one bill at each residence.

“Who knew you could be this stubborn, Watson?” he’d laughed in exasperation. “Fine, water here and the rental fee for your parking space in the city, but that’s it. And we’ll revisit the subject in the near future,” he’d agreed, rolling his eyes.

She’d never gotten to rule number four that night.

In the following months, life seemed to fall on track. They continued to add more and more rules to the ones they’d created that night, and they became a private joke between them. On top of that, Taylor found the perfect person to replace him in the New York gallery, a woman named Carla who was as qualified as she was efficient. And, with the help of Nate who was summoned to New Haven in the early weeks of January, he also found the perfect place for the new gallery—a warehouse on the outskirts of Hartford that was so decadent it made the NYC gallery seem new.

Having Nate around had sent their lives spinning yet again. Despite the fact that he was staying with Penelope, he was the traditional third wheel and was more present in the apartment than Zack and Jody, which was saying something. However, his constant presence and extreme efficiency with all the business stuff Taylor would have had to deal with otherwise, allowed the young couple some extra time to enjoy themselves, usually in the solitude of their NYC apartment. Since Emily had hired Penelope to help her with her obligations in both the blog and the book clubs, she had also gained some freedom with her schedule.

And now, here they were, just a few short months later, finally settling in with their new routine, with Emily’s twenty-eighth birthday upon them and a life that, despite being extremely busy, was perfect.

Taylor had originally planned a romantic getaway for the birthday celebration, but with Stanley Parker’s exhibition falling on that weekend, his plans were shot to hell. Bent on making the celebration as special as she was to him, he pulled every string he had and enlisted the help of every family member, friend and acquaintance to provide her with a day she’d never forget.

That Friday morning, instead of the usual beeping of their alarm clock, Emily’s birthday wake-up call was gentle kisses delivered everywhere her skin peeked from beneath the sheets. Still half-asleep, her lips curled up in a smile, knowing this was bound to be the best birthday she’d ever had. Taylor was thoroughly kissing her neck when her reluctant eyes fluttered open. What she saw knocked her already labored breath out.

Flowers of every kind and color were scattered around their NYC bedroom in beautiful arrangements. If that wasn’t enough, music was playing in the background, and the most gorgeous tray of food sat by the bed, adding a mouthwatering breakfast smell to the sweet scent of the flowers.

“Happy twenty-eighth birthday,” Taylor whispered, moving his lips to her jaw. Hooking his index finger on the sheets, he brought the fabric down, revealing her naked body. She didn’t have time to answer because in the next moment his lips covered hers. They moved against hers with adoration, his tongue urging her apart and then exploring the inside of her mouth with the meticulous attention to detail he paid to his works of art.

Her blood felt like lava pumping inside her veins. Knotting her fingers in his hair she twisted her body towards him, swinging one leg over his hip. She could feel his lips curving in a smile as he continued to kiss her passionately, his hands sliding over her naked skin, spreading heat and goose bumps everywhere they went.

Rolling onto his back, Taylor guided her to straddle him and, leaving her lips, he curved his body until his lips found her breast. Her head fell backwards and a pleased sound followed her breath out of her mouth.

“Breakfast is getting cold,” he informed against the soft skin.

Her reaction was to laugh. The concept of how he could get her all worked up like that and then think about food completely evaded her. “Not hungry,” she replied wiggling her bottom over the indication that he was just as
not
hungry as she was. However, as she bent over to kiss his lips a loud growl came from her belly, making him laugh.

“Your stomach says different. Besides, I cooked.”

Reluctantly, Emily turned her head to the side to look at the tray. Blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs and fresh fruit kabobs were artfully arranged on a large plate, with two mugs of coffee and a tall glass of orange juice on the side.

“
You
did all this?” She blinked incredulously at him.

“Yes,” he said proudly. “I’ve been taking cooking lessons with Brad. It’s your first birthday present of the day.”

“Aww,” she cooed at the sweetness of his gesture, her blood heated again at the sexy mental image of Taylor cooking for her. Giving in to that new wave of heat, she bent her body and kissed the corner of his mouth. “And if I eat, will you give me my other present?” she teased.

“Oh babe, if you eat, I’ll give you
all
your presents.” His hand smacked lightly on her butt.

She giggled and sat back on her heels, still straddling him. “Hmmm . . . I better eat then.”

They had been dating for four months, and Emily was still amazed at how easy being his girlfriend was. Each day proved more and more that he’d been right that day at the lake; being a couple hadn’t taken anything away from the easy camaraderie they’d always had. In fact, it was quite the opposite; being an item had made everything she liked the most about their friendship stronger, and more evident.

Emily reached over to the tray and grabbed a kabob. She brought it to her partially opened mouth and slowly slid it in, her teeth biting the first two cubes of fruit before sliding the half-stripped wooden stick back out of her mouth with another slow motion. Her eyes closed when the sweet and refreshing taste filled her mouth. An appreciative sound escaped her throat.

Her eyes were still shut, enjoying the residual taste of mango, when the enticing smell of maple syrup filled her nostrils.

“Open for me.”

Emily knew he’d meant for her to open her mouth, but the tone in his voice and the throbbing she felt beneath her gave new layers to that request, layers that clenched everything below her navel. Opening both her eyes and mouth, she savored the warm fluffiness of the pancake, allowing a delighted sound to escape her lips once again as she watched him stare at her through hooded eyes and wet lips.