All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,49

toward me carefully.

“Can’t you see me?” I asked breathily.

“I can’t.”

I snapped on the lamp behind me.

“How’s this?”

I was stretched out as long as I can go on the chaise, my right leg crossed over my left, my hair falling down my back, curled for him the way he likes. I was wearing a satin robe, cinched high enough that you couldn’t see what was beneath it. I had one hand resting gently on my stomach and the other on top of the end table beside the chaise. Under my hand was the pink velvet box. Inside the box were the pictures.

“Would you like champagne?” he asked. His voice was deep but I could tell he had to work to get it that way.

“I’d love some,” I said.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me, standing right over me. He put the bottle down on the table, right beside the velvet box. Then he knelt beside the chaise so his face was equal to mine. His eyes said everything. They said he loved me and wanted me. They said no man could ever want more than he had right now.

I smiled. “Happy fortieth birthday,” I said, and clinked my glass against his.

We both drank a little. The champagne was light and sweet and fresh.

“I have a very special gift for you,” I said.

I don’t know if he heard me or not, I’m not even sure if I got all the words out, because then he was kissing me so hard I couldn’t move. He pressed his lips against mine and my head went back into the soft chaise and I was pinned. I could feel him shaking, I could feel his heartbeat. He pulled away quickly and downed the rest of his champagne in one bubbly gulp, then he placed the glass on the floor.

“I need you . . . right . . . now,” he said.

My hand was still on the velvet box. I had envisioned giving him the pictures first. But it didn’t much matter if that waited until afterward. The pictures were meant to make him excited, and I’m not sure how much more excited he could possibly have been.

I lay back and felt him land on top of me. It felt good, even if some of it didn’t. He was breathing hard, right into my ear, I could feel the heat of his breath, the wet of his tongue.

“Kiss me,” I said.

And he did.

After, when I had caught my breath and he was still searching for his, I put my hand back on the velvet box.

“So, it’s time for me to give you your present,” I said.

“That was the best present I could ever have asked for,” Scott said, still panting a little.

“But it isn’t all you’re getting.”

He put his hand on my tummy, very tenderly, and looked right into my eyes.

“Actually, Brooke, I was thinking about that today. I think I know the one thing I really, really want for my fortieth birthday.”

I smiled and waited for some extreme, perverted sexual suggestion; Scott likes to joke around that way. But then he told me what it was he wanted, and I saw in his eyes he wasn’t kidding. And I put my hand on top of his and squeezed it hard as the tears started pouring down my face.

SAMANTHA

I WONDER IF IT happens this way for everybody.

For me, it has always been like this: any time I am feeling my best, strongest, and healthiest, I am also at my most emotional. And maybe never more than right then, strolling that beach for the last time. I was so strong I was practically bursting with energy. For the past six weeks, I had eaten and drunk only the best fuel (except for three glasses of wine with Eduardo), slept nine hours a night, practiced yoga breathing during long walks on the pristine beach, listened to the waves crashing and the children laughing in the surf. Now, for two days, I had been at rest, conserving all my strength for tomorrow, permitting myself nothing more strenuous than this final walk on the sand. I would compete tomorrow and then go back to my life, the one I had before Robert. Back to New York, back to working, to traveling. Back to men, too, I suppose. I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to handle that part of it. My guess was that it would handle itself. I didn’t plan to be looking for anyone, but I did