Far Too Tempting by Lauren Blakely Read Free Book Online

signs, things I had missed, markers that might have been useful. Besides the obvious stuff—he doesn’t like having sex with you, especially touching you between your legs—most of the signs were laughable. Gay men are more likely to have hair that whorls counterclockwise, to have an index finger longer than the ring finger, and to have older brothers, the article said. Aside from Aidan’s collection of older male siblings, I’m pretty sure that even if I had walked around our marriage inspecting his hair and measuring his finger length that I wouldn’t have put two and two together. Besides, another thing that’s common with married gay men is they often make great husbands because they try so hard to live a straight life, while denying their sexuality. For better or for worse, Aidan was a perfect husband. He was kind, he was supportive, he believed in me. He complimented me every day. He cooked for me. He always took care of Ethan when I had a gig and never once complained about the odd hours a musician keeps.
    Kelly’s comments about being able to help other women going through this echo within me, and before I know it, I’m speaking from the heart, saying to Jayden, “Actually, I’ve asked myself that question a lot. Countless times. I felt pretty stupid. And I beat myself up a lot for not having known. But the fact is, I was pregnant with his child and I desperately wanted my marriage to work.”
    We talk for another few minutes and then Jayden thanks me for my time.
    After I hang up, I remember Matthew’s advice to be myself. I don’t know if he’s right or not, I don’t know if he fed me a handy line reporters use to get people to open up to them. But at the end of the day, I don’t want to be false; I don’t want to be phony. I spoke the simple truth to Jayden, and I think he appreciated it.
    As I turn onto Jeremy’s block, I noodle on all these interactions with reporters. On trying to be myself. On answering honestly. Is there a song in there? Maybe it’s a stretch, but I need something, anything , to get my creative engine rumbling along. So I hum a loose little melody— just be yourself , be who you are, speak the truth.
    But it sounds so treacly, it makes me want to yak up my sushi lunch. Clearly, there’s no song in answering a reporter’s question honestly. Then I lose my train of thought when I notice a pair of teenagers practically stumbling out of Starbucks, hanging onto each other, a boy and a girl, each with a hand in the other’s back pocket. He reaches across her with his free hand, pushing a strand of her blond hair behind her ear, then lays a quick, but not too quick, kiss on her lips. They gaze at each other—they actually gaze; who gazes anymore?—and then dash off toward the nearest subway, I imagine, to catch a train to a make-out hideaway somewhere.
    It’s like a punch in the gut, a sharp, cold reminder that Aidan and I never staggered out of a coffee shop in midday, woozy on our love, giddy with the prospect of pending nakedness. These scenes of public affection bear about as much similarity to my marriage as Japanese or differential calculus do. But I want what the Starbucks Couple has. I want someone to want me. I want to be desired, I want to be admired, I want to be adored . The gal who cuts my hair has a tattoo across her right arm in a cool cursive font that says, “I want to be adored.” I love that tattoo, I love the earnestness of the sentiment, I love her ballsiness in branding it on her body.
    I’m not afraid of tattoos, or piercings for that matter. I have both—a belly button ring and a tattoo on my ankle. The tattoo is a small, silvery illustration of a glass slipper. Jeremy’s a former tattoo artist; he launched the label when a wealthy customer died, leaving his inker with a hefty chunk of change in the will. Jeremy handed the key of the tattoo shop to his younger brother and pursued his lifelong dream—to run a record label. After I signed with the