Taming Her Bad Boy

The next, she's angry because I happened to believe that she could have kept herself in check a bit more and let me resolve the situation at our party with a little less cattiness and a whole lot more class.

I know where she's coming from and why she's so frustrated—trust me, I never expected my ex-wife to show up at all, let alone out of pure spite, and I would have gladly reined my mother's party planning in long ago if I thought that were possible.

But, I'm not a miracle worker, and I'm certainly not a fortune teller, so there's no way I could have known that Liz would take it upon herself to make a spectacle of herself, and there's no way I could have known that my mother's tendencies to interject herself into every aspect of this upcoming wedding would antagonize Vienna so utterly and completely.

Okay, maybe I should have seen that one coming, but there's only so much one man can take.

I was raised by the woman, and Vienna has practically been like a daughter to her already since we were in high school, so it's a little difficult to tell her to back off when she cried happy tears the moment she found out that Vi and I were back together again, and she’s practically waited for over a decade to have the opportunity to help plan such a special occasion.

Hell, my mother went through a time when she never believed this day would come between Vienna and I, and I remember all too vividly what it's like to have believed that myself.

Which makes it that much harder to lay here and remember the sensual touch of Vienna's fingers, and the erotic pressure of her lips against the most sensitive areas of my body.

The truth of the matter is, I didn't expect Vienna to be so vicious when it came to Liz's appearance. Not that Vienna didn't have a reason to be angry, and not that she was overtly mean to the woman, but for her to call out Liz the way she did, and so fast, without hesitation—it’s just something I didn't expect from the meek and mild Vienna that I have known for so long.

But that's on me, not on her.

Vienna's been the center of my world for longer than I can recall, and knowing that she is somewhere within this house, angry with me and frustrated enough that she couldn't even sleep in the same bed or wake up to me this morning...

It hurts.

My stomach is constricting violently at the thought that she's that upset, and the fact that it makes me physically ill to even think about her feeling like that is motivation enough to get me to pull the covers back and slowly slip on a pair of jogging pants before patting my way barefoot down the hallway and staircase, each step slow and tentative as I listen for any sign that she is moving about on the main floor.

I hear nothing, but the familiar, welcoming scent of coffee floats toward me from the kitchen, and I follow the aroma, only to find Vienna perched on one of the stools at the breakfast nook that overlooks the back window into the backyard. There's an oversized white coffee mug in her hands, steam billowing just above it in front of her.

Her gaze is fixated somewhere out the window, and her eyes are rimmed with puffiness.

Vienna hasn't slept well, either. That realization only brings on another wave of nausea, especially knowing her insomnia was induced by something I could have helped alleviate by not blaming her for her initial reaction and not giving her a hard time for handling it as she sought fit.

Damn it, why can I admit that to myself now, but it was so damn difficult to admit it to her last night when the sentiment would have counted?

I go silently to the cupboard and pull a matching mug from it, which pulls Vienna from her thoughts. She turns to face me, and even out of the corner of my eye I can tell that she's exhausted.

I turn to her after pouring myself a cup of coffee and shoving the pot back onto the base. She's staring at me like she's waiting for me to say something first, which only seems to lock up my ability to say the right thing, or anything at all, for that matter.

After a long moment, Vienna turns her attention back to whatever's out the window, but she's the brave one, and she speaks first. “I didn't hear you come downstairs.”

“I just got up,” I say feebly. “Wasn't sure if you were awake or not, but the coffee aroma kind of gave you away.”

“I wasn't trying to hide it,” she replies flatly. “I made enough for you, too.”

There's no vehemence in her tone, she just sounds defeated.

My insides constrict again. “Vienna, I think we need to talk about last night.”

“Me too,” she says, turning her gaze back to me. “But I think you should listen to me first before you say anything.”

The way she says it, I take notice. The coffee mug is pressed between my palms, but I don't dare lift it from the countertop, afraid that what she'll say next will make me drop it. “Sure,” I reply quietly. “I'm listening, Vi, I am.”

Vienna turns on her stool to fully face me. She doesn't lift her mug from the counter, either. “I'm sorry about last night,” she says, her eyes averted toward the floor. “I shouldn't have brought up my frustrations after we just...well, did what we did.”

In spite of the seriousness of her tone, a slow upward curve of my lips creeps across my face. “Okay, so at least I know you're not apologizing for the things you did to me. Because I certainly w

ouldn't want you to feel like you have to. Mostly because I’m standing here hoping it'll be on your docket for future sexual endeavors, and also because, baby, that was sexy as hell.”

I'm quickly growing more alarmed by the second when Vienna doesn't even give me the slightest wolfish grin in response. Instead, she looks away again and pulls her coffee mug up to her lips, stalling to give herself a moment.

When she sets it down this time, she sighs before fixing her gaze steadily on me. “Cohen, I’m serious. And if I deviate even the slightest and start talking and thinking about my antics last night, then I'll never get the words out that I feel like I need to say.”