Unforgettable

by Ann Christopher

  “The issue is that your skinny ass is hanging out of those boxers, and you don’t have a shirt on,” Nigel said. “What’s the puzzlement?”

  “And I feel like a family of mice might be living in that ’fro, man,” Edward added with a vague wave at the top of Isaiah’s rumpled head.

  “Are those Game of Thrones boxers?” Ethan asked.

  “Losing my appetite here,” Edward said, turning away and making dramatic vomiting sounds.

  “You’ll be fine.” Isaiah splashed a half inch of tomato juice into his glass and topped it off with a good dose of vodka. “You’ve all seen a naked man before.”

  “This is what happens when you’re a rich tech millionaire,” Edward said sadly. “You move out to Seattle. Develop eccentric habits, like collecting your pee—”

  “Edward!” Ada cried.

  “—in bottles and opting out of clothing. Rattling around in your modern mansion over the bay, all alone but for your crazy thoughts.”

  “Who says I’m alone?” Isaiah raised his glass to them all, drank deeply and sank into his chair, where he began to tap on his keyboard.

  Nigel, scowling, leaned over and slammed the laptop shut with a snap. Isaiah barely got his fingers out of the way in time.

  Triumphant smirk from Nigel.

  Without missing a beat, Isaiah raised his glass in another toast, then drained it dry.

  Ada and Nigel exchanged worried looks. Nigel opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, they heard another person coming down the stairs.

  They all looked around in surprise.

  “Who the hell is that?” Nigel asked.

  “Baby, you in here?” A strange woman wearing her night-before dress (if you could call a few strategically placed black silk bandages a dress), smudged makeup and an Afro that had seen as much wear and tear as Isaiah’s, strode into the room with her six-inch stripper heels slung over her shoulder. “Time for me to—oh.”

  She froze just inside the dining room threshold and gaped at everyone.

  Everyone gaped back at her.

  Except for Isaiah, who’d reopened his computer and was tapping on it again, utterly engrossed.

  “Ah, baby?” the woman said.

  Isaiah kept tapping with one hand. With the other hand, he blindly reached for the stack of toast on the table, picked up a piece and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Baby?” the woman said in a louder voice.

  The rest of them exchanged disbelieving looks. Isaiah chewed and tapped.

  “Baby!” She looked around in desperation, cheeks reddening. “Why doesn’t he answer me? Is it his hearing?”

  “He gets like this, dear,” Ada said, flustered. “When he’s working. Just call him by name. That usually works.”

  The woman hesitated, frowning.

  “Isaiah,” Ethan supplied sourly.

  The woman shot him a tiny smile of gratitude. “Isaiah!”

  Isaiah started, looked up and noticed the woman with complete indifference as he swallowed his toast. “Oh. Hey.”

  “Hey. I thought you said this was your house.”

  “It is,” he said blankly. “It’s the house I grew up in.”

  “Yeah, but it’s your parents’ house.”

  More blankness from Isaiah. “Is that relevant?”

  The woman blinked. The others shifted awkwardly.

  “You know what? It’s not relevant,” the woman said, brightening. “We’re never going to see each other again. I’m never going to see your family again. I’m going to go outside, call someone to pick me up and pretend this whole embarrassing scene never happened. Good-bye, Isaiah. Good-bye, nice people. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  With that, she pivoted and headed for the front door, waving over her shoulder.

  Isaiah hastily stood. “Bye, uh...”

  “Jamila,” she called.

  “Bye, Jamil—”

  The door slammed shut, cutting him off.

  Shrugging, Isaiah grabbed another slice of toast as he sank back into his chair.

  It took the rest of them another second or two to emerge from their shell-shocked silence. Ethan, who’d always gotten along with Isaiah the way Cain got along with Abel, recovered first.

  “You’re a real treat, man,” Ethan shouted. “You know that? What the hell’s wrong with you? Bringing some strange woman up in your mama’s house?”

  “I am the head of this household!” Nigel boomed.

  “Here we go,” Daniel muttered, taking a seat to watch the Dictator in action.

  “And I will handle this!”

  Ethan swept his arms wide in a be my guest gesture.

  “How dare you bring a strange woman into this house?” Nigel shouted.

  Isaiah looked incredulous. “You didn’t even know she was here.”

  “That’s not the point!” Nigel’s face bypassed red and went straight for purple. “You will treat us with respect— “

  “I did treat you with respect,” Isaiah said. “Why do you think I slept here, like Ma wanted me to, rather than at a hotel like I’d planned to?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Standing on the sidelines had never been Ethan’s thing, especially when there was a chance to trash Isaiah. “You think hooking up with—”

  The eardrum-splitting clatter of the lid from a pan hitting the stainless-steel sink shut them all up. Ada stood by the sink, arm outstretched and pending doom in her eyes.

  “Now that I have your attention,” she said in a chilling voice, “I’d like all of you fools to sit down and quietly eat the delicious breakfast I went to a great deal of trouble to cook. Do you understand me?”

  Eyes lowered, they all mumbled a reply.

  “Ma’am,” Daniel said glumly.

  “Thank you, Anger Boy,” Ada told him, before turning to Nigel. “Let’s try that again. Dictator? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Nigel grumbled.

  “Short Man?” Looking slightly mollified, Ada turned to Ethan. “Are we clear?”

  “Yep,” Ethan said tightly.

  “Edward? We never did get around to nicknaming you, did we? Well, anyway. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Edward said.

  “Steve Jobs Junior?” Ada looked to Isaiah.

  “Why don’t you have a nickname?” Isaiah demanded.

  “I do,” she said, picking up her bowl and whisking the eggs with grim satisfaction. “Ass-Kicker in Chief.”

  Chapter 7

  The good thing about his family, Daniel supposed, was that they kept things noisy and interesting. A nice plus when you had a head full of troublesome thoughts to avoid. But the problem with nagging thoughts was that they always came back. And when breakfast finally ended, Daniel walked into town with one persistent thought dancing a conga line through his brain:

  Coming back was a mistake.

  If he’d made a good decision in the last quarter that involved something more complex than selecting a dinner wine, he couldn’t think of it now. Hell, his poor decisions littered the landscape like the fall leaves crackling on the river walk beneath his feet as he made his way down the hill, with the Hudson glittering to his left.

  Reviewing his tragic string of mistakes, just for kicks:

  He shouldn’t have agreed to come back here and work with the Dictator. How had he managed to overlook the fact that the two of them could only get along in two-minute increments with a nice data plan between them? Because his father had a heart attack a few months back? And that was supposed to turn his father from an overbearing control freak to a reasonable human being who played well with others?

  Sure.

  And Daniel shat diamonds and pissed melted gold.

  Moving on to last night, Daniel shouldn’t have gone over to Zoya to say hello. Shouldn’t have made eye contact. Shouldn’t have listened to the sound of her voice or noticed what she was wearing. Shouldn’t have asked her for a drink or done anything more interactive than raising his hand in an offhand wave
from across the room.

  Above all, dear God in heaven, he should not have fucking touched her.

  Oh, but he’d done more than touch her, hadn’t he? He crossed the street, flexing his fingers with the remembered feel of her vibrant skin against his. He’d let her get to him. And he, who worked his best to keep a lid on his hot temper and succeeded most of the time (actually, he succeeded almost all the time when he wasn’t back here in Journey’s End, with the people who pushed his buttons), had lost control. Just completely lost his freaking mind, to the point where he’d picked Zoya up and slung her over his shoulder so he could have his way with her.

  He’d picked her up in public!

  Like some kind of caveman with a club in his free hand and a Fred-Flintstone-mobile parked out back!

  No one had witnessed his moment of insanity, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that, like an alcoholic contemplating a single cold beer at a baseball game, he’d mistakenly allowed himself to believe that he could have a small hit of her without lapsing back into addiction. Obsession.

  Now he was paying the price with a sperm-whale-sized hangover. His heart beat too hard. His skin felt too tight. Worst of all, the rush of blood in his ears sounded like her name.

  Zoya.

  Zoya.

  Zoya.

  He turned right onto DeGroot Avenue, Journey’s End’s shop and restaurant-lined main street. A passing car tooted at him and his hand automatically went up in a wave, but he saw nothing.

  His mind was too full of her.

  Her eyes.

  Her mouth.

  Her delectable body as it surged against his.

  Her pussy.

  It was one thing to be an obsessed twenty-one-year-old college student with his first love. That shit was normal. An obsessed thirty-six-year-old man, on the other hand?

  He’d crossed into pathetic loser territory.

  Not that he had a viable plan for eradicating her from his brain.

  Hell, if he could have managed that, he’d have done it long before now.

  His body shuddered and tightened with renewed want. It really was a dark art, the way that one woman knotted his gut up with desire and turned his brain to applesauce.

  Now, after fourteen years of Zoya-free sobriety, he was right back at Day 1. Drowning in regret (how the hell did he let her get to him like that?) and in dire need of a good month or more of rehab.

  He was, in short, a big freaking mess.

  The kicker?

  The next time she looked at him with those eyes or laughed at him—taunted him—he’d be primed to do the exact same thing all over again.

  She hadn’t smiled at him, though.

  Oh, sure, she’d laughed at him—as well she should, because it was plain to everybody with eyes that he was wrapped as tightly around her little finger as he’d ever been—but she hadn’t laughed with him. There’d been no warmth to her. Only the same brittle anger that he lived with every day of his life.

  Once upon a time, Zoya’s musical laughter had been the soundtrack by which he lived his life. Did she still laugh like that these days? Did she give that amazing laugh to some other man?

  The possibility made his shoulder muscles bunch up.

  That was another thing about last night that really stuck in his craw. Another titanic mistake. He’d shown her his hand. He’d revealed how much the idea of other men in her life upset him.

  Which meant that she had the upper hand, because she damn sure hadn’t shown him any weakness last night.

  Except that...she remembered.

  Something inside him smiled.

  Blossomed, just a little.

  For all these years, he’d harbored the secret fear that she’d put him irrevocably out of her mind. That he might one day run into her on some street, and she’d study him closely, scrunching up her face, before finally snapping her fingers and saying, “We went to college together, didn’t we?”

  But, no.

  She’d remembered.

  The knowledge might make his steps lighten, but, in the end, it didn’t mean a damn thing. Because addicts had to fight against their poison, and God knew Zoya was his. As someone who greatly valued his sanity—he couldn’t go around slinging women over his shoulder and having sex with them in semi-private places; plus, she’d bloodied his heart and left him for dead once before, so he damn sure wasn’t going to open himself up to that type of misery again—he knew what he had to do.

  He had to stay away from her.

  It could work. He’d be at the vineyard most of the time, working on Harper Rose wines. She’d be at her shop. They might see each other here or there, in passing, but he could just wave and keep going. She’d make it easy enough, right? It wasn’t like she wanted to see him any more than he wanted to see her.

  We’re not doing this again. Nothing’s changed, she’d said last night when he’d been about to ask her—for the third time—to have that drink with him. She just couldn’t reject him fast or often enough.

  Bitterness surged inside him.

  We’re not doing this again.

  Well, fine. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what she’d get. Fine by him.

  Except...

  He’d never know anything about her life now, or why she’d really given up playing the cello.

  She’d never smile at him again.

  The bitterness turned to a painful ache of longing. Another demonstration of how whipped he was.

  He had to figure out a way to make peace with this twisted situation. No matter how much he felt like punching the nearest towering oak as he passed.

  Okay, man. Get your head back in the game. Look for Java Nectar—

  Whoa. Sleepy little Journey’s End had really changed while he was gone, hadn’t it?

  Saturday morning was apparently the time to be out and about, because a steady stream of people strolled by, most with city or Jersey accents. People were coming up from Manhattan to spend the weekends, then. So much the better for local commerce, like the vineyard.

  A wave of nostalgia hit him as he saw his parents’ restaurant, Harper Rose Bistro, across the street. The place looked the same as ever—it might be time for a new coat of paint and sign, though—and his mother had really gone nuts with the flowerpot mums, pumpkins and squash out front.

  And there was his brother James’s store, Blue Sky Outfitters, right in front of him. He peered in the giant plate-glass window and was happy to see a bunch of customers and a salesman clustered around a kayak on display. Tempted as he was to go inside and check it out, he decided to wait until James got back from his honeymoon and could show him around the place.

  Daniel kept going, his attention hooked by a pink shop across the street. He squinted. Gelato. He’d better go ahead and sign up for their platinum rewards program now just to save time. And just past that was—

  “Hang on,” said a familiar female voice.

  Daniel froze. If a heart could sink with dread and soar with excitement all at the same time, that was what his did. Taking another couple steps, he saw the shop on the other side of James’s and realized it was...Zoya’s.

  And there she was, facing off with some delivery person with a clipboard and a huge wooden sign.

  Just then, a passing dad with a kid in tow clipped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, buddy,” he said as he hurried past.

  Catching himself—he couldn’t stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like an idiot—Daniel reminded himself of his plan for dealing with Zoya: wave and keep going.

  He started walking again, noting that she’d updated the building’s facade. Now a vibrant yellow clapboard with a cheery blue and white awning, it used to be her father’s dreary gray tailor’s shop with black awning.

  She’d done a good job.

  She always did.

  He took another step, his gaze shifting to her high color and narrowed eyes. She was pissed. A pissed-off Zoya was a thrilling sight for which he’d willingly buy a ticket and a bag
of popcorn. And her body? Today it was encased in a pair of faded jeans that loved her ass almost as much as Daniel did. Spiky heels, because she was so short, and a fuzzy pink sweater rounded out her look, which was good enough to eat.

  His intentions were pure. Honest to God. All he had to do was wave and keep going. Simple. But the closer he got to her, the more his steps slowed.

  “There’s a typo in the sign,” Zoya was telling the delivery guy.

  “You sure?” The guy scratched his head and played dumb, but he was no Tom Hanks.

  Zoya’s lips thinned accordingly. “Yeah, I’m sure. I think I know the name of my own shop. It’s Spun Gold.” She pointed at the offending letter. “Your sign says Spin Gold.”

  The guy considered the sign. “Well, Spin Gold works too, doesn’t it? I actually like that better.”

  Zoya’s brows contracted, warning of this dude’s pending obliteration. Since her fury wasn’t directed at him, Daniel took a second or two to marvel at the way the most beautiful woman in the world could so closely resemble a rabid pit bull with froth at the corners of its fanged mouth.

  Just wave and keep going, he told himself, lingering where he was on the sidewalk, but there was no freaking way he was going to miss this.

  Zoya put her hands on her hips as she glared up at the guy. “Did you actually just suggest that I change the name of my business because your company messed up—oh, Daniel.” Her eyes widened and a surge of color ran up her neck and across her cheekbones as she noticed him for the first time. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hey,” Daniel said, trying not to be too greedy about the way he stared at her face, but that was as hard as forcing himself not to stand too close to her. “I was just, ah, heading to Java Nectar. To meet with my, ah, real estate agent.”

  Just wave and keep going, Harper.

  “Oh.” Something in Zoya’s expression flickered. Hardened. “Well. Don’t let me keep you. Bye.” She turned back to the delivery guy. “Is this the best customer service you have for me? Telling me to change the name of my business?”

  Daniel, meanwhile, absorbed the invisible shove between his shoulder blades.

  Dismissed, he thought, annoyed.

  For the umpteenth time in less than twenty-four hours.