And then I’m alone in the hotel bar, facing a choice: leave and spend the rest of the evening by myself in my room in the cabin, because I sure as hell am not going to risk running into Logan.
Or I can stay, with the knowledge that sitting by myself at the bar I might as well hang a sign around my neck saying, Come talk to me.
I catch the bartender’s eye. He arches a brow at me—just one, and oh, my god, it's sexy—and I curve my lips in response. After placing a tumbler in front of an older guy in a Hawaiian shirt, he approaches.
“You look like you’re ready for more,” he says, and I know I’m not imagining the innuendo in his tone.
“Yes, please.” I nudge my glass toward him, watching the way his black dress shirt clings to his hefty shoulders and arms as he turns away.
Yes, please.
Heat floods my chest, fanning up my neck and into my cheeks. Little pinpricks of thrill skitter over my skin. It’s a sensation that’s equal parts startling and enjoyable. Yes, I’ve gone out since my separation, usually with Beth. Yes, I’ve had opportunities to flirt.
And no, I haven’t wanted to. Now, suddenly, it’s appealing again. Why?
Maybe because of what happened with Logan this morning? Maybe I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of feeling something, anything, for a man who’s not him? Even if it’s just lust.
Or maybe one drink was enough and I really shouldn't have another one right now. Ugh.
My enthusiasm is dampened enough that I only offer a quick smile and murmured thanks when the bartender puts my second gin and tonic in front of me. My tepid response doesn’t kill the spark in his eye, but he moves on without a word, and I pluck my phone out of my clutch.
Sipping my drink, I check my email—still nothing from Luna, sigh—and then I spend more time than I usually do scrolling through social media. Which might be a really bad idea right now, because twice I catch myself on the verge of responding to comments from trolls, stuff I shouldn’t even be reading let alone considering replying to.
Never drink and Facebook. It’s a rule of mine, and I almost just broke it. Disgusted, I close the app and put my phone down. Lifting my glass to my lips, I glance around the room. My scan stops on a couple of guys seated at the opposite side of the bar. They have that conference attendee look about them with their dress shirts and slacks—casual but still professional.
The guy on the left is completely bald even though I doubt he’s much over forty, which means he’s the kind of guy who had thinning hair and decided to go the nuclear route rather than messing around with comb-overs or transplants. The other one has a full head of dark hair, pale eyes, and a dimpled chin. He’s definitely not hard on the eyes.
I find my gaze drawn to him…until his wanders across the room, and he catches me. I tamp down hard on my urge to avert my eyes. Yeah, I was staring. But I’m a big girl. I’ll own it.
So I stay fixed on him while his forehead creases, keep watching as surprise passes over his face. I don’t even look away as he says something to his companion before sliding off his seat and weaving his way around the bar toward me.
And then he’s standing before me, approximately six feet of lean, athletic maleness.
Okay, here it comes. Is he going to be cheesy? Smarmy? Funny? Or just awkward? I hold my breath, delicately arching my brows as I meet his gaze.
He doesn’t say anything, though. He just stares at me—and my eyebrows creep higher. What the hell?
“Can I help you with anything?” I finally say mildly.
“Nah,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”
“Excuse me?” I splutter with an unamused chuckle. Guess I forgot to wonder if he was going to be rude.
Palms up, he widens his eyes at me. “Well, I mean, there’s gotta be something wrong with you. Why else would a woman like you be sitting here by yourself?”
Oooh, okay. He’s going for disarmingly charming and funny.
It shouldn’t work on me. I should be rolling my eyes. But instead my chest fills with a heat that rushes up my neck and into my cheeks, a prickly and flushed and embarrassing pleasure.
Grasping for composure, I sit up straighter and make a show of raking my gaze around the crowded bar. “Maybe everyone else knows something you don’t,” I offer with a smile, trying for teasing and provocative.
He apparently takes that as an invitation to sit down, resting his undoubtedly tight ass on the stool and putting his bottle on the bar. As he leans toward me, I catch a whiff of him—of beer and of something fresh and clean, like soap or shaving cream, and underneath all of that, a hint of musk. The smell of him, of a man. I want to move closer and inhale more deeply.
“And what is it they know?” he asks in a low tone, his disturbingly intense eyes boring into me.
Ohmygod. What do I say? This could be going someplace hot and heavy in a hurry if I allow it. Do I want that? I don’t know.
Actually, I’m really not in the mood for games, I realize. I feel old all of a sudden—tired and jaded. Like flirting and teasing is for young people, and pretending I’m someone I’m not doesn’t sound even a little bit fun.
So let’s see if the truth scares this guy away.
“Maybe they can tell that I’m separated from my husband, in the middle of a messy divorce, and that I have three kids under the age of ten?” I say, arching my eyebrows.
He blinks at me, clearly taken aback. Something flickers in his eyes. Indecision, probably. He’s asking himself if I’m worth it or if he should just get the hell out now.
“Their loss,” he announces with a shrug, straightening on his stool and flashing a quick grin.
Okay, then. I eye him cautiously, trying to gauge if his chill reaction is a good thing.
“Graham Weber,” he says, sticking his hand out. “Divorced, no kids.”
Responding with my own name, I lift my hand and let him take it. He has a warm, firm grip and big hands. I imagine them roaming my body, slowly and thoroughly caressing me, arousing me. Suddenly I’m a little breathless.
“You here for the conference?” he inquires.
“No, I’m here for a case. I’m an attorney.” At his mild frown, I explain, “Eccentric, high-maintenance clients. Long story that I can’t share.”
Nodding, he picks up his beer and takes a drink.
“You’re here for the conference, though?” I ask, feeling like I should share the responsibility of keeping the conversation going. “What is it exactly?”
So then he tells me that it’s a cardiology symposium, and I half expect him to launch into a boastful speech about his career and his accomplishments, but instead he says, “How about I get you another drink?”
I know I shouldn’t. The edges of my vision are going soft, and my head is getting fuzzy. I’m definitely tipsy. But I’m a Waters, and we pride ourselves on being able to hold our drink. Besides, the alcohol is doing a great job of dulling the pain in my muscles. They’re getting just as sore as I feared they would.
I accept, and after he orders another gin and tonic for me and a beer for himself, the bartender shuffles off to get our drinks—after throwing me another flirtatious look; he’s not easily deterred, apparently.
“So is this conference an annual thing, and is it always here?” I ask casually.
“Yes, and no. New location every year, but it’s always a tourist resort like this—last year it was at Disneyland.” His smile turns rueful, and I get distracted by his lips. They have perfect proportions. He could be a lip model.
“I think the whole thing is just an excuse for people to write off their vacations,” he goes on, “because there’s not much worthwhile otherwise.”
“Then why are you here?” I blurt out.
“Why, since I don’t have a family to bring?” he replies, his voice tart and self-deprecating.
Mortification flares in my chest, fanning heat into my cheeks. That’s not what I meant. “No,
I—”
“I’m teasing,” he interrupts with laughter in his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. To answer your question, I come to catch up with old acquaintances, mostly. And this year I was invited to be the keynote speaker.”
I widen my eyes, impressed. The bartender brings our drinks, and this time I avoid locking eyes with the guy. Then I throw Graham an apologetic look. “Sorry. Wrong day for small talk.” As he raises his brows in question, I add, “Personal stuff.”
“‘Separated, three kids’ kind of stuff?”
Ugh. I can’t help grimacing. I know I’m the one who volunteered that information, but why did he have to go there?
Tossing down a swallow of his beer, he eyes me over the bottle. “Figured I’d move on to the big talk.”
I shoot him a wry look. “I’m three drinks in already. Pretty sure that kind of talk is too big right now.”
“Nah. Never a better time. Think of it as truth serum.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say with a chuckle. Time to redirect again. “Why don’t you tell me about ‘divorced, no kids’?”
His cheerfulness evaporates, and a shadow creeps into his eyes. “That story’s kind of a downer.”
“I don’t mind if you don’t,” I counter, curious now.
So then he starts telling me about how he met his wife in college, how they clicked from day one, how they were the loves of each other’s lives, and I listen intently, taking occasional sips of my drink and watching Graham’s face and deciding I really like him. He’s funny and charming and obviously smart—hello? keynote speaker?—and he’s attractive in an understated kind of way.
As he reaches the post-college-married-bliss part of his tale, though, I catch movement in the corner of my eye, shapes that look familiar. Glancing slantways across the bar, I see them immediately: Logan and Stuart Garnett. They’re taking a seat at the counter, deep in conversation—meaning Garnett is talking and Logan is listening with an unmistakably annoyed expression.
Quickly, I refocus on the guy next to me, determined to pretend I haven’t seen my ex and his client arrive.
And then I get distracted as Graham gets to the meat of his story. Apparently things began to go downhill as they struggled with infertility. My mouth turning down and sympathy twisting, I listen to him describe the treatments and the setbacks and the heartache. I’ve had several divorce clients whose marriages fell apart due to infertility. It can be a terrible strain.
“Finally, the second round of IVF worked, and she got pregnant,” he says sadly. “All our prayers answered, right?” He sighs, and I brace myself. It still feels like a gut punch when he tells me they lost the baby at twenty weeks. My neck prickling with horror, I just watch him with big eyes as he wraps it up quickly: the grief drove them apart, and eventually they agreed that a split would be best for both of them.
“See?” he says with humor that seems brittle. “A total downer.”
I shake my head, a grunt of commiseration and distress tearing itself from my throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. That’s just…awful.”
“No need to say anything.” He gives me a warm smile, and I find myself mirroring it. There’s an ease and openness about him that’s hugely appealing.
We descend into silence, and Logan’s presence returns to me. I can feel him there, pulling at me, tempting me to look. Has he noticed I’m here? Probably.
He probably also has feelings and opinions about my sitting here chatting with another guy like this. I try to feel smug about it. This morning he seemed to think I’ve done nothing this past year except sit around and pine for him. Claiming I need him.
Well, actually, babe, I don’t. See? You’re not the only man in the world.
But there’s no satisfaction in it. Instead there’s a breathless and burning sense of shame and guilt, churning in my stomach. Yeah, we’re separated, but he’s still my husband. I feel like I’m cheating on him. Why do I feel like I’m cheating? It’s stupid and disgusting, but I can’t quell it, and it’s frustrating almost to the point of tears. How long am I going to keep feeling stuck like this?
Giving a small cough, I put on a brave face and tell Graham, “Well, you definitely put my problems in perspective. They seem trivial in comparison.”
“It’s not a competition, Paige.” Spoken by his deep and mellow voice, my name sounds like a caress. “You fell in love with this guy. You married him. Had three kids with him…?”
The last part he turns into a question, and I'm momentarily nonplussed when I realize it’s not a given that my kids all have the same father. I give a short nod, with my head swimming and a bitter taste on my tongue. The threat of tears is looming, larger than ever. It’s time to get out of here.
“And now what you had with him is slipping away,” he goes on. “That’s not trivial.”
No. No, it’s not. “Are you always this perceptive?” I ask mildly.
He grins. “Wait until I’ve had a couple more drinks.”
Despite myself, I laugh at that. Then I notice my phone buzzing, and asking him to excuse me, I pick it up and look at the screen.
It’s a text. From Logan.
Is that guy going to give you what you need? Or is he going to run scared when he finds out who you really are, Good Girl?
Oh, my God. I forget how to breathe. It’s like my chest is caving in. Damn him. Good Girl? He said it earlier, too. Until today, how long had it been since he called me that? Years and years. The manipulative son of a bitch.
Feeling flushed and brittle, I switch off the screen without responding, and with shaky hands, I tuck the phone back into my clutch. I don’t look at Logan. I refuse to. It’s what he wants, and he’s not getting it.
“I’m actually ready to call it a night,” I say to Graham with a regretful smile. “Thanks for the drink and the conversation. I really enjoyed it.”
He appears taken aback, his eyes flicking to my purse, obviously wondering if the text message has something to do with my abandoning ship so suddenly. “Mind if I walk you to your room?” he asks after a second, and then he raises his palms defensively. “Only because I don’t want to be done talking to you. Swear to God.”
I blink, trying to come up with an excuse. Not because I want to get away from him. I just don’t see any point to it. Logan’s message hit home. I’m still not ready. I probably won’t be ready, not until I’m well and truly divorced.
“I’m actually staying in a cabin,” is all I can think to say through my alcohol-fogged brain.
“All the more reason to not walk there by yourself,” he argues. So persistent.
Well, why not?
With a quick smile, I agree.
Chapter 17
Logan
What the hell is she doing?
Is she actually leaving with that guy?
I feel like I swallowed a chunk of ice the size of a boulder as I watch her slide off her stool and start weaving past people around the bar toward the exit, the dude she’s been chatting with following close behind.
Jesus Christ.
With Stu’s croaking voice in my ear, droning on about hiking gear, I watch their progress with burgeoning disbelief, willing her to glance my way and notice the look on my face. She doesn’t, and it’s not as if she’s likely to care either way. She’s always had a stubborn streak, and she’s probably still reeling from what happened at the end of the hike this morning, which would only add to her mulishness.
Leaving with a stranger she met in a bar, though. That’s just dumb, and it’s not like her to be dumb. What the fuck is she thinking?
As the two of them disappear outside, my pounding heart jumps into my throat.
She’s not mine anymore. She hasn’t been for a while, so what she chooses to do and with whom isn’t any of my business, is it? With clenched fists, I sit there staring at my drink for what feels like way too long, waging internal war. Do I follow or do I not?
Fuck it.
I turn to Stu and
say, “Hey, I gotta—”
“—and so, really,” he keeps talking, ignoring me, “you’re better off with the most lightweight boots you can find, even though the heavy backpacking boots give you more support, they—”
“Stu!” I snap, and he clamps his mouth shut and widens his eyes at me. Drawing in a breath, I hurriedly say, “I’m sorry. I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Uh, okay,” he says, brows furrowed.
Where would they have gone? My mind churns as I shoulder my way out of the bar and into the short hallway that leads to the lobby. The cavernous room is quiet and almost empty, and I don’t see my wife anywhere. She wouldn’t have gone to his room with him…right?
God dammit. God dammit. If blood pressure was visual, mine right now would look like a gasket about to blow.
Well, if she has gone to his room, I’m shit outta luck, having no idea where that would be. My only chance of catching up is if they’re heading to the cabin.
While power walking along the path through the woods, I’m panting as if I’ve been sprinting for miles. If I do manage to catch up, what am I going to find? My mind has no shortage of sinister scenarios, like imagining the guy dragging her into the woods before raping and brutally murdering her. It feels hysterical and over the top to even think it, but that shit does actually happen.
Why is she doing this?
To punish me somehow?
Yeah. It’s my fault. I pushed her today, too far and too soon. Fuck.
I finally round the last bend in the path that brings the cabin into view, a road illuminated by dim lampposts. Up by the building, I see them. They’re standing at the foot of the steps, their shapes clearly visible in the glow from the cabin coach lights. She’s looking up at him, and I’m pretty sure there’s a smile on her face, the same one she kept flashing him in the bar.
It took me a minute after I discovered them sitting there talking tonight before it dawned on me he’s the same guy who was ogling her in the lobby the other day. The same guy who backed the fuck down as soon as he noticed me mad-dogging him.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 22