Married To Her Ex

by Cantrell, Kat

  Jesse twisted the knob on one of the massive double doors and ushered her into the palatial foyer.

  He’d hired an army of people to decorate and create the tone. A curved staircase of ornate wrought-iron spindles and stained oak twisted out of the cool marble tile and led to a bridge overlooking the entryway. On either side, the house stretched into room after room of simple furnishings with clean lines and natural colors. The minimalist design embodied taste and quiet wealth as intended. The house mirrored the woman next to him—classy, polished, and stunning. A structural representation of all that she was.

  “What do you think?” He tossed the question off lightly and was shocked when his palms grew clammy. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to like it.

  She cocked her head as if contemplating. “It’s okay.”

  Disappointment welled in his throat, and he swallowed it away. What had he expected? She’d agreed to live here, not gush over his surprise. “Make yourself at home, Alf. Here’s your key.”

  He dangled the key from a small ring until she took it.

  “I hate it when you call me that.”

  Shrugging, he said, “It’s not my fault Alexia and Ford smush so nicely into Alf.”

  “Why can’t you call me Sexy Lexi like any other normal person would?” she countered, spinning the key in a circle by its ring as if she didn’t care either way.

  “Sexy Lexi is too ordinary and cliché. You’re anything but.”

  Heat glimmered in the depths of her eyes, and it had been so long, his body caught it and nursed it into something far more full-blown than the small moment should have triggered.

  But mother of all that’s holy… she had always done that to him from the first moment he’d caught sight of her charging down a busy sidewalk without a care for where she was going.

  She blinked, and the moment vanished.

  He’d anticipated this would be hard, but not this hard. Alexia was passionate about everything, especially him, once upon a time. But passionate also equaled zealously stubborn.

  Moki lumbered into the foyer, and Alexia’s eyes widened.

  Jesse lifted a hand. “Alexia, this is Moki. The housekeeper.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Jesse. You don’t track in dirt, leave clothes on the floor, or move furniture, we get along.”

  The lilt of the islands flowed through Moki’s every syllable as if he’d stepped off a plane yesterday, which wasn’t far from the truth. The Hawaiian had worked for a resort in Kailua-Kona until a few months ago when he left to find a job here so he could stay close to his ill sister.

  Without missing a beat, she shook his hand and said, “I’m the ex-Mrs. Jesse. You can call me Alexia.”

  Figured she’d correct him right away, to be clear she belonged to no one. The next three months had been meticulously charted to prove her wrong. She was his, and she’d realize it before he was done. Though it was looking like today was a wash on that front. Undoubtedly, she needed some distance to get her bearings before he railroaded her further.

  Instead of jumping right into a reconciliation she obviously wasn’t ready for, he’d have to go with plan B—space.

  “Moki can show you around. Dinner’s at seven. I have some work to do,” Jesse said and turned to leave.

  “Not so fast.” Alexia caught up with Jesse in two strides and grabbed his elbow. Then released him as if she’d been scalded.

  Yeah, the spark had zapped him, too. No one stood up to him the way she did, and that independent streak did it for him, big time.

  “You wanted me here, you got it.” She paused as Moki shuffled off to the kitchen. “Now you think you get a free pass to dump me off with the housekeeper and go to work? I don’t think so.”

  The sparks she’d fanned to life died a painful and cold death. She’d been in the house less than ten minutes, and already she wanted to throw down about Outlaw. Never mind his exodus had started as a favor to her, to give her space. Now she was going to force him to dig in and hold his ground. Escaping into work where emotions didn’t threaten to drown him suddenly held a great deal of appeal. Just like it had for the miserable months before their marriage collapsed.

  His temper uncurled and slithered around his tongue, but he bit back harsher words. “I run a company, like I have since the day we met.”

  “No, you use work as an excuse to avoid me.”

  “I’m not avoid—” His hands fisted as he took a deep breath. Obviously, she still couldn’t wrap her mind around what Outlaw meant to him. Time and distance had lulled him into a false sense of security about their issues, into believing they could handle things differently this time. “We’ve been through this a million times. I’m the CEO. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “So let’s make it a million and one. If you’re the CEO, that means you can take time off whenever you feel like it.” Her crossed arms and jutted chin didn’t budge an inch.

  “Actually, it means I work harder and longer than everyone else. You used to respect that.” He clamped his mouth shut before the rest spewed out.

  You never saw your rejection of Outlaw as a rejection of me.

  Rehashing this again was too hard. Too painful. Once, he’d been fooled into believing Alexia was proud of what he’d accomplished, only to be sucked into a marshland in his own home, mystified as to how he could avoid the sinkholes of her sudden hostility for the company he’d built from nothing.

  He’d hoped to tell her about the Sattlewhite acquisition, hoped she might see past her mad long enough to congratulate him for realizing one of his long-term goals. Obviously that had been a stupid thing to wish for.

  Arms crossed and eyes blazing, she raked him from head to toe. “Why am I here if you don’t want to be around me? Did you think you could tuck me away in this extravagant house like it’s some substitute so I wouldn’t notice you slipping off to work?”

  “You’re here because we belong together.”

  Because he loved her. And because he couldn’t let their marriage go, with that needle of failure digging into him day in and day out. Knowing he’d messed up and lost her but clueless how to repair the damage. He refused to accept that this relationship was the one thing he couldn’t fix.

  She flipped a lock of hair behind her shoulder. “If that’s so true, then don’t disappear. Show me your house.”

  If only she’d asked because she wanted him around, instead of strictly to be contrary.

  “Sure.” He needed a scenery change fast, before the tension caved in his skull. “I had no idea you were so eager to be in my company, but it’s a nice surprise.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” she said sweetly, her ire simmering beneath the sugary tones.

  They walked up the stairs, side by side—she’d never been much of a follower. Her sexy heels wobbled in the thick runner, and twice he stuck a hand out to steady her but pulled it back at the last second. How frustrating to not have the liberty of reaching for her. Touching her.

  On the second floor, the bridge spanning the foyer below led to a long hallway. Jesse paused at the end and motioned to his bedroom. Before he could say a word, she shook her head vehemently, as if a spider had landed on her cheek and she couldn’t get it off fast enough.

  “Oh, no. I’m not sharing your bed.”

  Obviously she’d noticed the strategically placed surround-sound speakers and jeans in a casual heap on the chair.

  He’d never expected her to share his bed—not right away—but his mood hadn’t dissolved yet. Recklessly, he decided to skip the part where he’d planned to let her have one of the other bedrooms and pick out her own furniture. “This is the only bed there is.”

  “I never agreed to sleep with you.” Her tone could have frozen plasma. “I’ll find my own room.”

  Nose in the air, she flounced past him into the hall and threw open the door furthest away from the master suite. Then she repeated it for all the other rooms. He hooked his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and leaned against the wa
ll outside the bedroom, curious how long she was going to examine the empty rooms.

  She threw her shoulders back and whirled to cross the bridge.

  Double doors on the other side of the bridge led to the media room. She disappeared inside it, emphatically shutting the doors behind her. With a sigh, he started across the bridge to let her off the hook. Before he got halfway, the door crashed into the wall as it was flung open.

  Alexia spilled out then hit the ground, coiled into a ball on the floor, half in the room and half out, fighting to breathe in huge gasps.

  He swore and sprinted to her, then fell to his knees on the short-pile carpet. He brushed fingertips across her throat, probing and assessing. He shook her gently, but she didn’t respond.

  He pulled her into his arms and rocked, murmuring nonsense words, totally at a loss. Should he call 911? Do CPR? Powerless, he scraped wisps of hair out of her face and jammed down his rising panic.

  She lifted her head drunkenly and peered at him through watery eyes, saving him from making a decision. A blessing since his brain had deserted him upon seeing someone as strong as Alexia collapse. And suffer.

  “What happened?” He searched her face. “Are you okay?”

  Her pupils were dilated, and her breathing hitched with every rise of her chest. Pulling out of his embrace, she cleared her throat. “I’m fine. You can go to work.”

  She looked away, cradling her abdomen, refusing to let him in, refusing to allow him to take care of her. He liked to take care of her. Why was that so horrible?

  He folded his arms. Cold, empty arms, the way they’d been for a long time. “You’re not fine. Is this some kind of complication from the…”

  He circled a finger, as if searching for the word, when in reality it had sprung to his lips instantly then pinged around in his brain.

  He just couldn’t say it out loud.

  Miscarriage.

  All the resentment, hurt, confusion, and worst of all, the hollowness of her betrayal, came roaring back, staggering in intensity on the heels of her sniping about Outlaw. He thought he’d gotten over the anger, maybe forgiven her, or he never would have come up with this deal. Bad time to find out he’d been wrong.

  If only she hadn’t gotten pregnant… hell, if only she hadn’t done it on purpose, things would be so different between them now. Why was it so bad to want to understand why she’d selfishly gone back on their agreement to remain childless? But like all the other times they’d argued about the pregnancy, this conversation wouldn’t yield any answers either.

  The miscarriage had only made it worse, and the pain was still there between them. A ghost more substantial than steel.

  Alexia stared at the ground, the lines around her mouth tight and unyielding. “It’s nothing. Forget about it. Go to work.”

  Jesse stood and without a word helped her to her feet without waiting to see if she was going to let him.

  As easily as he’d pulled her from the floor, he did as asked and left. Because leaving was what he did when he couldn’t control the situation. When he couldn’t control his temper. Or worse, control his emotional reaction to Alexia’s grief. He dived into work, determined to be productive yet burn off his uncertainty and anger at the same time.

  Okay, yeah. Work did provide a great way to avoid stuff he didn’t want to deal with. Like the miscarriage. But it wasn’t Alexia he wanted to avoid, just the fifty-car pileup their relationship had become.

  He’d been an idiot to think being under the same roof again would magically fix their problems. A mistake which might very well mean he’d screwed up this chance with Alexia before he’d started.

  Something obviously needed to change, and fast. But what?

  Chapter 3

  The media room was off Alexia’s list as a possible bedroom. Who designed a room with no windows? It was just wrong.

  Jesse stomped down the stairs, and as soon as he was out of sight, she crossed the bridge, only wavering a little from residual dizziness. She flung open bedroom doors, set on finding something she’d missed on the first go-round, but the second floor remained maddeningly vacant of livable space.

  Well, then, she’d find a room on the first floor. Surely a house this size had some options. If it came to it, she could drag furniture from somewhere else into an empty bedroom. Or maybe ask the scary housekeeper to help. On second thought, the mountainous Moki had expressed his position on moving furniture quite clearly.

  Jesse was not going to win this battle, especially not after the same-old-same-old routine of being strong and amazing and letting her lean on him and then disappearing, emotionally and physically.

  Like he had after the miscarriage.

  Fine. She was over it. Better he go away anyway. She couldn’t stand being weak, couldn’t stand the helplessness of the panic attacks. It was bad enough to have them in the first place, let alone around Jesse. Why couldn’t she just be as strong as he was so he didn’t clue in how much he affected her? Now he’d surely use her stupid phobia about dark, closed-in places to his advantage.

  On the first floor, Elvis posters, a blue lava lamp, and a huge library of crime thrillers decorated the only bedroom. Had to be Moki’s room, but to picture the giant Hawaiian sitting in the lone chair indulging in something as normal as reading a book stretched her imagination.

  The hall outside Moki’s room led to the kitchen, a stylish gourmet number in sage and camel with stainless-steel appliances. The layout and small touches were cleverly designed to conjure the immediate urge to bake cookies in it, or at least it would in someone who had the ability to boil water without burning it.

  Something about the kitchen made her want to learn to cook, though, as if it had been designed for a clueless chef.

  From Alexia’s vantage point in the kitchen, she spied two French doors with a waffle design of windows visible through a grand arch. Inside was a salon with a divan, two elegant chairs, and a gorgeous antique writing desk waiting quietly in the corner for someone to take up the lost art of correspondence.

  The room didn’t have a closet or easy access to a bathroom, but light poured through the bay windows and gave the room an illusion of size. An impressive view of the lush courtyard sealed the deal. She wasn’t too proud to sleep on the couch, and Moki might part with a pillow and a blanket.

  Done. All the comforts of a well-appointed jail cell.

  After carefully selecting a good spot for Reggie’s fishbowl, she trudged to the front entrance to retrieve her bags from the foyer. Three forlorn suitcases sat near the small table at a right angle to the double doors. Movers had taken most of her worldly possessions to storage, what little she’d kept when life with Jesse had ended. The less she brought to the devil’s house, the less she would have to pack up later.

  The next three months loomed, lonely and long, with almost nothing familiar around. She leaned her bags against the divan, the navy canvas a stark contrast against the rich, cream-colored suede.

  At least she had Reggie. His bold colors contrasted perfectly with the eggshell drapes hanging behind his bowl.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked the fish and trailed a fingertip across the glass by his head.

  He floated lazily in his bowl and swished his tail, which he did twenty-four hours a day, but she pretended he recognized her voice and responded to it, even when the question had no answer. Or at least not one she liked.

  She was here because, despite everything she’d told herself, she didn’t want it to be over with Jesse. This deal wasn’t only about getting the patent, not that she’d admit that to him. But God, it was so foolish to yearn for the relationship they’d had before she got pregnant, and even stupider to believe they could ever get that back. The best she should hope for her time here was the means to move on after losing first the baby and then her husband in rapid succession.

  The Thigh Thing would finally show everyone what she could do on her own. Intelligence and flair would be enough to propel a fledgling business int
o the black, like Jesse had done with Outlaw. Maybe he might find a way to be proud of her.

  One could dream.

  Prickles of awareness traveled down her spine, interrupting her bout of melancholy. A large, black Lab crouched in the hallway, staring into the salon. He watched her with animated brown eyes and a lolling tongue, frozen in the classic pose of a dog-food print-campaign star.

  “Hey there,” she called.

  The dog whined deep in his throat but stayed put, so she held out a hand and clicked her tongue. He bounded into the room and licked her enthusiastically. Her mother had had allergies, so she’d never had a pet growing up. Reggie was her first, a purchase born out of crushing loneliness. Jesse wasn’t a pet person, and it was hard to imagine him experiencing such a humanizing emotion as loneliness. So why was there a dog in Jesse’s house?

  “What’s your name, boy?” She scratched behind his ears, his short fur sliding along the tips of her fingers like rough silk. “I guess you don’t talk back either.”

  The dog bounded up on the couch, shedding to his heart’s content and unconcerned about invoking the housekeeper’s ire. She loved him instantly.

  “His name is Useless.” Moki’s island rhythm rang out from the hall. He pointed to the dog. “He don’t listen to me. Get down, Useless. See? He just laughs at me.”

  Tongue lolling again, the dog did appear to think the whole thing was funny.

  “Why did Jesse name him Useless?” she asked.

  Frank was more in line with Jesse’s humor. The James brothers ride again, despite one of them being a dog.

  “Mr. Jesse says the dog is useless and the name sticks. Eh.” He waved a hand in disgust and thumped his wide chest. “I say it’s a perfect name. He eats and eats. When he’s not eating, he sleeps. He likes my bed. Maybe he likes your bed instead. That’d be the best thing to happen all week.”

  “He can sleep with me.”

  Useless would be her only friend in this lonely house. The couch was barely big enough for her, let alone a gangly bunch of legs and tail, but the idea of having a warm, furry bedmate full of unconditional love appealed to her. A lot.