by Cassie Wild
“Dad isn’t going to get bent out of shape if you don’t wear white gloves,” he said. “We never do.”
I pursed my lips, uncertain how to address that.
And it would have been a wasted effort because, even as I tried to figure it out, he cupped my chin and tilted my head up and back.
A second later, his mouth was on mine.
I froze.
Wow.
Oh.
Wow.
My blood, already heated, began to simmer, then boil until it was like lava in my veins. The hand on my chin slid backward, fingers spearing into my hair and twisting.
Pleasure and want spread through me, and I curled my hands into fists, my nails biting into my skin through the protection of the thin white gloves.
Wow.
Oh. Wow.
Sean stepped closer, a low rumbling groan escaping him.
The sound of that hit me low and hard, the sucker-punch of desire catching me completely off guard.
Stop. It was either the surprise or some latent sense of self-preservation, but whatever it was, it whispered again, Stop.
I reached up and pressed my hands to his chest, urging him back. “Stop it, Sean.”
“Don’t wanna,” he said, fingers sliding to my chin once more and angling my face up to meet his. “You’re sweet. Let me kiss you again.”
“No.” I broke away from him, shaking my head. “This isn’t happening.”
“Why not?” He pressed his thumb to my lower lip.
A shiver of awareness raced through me. Why? Why did I have to feel like this with him?
He saw it too. His eyes darkened until they were the color of the far eastern sky right before the sun set, and his pupils spiked until just a thin rim of that intense, brilliant blue showed. “Why not?” he asked again. “You can’t tell me you’re not interested.”
“No. I can’t.” I caught his wrist and tugged his hand away yet again. “But there are lots of things I’m interested in. Eating entire tubes of raw cookie dough, entire gallons of ice cream, an entire New York pepperoni pizza by myself. But just because I’m interested in doing something doesn’t mean it’s good for me…or that I will.”
“C’mon…” His lids drooped, and he stared at me from under his lashes. “It’s not like you have to worry about excess calories with me. Your figure is perfect. And even if you were worried—and you’ve got nothing to worry about—what I’ve got in mind is all sorts of calorie-burning. I’ll have you hot and sweaty in time. Cardiac exercise is good for you. That other stuff isn’t.”
“I can think of all sorts of ways you wouldn’t be good for me, either, Sean.”
His lashes flickered, and his mouth tightened as he absorbed the words. “Let me guess…you went and looked me up after the other night, didn’t you? Or are you just taking stabs in the dark?”
“I’m…not. No.” Annoyed now, and aroused, I crossed my arms over my middle and glared at him. “This just isn’t a good idea. For one, I work for your family, okay?”
“You don’t work for me.”
“Sean, enough.”
He opened his mouth, then finally snapped it shut, cutting around me.
At the door, he spun around and glared at me. “Fine. Be an uptight bitch. See if I give a flying fuck. I just wanted to have some fun.” He raked me up and down with a disparaging look. “It looks like you forgot how to do that, if you ever knew how. Guess that’s what happens when you spend your life wrapped up in books.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.
My face burning hot, I drew in a couple of deep breaths, then let them out.
I waited a few more seconds, then eased out of the room. I caught sight of him just as he turned the corner and hurried down to the end of the hall, then waited again until he was almost out of sight before following.
Ten minutes later, I found myself hidden behind a heavy potted plant that resembled a small palm tree—it might have been a small palm tree. I bit my lip as I watched Sean. He stood at the edge of a big, lighted pool, the waters a rich blue-green that made me think of the pictures I’d seen of Hawaii. With angry motions, he jerked his clothes off, and the need he’d lit inside me fanned back into full, burning life as he stripped naked.
I caught one look at the taut muscles of his back, the tight curve of his ass, and long, powerful legs before he dove in.
He cut through the water with smooth, strong strokes. When he reached the end, he did one of those neat little underwater flips that made me wonder if he’d ever competed, then started back in my direction. Catching my breath, I went still.
I didn’t want him seeing me. I wasn’t trying to spy on him, but he’d been pissed, and I didn’t want him doing something…stupid.
Briar seemed convinced he might do just that, and after seeing the self-loathing in his eyes, and the anger he was trying so hard to hide, I had to wonder if maybe she wasn’t right.
After twenty laps, he slowed to a more casual pace, then three laps later, he finally flipped onto his back and just floated.
He did that for a long, long time, and I stood there, feeling stupid as I watched from behind the plant, but afraid to move for fear he’d see me.
Finally, he dipped under the water, and I made a break for it.
Once I was out the door, I took off at a light jog.
I still needed to finish up my tasks for the day. The library job might just be a cover for me to be here for Sean, but there was no reason not to do well with it.
And maybe if I was lucky, I could work out the frustration he’d managed to wake within me.
But I wasn’t betting on that.
Twenty
Sean
I was exhausted by the time I dragged myself up to my room. I didn’t even mess with grabbing any alcohol other than a couple bottles of beer from the fridge. I would have liked a sandwich. I actually had a mad craving for one like I’d had the night before, but I wasn’t entirely certain where I’d gotten it. Shelley had probably made it, but she only worked until four-thirty and was long gone.
Of course, I seem to recall eating it rather late last night. Maybe I’d made it?
I had no idea, really.
But I was too tired to mess with much of anything that required thought, so I just nuked one of the meals Shelley kept on hand in the giant freezer, complete with preparation instructions neatly marked on the top.
With the plate in one hand and the booze tucked under my arm, I opened the door and all but spilled into my room.
I was tired enough to almost skip the food and just collapse into the bed, but there was already a headache pounding at the base of my skull, and if I didn’t eat something, it would be worse in the morning.
Ten minutes later, I’d eaten half the meal and drained one beer. I left the rest on the small end table next to the couch in the sitting area and made my way to bed. Putting the fresh beer on the table, I stripped naked and slid between the covers, propped up on the pillows. Grabbing the remote, I turned on the TV, just for some sound.
I’d learned months ago that the endless quiet was one of the most brutal tortures I could endure.
I’d gotten used to hearing Isabel’s laugh, or listening to her endless, teasing chatter. Even if she wasn’t there, she’d be texting me, or friends would call the condo and leave messages—or her mother, her father. Sometimes even her, because she left her phone behind as often as she remembered it.
She was—had been—the only person I knew who could actually tell me where to find working payphones. Not that there were too many left. But she forgot her phone so often, she’d have the locations of payphones memorized, not to mention the names of the shops where the owners would let her use the business phone.
And if she hadn’t been calling, it would have been my dad, my brothers, or my sister.
Now, it was next to nothing.
The silence was brutal, almost as bad as it had been the first few hours after the explosion.
<
br /> The explosion.
Fuck.
I lifted the bottle of beer and drained it, staring sightlessly at the television without comprehending what was on.
The noise drifting from it couldn’t seem to penetrate the weird fog that had settled around me in the past few seconds.
All I could hear was that deep, powerful crack that seemed to shake the very earth to its core…right before it turned everything to fire, smoke and rubble.
We were walking out of the restaurant.
I recognized where we were, but everything was wrong.
Everything.
Storefronts turned to rubble, a gaping hole in the ground.
Impossibly, though, the gleaming perfection of my car was perched over that hole.
A hand stroked down my arm. I looked over. Isabel smiled at me. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I love you.”
Then she turned and started to walk toward the car.
Fire licked up around her ankles as she walked away. I screamed at her. I could hear my voice, so loud it echoed around me.
She turned and smiled at me, wiggling her fingers.
I screamed again, lunging for her. Or trying. I couldn’t move so I shouted. “Come back!”
She shook her head and tapped her ear. I can’t hear you, she mouthed.
She blew me a kiss, then swung back around, her hips swaying with each step.
She climbed into the car, and I could hear her laughing.
“Sean!”
I jerked upright.
The lights were still on and my blurred gaze locked on the startled face of the woman in front of me.
Tish gaped at me.
I gripped her upper arms in my hands, squeezing so tight, I knew I had to be hurting her. Without thinking, I let go, shoving her away.
She stumbled back a few steps before catching her balance.
That only made me feel worse, but I didn’t look at her. Instead, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t until I stood up that I remembered I was naked.
I didn’t much give a shit at that point and walked past her to my dresser, opening one of the drawers and grabbing a pair of loose joggers.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I demanded as I pulled them on. Turning, I faced her. Her eyes flew up to meet mine. If my heart hadn’t been racing so hard, if I hadn’t felt so sick, I might have been amused. She’d been staring at my ass. After her pretty little speech, she’d been checking me out.
But my heart was racing. I felt sick and tired, and the guilt choked me.
“I…” She swallowed and looked away. “I got turned around. I heard you screaming. I was just…”
Now embarrassment added to the mix. I shoved it down and gave her a snide smile as she looked at me. “It’s called a nightmare, sugar. But if you want to help, come to bed with me. You can kiss it and make it all better.”
She huffed out a breath and shook her head, turning on her heel. She closed the door behind her, and only after the faint sound of her footsteps faded did I relax.
I probably hadn’t needed to be such an ass. It wasn’t necessary.
But she set me on edge. I wanted to fuck her on top of that.
And I didn’t need either complication, not when I still had Isabel clouding my thoughts.
“You shouldn’t worry about Isabel,” I muttered, disgusted. “She didn’t worry about you, did she?”
I thought about how tense things had been between us those final weeks, how nervous and strained she’d been. She’d tried to hide it, but I knew her too well. All the secretive looks, the texts.
She’d been hiding something. I’d been determined to figure out what, although I had my suspicions.
I’d never know for sure now, but maybe it was better I didn’t.
After all, at least if I didn’t know for sure that my wife had been cheating on me, I could cling to some illusions.
Twenty-One
Tish
Two large wooden crates had been delivered just before noon, and I’d cracked them open like a kid tearing into Christmas presents.
Three of the titles Mr. Downing had wanted were in the first crate, first editions of the novels written by the Bronte sisters. He’d mentioned those were a gift for Briar.
They were beautiful, and for books that had been printed in the 1880s, in pristine condition.
There were other treasures, too, including a signed first edition copy of Jack London’s White Fang.
There were a few other interesting items on his list that had made me smile—like first edition hardcovers of each of the Harry Potter books. Only five hundred first edition UK versions had been printed for the first book, so that was going to be a task, possibly an insurmountable one.
I enjoyed the variety of the titles he wanted, everything from fiction to nonfiction, early gothics and the penny dreadfuls, serialized fiction pieces that had been popular in England during the nineteenth century. I smiled at the listing for an American dime store novel as well as the nonfiction essay by Hemingway about a trip he took to Africa.
It was nearly four when my empty belly demanded I take a break, and I decided to stop for the day so I could soak in the deep, jetted tub in the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom.
The support group was coming up, and I wasn’t sure if Sean was planning to go, but I planned on hunting him down and talking to him. He’d gone out of his way to avoid me since chasing me out of his room the other night.
I couldn’t say I blamed him.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have gone in and woken him up once I realized he was having a nightmare. The pained, tortured notes in his voice had torn at me, though, and I hadn’t been able to ignore it.
“Stop thinking about it,” I told myself as I made my way into the kitchen.
The house staff had the weekends off, which suited me fine. I felt awkward around the housekeeper, cook, and butler as it was. There were also two young women who helped with the housekeeper, but I’d yet to see more than their shadows, so I didn’t even know their names.
I guessed having staff on hand was necessary when a house was as big as a museum, though.
After giving the vegetables in the kitchen a quick study, I decided to make some homemade tomato soup. My mom had shown me how when I was fourteen, telling me I wasn’t leaving the house without some basic cooking skills. I’d sulked, insisting she wouldn’t do it if I’d been a boy, and she’d laughed at me. “My dad is the one who taught me how to cook, so don’t start, young lady.”
Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them away.
It seemed like I was thinking of her and Dad more every day lately. It had to do with the holidays, probably. It would be nice if I could go to sleep for a month and just wake up when it was all over.
The soup was close to done when I heard footsteps.
“Shelley? What’s that…oh.” I looked up and saw Sean standing awkwardly in the door. He glanced at me, then away. “Sorry,” he said, turning to go. “I smelled food, thought Shelley was in here.”
“I’m making soup. Tomato.” I bit my lip, then offered, “You want any? It’s almost done. I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches too.”
He went still, hesitating so long I didn’t think he’d accept the offer, but after a few seconds, he turned around and came back in. As he settled on the stool on the opposite side of the island, I rose and went to stir the soup.
“You sure there’s enough?” he asked.
“Oh, absolutely.” Laughing, I gave the thick, red mixture a good swirl before putting the lid back on. “My mother taught me how to make it, and I only know one way—in large quantities. I’ll have to put the leftovers in the fridge. Shelley won’t mind, will she?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, studiously staring at the counter rather than at me. “It smells really good.” I thought I caught a glimpse of a faint smile on his face as he added, “Our mom used to make tomato soup and grilled cheeses for us in the winter. And sheph
erd’s pie.”
“Briar told me your parents were Irish,” I said, going to the fridge. There was a block of cheddar, and I dug it out, along with some butter for the sandwiches. “Of course, it’s easy enough to tell with your father.”
“Tell that to the family still over there. They call him a Yank.” I shot him a look, brows raised. “You should hear their accents,” he pointed out, shrugging.
“Ah. You still have family over there. Do you go over to Ireland much?”
The faint smiled faded, and he looked away. “I used to. I don’t travel a lot these days.”
I could all but see him retreating now so I decided to back off. “How many sandwiches do you want?”
“Just one is fine.” He shifted around on the stool then asked, clearly uncomfortable, “You want some help?” The offer surprised me, and it must have shown on my face. “My mom also taught us how to pick up a dish and wash it, a few basic courtesies.” His voice was surprisingly bland.
My face heated. “I…sorry. But, no. I’ve got it. There’s not much to do but put the sandwiches together.”
We lapsed into silence, and a few minutes later, I slid a golden brown, cheesy concoction in front of him. He got up and fetched the bowls before I could. As I dealt with my sandwich, he ladled out the soup, carrying the bowls over to the table.
It was…nice, I decided, eating with somebody again. The few times I’d grabbed a bite at the sports bar and had a friend slide into the booth across from me wasn’t quite the same thing.
“It’s good,” Sean said softly.
“Thank you.” He just dipped his head in a nod. I waited another couple of minutes before asking, “Are you going to come to group tonight?”
He stilled. The spoon hovered an inch above the bowl for what felt like an eternity before he dipped it back in, then took another bite. After that, he glanced up at me. “I don’t know.”
“That paper you had me sign…you’re mandated to attend, aren’t you?”