She hesitated and I could see the indecision on her face, sensing that she was weakening.
“We could start with breakfast,” I suggested hopefully. “Who knows, I might be able to get through a whole meal without making you mad at me.”
A reluctant smile crept across her face.
“It seems unlikely,” she said, her words failing to match her expression.
I smiled with relief.
“You gonna wear that robe? Not that I give a shit—you could go naked for all I care. In fact…”
She groaned. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
“Want me to scrub your back?” I suggested, only half joking.
I knew I was pushing her, but I couldn’t help it.
“Sebastian, I thought you were going to try and make it through breakfast before making me mad at you—right now your adolescent flirting is just annoying.”
I held up my hands in a gesture of defeat, but the smile on my face wasn’t going anywhere soon.
“Okay, I get the message. I’ll see you downstairs.”
I turned away quickly before she changed her mind, still grinning, then started whistling to myself.
Fucking whistling! What a pussy.
I didn’t like to admit that it was the song that always reminded me of her when I was 17: Van Morrison’s Crazy Love.
At the hotel’s restaurant, I let the waitress lead me to a table by the window. I wasn’t hungry, so I ordered a black coffee and sat waiting, memories spooling out relentlessly.
I wasn’t even sure what I wanted anymore—definitely more than just a quick fuck. But if friendship was all that was on offer, I’d take it—even if it killed me.
When I saw Caro walking across the restaurant toward me, that unfaithful friend named hope made a swift reappearance. My heart stuttered, then restarted at a quick march.
She was simply dressed in old jeans and a pale yellow t-shirt. She’d always looked good in yellow. Her dark hair curled over her shoulders and down her back, thick and glossy. I remembered tangling my hands in that hair, lost in the curves of her amazing body.
But all I could manage to say was, “You look great.”
She snorted in disbelief, and I didn’t know how I’d managed to piss her off. I only knew that I had. Maybe she thought I was giving her a line. I wasn’t.
“Did you order yet?” she asked
“No, just the coffee: I was waiting for you.”
“I usually have the continental breakfast.”
I waved to the waitress, and she walked over briskly to take Caro’s order. From the way she swung her hips as she walked, I got the impression that she’d have given me more than the full continental. Yeah, not interested.
I tried to think of something to say that would ease things between us—because right now the tension was making me crazy.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to see in Geneva?” I asked, trying for casual, the kind of trite shit that other people seemed to manage with a fucking problem.
“You have to make it through breakfast without being irritating first,” she reminded me, but the smile on her face told the truth.
“Yeah, well, I like a challenge,” I grinned. “Seriously: anything you want to see?”
“Not especially: I saw quite a lot wandering around yesterday. The Russian Church, maybe? I hear that’s pretty amazing.”
I folded and unfolded my napkin several times before I made my suggestion.
“I had an idea of something we could do—if you like.”
“Which is?”
“How about a trip to Chamonix? It’s only an hour away—or just a bit longer if we take the scenic route through Lausanne. It’ll be a really great trip through the Alps.” Please say yes. “I’ll have you back before bedtime.”
She eyed me warily, but I could tell she was wavering. I bit back the smile that was threatening to break out.
“And you absolutely promise you’ll bring me back here by evening? No accidentally running out of gas or getting lost.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, lying through my teeth.
I’d already thought of several scenarios that ended with us having to share a hotel room.
“Okay,” she said, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was agreeing to. “But I’m serious about getting back: I’m waiting for my travel permits and I can’t afford to miss them.”
My conscience pricked at me, making me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Caro, I’ll get you back here tonight, I promise.”
I wasn’t hungry when the food arrived, but I’d gotten used to eating whatever was put in front of me whenever it was put in front of me. I’d lost too many meals to sudden RPG attacks in hostile environments. Bastards liked to hit at chow time.
“Tell me about Ches’s kids,” Caro said suddenly.
I couldn’t help smiling, just thinking about them.
“They’re great. They call me ‘Uncle Seb’ … well, Simone, the youngest one, she calls me ‘Zed’ because she still gets her words mixed up sometimes. She’s nearly three. Ben is four and he’s a little surf-rat already. I see them as often as I can, but every time they seem so much more grown up. Jeez, they grow fast.”
“What’s Amy like?”
“Yeah, she’s okay.”
Caro looked amused at my lukewarm response.
“Let me guess—she doesn’t approve of you?”
Well, no…
“What made you say that?”
Caro smiled.
“Firstly, because you’re single, and married women get nervous that their husband’s single friends will lead them astray; secondly, because, from the sound of it, you’ve had more women than most men have hot dinners, and that will make her nervous because she won’t want you reminding Ches of what he’s missing out on; and…”
She stopped mid sentence. I guessed that whatever she was leaving unsaid was even worse.
“And what?”
“Well, the drinking, Sebastian. She wouldn’t want that around her husband and kids.”
Her words hit a nerve.
“Yeah, I guess that about sums it up.”
“When did you start drinking?” she asked gently.
My temper fired quickly. “What do you mean? I don’t drink that much, not like that bitch mother of mine.”
Caro’s gaze didn’t waver. “Well, twice in as many days you’ve been so drunk you’ve either passed out or made inappropriate comments to me.”
Shit. She was right.
“I think my question stands,” she said.
I didn’t want to go there, but I guess she deserved the truth.
“When I was 21,” I said at last. “That’s when I started drinking.”
It was true: apart from the odd beer, the occasional shot, I hadn’t drunk that much—a lot less than most of the guys in my Unit, that was for sure. But when I realized Caro wasn’t coming back for me, my world had fallen apart. I anesthetized myself with women and booze. I’d done that for the last seven years. Maybe now it was time to feel everything again—even the pain.
Caro looked horrified.
“Sebastian, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
I shrugged and looked away. “Old news, Caro, don’t worry about it.”
She looked like she was struggling to speak, but when she did, she’d reverted to small talk. I guess it was more comfortable for both of us.
“Do you like living in Geneva?”
“It’s okay, but I miss the ocean.”
“Ah, no famous Swiss surfing beaches.”
Her words made me smile.
“I haven’t found any yet.”
She smiled back, and it felt good to be at ease with her. But now I was eager to start our day trip—apart from anything else, the thought of having her body pressed against mine on the back of my bike made me impatient.
“Are you done eating?” I asked. “Should we go?�
�
“I just need to go back to my room and pick up a jacket and, I presume, my passport, but otherwise, yes, I’m good to go.”
I frowned. “You’re a journalist: you should always have your passport with you. Hell, it was in the fucking tedious lecture that Parsons gave the day before yesterday.”
“So you were listening,” she swatted back.
I shook my head and smiled.
“Yeah, yeah, just grab a sweater, too: it’s going to get cold.”
She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath about me being bossy as she walked away.
Give me the chance and I’ll show you how ‘bossy’ I can be.
I went to pay the check, but the waitress said she’d put it on Caro’s room tab as instructed. I wasn’t very happy about that, and I was even less happy when she passed me her phone number. But I guess old habits die hard, because I slipped it in my pocket and winked at her as I left the room.
I took the elevator to the basement and brought the Honda to the hotel’s entrance.
Caro’s mouth dropped open when she saw me.
“Are you kidding me, Hunter? You expect me to get on that thing?”
Caro gestured at the bike, looking shocked. Guess I’d forgotten to tell her we’d be traveling on two wheels.
“Sure! It’ll be fun,” I said encouragingly.
“Do you know how to drive it?”
Her voice was laced with suspicion.
“Caro, I rode it from Paris—I think I can manage 88 kilometers to Chamonix,” I grinned at her.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle before.”
I was surprised. “Really? Because we used to talk about doing that and riding from…” I stopped abruptly.
Was it ever going to get easier to talk about the past? She met my eyes, the shadows of our shared lives never far away.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said, shaking her head and walking towards me.
“Such faith in my abilities, Ms. Venzi.”
“If I get killed on this thing, I’m going to come back and haunt you!”
“Promise?”
“Oh, you’d better believe it, Hunter!”
I loved seeing this side of Caro. With each sentence it was more like how it used to be … and I fucking loved that.
I pulled my spare leather jacket out of the saddlebag and helped her put it on. It was old and battered, but it would give her some protection from the cold, or an accident—which wasn’t going to happen on my watch.
She was so tiny compared to me that her hands disappeared inside the long sleeves, and I had to fold back the cuffs so she could free her hands. I pulled up the zipper, my fingers dangerously close to her lush tits.
“Suits you,” I said, raising an eyebrow and ignoring her frown.
I passed her a spare helmet, waited until she’d fastened it, then swung a leg over the bike and held out my hand to help her mount behind me.
The seat slanted her forward so her thighs automatically gripped mine. I liked that a lot.
“Hold on tight,” I said, pleasure coursing through me from the sheer fucking joy of this moment—a moment I thought would never happen.
She wrapped her arms around me; I never wanted her to stop.
The engine started with a gravelly roar that crescendoed as I revved the accelerator. I took it slow to start with, letting her get used to being on the bike. I waited until we were at the lakeside road heading north-east to Lausanne before I really opened the throttle.
This moment. This woman.
She gripped me tighter as the bike flew around the curves of Lake Geneva, the air cool as the miles rushed past. When we reached Montreux, I slowed the bike, giving her time to appreciate the chocolate-box old town with chalets and Disneyland castle. I preferred being surrounded by open space and empty roads, but I thought Caro might like it.
“Do you want to get a coffee?” I called over my shoulder.
She nodded enthusiastically, bumping her helmet on the back of mine as she gave me a thumbs up.
I pulled up outside a small café that looked over the lake, then kicked down the stand and cut the engine. The sudden silence seemed to reignite the fire between us. I was sure I wasn’t the only one who was feeling it, but I forced myself to keep it casual.
I pulled off my helmet and grinned at her.
“How was that?”
She struggled out of her own helmet and ran her hands through her long hair tangled by the wind.
“That was … surprisingly okay.”
I laughed, but my eyes dropped to her full lips and I knew she saw in my eyes what I was thinking, because she scrambled off the bike hastily then rubbed her hands together, although whether it was from nerves, I couldn’t tell.
“Are you cold?”
“A little: just my hands.”
Without saying a word, I took her hands in mine and lifted them to my lips, warming them with my breath and rubbing them gently.
After a moment, she pulled free, her cheeks tinged with pink. Although that could have been from the cold.
“That’s fine, thank you.”
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her that she’d never stopped being important to me. But then she looked away, her expression conflicted.
“This café looks good,” she said quickly.
She strode into the café and found a table by the window.
I followed more slowly, sliding into the chair opposite her. The waiter ambled over and I ordered coffees for both of us.
“Un espresso et un caffé americano, s’il vous plâit.”
“Do you speak French, as well?” she asked curiously.
I shrugged. “I lived in Paris for two years so more than enough to get by. I never studied it.”
“And the Dari? The Arabic? How did that come about?”
“My first tour in Iraq. I was playing soccer with some of the local kids who used to hang around the Base. They taught me a few words and I just started picking up some phrases. My sergeant heard me talking to the kids and sent me on a couple of training courses. When we started pulling out of Iraq, they figured I should learn Pashto and Dari so I could be useful in Afghanistan. I found I could just hear it, all the different cadences.” I laughed coldly. “Finally found something I was good at. Who knew.”
She seemed surprised by my scathing tone.
“You were always good at lots of things, Sebastian.” My Caro—still trying to make me feel good. “And you picked up Italian really quickly,” she said insistently.
“That’s because I had an Italian girlfriend,” I pointed out.
“Really? When was that?”
She was seriously asking me that? I rolled my eyes—I’d learned Italian from her … in between fucking each other’s brains out.
“Oh, right,” she muttered, embarrassed. “And you taught me to surf, don’t forget.”
I couldn’t help grinning. Damn, that brought back some good memories.
“Yeah, that was fun. Did you ever keep it up?”
“I go quite often in the summer,” she said, her face lighting with a bright smile. “I bought a place in Long Beach and...”
Her words ground to a halt as she saw the expression on my face. That had been our dream: together, not…
“Sorry,” I said, as she continued to bite her lip. “It’s just … well, we used to talk about going to Long Beach and checking out the surf spots.”
“I didn’t have any other plan,” she said quietly. “When I left you … when I left San Diego, I drove for eight days until I got to New York. That old Pinto I had, died just as I reached the city. I got an apartment in Little Italy because I didn’t know anywhere else, and you mentioned it once. I lived there for eight years. You were right: I did like it.”
I closed my eyes, letting my head drop to my hands. We’d been so close to having that together. So fucking close.
<
br /> “God, Caro, when I think about how things could have been … it makes me a little crazy.”
“I know what you mean,” she said softly. “But there’s no point thinking like that.”
The waitress returned with our coffees, breaking the mood, but I could see the shadow of sadness in Caro’s eyes.
“I’m glad you went there,” I said, only half lying. “I’m glad you did the things we said we’d do.”
“Not all of them,” she amended.
“Fuck, if only…”
“Stop, Sebastian,” she said forcefully. “No ‘what ifs’: what if we’d never gone to that Sicilian restaurant that night; what if Brenda hadn’t seen us; what if she hadn’t told your parents … there’s no point thinking like that. Like you said, it’ll just make us crazy.”
“I know you’re right,” I murmured, “it’s just that…”
I couldn’t get the words out, instead running my hand over my head in frustration. That should have been us: together.
“Hey, stop,” she said, grabbing my fingers. “It is what it is. We can’t change anything.”
I held on tightly, letting her anchor me to the here and now.
“Mind you,” she said, “if I ran into Brenda again, I might have to give her a quick slap.”
I couldn’t help smiling: there was a time when I’d felt the same. My ex-girlfriend was the one who’d lit the match that exploded our world.
“Yeah, I’d like to see that,” I admitted. “Although she felt really bad about what happened.”
Caro looked surprised and leaned back in her chair, releasing my hand.
“You spoke to her about it—what she did?”
Her voice told me she was pissed, so I decided to tread carefully. Although now I thought about it, maybe she sounded … jealous? I really liked that idea.
“Well, yeah. She kept bugging Ches until I agreed to see her. By then it was kind of obvious why she’d done it.”
“Obvious how?” Caro huffed out.
“She was pregnant—got knocked up by that bastard Jack Sullivan. You remember that older guy who used to hang out at the beach? Yeah, well, when she found out she was pregnant, she freaked. Got this crazy idea in her head that if she could get back with me, she’d get me to sleep with her and pretend the baby was mine.”
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