All That They Desire

by Zoe York

  “It’s been a year of quiet nights.” He shook that off. They’d talked enough about his lack of a social life. “Anyway, congratulations. Can I pour you a glass of champagne?”

  “Sure.”

  This time he led the way into the kitchen. The champagne flutes were still in the same cupboard, and he got them down, then twisted the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop.

  “To a new start for you,” he said, lifting his glass to touch hers.

  “I’ll drink to that.” She made a satisfied sound after she swallowed the first sip, then had another. “Nice.”

  On her third sip, a drop of wine clung to her lip, and without thinking, he reached out to brush it off the corner of her mouth.

  She froze, and he did too, still touching her.

  Time stood still as his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest and get between them, to say something, anything, but he wasn’t ready, he hadn’t planned this out properly.

  And then she inhaled, a little gasp, and a long forgotten part of him took over, the part of him that was still her husband, still a man who would always want to make her feel better, feel good, feel wanted.

  He leaned in.

  Her hand came up between them, pressing against his chest, and stopped him a few millimetres from her mouth. “What are you doing?”

  His pulse pounded. “I—I was going to kiss you.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.” But she didn’t pull away.

  Oh. Holy. Hell. Jess hadn’t seen that coming. And it was a terrible idea.

  And yet she wasn’t shoving him across the room, and why the hell wasn’t she shoving him across the room?

  Brent’s gaze slid over her face, settling on her mouth again.

  Like he still wanted to kiss her.

  Deep inside, something fluttered. Something more awkward and confusing than a butterfly. Maybe a brand-new baby bird shaking its wings, wondering what the crap it was supposed to do now.

  “You can’t kiss me,” she said. To emphasize that point, she set the champagne flute on the counter.

  He followed suit. “Okay. I won’t.”

  But he still didn’t move away. “I—” His voice was shaking. “I want you to know that I want to kiss you.”

  You want to kiss a lot of people, she wanted to snap back. But he hadn’t. He’d kissed exactly one other person, and she’d kissed that guy, too.

  Oh man, this was complicated.

  “You should go home,” she said. “Because I’ve spent a long time getting over the fact that you didn’t want to kiss me.”

  “I never stopped wanting—”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, and now it’s too late. You ghosted me. After four months of marriage!”

  “I’m an asshole, I know that. I’m working on that, though.” He stepped back, his face twisted in frustration. “If I could take back the kissing stuff…”

  She waited.

  “I wouldn’t,” he finally said. “I still want you. I will always want you, and I regret that I lost you because I was chicken shit. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you that, but there you go. That’s how I feel.”

  “Well, I’m moving two hours away from you and starting a new life, so…”

  “Yeah. My timing is shitty.”

  She had a theory about that, and it hurt. “Maybe deliberately so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s easy to say you’d want another chance with me after I effectively close the door on that, and after a year of me being right where you left me.”

  He rubbed his chest. “That’s a direct hit.”

  “Don’t play with my heart, Brent.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Showing you that you still have mine.”

  Oh, no. She didn’t want that burden. Fuck. She spun on her heel and walked away from him, heading into the living room.

  He followed. “I will always love you, even if I never have you ever again. I’m not sure I’m going to ever get over how I have fucked up my life. I have no doubt you will move on, and be happy. And maybe one day I’ll move on and be happy, too, but—”

  She stopped in the hallway, suddenly furious. “Don’t tell me that you can’t fall in love again. That’s cruel.”

  “Fuck, Jess. I don’t know what to do here.”

  She should tell him to go. She should push him out the door, for both of their sakes. Instead she rolled her head to the side and groaned. “We’re a mess.”

  “More me than you.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “What do you think it means? Yes, I wanted you to kiss me.”

  His exhale was so rough it was a whole, wounded sound.

  “I’m not taking you back. I’m leaving.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “But I love you, too. Messily. With all sorts of complications. And I haven’t moved on, as much as I’ve tried, so…”

  The look of hope on his face destroyed her.

  Fuck. “I dunno. We could spend some time together, I guess. Not kissing.” Not yet.

  “We should.”

  “And not—” At home, she was about to say. The word was wrong on the tip of her tongue, though. The place they used to live together, the place where he left her to figure shit out all by herself, this memorial to grief. “Not here.”

  He grimaced. “Neutral ground?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just the two of us on neutral ground. Hmmm.” The way he said hmmm, like he was really thinking about the best option, like he was putting serious consideration into how they could reconnect, did good things for her soul. “Do you want to go camping? Reservations for the provincial parks are open. I could book something up north in a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks?” So much for optimism. “I was thinking coffee again, tomorrow night, but if that’s the kind of pace you want to take—”

  He caught her wrist as she pushed past him, and hauled her back into the narrow space between him and the wall. “Hey hey hey, I wasn’t saying the camping thing as the first available opportunity, I was just talking out loud. Give me a chance here.”

  She’d given him all the chances, it felt like. And now she was giving him more, endless chances because her heart wanted what it wanted, regardless of logic or sensibility. She nodded, but it hurt.

  Fickle heart.

  “Coffee tomorrow. Packing help. Moving help. I’m in for all of it, because I love you. I love you mad at me, I love you two hours down the highway. And I love you no matter what you decide to do, even if there’s never any kissing in our future. You’re my best friend. I don’t know how to be a good partner, we both know that. But I’m trying, and I’m working on my shit. Give me a chance. You’re so strong, babe. I want to be that strong, too.”

  That sliced deep. She shook her head. “And I wish I could be weak. I wish I could be weak and not break, not crumble to nothing because I have to hold myself up.”

  “Because I’m not holding you up.” His voice was rough, raw, and she wanted to cry.

  But she couldn’t. Not yet. “It’s not on you to do that.”

  “It should be.”

  “That’s not how life worked out.”

  “Let me hold you up,” he whispered.

  “You walked out on me, Brent. I don’t know if I could ever trust you to stick with me again.”

  “I’ll show you. One day, you’ll know that I’m solid.”

  “It might take forever.”

  “Then I’ll wait that long.”

  “No kisses,” she reminded, and she wasn’t sure who it was for, him or herself.

  “That’s your call. Kissing or anything else. But I want you, Jess. Don’t ever think I don’t.”

  Who was this man? “Anything else? Sex would majorly complicate things.”

  Like the fact that she still had th
ose divorce papers, which were packed on the top of her Office Papers box.

  “Things are already complicated. If at any point you want me to give you some orgasms as we navigate it all, you just have to say the word.”

  Had her previously painfully shy husband just offered her orgasms to get her through their divorce?

  And had she just thought of him as her husband?

  “I can’t.” She wanted to. So much. But she just couldn’t.

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He drew her into his arms, the gentlest of hugs. “Never be sorry for saying no. I want you. I want to earn you back. But I want you to be happy, first and foremost. With or without me.”

  A silent, heartbroken tear slid down her face, wetting his shoulder. Another followed, and he eased back, looking at her. He brushed it off her cheek.

  “Don’t cry, babe,” he whispered.

  But she wasn’t his babe. Maybe she had never been.

  When he left, she lay on the couch for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Then she picked up her phone and scrolled through her messages from Evan. Each one was a sweet little hit of happy, exactly what she needed right now.

  Jess: What are you up to tonight?

  Evan: Planning my outfit for moving day.

  Jess: Three-piece suit?

  Evan: I was thinking something more in the rugged lumberjack category. Do you like plaid shirts?

  Jess: I *love* plaid shirts.

  Evan: Brace yourself for some intense red check, then.

  Jess: Oh, I’m braced.

  Evan: Good.

  Jess: Good.

  She pictured him on the other end of the phone chuckling, and she laughed, too.

  Jess: You’re a good friend, you know that?

  Evan: I try.

  Jess: You succeed.

  Evan: You’re good for the ego.

  Jess: Well, I’m glad we’re good for each other, then.

  Evan: Are you working late?

  Jess: No, heading to bed soon.

  Evan: Ah. Sweet dreams.

  She smiled. Maybe they would be after all.

  13

  Moving day started early. Brent showed up at six in the morning with coffee, donuts, and an extra pair of work gloves, which he slid onto her hands for her.

  The baby bird’s wings beat a little stronger. She ignored it, like she had for the last two weeks.

  They were friends who loved each other, in a messy way, and were getting to know each other again. That was all.

  Right behind him was the moving truck. Two guys, and the one in charge went straight to Brent.

  He pointed at Jess. “She’s in charge.”

  Damn fucking straight. She nodded crisply. “Everything is labelled. Orange tags, we’re taking in the truck. Pink tags, you guys take. It’s all furniture. We’ll stay out of your way.”

  They sat on the porch and had their breakfast while the heavy stuff was moved out. Then they donned their work gloves again and loaded the last of the boxes into the back of Brent’s truck.

  “I’ll see you at the storage centre,” she said after doing a final sweep through the house.

  Brent nodded. “I’ll go on ahead and start loading up.”

  Once he left, Jess had a final private goodbye to the house, then put the keys back in the lockbox on the door. She’d hired cleaners to come through before the new owners took possession later in the day.

  Then she climbed into her car.

  It was time to move on down the road.

  Even with the stop at the storage unit, and then a stop once they arrived in Wardham to collect the key to her new house from the lawyer’s office next to Lola’s boutique, they still beat the moving truck to her new house.

  A text message from the driver explained why. They’d stopped to eat on the highway, and were twenty minutes out.

  She didn’t mind. That gave her a minute to appreciate her first view of the tidy little white cottage as its owner.

  “This is it, eh?” Brent asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Nice location.”

  She nodded. It was. One block from the beach. Two blocks from the future site of Evan’s ice cream stand, if she had anything to do with it. Three blocks from downtown, and walkable to almost everything.

  She loved it.

  She loved even more that Evan was sitting on the front step wearing an honest-to-God lumberjack-inspired red check flannel shirt over a snug black t-shirt and faded, fitted jeans.

  Very fitted, she thought to herself as he stood up.

  And work boots.

  Her ovaries really liked those work boots.

  He knew it, too. His eyes lit up when he saw her taking in the whole effect, and he winked at her as they approached. But his good humour fell away the second he turned to greet Brent. “Hey.”

  Her husband nodded curtly back. “Hey.”

  Never before had she heard such electrically-charged single syllables. She rolled her eyes to herself. At least if they were trying to out-testosterone each other, the heavy-lifting stage of moving in wouldn’t take long.

  Before they could get into a stag-worthy antler-locking battle, a black SUV pulled up right behind Brent’s truck, and Evie and Liam piled out.

  Evie held a box from Bun in the Oven, and Liam had a takeout tray of paper coffee cups.

  “We’re here to drop off breakfast,” she called out. “Happy move-in day! Carrie and Lola are on lunch duty.”

  By the time they were done, Jess was probably going to be in a caffeine and carb-induced coma, but it would be worth it. She had a group of friends who wanted to take care of her for the first time ever.

  And she’d already burned off the donut and coffee from first thing that morning. “Let’s re-fuel!”

  They finished just in time for the big truck to arrive.

  Evan and Brent found a good rhythm with the movers, emptying her boxes into a pile in the sunroom—which she didn’t have any furniture for—while the other guys delivered furniture to each room under her careful direction.

  They even set up her office suite in the second bedroom upstairs, which made her ecstatic. It worked just as well here as it did at her old house, and she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

  “It’s perfect,” she said to herself.

  But she wasn’t alone. “Looks pretty good,” Brent said from behind her.

  She spun around. “Hey.”

  He held out the box marked Office Papers. “Inaugural box opening?”

  Not that one. That one had the divorce papers on top. “I’ll open it later.”

  “Oh. Sure. I’ll leave it on the desk, then?”

  “Thanks.”

  She followed him downstairs, where her living room furniture was being set in place.

  “That’s the end of it,” the boss mover said. “I’ll get you to sign off that everything has been delivered without a scratch.”

  She scrawled her name at the bottom of the form and dug cash out of her pocket for a tip for each of them. “Thanks so much, guys. Appreciate it. Safe drive back to London!”

  But once they were alone, the unpacking started to get competitive.

  Evan stripped off the flannel shirt. Jess had never seen him in a t-shirt before. She’d never seen his biceps, which were impressive enough. But he had veins that popped out of them, little three-dimensional lines that begged to be touched.

  And he kept flexing. Picking up two boxes at once, getting close to her to find out where they should go even though the cottage was small and there were only so many rooms—and all the boxes were labelled.

  Brent didn’t miss any of that. Jess wondered if he was distracted by the biceps veins too—since he had admitted to liking all sorts of things in an Evan-shaped package—but all of her husband’s attention seemed focused on her, except for when it came to one-upping Evan.

  When the other man called a box of books heavy, Bre
nt hefted it into the air with ease. “I’ve got this one.”

  Evan gave him a murderous look. “Careful with your back there, man.”

  “My back’s just fine. I carry people for work, you know?”

  “I’m familiar.”

  “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

  Jess grabbed a box of kitchen stuff and beat a hasty retreat. She heard the barbs continue as they carried her books up the stairs, and she stayed out of their way until Evan told her they were at the bedroom boxes. “Do you want us to deal with those?”

  She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for lunch. Do you want to give Carrie a call and find out what their plans are? I can organize my bedroom stuff.”

  “Sure.” He dug his phone out and headed outside.

  Jess went to inspect the remaining pile of boxes and bins. Some of it was clothing that needed to go back into her drawers. Other stuff needed to be decanted onto shelves in the closet. She picked up the box of shoes and headed for the stairs.

  “Careful,” Brent said as they passed each other on the landing. “There’s a bit of loose carpet that’s come up on the second step from the top.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, winking. “I’m nimble on my feet.”

  “I’ve got my toolbox in the truck.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  Evan appeared behind Brent, carrying what looked suspiciously like his own toolbox. “What doesn’t he need to do?”

  “Fix anything in my house,” she said. “And the same goes for you, even if you are dressed like a very capable handyman.”

  Evan grinned. “Are we talking about the fact that the carpet is loose on the—”

  “Second step from the top,” Jess and Brent said at the same time. “Yep,” she added on her own. “But I’ll be fine.”

  She turned on her heel and headed upstairs, being careful on the offending tread. The box of shoes fit perfectly in the closet, to be sorted later.

  Then she headed downstairs to grab another box—and promptly slipped on the loose carpet.

  From out of nowhere, Evan caught her around the waist and prevented her from flipping ass over teakettle down the stairs like a rag doll.

  “Shit,” she breathed as he pivoted them to stand facing each other.