“But you were wrong,” he continues, “when you said I didn’t know you. I do know you. I know you’re smart and funny and beautiful. I know you work hard and you love your niece and you’re trying your best to figure out how to balance loving two things at once. I know that three is more than you were prepared for.”
“I—”
“And I know I gave up on you too easily. If I quit every house I started because an unexpected issue came up, I’d never finish anything.”
“You—”
“And if I worry that every woman is going to be Stella all over again, I’ll never be happy.”
“But—”
“So I guess I spent the first four innings sitting in row twenty, watching the back of your head, waiting for you to give up today. To give up on the game, give up on me. And then I spent an inning watching you stay in your seat as I tried to find the courage to tell you I was here.
“I’ve been a White Sox fan my whole life—they won the World Series in 1917, then not again until 2005. Eighty-eight years, and people never gave up. My whole life, I never gave up. And then you come along, and all I can think is, It’s never going to work. I didn’t trust you. Or myself. And I quit.”
“So—”
“So,” he plows on, clearly having given this some thought, “I tried to understand why I didn’t give up on the White Sox, and I did give up on you, and finally I realized it’s because I’m a fucking idiot. The White Sox break my heart every year, but I get over it, because there’s always another season. But with you... I don’t think I’ll get over it, Caitlin. You’re the most difficult, awesome thing that’s ever happened to me. You really are the best.” He holds up a hand when I try again to interject. “Yes, it’s conceited when you say it, but when I say it, it’s true.”
“Can I—”
“I also know it’s true that you hated caulking the bathtub, but you liked laying the tile. And that you made sure the water jug was full before bed every night, so I could get up at 3:00 a.m. for a drink. I know you ate all the licorice in my glove box when you waited in the car while I went to the hardware store for more putty that day, and replaced it with organic stuff and thought I somehow wouldn’t notice.”
“Well—”
“I know nothing I tell the girls on the softball team could inspire them the way you inspired Dorrie when you cheered her on. I know you let Arthur Wong take all the credit on that Teller case, though you worked overtime to get the win. And I know you let Louis Wexler get away with sending that email because you don’t think you’re done paying for whatever it is you did wrong, but you don’t know that I changed his email signature to ‘Fucktard Litigator’ and it took him six days to notice.”
A pained laugh rasps out and I notice with some horror that my eyes are wet. “Why are you here, Eli?”
He gives me a small smile. “You’re not the only one who needs a clean start. To figure out how to leave the past in the past.” He touches my hand, very lightly. “The present in the present.” He takes a breath. “I moved here.”
My jaw drops. “You moved—”
“The office is small enough it doesn’t need full-time IT, so I’ll work there as needed, and do what I do best in the meantime.”
“I take it you aren’t talking about coaching softball.”
He narrows his eyes at my attempt at humor. Then he stands and tugs me to my feet. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I know demanding he tell me what it is immediately won’t get me anywhere, so I follow him silently all the way out to his familiar blue truck, parked in the now mostly empty lot. “Did you notice Mendez got the slider working?” I ask as he holds the door for me to climb in.
“I did,” he says, watching me buckle up. He meets my eyes for a second, then smiles ruefully before closing the door and rounding the truck to get in, twisting the keys in the ignition.
“Where are we going?”
“Wait and see.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
He laughs and I feel it everywhere. I feel how much I missed him, how much I missed him when he was happy, when I made him that way. How much I missed making someone happy instead of making someone win, or making someone cry, or making someone rich.
“It’s not a metaphor,” he replies, steering us onto the freeway. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I strum my fingers along the window frame, trying to guess where this trip might take us and coming up empty. “Does anyone know you were responsible for Wexler’s new signature?”
Eli glances over at me. “Only you.”
I try to think of the last time someone besides me stood up for me. Maybe never. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I’d do anything for you,” he says, eyes on the road.
My heart does a backflip, and suddenly I see that we’ve gotten off the freeway and are now navigating our way through an older, run-down suburb, the streets lined with old Victorians that have fallen into serious disrepair. “Where are we?” My pulse kicks up, because I think I know where this is going. My dread is confirmed when Eli parks at the curb in front of a particularly hideous house with peeling blue paint, yellow gingerbread trim and a half-collapsed front porch.
And a Sold! sign in the front yard.
“Please tell me you didn’t buy this place,” I plead as I reluctantly climb out of the truck and follow Eli through the weed-infested front yard and onto the death trap of a porch.
“It’s better inside,” he promises, brandishing a set of keys and unlocking the front door.
I very reluctantly enter first, squinting through dust motes that hang in the air like an asthmatic curtain. I wave a hand in front of my face and jump when I feel Eli’s fingers at the small of my back, urging me through. He’s right. It’s slightly less awful in here than it is outside. The interior looks forgotten but not destroyed, with high ceilings, scarred wood floors, regal fireplaces and even a crystal chandelier.
He gives me a quick tour of the first floor, and I finally appreciate how lucky I was to meet him when he’d already done the bulk of the work on his renovations. Everything we did together was cosmetic. Beautifying, not building. Polishing, not preserving. Our relationship was not like that at all. We started with nothing, no foundation, and fumbled our way through, our mutually unsuccessful histories offering no help as we embarked on something neither of us was looking for.
“What do you think?” he asks when the tour ends in the cramped, dated kitchen.
“It...looks like a lot of work,” I say carefully. “You may not have any time for IT after all.”
“I can handle it,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Why couldn’t your way be cleaner? And in a nicer part of town?”
He smiles and plucks something out of my hair. “Maybe I know how to recognize a diamond in the rough.”
“That better not be a metaphor for me.”
He laughs then breaks off to cough, spurring me to open a window to let in a sliver of fresh air. “Are you going to live?” I ask. “It would be unfortunate if you came all this way and then died.”
“Too much talking,” he says. “More than I’ve ever said in my life, maybe.”
My heart sinks abruptly. I’d forgotten the glimmer of hope I had at the game, the one that systematically dwindled the longer he’d sat, unspeaking. The flicker of optimism that sprang to life when he finally started talking, then been ignored when we left the ballpark to come here. But the “too much talking” comment only makes me remember the words he hadn’t said in Chicago, and how frustrated and heartbroken I’d been in the aftermath.
“What just happened?” he asks, tilting up my face to study me. “I lost you.”
I shake my head, barely able to move when he doesn’t release h
is grip. “Just thinking.”
“You know I’m not asking you to live here, right?”
Another punch to the gut, this one tempered by a bit of relief.
“I mean,” he amends quickly, “I’m not going to live here either. I have a place. You have a place. We’ll just...work here.”
I blink rapidly. “Wait. We?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Because we are not renovators. One of us already has a full-time job.”
“Uh-oh.” He gives me a patronizing once over. “Are we back to that? You can only love one thing at a time?”
The damn L-word. “I don’t love painting and sanding crap,” I assert. “I did it to help you.”
“Yeah? Why was that?”
I sniff. “Because I’m kind and giving.”
Eli tries not to smile, but a grin sneaks out anyway. “So kind,” he manages to echo. “So giving.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, but fine. I’ll help you. Again. We can be partners.”
The smile vanishes. “We wouldn’t be partners, exactly,” he says seriously. “It’s more like I’d be the boss, and you’d be...my lackey.”
Now I try not to laugh. “I’ll be an equal partner.”
“You’ll be an apprentice.”
“A full partner.”
“A peon who fetches me beer.”
“A peon? Have you ever heard of a magazine called Chicago’s Finest?”
“Is that the article where they out you as a licorice thief?”
I gasp.
“Where they tell everyone you make the worst brownies anyone has ever had the misfortune of tasting—”
“How dare you!” But I’m not mad. Not while he’s advancing on me, stopping only when the edge of the hundred-year-old counter is wedged firmly against my back, pinning me in place. “Seriously though, did you try one?”
“Yeah. They said you give the best blow jobs anyone has ever—”
“They definitely didn’t write—”
“And look equally amazing in cheap flip-flops and hundred-dollar shoes—”
“A hundred dollars? Have you ever bought shoes?”
He’s laughing when he lowers his lips to mine and brushes them back and forth, giving me a hint of what’s to come, but not what I really want. Not what I need.
“I don’t care if you’re a lackey or a cover model,” Eli says. “I’m crazy about you. I should have told you in Chicago, when you asked me to. I should have told you during Skype sex, when you made every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had come true.”
“So tell me,” I say. Stubborn, maybe, but I’ve waited long enough. I want the words, not the allusions.
He rubs a thumb over my collarbone, then finally raises his gaze to mine. “I love you, Caitlin Dufresne. Good and bad, ups and downs, LA and Chicago and everywhere in between. You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but you’re worth it.”
I decide to ignore that last part. “You love me and I’m a full partner in this renovation.”
“I love you and you’re a full partner in this relationship. You’re a lackey in the renovation.”
“I love you,” I murmur, rising onto my tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “And I’m a full partner in the renovation.”
“You can be in charge of caulking the bathtubs.”
“Absolutely not.”
“And bringing beer.”
“Maybe.”
“And giving blow jobs...?” He lifts a hopeful eyebrow.
“I’m a full partner.”
“Fine.” He sighs dramatically. “I suppose I could do worse.”
“You certainly couldn’t do better.”
He kisses me then, and finally, finally, I understand what it means to have everything. It has nothing to do with a corner office or a penthouse suite or the cover of a magazine. A pickup truck, a dirty old house, a man who’s good with his hands... It’s nothing I ever imagined, and everything I’ve been missing.
“You want to do this here?” Eli murmurs when he feels my hands at his fly.
And to my surprise, I do. It’s entirely unsanitary and feels more than a little unsafe, but I’ve waited too long for this—for everything—and I don’t want to wait anymore. “Yes,” I reply, smiling when I feel him unzipping my jeans even as he questions my decision making.
He presses a hand against the counter, testing. “I’m not sure how sturdy these are. It’ll have to be the floor.” He yanks off his jersey and lays it on the worn linoleum, arching a brow as he looks at me. “Last chance to back out.”
My lips quirk at the challenge. “I’m not backing out.”
“Good. You want to be on top or bottom?”
I know Eli doesn’t understand why I’m laughing as I pull off my shirt and urge him onto the floor, knowing the position makes no difference when you’re already in the right place.
Still, I’m Caitlin Dufresne.
“Top,” I say.
* * * * *
Turn the page for an excerpt from
TIME SERVED by Julianna Keyes,
now available at all participating e-retailers.
To purchase and read more books by Julianna Keyes please visit the author’s website here or at http://www.juliannakeyes.com.
Dean Barclay had nothing to do with my decision to flee my old life, but he is one hundred percent of the reason I vowed to never look back...
Read on for an excerpt from TIME SERVED
Chapter One
“Next up for auction is the honor of naming the naked mole rat recently born at the North Campbell Zoo...”
The silent room fills with intrigued murmurs, and I polish off my second glass of wine, trying to keep my expression neutral. If it’s anything like the previous items, this particular “honor” will go for an embarrassingly high amount. Paddles fly up in rapid succession, the auctioneer rattles off extravagant numbers and people have a grand old time. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? A wonderful early summer day spent at the annual Ensley Golf & Country Club fundraiser for some cause no one in attendance knows or cares much about.
I glance around the well-appointed dining room, taking in the faintly sunburned crowd in their linen pants and navy jackets, pearls and heels. When I’d first started at Sterling, Morgan & Haines, I’d been desperate to attend this high-profile fundraiser, and now that I’ve been given the chance, it’s taking everything I’ve got not to fidget in my seat.
“Should we bid?” My boyfriend of six weeks, Todd Varner, is the perfect date. Unlike me, he grew up in this white-collar world and doesn’t have to feign enthusiasm for the proceedings. In fact, he spent most of the morning explaining the finer points of golf, making me wonder why we’d started dating in the first place.
“Why not?” I reply. People are going crazy for this thing. Have they never seen a naked mole rat? I saw a picture once, and its hideous little face is burned into my brain. Todd squeezes my fingers, and I feel bad for doubting him. He’s an accountant at the firm, handsome, smart and good in bed. I catch him eyeing me and smile eagerly, like I really hope we win.
He bids and I blanch at the number. “You’re having fun, right?” he asks, squinting at me. “You’re not thinking about work? On a Saturday?”
“No,” I lie, “I’m not thinking about work.” I am absolutely thinking about work. The firm is planning one of the biggest class action lawsuits in its history, and one fourth-year associate will be asked to second chair. I’d much rather be in my office, eating pad Thai and preparing my interview notes than sitting in this swanky dining room trying to win the right to name a rodent.
“Sold!” the auctioneer finally shouts, and the room explodes into applause. That’s when I realize Todd is beaming and nodding graciously
—like a winner.
“You won?”
“That’s right,” he replies, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek as I grin dutifully. Is there a time I’ve smiled today that hasn’t been forced? I’m living the life I’d only dreamed of, the one I’d given up everything for, and I’m acting like an ungrateful jackass. I give myself a mental kick in the head and tune in to the conversation at the table.
“...such a whimsical gift,” the elderly gentleman—a retired city councilman—seated on Todd’s right is saying. “Do you have a name picked out?”
“Of course,” Todd answers, reaching for my hand. “I’m going to name it Rachel.”
My smile freezes. “Really?” I manage.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s adorable,” the councilman’s wife coos. “Naked Mole Rat Rachel.”
I laugh weakly.
“You know,” Todd continues, “I actually had an unusual pet growing up.”
The councilman looks delighted. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, it was a rare cat called the Kurilian Bobtail...”
I take a guilty sip of my wine. We’re at this fundraiser because we can afford to give back. I make good money at the law firm and Todd grew up wealthy. Spending a small fortune on a name is actually something he’s done before: he’d once paid ten grand for a letter signed by Winston Churchill. And that wasn’t even the gem of his signature collection! Somehow I’d found the story charming. I’d even admired the fact that Todd had interests outside of work, and had been making a half-assed effort to achieve a better work-life balance myself.
I realize that Todd is now showing the councilman photos of his favorite signatures on his phone. It’s one step up from showing him pictures of his special cat. I pinch the bridge of my nose and take another sip of wine, but I can’t tune out Todd’s extraordinarily dull story of the time he almost bought a fake Bob Dylan signature. I’d heard it before but told myself it wasn’t as boring as I’d thought. And if Todd found it interesting, then I should be supportive. I should be interested in things other than work.
But I’m not.
I’m not interested in Todd. As kind as he is, as tall and fit and handsome as he is, he doesn’t distract me from work. Nothing does, and nothing has, for a very long time. I tell myself to keep going through the motions, that this ennui will pass, that Todd will become appealing again.
In Her Defense Page 30