“At least, my dad doesn’t,” he said, then took a sip of water. “But . . . well, I don’t think it’s too presumptuous to invite you because we’re practically dating, and you did kiss me.”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best idea to remind Clara that she’d kissed him, because as soon as he brought it up, she looked away. Was she embarrassed? Or did she regret it? Clara didn’t have a problem speaking her mind, so Dawson was baffled by the fact she didn’t want to talk about it. At all, it seemed.
Keeping her gaze averted, she picked up her water glass.
Dawson had gone too far. “Just think about it. Maybe tomorrow if you think you want to go, let me know. I can pick you up, and we don’t have to stay very long. Both of my parents know that we’re . . . friends. So, either way, no big deal. I won’t stare at the phone or anything, waiting for you to text. Well, I might a little, but not all day.”
Her lips twitched. Please smile, he thought. Please talk to me. He liked the talking Clara much better than the quiet Clara.
She set down her fork and finally looked at him. The usual humor was gone from her eyes, replaced with worry.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know how I am, to tell the truth,” she said. “I want to go to the barbeque with you, even meet your parents, like a normal person might do. But I think I lost the ability to be normal after my grandma died. I mean, I keep telling you ‘maybe’ on things not because I’m trying to be difficult, but because I’m having a terrible time making decisions about anything.”
Dawson nodded. He hadn’t expected this serious turn in the conversation, but he didn’t want to make her feel even more pressured. “Okay, how about I make the decision? We’ll skip the barbeque. There will be other opportunities to meet my parents. Besides, my mom can be a little hyper-focused, and I don’t want anything to scare you off.”
She was at least watching him with interest.
“We can do something else, or like you said, we can do something on Sunday.” He pointed to his half-finished plate. “Although I can’t guarantee there will be any leftovers by Sunday.”
Her expression seemed to clear. “I don’t think there will be any leftovers at all.”
“I’m saving room for the brownies I saw you bring in,” he said. “With all these amazing smells in my condo, my neighbors are going to start pounding down my door.”
Clara’s mouth quirked. “Maybe Leslie is in a forgiving mood and will come over.”
“Ha.” He shook his head. “She hasn’t even looked my way since I last talked to her. We were in the parking lot at the same time this morning, and I was fully prepared to say hi, but she ignored me.”
She lifted her brows. “Maybe you should have taken off your shirt.”
Dawson laughed. “If that’s all it would take—not for Leslie, of course, but someone else I’m thinking of . . .” He lifted his brows.
She didn’t laugh. Instead, she took another sip of her water, then said, “Truth?”
“Of course.” Except, Dawson’s heart was suddenly pounding. This could either be really good, or really bad.
“I like you, Dawson,” she said in a slow voice.
It didn’t ease the worry that was building inside of Dawson. Was this one of those you’re-a-nice-guy speeches?
“When we first met, well, the second time we met, everything I said was true. And it’s still true.” She exhaled and looked down at the table. “But I’ve found that I’m liking you more and more, despite all of our differences.”
Okay, so maybe this would be really good.
“I mean, I think one part of me wants to date you, but the other part of me isn’t ready for a relationship.” She lifted her gaze to meet his.
He wanted to lean across the table and kiss her, because this was exactly how he felt too, and he saw it as a small miracle that she felt the same way. It was at least something they could work with.
She lifted her shoulders. “I guess we are discussing the elephant in the room.”
“Truth?”
She bit her lip and nodded, worry still in her eyes. He didn’t like that worry there. “I like you, too,” he said. “Although you’ve probably guessed that by now.”
“You have been fairly persistent.”
Dawson smiled at that. “But, like you, I’ve been through a lot of crap. So I can’t agree with you more. I don’t know if I’m ready either, but I’m just following my instincts here—trying not to analyze everything too much, if you know what I mean.”
She studied him with those deep blue eyes of hers, and in them he could see that she trusted him. That meant more to him than he could say.
“So . . .” she started.
“So . . . how about we take things slow, but stay open-minded,” he suggested.
She nodded, slowly, and he could see that she was considering it. “No parents?”
“Definitely no parents,” Dawson said. “I’ll even block their numbers from my phone if you want.”
Clara laughed. “You’re a nut, you know that? If any woman wanted you to cut your parents out of your life, you should run far away. You’re a product of your parents, and I think the result was a pretty great son.”
She was making it really hard for him to stay in his seat and not grab her and kiss her.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m glad, because even though my mom can be very persistent . . . ”
At this Clara raised her brows.
“She talked me off the ledge more than once after I got Romy’s list of failures,” he said. “And my dad, well, he’s just that steady type of guy who takes a back seat to every event, but he’s always been there too.”
“I’d like to see it,” Clara said.
“What?”
“The letter—the list of failures.”
Dawson opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it.
“You said you still had it,” she said.
He nodded. It was filed with the divorce papers in the cabinet in his bedroom. He’d only read it twice, but that had been enough. His mom had read it, then told him she wanted to take it and destroy it. But Dawson wouldn’t let her. He told his mom that it was a record of the only time his wife had told him her true feelings, and he felt like destroying the list would be invalidating Romy. Even though she’d divorced him, she had still been his wife. Apparently, he had some messed-up sense of loyalty toward her.
Clara was watching him expectantly as he processed through his thoughts. “Would it be so terrible to show me? Or are there too many dark secrets?”
“No secrets.” He spread his hands. “You probably know most of my faults anyway. Knowing a few more won’t hurt.”
Clara gave him a half smile and rose from her chair. “I won’t pressure you or anything.” She pulled the brownies out of the oven. “Maybe I can read it while you eat brownies.”
She was totally pressuring him.
He stood from his chair and started to clear the table. “I’ll think about it.”
She set the brownies on the counter to cool, then proceeded to package the leftover food and put it in his fridge. He stopped her from doing the dishes and took over the task himself. When he finished, Clara had wiped down the table and counters and packed up all the stuff she’d brought.
“I was thinking,” he said, walking toward where she was leaning against the counter. She didn’t move, just watched him approach. “I think if we’re taking things slow and staying open-minded, we shouldn’t have to rule out kissing either.”
He stopped just a few inches in front of her and rested his hands on the counter on either side of her. They weren’t exactly touching, but the way his blood was stirring, they might as well have been. She gazed up at him, unwavering, unflinching.
When she didn’t say anything, he said, “What do you think?”
She bit her lip, and he wished she’d stop doing that. It only made him want to kiss her more.
When sh
e spoke, it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. “I think I should see that list first so that I know what I’m getting myself into.” She arched a brow in a challenge.
He leaned closer and whispered, “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” she said in a soft voice while she ran her hands up his chest and stopped at his shoulders, “that you should go get the list and let me read it.” She smirked and gave his shoulders a little shove.
He straightened and sighed.
Clara folded her arms. “It might be good therapy, you know. To have another person’s perspective who’s not related to you.”
She was probably right. Besides, they weren’t so deep into their relationship that if she decided to bail now, it would hurt that much. Right? “I’ll be back in a minute. I expect brownies when I get back.”
She laughed. He didn’t think any other woman could be more persistent than his mom. Well, now there was one in the kitchen.
It didn’t take him long to locate the manila folder with his divorce papers. Paperclipped to the back was the letter. He separated the document, then walked back into the hallway.
Clara was sitting on the living room couch. Her shoes were on the floor, and her feet were tucked up under her. She’d put a plate of brownies with a couple of napkins on the coffee table.
He handed over the document to her, then sat down and grabbed a brownie.
“It’s hand-written?” she said, turning the pages.
“I never thought it was unusual.” He shrugged and took a bite of the brownie.
“I thought it would be more like a legal document—like a file of complaints.”
“Nope,” Dawson said.
Clara scoffed.
Dawson gave her a sharp look.
“Sorry, I’m not scoffing at you or at this letter,” she said. “Well, maybe I am a little. Look at this first thing: You don’t separate whites from darks. Is she talking about laundry?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did my own laundry, so I’m not sure why she was bothered about how I did my own stuff. I dry-cleaned all my work clothes, so it was just my jeans, gym clothes, and underwear that I washed together.”
Clara was staring at him like he had a third eye. “Okay, I’m just hoping the other complaints are a little more serious. Laundry issues can be worked out.”
He waved a hand. “Read on, therapist.”
“You don’t make the bed.” Clara looked up at him. “Sounds like you expected her to do all the housework?”
“No,” he was quick to say. “I washed the bedding on the weekends because she’d leave me a note, but she was always asleep when I got up in the morning. And I did make the bed when she was staying in the guest room.”
Clara frowned. “I’m not judging you, but this is kind of . . . off. I mean . . .” She looked down at the first page again. “You never asked if I liked eggs.”
Dawson leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. “That’s true. I didn’t. And although I made breakfast food, I don’t even remember if she ate the eggs or not.” He cracked an eye open to see Clara smiling.
“What?” he asked.
“Why did she have to be asked? Why wouldn’t she just tell you—I hate eggs.”
He shrugged. He’d asked himself that plenty since he first read the letter.
Clara flipped the page. “What did your mom tell you about this list?”
“She told me to burn it.”
Clara raised a brow. “Despite my aversion to meeting your parents, I kind of like your mom.”
Dawson set his arm across the back of the couch, right behind Clara. “Really?”
She smiled and looked back at the paper. “You’re cold. What does that mean? You didn’t want sex?”
“Just for the record, I never turned down sex with my wife,” he said. “Romy was cold all of the time, and she thought I was cold too.”
“Like your temperature?” Clara placed a hand on his cheek. “You feel warm to me.” While she kept her gaze on his, she moved her fingers along his jaw, then down his neck.
When she rested her hand on his shoulder, Dawson felt like his heart might stop. “You should make sure my lips aren’t cold.”
She smirked, but then she did the most beautiful thing. She kissed him.
Dawson closed his eyes and kissed her back. He moved his arm down to pull her closer, and she didn’t resist. Her mouth opened to his, and their kiss deepened. She was everything warm and sweet and intoxicating. Her hand moved to his chest, and she pushed slightly away from him. “I think I’ve verified your temperature.”
He groaned and tried to pull her closer again, but she turned her head and started reading the letter again. So Dawson had to settle for pressing his mouth against her ear and inhaling her sweet citrus scent, mixed with the smell of brownies.
“You don’t like my friend Tammy,” Clara read. “Who’s Tammy?”
“Her best friend,” Dawson said. “And it’s true, I didn’t like her. I suspect she was an alcoholic, because every time Romy came home from hanging out with her, she was drunk. I yelled at Tammy once for letting Romy drive home drunk and not calling me to come get her.”
“I don’t blame you, and I don’t understand how Romy couldn’t see why you didn’t like her friend.” Clara kept reading, then said, “You lied to me about your schedule.”
“I did,” Dawson said with a sigh. “Whenever Romy wanted to double-date with Tammy and whoever her flavor-of-the-month was, I’d say I had work or something. When I tried to tell her that Tammy wasn’t good for her, Romy would give me the silent treatment for days, sometimes weeks. So it was easier to just say I was busy.”
Clara turned to look at him again. “I’m sorry you got blamed for something that wasn’t your fault.”
Clara hoped that she wasn’t coming across as too sarcastic and disbelieving about the list of failures that Dawson apparently took seriously, even though he had a valid answer for each and every one of Romy’s accusations. It was hard to keep reading the letter with Dawson’s arm around her, and his random kisses against her neck. It seemed that checking to see if his lips were warm had opened Pandora’s box. Not that Clara exactly minded, except that the more she was around him, the harder it was for her to keep from falling for him.
She’d hold the record for how many heartbreaks a single person could endure in a year. She couldn’t say one way or another if she and Dawson really stood a chance at something long term. She had once fully trusted Max, and look what that had earned her.
She refocused on the letter. “You wouldn’t turn off your cell phone.”
“It’s true, but I can explain,” Dawson said.
“Of course you can,” she murmured, but she probably already knew the answer.
“It was before contacts could be put on emergency bypass, so I used to charge my phone in the kitchen.” Dawson ran his fingers along her arm, further distracting her. “I had the texts on silent, but I figured if there was a real emergency, someone would call. My phone rang only a handful of times in the middle of the night in all the years we were married. I think only one of the times actually woke up Romy.”
“What were the emergencies?” Clara asked.
“Two were drunk dials, and once my mom called because my dad passed out in the bathroom. Turns out he was dehydrated from the flu. A couple of them were from my paralegal—who apologized and said she’d planned to leave a message since she was calling so late.”
“So, nothing like a secret girlfriend calling?” she said.
“No, never.”
And Clara believed him. Whatever faults Dawson might have, or might be accused of, he wasn’t a cheater. Since Clara had let herself be tricked by one, she supposed she was on alert for even the smallest of signs.
“Where is your phone, by the way?” Clara asked.
He chuckled. “In my bedroom.”
“Did you make your bed?”
Dawson looked at the ceiling as if he were thinking ha
rd. “I’m not sure, do you want to check?” He grinned at her.
“Funny.” She flipped to the third and final page of the letter. There were much more serious accusations. “Your mom doesn’t like me. You only married me because I was pregnant. You didn’t want another baby.”
Dawson pulled away from her and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “My mom liked her fine. They weren’t close, or anything, and Romy could be really sensitive to any of my mom’s comments. Not that I blame Romy.”
Despite the complexity of Romy’s accusations, Clara’s heart still went out to Dawson. She scooted to the edge of the couch and put her hand on his back. “What about the other things?”
“There’s a lot of truth in them, but she could have turned down my marriage proposal,” he said. “Not that it justifies anything on my part. She got pregnant, so we got married. I think the bigger question is what we never really talked about. Neither of us were in love with each other.” He met Clara’s gaze. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved Romy in a lot of ways. I think we just both knew that if she hadn’t gotten pregnant we might not have ended up getting married.”
Clara exhaled, then asked the next question. “So how did the conversation go when she wanted another baby?”
“It didn’t,” he said. “After her miscarriage, in my mind, I thought she’d need recovery time—emotionally. Romy wasn’t really herself after, so I told my mom about it because I was getting really worried. My mom told me about how women could go into post-partum depression, even after a miscarriage. So I started using condoms to give Romy some time to heal mentally and emotionally.” He sighed. “It’s my fault I didn’t explain my reasoning. It was obviously a major issue that we avoided talking about.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What if Romy had brought it up, and told you she wanted another baby? Would you have said yes?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Dawson said. “That’s sort of unfortunate, right? The answer should be yes, but even if I had agreed, I’m not sure that would have been telling the truth.”
“I guess avoiding the truth can be painful later on,” Clara said.
Say You Love Me (Pine Valley Book 3) Page 11