Then it was all a go.
Homemade beef Stroganoff.
It was smelling divine.
I just hoped it tasted the same way.
“What do you need?” Dottie asked.
“Okay, listen,” I began. “I went to that Pilates place and don’t let the pictures of people sitting on their asses bending around fool you. That shit is hard. But I got a wild hair, bought a five-session pass. I will not go again… ever… if you aren’t here in workout clothes, guilting me into doing it. So the favor is, I need you to bring the guilt. Don’t make me waste four sessions.”
I finished talking, asking this favor knowing it wouldn’t be hard. Dottie was a mother. Guilt, I suspected, for women was a specialty that was latent until you birthed your first baby. Then it kicked in full-force. I suspected this because it had happened with Dot.
But even though I stopped talking, Dottie didn’t start.
“Dot?” I called, pinching some salt and pepper into my sauce.
“You went to that Pilates place?” she asked softly.
I stopped moving and stared at my counter.
“Yeah,” I replied softly.
“I…” I heard her clear her throat. “Sure, I’ll do Pilates with you.”
Her tone was hesitant. Hopeful, but hesitant.
She knew what Pilates meant.
She knew what anything outside of me snarfing down fast food and watching reality TV meant.
“I’m done, Dot,” I told her.
“Done?” she asked, still hesitant, still hopeful.
Damn, but I’d put her through the wringer.
I needed to stop doing that.
And finally, I was going to.
“It’s time to move on.”
She said nothing.
I was sure she was shocked. This had never happened. I might have talked about it. I definitely thought about it (daily).
But I’d never done a thing about it.
“Did… something happen?” she queried.
“Yeah,” I gave her the truth. “A lot, actually. And I’ll explain it later. I don’t…” I shook my head even if she couldn’t see me. “I don’t wanna get into it. I’ll share it one day but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. In the end, it’s just time. Long past time. So there it is.”
In that speech, I’d lied.
It mattered.
Logan using me, taking advantage for his revenge fuck, then speaking to me the way he did, killing what we had, turning love to hate.
That mattered.
But it was done.
He hated me and there was nothing I could say that would change that. And the way he’d treated me—like what we had never happened, like what we shared wasn’t everything, like all of that didn’t buy me some kindness or at least some patience or at the very least some silence so I could share what I needed to share—it was inexcusable.
So it was over.
I was done walking through fire for that man.
And I wasn’t wasting another moment of my life on him.
I was going to change.
Finally.
I’d made that decision after the debacle at Wild Bill’s and that decision was cemented after what happened Saturday morning before the King’s Shelter event.
I was all in.
My larder was stocked.
I’d gone to the mall and bought clothes for inside and outside workouts.
I’d also bought a little black dress.
And the aforementioned speaker dock.
And the night before, I’d given myself a luxurious pedicure, unearthing my foot tub out of its box to do it.
My five-session pass for the Pilates center was purchased.
My first session was under my belt.
I was making fabulous-smelling, and I hoped would be fabulous-tasting, beef Stroganoff.
And I was thinking of getting a cat (or two) for company.
Yes, I was all in.
New life.
New me.
New beginning.
All to write a new future.
Out of the rut.
And on to something good.
(I hoped.)
“I don’t know what to say,” Dottie said in my ear.
“Nothing to say anymore.” I dropped my voice and kept stirring my sauce. “You’ve said it all, babe. I just never listened. Or if I did, it just didn’t sink in. It’s sunk in.”
“It’s seeing Logan,” she guessed.
“Yes.”
I did not lie about that, just my answer encompassed a whole truth she didn’t know.
Her voice was stronger when she said, “Then it’s good that happened. It didn’t seem good at the time but every woman has her limits. Every woman finds her time. You seeing him, hearing him, knowing he moved on, has kids, is doing okay, that was it for you. So that’s good.”
She was right. That part was good.
For Logan.
But I didn’t care or, more aptly, was determined to move toward not caring.
However, that thought was a good one to have.
I’d think of him that way, rather than the total asshole he’d been.
I’d think of him doing okay. Enjoying his kids. Being with his brothers.
And I’d find my things to enjoy.
Like beef Stroganoff.
“You’re right, Dottie,” I replied. “Now, I gotta add the mushrooms and steak to the sauce before it gets too thick.”
“You’re cooking?” She sounded shocked.
“New leaf, haven’t you heard?” I teased. “I mean, I did just mention it two seconds ago.”
“Kiss my butt,” she retorted, as she’d done since I was six and she was eight.
“Show it, I’ll kiss it,” I replied, as I’d done since she was eight and I was six.
“Whatever. If that stuff you’re making is good, then you’re making it for Alan, the kids, and me.”
“You’re on.”
“Awesome. Later, Mill.”
“Later, Dot. Love you.”
“Love you too, babe.”
She rang off.
I set my phone aside and picked up the platter with the seared beef and sautéed mushrooms.
I added it to the sauce.
I stirred.
I tipped it over the drained noodles and ate it with a delicious glass of red wine poured into one of my fabulous red wineglasses that I hadn’t pulled out in probably three years.
And it was divine.
* * *
“Holy crap, this is Dynasty except British with a better wardrobe and set in the early 1900s,” I whispered to the TV.
My kitchen was clean. My candles still burning. Only one lamp was lit, along with my gas fireplace, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.
And I was sitting, curled up on my couch, wineglass in hand, into my third episode of Downton Abbey.
Violet was a stitch.
And I was so organizing a party where people had to wear clothes from the early 1900s.
The costumes were amazing!
Violet had just drolly let out another humdinger and I was giggling at it when my doorbell rang.
I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the hall that led to the rest of my house, including my foyer.
It was late but I was not surprised my bell had sounded.
This happened. It happened when Dottie got fed up with Alan thinking that being a stay-at-home mom was a cushy job so he could come home, watch TV, scratch his crotch, and leave her on duty. She’d teach him by coming to my place, bitching, leaving him home on duty with the kids.
He’d learn.
Then he’d forget.
As was, according to Dottie, her lot since he was a man. They forgot stuff like that.
Repeatedly.
It also could be Justine, who worked but only part-time and her partner, Veronica, had a higher paying, higher stress, full-time job and Veronica felt the same way about Justine taking care of their son.
Further, it could be Kellie, who did not have a partner (at the moment). However, she did have a life motto to have a good time all the time and even after all these years of shutting myself away, she never gave up. If she got a wild hair to try to drag me into her good time, she swung around my place in an effort to do just that.
Or it could be Claire, my assistant, who was a serial dater and seemed surprised when the men in her life found out about the other men in her life and didn’t like it and then dumped her and broke her heart (ish). Claire also had a short memory since this happened frequently and she hadn’t learned to come clean early that none of her relationships were exclusive.
As I set my wine aside and got up, I was guessing Kellie or Claire. It was way too late for it to be Dottie or Justine. My niece and nephew were nine and four. Justine and Veronica’s little boy was eight months.
With the kids down, they’d totally be in bed by now doing one thing or the other.
I moved to the foyer, walked down it, and stared at my door, which was mostly a window covered in a beautiful sheer gathered at the top and bottom.
But I did this with my heart beginning to pump faster.
This was because the motion sensor light outside had lit and there was an unmistakable man’s body silhouetted through the sheer.
I didn’t stop moving toward the door, however, because I could not believe this.
It was past ten o’clock on a Monday night and he’d been a total asshole to me the last two times he’d seen me in a way I couldn’t decide which time was worse since they both were the worst.
And here he was.
Logan.
Standing at my front door!
No, I absolutely did not stop moving.
I was too angry for that.
I went right to the door, unlocked it, and hauled it open.
I instantly looked up at him and demanded, “Are you serious?”
“Your door is a fuckin’ window,” he replied in an irate growl.
I blinked, my anger tamped down with confusion at his unexpected words.
“What?” I asked.
“Your door is a goddamned window,” he bit off.
“So?” I asked.
His head tipped to the side in an intimidating way. “So?”
“Yeah,” I snapped, back to angry, thus totally unintimidated. “So?”
“You know how easy it is to break into a house with a window in the goddamned front door?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “But I’m certain you do,” I finished nastily.
“Yeah,” he clipped, leaning slightly toward me. “I do. It’s fuckin’ easy, which means this shit,” he threw a hand toward my open door, “is unsafe.”
“Are you telling me that you’ve shown up at my home after ten at night when you said you never wanted to see me again to tell me my front door is unsafe?” I asked incredulously.
“No,” he stated. “I came for another reason.”
Before I could ask what that was, he turned, bent, I got a view of his ass in his jeans I did not want because it was too good for words, then he straightened, hefting something up and turning back to me.
Dear Lord in heaven, he had that stupid crate.
Those crazy women who came to visit me gave him that stupid crate.
Damn it!
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said on an annoyed snap.
“Nope,” High replied, and pushed in, right in, doing it so I had no choice but to leap out of his way as he angled sideways to get him and the crate through the front door. And then, when he was through, he kept on walking.
“I did not ask you into my home,” I called after him as he stopped at the hall, looked right, looked left, then turned left, toward the living room.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he replied as he disappeared.
I made a frustrated noise, closed the door, and stomped after him.
By the time I hit the living room, he was standing in it, box at his feet and he was looking around.
I rounded him angrily, opening my mouth to tell him to get the fuck out, when his eyes cut to me and he spoke.
“Christ, you live on a movie set,” he noted with disgust.
“It’s pretty,” I snapped.
“It’s perfect,” he returned, like that was a bad thing.
“Yes, it is, utterly,” I agreed. “Now—”
“And what’s that smell?” He looked around and sniffed and I got even more annoyed because only Logan could sniff and do it looking manly and yummy. “It smells like flowers and onions.”
“Not onions,” I kept snapping. “Shallots,” I stated like any fool could tell the difference and his eyes came back to me. “And the flower smell is coming from my candles. Lavender. It’s soothing.”
“It’s sickening,” he replied.
“It… is… not,” I shot back indignantly.
“It fucking is,” he retorted.
“God!” I shouted, throwing out my hands. “Why are we talking about how my house smells?” I narrowed my eyes and swiftly kept speaking so he wouldn’t answer since I didn’t care about his answer. I cared about another answer. So I asked that question. “And why are you here?”
“Here to return this shit.” He toed the box with his boot but didn’t take his eyes off me. “And to warn you again to stop pullin’ this shit.”
“Then I’ll say again I’m not pulling any shit,” I declared.
“And I’ll repeat, I don’t believe you,” he stated.
“And I’ll repeat, I don’t care,” I returned.
He took a step toward me and I took a step back, eyes locked to his.
He hesitated, his head again tilting in that strangely intimidating way, then he kept coming at me.
I kept retreating.
He started speaking as we moved.
“It was a good play, usin’ that crate. What’s inside guaranteeing good women will go all out to have your back. But it’s still a play. You know it. I know it.”
I hit wall.
He invaded my space, tipping his chin way down to keep my gaze.
And he kept talking, lower, rougher, and his tone was more intimidating than any head tilt.
“You need to release Tyra before your shit causes Club shit, which you know, Millie, will be seriously uncool.”
“And, again, High, I am not playing some game where I pulled Tyra or her friends in to help me do anything,” I told him. “So you can repeat that until the cows come home but I can’t control her. Hell, I don’t even know her.”
“You knew her enough to give her that box.”
“She came here,” I shared. “I did not ask her. I barely spoke to her. I asked her to get rid of that crate. Not give it to you.”
“You knew what she’d do when she saw what was inside,” he derided. “She’s a sister.” His face dipped closer and his voice went quiet. “You got a pussy, baby, know that pussy, tasted it, fucked it, so know you definitely got a pussy. That means you knew what she’d do.”
God, he was such an asshole.
“You’re disgusting,” I announced bitingly.
“You didn’t think I was disgusting when you were on your knees for me,” he returned, still quiet, still close.
But it was the wrong thing to say, reminding me how he’d used me for his revenge fuck.
Very wrong.
And so I was done.
Done.
“Move back,” I snapped.
His eyes dropped to my mole and, damn it, the insides of my thighs started tingling, even though I was done.
“Got a mind to change yours about how disgusting you think I am,” he murmured distractedly.
“Move back, High,” I warned, and on his name, his eyes sliced to mine.
“That name’s not yours to use,” he grated.
“If you leave, I won’t use it,” I fired back.
“Got a lesson to teach,” he returned, and my belly curled.
Oh God.
What did that mean?
“Move back,” I repeated, my voice weakening with fear and something else a whole lot different.
“Give you what you want,” he said, his gaze again dropping to my mole, his voice again going soft. “Give you what you want so you’ll give up the game.”
“This is no game,” I whispered what I knew for certain to be the truth, and he looked into my eyes again.
“Oh yeah it is, Millie. And this time, I’m gonna get what I want when I win.”
Oh God!
This was not happening.
And suddenly, his mouth was on mine.
God.
It was happening.
I twisted my head away, lifted my hands to his chest, and pushed hard, shouting, “Move back!”
His torso swung away at my shove but then it swung right back in as the rest of his big body got closer, pinning me to the wall at the same time his hand came up and fisted in my ponytail, giving it a gentle-rough jerk that caught my attention.
It also caught my body’s attention and more than my inner thighs started tingling.
“Do not pull away from me,” he growled.
“Please leave,” I begged, not above that.
Oh no, I was not above begging at all.
I had to stop this.
Immediately.
And I’d do anything.
“Not until I make my play.”
“High—” I started another plea but stopped when his eyes fired, his hand in my hair pulled my head back, and his mouth came back down on mine, crushing it, pushing my lips against my teeth so I had a funny taste in my mouth.
But I felt High.
And I smelled him.
His body to mine, his hand in my hair, his lips on mine, his scent, all this permeated my anger and fear and when it did, it weakened my resolve.
But it didn’t kill it.
I had enough left to twist away so his lips slid up to my cheekbone.
“You’re hurting me.”
He positioned me to facing him using my hair and went back in, not for a kiss, to nip my bottom lip with his teeth.
I went still.
Because it wasn’t hurtful.
It was playful.
Logan was playful a lot when we’d been together.
Walk Through Fire Page 11