Until Dawn

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  Her face was utterly expressionless. “Goodbye, Ethan.”

  “See you soon, Mia,” I corrected, then turned and walked away—this time, without looking back.

  * * * *

  Mia

  I didn’t stand on the stoop and watch Ethan get into the cab. I didn’t look as the yellow car pulled into the street, then wait for it to get smaller and smaller as it drove away.

  But I wanted to.

  Just like I wanted to call after him and tell him that even though I really hadn’t meant to invite him over, I was glad for the knee-jerk reaction. I was thankful that I hadn’t been able to call him back, and that I hadn’t been able to gather my wits quickly enough to send him a retraction via email.

  What I wasn’t thankful for, and what I didn’t want, was the solid ache in my chest, and the moments that had led to it.

  I hated the fact that I’d reached for him when I woke up. That my heart had dropped when I found the bed empty, and that it lifted when I realized he was just outside, still close enough to catch.

  I despised how my voice had dried up in my throat, not quite strong enough to call out to him.

  I resented the relief at seeing him turn and come back on his own. The satisfaction at folding myself into his arms like I belonged there.

  Most of all, I couldn’t stand that the second I’d closed the door, tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t stop them. As though his leaving was the end of something that hadn’t even had a chance to get started.

  It was your idea to end it in a fight, I reminded myself as I sank against the door and closed my eyes.

  I’d been half joking when I said it. But when the admission over my not-so-inviting invitation came out, I realized I could use it to drive the necessary wedge into place. Because without that wedge, I’d be weak.

  In fact, I’d already softened a little, hadn’t I? Unblocking his email. Keeping his true motivation a secret from my parents and Marcelo and Aysia. Even following him outside a few minutes earlier when I could’ve just let him go.

  But are you really so weak that you’d think about selling him your business?

  I answered my own, silent question aloud. “Hell, no.”

  That wasn’t the issue. I’d never, ever turn Trinket and Treasures over to someone else. Especially a man who thought he could handle the job better than I could myself. I’d been duped once in the past. Taken advantage of. It had torn me apart and made me question my self-worth. And it hadn’t just affected me, either. It had hurt my family.

  I wouldn’t let it happen again.

  And the only way to guarantee that it didn’t was to stay away from temptation. God knew Ethan was more than tempting.

  Speaking of which…

  I opened my eyes and pushed off the wall. I’d already decided when I’d woken up alone that the first thing I’d do was a mini-purge. It wasn’t the same as a real breakup, and it was a little juvenile, but I figured the premise would do. The two-night-stand equivalent of piling mementoes into a box and burning them. At the very least, I’d feel better about tackling the issue head on. It was also my day off—Wednesday and Thursday was my version of a weekend—so it gave me something with which to fill the hours too.

  “All right,” I murmured with a quick look around. “First things first. Clothes.”

  After I slipped into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, I started the Ethan-themed cleanse. Slowly to begin with, then with increasing vigor.

  I swept up the little vase we’d broken in our enthusiasm, then changed every garbage can in the house and tossed it all into the bin outside.

  I shoved everything that could go into the washing machine straight onto the hot cycle. Blankets and sheets. My sexy nightie and my men’s pajamas. I stuck in my underwear too, vowing to run them through twice even though I’d worn them hardly at all.

  Once I had that going, I opened all the windows, grabbed a cloth and spray cleaner, and scrubbed down every surface he might’ve touched. The wall where we’d had the quickie. The bathroom where we showered together—sensual but not outright sexual. The dishes we’d used to share a slice of pie, and the mugs that had held our cold coffee. I even made sure to give the door handles a wipe.

  When I finished with the hard surfaces, I transferred the laundry to the dryer, then moved on to the soft surfaces. Fabric refresher on the couch and on my mandala rug. A special spray that was designed for the mattress. For the finishing touch, I performed a thorough vacuuming job.

  I surveyed my handiwork. The house was spotless. No sign of midnight whispers, no residual cologne. For a good minute, I felt satisfied. But then the computer caught my eye, and I realized that while there might not be any physical evidence left, there was still the virtual trail. And for some reason, it was a little harder to rid the laptop of the back and forth messages. Sitting down to do it brought the achy feeling back into my chest, and the tears—which I thought had been washed away with the lime-scented cleaner—threatened all over again.

  My finger hovered over the delete button. Brushed it once. Then drew back.

  “C’mon, Mia,” I murmured. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

  I pressed my finger forward again, then shrieked as a hand landed on my shoulder. I jumped up so fast that I couldn’t quite keep my balance, and my wild leap sent both me and the laptop crashing to the floor. I rolled over, fists up, prepared for a fight. But my whole body sagged when I spotted a familiar blond ponytail.

  “Liv!” I gasped.

  My dare-dealing, fellow bridesmaid put her hands on her hips and stared down at me. “Whatcha doin’, Lu’?”

  “Seriously? You just about gave me a heart attack.”

  “Well, I knocked on the door for, like, three full minutes.”

  “That usually means someone isn’t home.”

  “Or that they’ve fallen down, cracked their head, and need help.”

  “I only fell after you arrived,” I pointed out. “Because of it, really.”

  “But you are home,” she replied.

  “Obviously.”

  “And not answering the door.”

  “I was preoccupied.”

  Liv’s eyes flicked to the laptop. “Who’s E. B. Burke?”

  “What are you…an eagle?” I reached over and snapped the computer shut. “E. B. Burke is no one.”

  “No one who’s got you so distracted that you seem to have forgotten about the final dress fitting we have today,” she said.

  I groaned. “Shit.”

  “You really forgot?”

  “I was sitting here on my computer, wasn’t I?”

  She studied me for a second. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, what?” I replied.

  “I just thought it might be another of your evasion tactics.”

  “I’m not evading anything.”

  “Um. The day we spent putting those weird, candied almonds in the boxes? The dinner on Sunday? My calls and texts last night? Pretty sure you somehow evaded every one of those things,” Liv said.

  “Okay, the only one I’m going to cop to evading is the dinner on Sunday. And even then, you wouldn’t believe what happened. But I swear, everything else had a legitimate excuse,” I told her.

  She hesitated. “Lu…are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Participate at this level.”

  I sighed. “Is that your nice way of asking me if I really want to be a bridesmaid?”

  “Maaaaaybe,” she said.

  “Marcelo’s my brother. Why wouldn’t I want to be a bridesmaid?”

  “See…that right there? That wasn’t a resounding ‘yes,’ was it?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the beginnings of a headache. “I want to be there for Marc and Aysia. I am very, very, very happy for them. I’m just
not one of those girls who gets all heart fluttery and googly eyed when I hear the word ‘wedding.’”

  “I get it,” Liv said. “But why agree in the first place? Wouldn’t your brother understand?”

  “He does understand,” I admitted.

  It was true. When my life had ruptured, Marc was the one I turned to first. He probably knew more than he wanted to know.

  “And he asked me anyway,” I added. “So it must be important to him.”

  “Or…” Liv said.

  “Or what?”

  “He made the offer but assumed you would say no.”

  That gave me pause. “A pity ask? Did he say that?”

  Liv shook her head. “No, of course not! My skills of inference are just that good. And I didn’t mean pity, either, Lu. Maybe Marc was putting your feelings first, and just wanted to leave it up to you.”

  “That’s…” I trailed off, considering it.

  “Probably true?” Liv filled in.

  I blew out a breath, wondering why I hadn’t seen it before. Marcelo would never want me to feel excluded from something so important to him. Even if that meant having a shitty bridesmaid in his wedding.

  “And I’m repaying his selflessness by sitting in the middle of my living room floor…” I said. “When I should be enthusiastically letting a dress fitter poke me with pins.”

  Liv reached out her hand. “There’s still time to redeem yourself.”

  I stared at her open palm for a second before grasping it. She was right. I had ten days to transform myself from the world’s worst bridesmaid to the world’s best bridesmaid. There was still plenty to do. A bachelorette party and a rehearsal dinner. A speech to write.

  “C’mon,” Liv urged. “Let’s go make tulle and sparkles our bitch.”

  I let out a laugh, closed my fingers on hers, and stood up. “Okay. I’m in. Let me get changed quickly.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I’m not taking the chance that you’ll fall back into whatever funk you were in and change your mind. Grab a sweatshirt, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I rolled my eyes, but did as I was told. As Liv ushered me out the door, I cast a final look toward the living room and my discarded laptop, glad that focusing on my brother’s wedding—which I should’ve been doing all along—would distract me from thinking about Ethan Burke.

  Of course, we didn’t make it a block from the house before Liv opened her mouth and said, “Hey. It’s been a couple of days. Make any headway on my dare?”

  And I wondered if it would really be that easy.

  Chapter 12

  Ethan

  One of the bad things about being an efficient, hard-ass of a boss is that when something doesn’t go quite as planned, everyone assumes that something is very wrong. Case in point, my arrival home. Sixteen hours late. Plastic bag in hand instead of suitcase.

  First came the reaction from my congenial driver.

  “Mr. B…” he said. “I was getting worried you drowned in all that Vancouver rain. Did you get sick or something?”

  “Not sick, Quincy. Just delayed,” I told him through gritted teeth.

  I pointedly left the privacy window up and closed my eyes as he drove me home. Which is why I missed the fact that he didn’t drive me home, and instead took me to the office.

  When I expressed my frustration, his response was, “But you never want to go home first.”

  “You and Julie have a real knack for telling me what I never do, don’t you?” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Just take me home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thankfully, he took me home without further comment, and I had a completely solitary night. Well. Solitary except for thoughts of Mia Diaz and her cool, parting words. Thinking about them probably should’ve prompted me to act. Instead, the stinging memory just made me wallow. And the next day brought another issue, this time in the form of the impromptu, midafternoon visit from my assistant.

  It was a little after two o’clock when the buzzer at my condo sounded, startling me so badly that I spilled my post-lunch wine, stubbed my toe, and answered the call with a curse.

  “Who the hell is this?” I snapped.

  Julie’s concerned voice carried through the intercom. “Mr. Burke?”

  “You know where I live?” I blurted before remembering that she processed all my mail, all my invoices, arranged pickups and drop-offs and God knew what else. “All right. You’re getting the raise.”

  “Uh…Mr. Burke? Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Come on up.”

  “Up?”

  “I’m sure as hell not coming down.” I pressed my finger to the buzzer for ten seconds longer than necessary, then poured a fresh glass of wine, and waited.

  A minute later, Julie was at my door, her face wrinkled up with worry, her generally starched-looking pantsuit slightly bunched up at the elbows. Even her tight, gray curls were a little looser than usual.

  “Julie,” I greeted. “Now I feel like I should ask if you’re okay.”

  Her lips pressed together for a second, then she replied, “You didn’t come to work today, and you didn’t bring me any paperwork”

  “I emailed you and said I’d be taking the day off, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And I only bring you paperwork when there’s paperwork to provide.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Julie?” I said, stepping back from the door.

  Her eyes went round and she made no move to come in. “Wine?”

  I swirled my glass in her direction. “Liquid joy. You may have heard of it.”

  “No. I just—does this mean there isn’t any paperwork? Literally? What about the jewelry company?”

  “Not mine yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me neither.”

  “You weren’t able to acquire it?” Julie’s question sounded like an accusation.

  I sighed. “That’s what ‘not yet’ means. So if you’re not coming in for wine, and you don’t have anything else to discuss…”

  She took a step back. “Will you be in tomorrow, Mr. Burke?”

  “Probably not.” I took a hearty gulp of my wine. “I’m anticipating a headache.”

  She looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head, then backed away like the head in question might bite her. “Okay, Mr. Burke. See you Monday.”

  “See you Monday, Julie!” I replied cheerily. “Maybe.”

  I closed the door before she could comment. I gulped back the rest of my drink, flopped down on my couch to wallow some more, and wished for some kind of crisis to arise. That was another problem with being so damned efficient. My smooth-sailing ship never rocked. It never tipped. Which meant there was very little to occupy my mind.

  “You need to come up with a plan,” I said aloud. “And that plan should probably start with a shower.”

  But five minutes later, I was still sitting in the same spot, staring out at the clear Toronto sky. Brooding now, instead of wallowing. The weather had been temperate since my arrival the previous morning. Not a drop of rain, and barely a cloud. About as perfect as it could get, really. The kind of weather that—if I happened to be home—would usually prompt me to slide open the glass doors to my patio and spend some time enjoying the air and the view. Right then, I just kind of resented it.

  With a grunt that pretty much summed up my mood, I made my way to the bathroom, where I set the temperature to just shy of cool. A hot shower had its place. Good for soothing sore muscles. Washing away dirt and worries. This moment didn’t feel like one of those. I wanted—needed—a refresher. A shock. But as I stripped down and stepped into the cool stream, I realized something else. The cool water beati
ng down on my head and pouring over my shoulders reminded me of the rain on the night that I met Mia.

  Angry with myself, I smacked the nozzle off, then climbed out and toweled dry with unnecessary viciousness.

  You hate the rain. You don’t miss the permeating damp. And you don’t miss a girl you just met.

  Except as I tossed on a fresh pair of boxer briefs and stalked back into the living room in search of the final dregs of my wine, the starkness of my living space stopped me in the middle of the beige area rug. I couldn’t help but wonder what Mia would think of it. Nothing inside was personalized. It wasn’t anything like her little rancher.

  The walls were off-white, the leather couches a muted brown. The coffee table had a plain glass top and brushed steel legs. A tall, matching accent table sat on the other side of the room. A brown-speckled vase sat in the center of each.

  I turned in a circle, studying the room’s lack of personality. I wished I could say that it was just this particular spot that lacked charm. That I’d kept it purposefully plain for the sake of guests with different tastes. It would’ve been a lie to make the claim.

  The kitchen had the same, boring décor. Beige on white. Even the backsplash tiles were desertlike.

  The master bedroom—a loft with panoramic views of the city—could’ve been an oasis. Instead, it held nothing unique. Black and gray. Was there an undertone of masculinity? Maybe. Mostly, though, it looked like it belonged to no one in particular. In fact, the master suite was no more dynamic than the two spare rooms on the main floor. They might as well all be part of some show home. Which is essentially what the whole place was, if I really thought about it.

  When I’d bought the condo two years back—cash, and sight unseen—I’d been both too busy and too disinterested to decorate it myself. It’d been in the middle of a particularly big takeover, and I was putting in anywhere between sixty and eighty hours a week at the office. I still averaged a six-day, fifty-hour work week. Not because it was necessary. The long days I kept were only required at the start of an acquisition or the setup of distribution. I spent my time there because I wanted to. It was my home away from home, and really…it was more home than my condo.

  I closed my eyes, picturing it.