Only In His Sweetest Dreams (Secret Dreams Book 2)

by Dani Collins

  “I was going to suggest you move over. I haven’t been sleeping either.” His smile faded before it fully formed. He lifted and dropped a self-deprecating hand.

  Right. Share a bed with him. Turn one moment of grief-induced weakness into a lifetime struggle of trying to stay whole while loving a broken man.

  “Look—” she started to say, while he spoke at the same time.

  “I think we—”

  They both faltered.

  “We should talk,” he said, then snorted. “I mean more effectively than this.” He stepped into the room, closing the door most of the way behind him. “I, uh, don’t have anything that you need to worry about. A disease, I mean.”

  Heat poured into her cheeks. That was the last repercussion she had considered. Covering her blush with her hands, she said, “Me, too. I wasn’t worried.”

  He frowned. “You should. I didn’t take care of things. I’m really sorry about that. I know better, I just...well, extenuating circumstances. It’s not an excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.” His lip curled up at the corner and he glanced over his shoulder, shutting the door completely. “Are you...on the pill or anything?”

  Actually, that was the last concern on her mind. It hadn’t even entered her consciousness because she hadn’t worried about it for over five years. Not that she advertised her mutilated uterus. Still, she had lived with it long enough she ought to be well past bracing herself for the pity face, but she tensed with dread as she admitted, “I can’t get pregnant.”

  A tiny jolt in his posture spoke of his surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t tell you until now.” She gave him a flat, c’est la vie smile, not up to saying more.

  Pushing off the bed, she steadied herself on her feet, then tried to pull her spine into something like a decent posture. She had to find the strength to remain upright for a few more hours.

  “So we don’t need to talk,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed distantly. “I guess we don’t.”

  Chapter 18

  Mercedes told herself she had been adult and sensible, had shown maturity and sophistication, when she had spoken so matter-of-factly with L.C.

  What else was there to say anyway? She might have feelings for him that were getting out of hand, but she couldn’t follow up on them. It was best to keep them unspoken and unacknowledged. No, they’d said all that needed to be said, addressed the most important concerns, and could now move on to pretending nothing had happened.

  Except, if she was so darned blasé and sophisticated, she ought to be able to face him without panicking. However, she found herself avoiding him the next few days then using the kids as a buffer over the weekend. Definitely by Monday, she should have had a grip. She ought to have been calm and grateful when he showed up at Harrison’s with the rest of the volunteers.

  Instead, she became obsessed with scrubbing out cupboards and finally faced that her determination to ignore what had gone between them didn’t stem from a desire to forget, but from an inability to.

  As grief subsided a little, she began to recall their lovemaking. It started seeming less like an act of despair and more like something that had been inevitable. And even though their physical joining had been primal and swift and crude, it had also been tremendously satisfying. Wickedly sexy. Everything she had anticipated he would deliver.

  She longed to experience it again and she was very much afraid it would only take one look to melt her onto the nearest flat surface.

  But she couldn’t, absolutely could not, take up with an alcoholic. Even one in recovery and seeming to be on top of his problem. A quiet aside to Zack had reassured her that somehow L.C. was pulling through this without a crutch, but it was still early days.

  Maybe if she didn’t have the kids... But, she did have the kids. So there was no maybe. He was off-limits.

  “Thinking about drinking that?” he asked from behind her.

  Mercedes almost dropped the bottle she held in her damp hand. “Pardon?”

  L.C. nodded at the whiskey. “You’ve been staring at it a while.”

  “No. Just lost in thought. But if I didn’t have to go home to the kids, I probably would.” She unscrewed the top and poured it down the sink.

  “Hey, I could have taken that home,” Pete Dolinsky said, pausing in sweeping.

  “No, you couldn’t,” Shirley said, raising her head from reading through the spines on Harrison’s bookcase.

  L.C. smirked and Mercedes grinned at the way Shirley’s stern tone prompted a turn-tail reaction in Pete. He skulked out to the garage to hide from his eagle-eyed wife.

  Mercedes rinsed the bottle and the sink, then set the bottle aside on the counter, watching L.C.’s gaze follow it.

  She tensed when he reached for it, but he only said, “It goes out with the rest of the bottles and cans, right?”

  “Oh. Yeah. And this box is ready for the Food Bank.”

  He crowded her while he hooked his arm around the box then stayed close, pausing because Shirley was speaking to him again.

  “Shall we donate these to the library?” Shirley asked.

  “We could leave them in our library, in the sun room,” Mercedes said. “But I don’t have a clue what to do with his awards. Usually family makes the tough decisions about what to do with keepsakes.”

  Mercedes hated picking over things, trying to decide if they had value.

  “L.C., you should take this furniture. It’s in good shape. You boys don’t have a decent kitchen table and this bookshelf only needs a coat of paint.”

  L.C. set down the whisky bottle and scratched his head. “Zack started exams and he’s almost finished his community hours. We’ll be leaving soon.” He looked to Mercedes.

  Shirley looked at her, too. Mrs. Levine stopped washing the window to look and Corbin Pratt set down the print he’d just removed from the wall so he could look to her as well.

  Mercedes heated. “Everything smells like cigars and we just got the cat smell out of the duplex.” She turned back to the cupboard. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring this furniture into it.”

  “Harrison rarely smoked in the house,” Shirley said, dismissing that argument. “Perhaps Mr. Hilroy could use this furniture.”

  “That’s a better idea.” L.C. picked up the bottle from the counter, hovering just long enough to try to catch her eye, but she kept her head buried in the cupboard. What was she supposed to say? You have to stay. I need you.

  Impossible.

  L.C. had spent his life pretending rejection didn’t matter. His mother had been hot and cold, due to an undiagnosed bipolar condition. When she had walked out, claiming it was because his dad had cheated, she’d been in no shape to take him and Paige with her. His stepmother—she’d been a real prize, always ready to let him know what a worthless piece of shit he was—had blamed him openly for his father’s failings. Teachers hadn’t been any better and there had been plenty of kids at school willing to exalt the jocks and marginalize the misfits. His own father had taken a swing at him and acted like he wanted to disown L.C. when L.C. had caught him with the wrong woman. By the time he’d married, L.C. was so inured to criticism and censure, he had set himself up for Brit’s condemnation just so he could prove to her how little it mattered.

  Prize-winning fucked-up stuff.

  When he’d finally found an even keel, at least controlling his drinking, showing up to work and expecting a baby with a woman he thought he might have a chance with, he’d almost felt like not quite the jackass everyone had always called him.

  Then Ester had died and April had left and one day, when he’d been at a low point, Brit had stopped by and they’d wound up making a baby again, proving he was still as reckless and negligent as ever. When Brit had told him she didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lindsay, all hell had broken loose inside him, but he had taken the rejection in stride.

  As his due.

  There’d been a part of him that had b
een relieved, too. The idea of waiting for the birth, maybe facing another nightmare... He had seized the excuse Britta had handed him. Maybe he looked like a deadbeat dad, leaving town like that, but he had never been a stellar one. The running shoes had fit so he’d laced them on and ran.

  As he loaded boxes of Harrison’s lost existence into the bed of his pick-up truck, he recalled how easy it had been, after a lifetime of feeling so locked into Liebe Falls and his life there, to just climb into his truck and drive until he didn’t even have his old name anymore.

  He would be doing that again soon, driving aimlessly, looking for some meaning in his life that eluded him. Maybe he would get his GED and his millwright certification, find a job that paid well enough to settle him into some town where he didn’t know anyone, allowing him to reinvent himself again, but was that really what he wanted?

  The metal tailgate burned his palms as he slammed it shut and looked at Harrison’s house.

  No, he admitted with a rock sitting heavy and sharp in the pit of his stomach. He wished someone would ask him to stay here.

  Edith recalled Edward Hilroy saying something about a fresh start, so she wasn’t convinced he would want used furniture. Nevertheless, when Mercedes called over to ask if she would make the offer to Mr. Hilroy, she complied. She was anxious to see how he was getting on.

  She had sat with him for a long time the morning Harrison died, holding hands and not feeling the least awkward. Finally, he’d said, “I’m going to fall asleep on you, Edith.” He had kissed her knuckle and moved to settle on his side on the bed, his back to her, his sandaled feet on the folded comforter beneath her bottom.

  She had felt an urge to remove his shoes, experiencing something oddly tender along with a reluctance to leave him.

  Since then, a ridiculous shyness had kept her from seeking him out. She’d spotted him from afar, escorting a tall, young brunette, his daughter she presumed. A pair of furniture deliverymen had made a ruckus in the hall two days ago, so she expected he was settling in. It was past time she confirmed it.

  With girlish nerves, she checked her appearance before she left her apartment, bemoaning things she hadn’t cared about for years: frizz in her hair, skin too sensitive for the kind of make-up that might hide a few lines, too much weight around her middle.

  As if Edward Hilroy would notice one way or another. She never had been, and certainly never would be, a siren for any man.

  Impatient with herself, she marched to the elevator and made her way to his apartment, knocking firmly with the intention of delivering her message then leaving him alone. If he wanted to see her, he knew where to find her.

  Inside, he called, “Just a minute,” and there seemed to be scuffle of some sort. Voices were abruptly cut off—the television or radio—and he swore. He opened the door with a somewhat anxious expression.

  “Edith!” A relieved smile brightened his face.

  The enthusiastic greeting caught at her heart. No one ever smiled with such pleasure when they saw her.

  “Have I interrupted you?”

  “No, I, uh—” He blushed. “I was in my shorts. Had to get dressed. The air conditioner doesn’t seem to make a difference to the heat in here.”

  “The blinds!” she remembered with chagrin. “I know exactly the problem. This was my apartment until two weeks ago. Here, let me show you.”

  She moved through the kitchen to the living room, noting his spanking new sofa and recliner and big, fancy TV. Stacks of photographs in frames littered the polished coffee table.

  “This must be your daughter,” she said, pausing to admire the brunette in a wedding dress, posing beside a young man in a tuxedo. “I saw you with her.”

  “Selena, yes. She helped me pick out the furniture and get things started with the insurance company. She brought all these pictures because I lost mine. She wants me to feel at home.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  He nodded. “She’s a good girl. But I have to buy a hammer and some hooks. A tape measure. Things I’ve always owned and took for granted would always be on hand.” He scratched the back of his head. She could see he was overwhelmed.

  “Ask Mr. Fogarty to help. He made me a very smart bookshelf. He’s quite handy. Or perhaps Harrison had a few tools. That’s why I came to speak to you.” She explained the situation as she adjusted his blinds.

  “You wouldn’t think this would make a difference,” she said once the blinds were in order. “But that’s why this hook is here. You have to set them like this before eight o’clock in the morning, May to September, or you’re suffering. You can lift them again around four or five, when the sun has moved, to give your plants some light. Oh. No plants?” She looked around, thinking this bare room really needed softening with something green. “Not to worry. Many of our ladies are avid gardeners. I’ll give you a list of names.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  Edith looked up at him in surprise.

  “I’m happy keeping to myself.” He shuffled his feet. Shy?

  “I understand.” She did. She was not naturally outgoing, but forced herself to move in society so she wouldn’t die of loneliness. “Have you been out at all since you moved in?”

  “No. Well, once, to have a look around.”

  “Did you meet Mercedes? I mean properly?”

  “No, I met...” He stared into the distance, confounded for a moment. “Linda Bella-something?”

  “Lindy Bellacerra,” Edith said with a tsk.

  “That sounds right. Quite a forward woman?”

  “Quite.” Small wonder the man wanted to barricade himself indoors. “Please do not tar our entire population with her scarlet brush. I must insist, sir, that you take a walk with me to Harrison’s unit. We’ll see what he had by way of tools and meet Mercedes and Mr. Fogarty.”

  “I don’t know.” He rubbed his chest. “Will there be a lot of people there?”

  For some reason, the gesture reminded her quite sharply of Dayton, worrying the other day over an upcoming spelling test.

  “There might be a few people there, but they’re our Friends In Need committee. A man who lost everything he owns might appreciate what they offer. Come. Before the heat.”

  The midday sun was high and bouncing off windows, striking directly into Mercedes’s prickling eyes by the time L.C. returned from disposing of one load to pick up the second. Squinting up at where he yanked on a yellow rope, tying down Harrison’s mattress, she hesitantly said, “So you don’t want any of it?”

  Edward Hilroy had taken a hammer and screwdriver, but had claimed his daughter would ensure he had anything else he needed.

  L.C. leapt down beside her and for a moment they both surveyed what remained of Harrison’s life: a few pieces of furniture, a box of mismatched dishes and a garbage bag full of clothes.

  Not much, in Mercedes’s opinion. The real mark Harrison had made on the world had been the people he’d touched through his writing and friendship.

  L.C. tugged his earlobe. “Where would I put it?”

  She folded her arms, unable to offer an answer to that.

  “I’d like to see if the consignment store will take any of it,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll get Zack to wipe the computer hard drive before you take it, but this lamp goes now, right?”

  Dumbly, she nodded and a few minutes later he invited her with a wave to climb into the cab of the truck.

  Oh. They were going together. Alone. She should have thought this through.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” Mercedes told the ladies pulling weeds.

  “That’s fine,” one said, shading her eyes to glance up at them. “Pete can turn off the water. We’ll let the cleaners do the rest.”

  Mercedes nodded and decided she absolutely needed her sunglasses from the front office. Any excuse to put off the uncomfortable silence between her and L.C.

  However, when he picked her up out front of the complex, she couldn’t he
lp blurting, “I hate this.”

  “I know. You can feel everyone wondering when their things will be trucked out like it’s garbage day.” He always understood her so well.

  “The first month I worked here, three people died.” She slouched into the door. “That was horrible, but I didn’t know those people. It didn’t rip my guts out. I know death is a natural part of living, but it’s so sad.”

  “Yup.” He poked at his stereo system until the cab was filled with a gentle ballad by a female vocalist. As he pulled away, he asked, “Wanna go for a drink?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Me, too.”

  “You don’t make it easy, M,” he growled, making her smile a little.

  She rolled her head on the seatback to look at him. He wore mirrored sunglasses, a plain white T-shirt and frayed cut-offs. All of it showed tanned skin and honed muscle.

  “Has it been really bad for you?”

  “It’s been bad. Temptation’s pretty strong.” He turned his head and she sensed she was being appraised. “Fortunately, certain thoughts distract me.”

  Oh. All of her went hot and weak with memory. Propping her elbow against the closed window, she angled her face to feel the cool air coming out of the A/C vent.

  “Do you want me to leave, Mercedes?”

  Oh, God. The short answer, the honest one, was ‘no,’ but the word wouldn’t leave her throat.

  “What I want doesn’t matter. I have to think of what the kids need.”

  He didn’t say anything and she glanced over at him. Saw a muscle pulse in his jaw as he made a sharp turn into a parking lot.

  “If you could have what you want, just for today, for an hour, what would it be?”

  He pulled up before a sign that read ‘Office.’ Above it rose three levels of orange doors and boxy windows. A motel. He’d brought her to a motel.