Her sister nodded, likely reading through her lie. "Okay . . . I'll see you Saturday? We can get the rest of your stuff from here and I'll help you unpack."
Shannon wasn't surprised when she woke up several hours later, her stomach a churning vortex of pain. Swallowing the rising bile, she rolled off the bare mattress lying in the middle of her empty bedroom. Crawling to her new bathroom, she waited for it to start. The next hour involved several unpleasant trips as she voided the contents of her stomach. After christening her new bathroom for the fifth time, she staggered back to the stripped mattress, drenched and shivering from the violent stomach flu.
At three-fifteen, she left a message for Felix. No way in hell could she go to work in the morning. "Standing upright would be nice," she muttered as she fell back against the pillow, the new mattress scent invading her nose. When her stomach knotted again, she drew her knees up. "Or maybe death," she moaned. Shivering, she glanced at the chair across the room where she'd stacked a pile of sheets and blankets. Too far. Waiting for the room to stop spinning, she snatched a damp towel from the pile on the floor and covered herself with it. Though she knew she would dream of Curt, she prayed for sleep anyway. Tears leaking from her eyes, she stared at the reflected light shimmering on the ceiling, her gaze drifting to the window where the glow of street lamps spilled around her blinds. Her first night in her new place. Miserable. Sick. Alone. Closing her eyes, she waited for oblivion to take her.
Chapter 16
A black cloud hanging over his head, Curt pushed through the storefront door. Averting his gaze from the redecorated lobby, he trudged back to his office. How long before he stopped thinking about Shannon every time he walked in?
Pausing in the hallway, he retraced his steps. Her desk was empty. His words returned to haunt him. His demand that she give him two week's notice. Though relief flickered through him . . . that she hadn't taken it seriously . . . that he wouldn't have to face her again—his smoldering anger reactivated. Where did she get off? Not working a notice?
Nine o'clock. She should've arrived an hour earlier. When the phone began ringing, he glared at it. "Felix?" His shout echoed back to the shop. "Where the hell is Shannon? What are we doing about the phones?"
He waited by the older man's workbench while Felix answered the call in a far more professional manner than he was currently capable of. "Where the hell is she?" Impatient by the time he ended the call, Curt's tone was more abrupt than he would have liked.
"She's sick. And what the hell is your problem?"
"She's not sick. I saw her last night and she was fine."
Felix sent him a withering glance. "Whatever the hell is going on between you . . . I don't care."
"Nothing's going on."
"Yeah, right." The old man stared right through him. "Has she ever called in sick before?"
"No." Damn it. Why had he started this? The last thing he needed was an argument with the guy who knew him better than anyone. It was like arguing with your dad.
"Has she ever not devoted herself to this place? Twelve hour days here. Then taking care of you all night?" Felix rose from the work bench. "Half the time she was like a zombie . . . up all night with you and then coming in here."
"Whatever. What are we doing about the phones?"
"We're going to answer them." Felix's eyes were stony. "Do you know how she painted this place?"
He waved a hand at him. "Forget I asked. I'll call a service."
"She used her lunch hour . . . every day. A sandwich in one hand, a paint brush in the other." His friend ignored him. "And when she finished the walls, she started the floor. And when she finished that . . . she re-upholstered the damn chairs. Three of the guys learned how to refinish furniture on their lunch breaks. It was all Shannon."
Curt turned on his heel. At least in his office he could lose himself in work. As long as he didn't think about what they'd done in there . . . only two days earlier. A sick sense of loss threatened to swamp him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Felix' shouted question echoed off the shop walls.
Turning around, he retraced his steps. The sooner they had it out, the sooner everything would slowly get back to normal. "You've got something to say?"
"Not everything is about you, Curt. You've become so damned self-centered."
Floored would have been an understatement for how he felt. "I'm self-centered?" It was the second time in twenty-four hours he'd heard that about himself. And it was starting to piss him off.
"I love you like a son." The old man nodded. "But, yeah—you only care how things affect you. No one else counts."
"Where the hell is this coming from?" Curt had to lean against the doorjamb for support.
Felix shifted the set of plans aside. "You think no one else has pain? Problems? Screwed-up lives?" He shook his head. "You act as though you're the only one who's ever had something catastrophic happen. Now, I know you were dealt a shitty hand. And you played it like a man. But—you were partly to blame. A big part," he reminded. "Does it suck? Yes. But, that doesn't mean you get to take out your misery on everyone else."
"Thanks for your support." Curt couldn't summon the energy to get angry. He felt empty. Hollow—as though everything inside him had disappeared during the night. If Felix punched him right now . . . his fist would go straight through him and out the back. His body would fold like a cardboard box.
"Thanks to that bitch Cindy showing up here—the whole world knows what she did to you. The phone is ringing off the hook with people wanting you to bid their work." He snorted. "Cuz you're such a stand-up guy now."
"What does this have to do with Shannon?"
"She called in at three in the morning. Who does that? Unless they're sick, you idiot."
"Jeez—what is your problem with me?"
Felix advanced on him. "You know, I never believed you could change. You've always been so deep in your own head. Yet, somehow you did . . . You—shocked me, okay? And not to take any of the credit from you . . . but we both know it was her." Crossing his arms over his chest, the old man stared through him. "She made you better. But, if this is how you're going to treat her, then I'm tellin' you—let her go, man."
"I did." The misery-laden words pierced his chest. "She's . . . gone."
He nodded. "You don't deserve her. She's too good for you."
Chastened, Curt slunk back to his office. In his decade with Felix, he'd never felt so . . . small in his eyes. As though the old man was ashamed of him. He'd acted like an ass. Turning, he found Felix still staring at him. "Is she really sick?" When the old man raised an eyebrow, he nodded. "I'm . . . gonna—go over there." He hesitated. "Make sure she's alright."
RELEASING A SIGH, CURT checked the address and pulled in along the curb. Was he wrong to be angry? Through the long night without her, he'd replayed their conversation. This morning . . . he still wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. A big part of him wanted to be wrong. Shannon was Elizabeth. Finding her . . . had been one of his goals. So—why wasn't he relieved? And Elizabeth . . . had forgiven him. Something he'd never allowed himself to hope for. But, the joy he'd always believed he would experience if it ever happened . . . was lost in the agony of losing Shannon.
Jerking the door open, he trudged inside, admiring the high ceilings and intricate architectural details of the old building. Come winter, those same high ceilings meant Shan's heating bill would be huge. Distracted, he started up the staircase.
How was he supposed to feel about her? From the start, she'd thrown herself into Four Seasons. He'd combed his memory during the long, sleepless night—searching for proof she'd hurt him—but couldn't find any. She'd saved him. Holding down the fort at work, while he'd been out for the surgery. Nursing him at night—when he couldn't take care of himself. She'd cared about him . . . when he hadn't cared about himself in such a long time. The last two months, she'd been such a positive force in his life. Encouragement . . . the nonstop, bubbly outlook. Her humor. Her kindnes
s.
Stumbling on a step, he grabbed the rail. Jesus—he was going to miss her. But, how could they ever move past this? When she'd lied about something so big? "Why would she want you back, anyway?" He muttered the worry that had kept him awake. The terrible things he'd said. The terrible accusations she'd . . . stood there and endured. Because of her remorse for what she'd done. What a teenager had done.
Dreading the thought of facing her, Curt summoned his courage and knocked on her door. There was no sound from the other side. Frowning, he glanced out the window near the stairwell, knowing he'd seen her car in the lot. He knocked again . . . harder this time.
A minute later, he pulled out his cell. When his call went to voicemail, he cursed. Was she avoiding him? Or was she too sick to move? Knocking again, he called her name, conscious he was likely aggravating any neighbors who might be home on a weekday morning. Ready to shout again, he heard a faint shuffle echo behind the door. "Shannon?"
Her mumbled voice had relief trickling through him. He heard the locks scraping before she jerked the door open. And nearly fell through it.
"Shan-" He caught her when she slumped against the doorframe. His heart in overdrive, he hauled her against him and hobbled with her through the door. "Babe- do you need a doctor?"
She reached out, steadying herself against the wall before she pulled away from him. "No."
Curt ignored the sharp jab to his chest. She didn't want him to touch her. That acknowledgment hurt more than any words she could sling at him. But then—Shannon didn't fire off angry words. That was his specialty.
"What do you want?" Her head still down, she slid along the wall.
His eyes took in the piles. Boxes stacked, but unopened. She probably hadn't had time to buy food yet. "I wanted . . . to see if you were alright. Felix said . . . you were sick." She hadn't called him. Couldn't call him anymore.
"Checking to see if I was lying?" Though her voice was amused, her washed out face and haunted eyes told a different story. She looked exactly how he felt. How could she look so different in less than a day? He'd hurt her. Perhaps beyond repair. Instead of wondering whether he could forgive her . . . he should probably be concerned whether she'd ever forgive him.
"Shan . . . let me help you. You need to lie down."
"Where do you think I was?" She inched along the wall . . . heading for what he guessed was her bedroom.
"I-I just . . . needed to know you were okay."
Her eyes filled with tears as she staggered. "I'm not okay. And nothing you can do will change that."
Grabbing her arm, he steadied her. Until she jerked away from him. "Please, Shan . . . let me-" He closed his eyes to the pain shimmering in hers. "Let me . . . do this for you."
Perspiration dotting her forehead, she finally leaned on his arm. Relief flooding him, he helped her into the bedroom. A lone mattress was laying on the floor. No frame or box spring yet. No sheets. Hell—she couldn't have been very comfortable. "Can I put some sheets on for you?"
"You can't bend." Her tired voice matched her hollowed out expression. Releasing his arm, she sank to the mattress as though her legs wouldn't support her anymore. When she crawled to the pillow and collapsed against it, he winced.
"How about some soup?"
"No." The syllable was released on a groan as she curled into a fetal position.
At that moment, Curt would've given anything if she'd shown a spark of life. A smile. Any sign that she wasn't feeling as terrible as she looked. Any proof that he hadn't done this to her. That his cruel words—hadn't caused this. He'd made her physically ill.
All the anger he'd felt during the night, the simmering resentment that she'd known every detail of his life . . . when he'd known nothing about her. The embarrassment and confusion he'd experienced this morning . . . All the bullshit about how he should feel. All of it fell away. Leaving him with a stark, painful sadness that he'd destroyed something terribly valuable. That he'd ruined the beautiful, shining future they could have shared.
"You don't want me." Her mumbled accusation was lost in the pillow. "Please . . . just leave."
Her words tearing a hole in him, Curt realized how wrong they were. He stared at her, unable to budge. "I-I will," he lied. "Just rest."
THE NEXT TIME SHANNON woke, it was with a headache, her mouth full of cotton and an arm slung around her waist. Was she dreaming? Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Releasing a careful breath, she acknowledged the glorious weight of him. Curtis was sprawled behind her, asleep. His breathing deep and even. Though she knew it was the worst possible form of torture, she couldn't bear the thought of waking him. Why was he still here?
Thirst eventually claimed her. Like an itch that needed scratching. Damn it. Betrayed by her own body . . . Shannon shrugged free of his arm, knowing she would regret for the rest of her life the missed opportunity to feel his arms around her for a few more minutes.
"Shan-" His sensual, sleep-laden rasp sent a quiver of heat through her—reminding her of everything she'd lost. "I stayed to make sure you were okay, but I must've fallen asleep." He ran a hand down his shadowed face. "How do you feel?"
"Why are you still here?" Sleeping with me. Not waiting for an answer, she left him sprawled on her mattress, a puzzled expression on his face. Once on her feet, she realized she felt much better. Weak and dehydrated, but human again. After drinking thirstily and brushing her teeth, she turned on the shower. The face in the mirror hadn't inspired confidence to go back out there to face Curt.
Ten minutes later, Shannon was both clean and human. Wrapped in a towel, she left the safety of the bathroom to search for clothes. If Curtis was still there, now would be a good time for him to leave.
"Your coloring looks better." He stood in the window, averting his gaze when she reappeared.
"I'm over the worst of it." As she dug through boxes, clutching her towel in one hand, she hoped he couldn't see how fast her heart was beating. "You can go."
"When was the last time you ate?" Though he tried not to stare, she sensed his gaze absorbing . . . everything about her. It was an odd sensation. As though trying to get a read on a wild animal in a trap.
"I don't know." Flustered, she moved to another box. Somewhere in the apartment, there was a box packed with sweats.
"I'll make you tea . . . while you change." He took a step toward her. "While you were sleeping, I went out and picked up a few things."
Why was he making this so hard? They'd said everything. More than everything. Why couldn't he understand how hard being around him was? When she no longer had the right to touch him. Or hold him. Shannon closed her eyes. "Look . . . I'll manage, okay? I can't do this with you right now."
"Shan—I just want to help. You took care of me for weeks." His husky voice scraped over her, making her want to cry over everything they would lose. "Let me heat some soup and . . . I promise I'll leave."
She jerked her eyes open. "What about tomorrow? And the next day? I need to get over you. And I can't do that while you're . . . standing there acting like nothing happened." When the box tipped over, spilling on the floor, she covered her face. It was all—too much. Suddenly on the verge of tears. Exhausted after only ten minutes up. "Just go . . . please?"
Sinking to the floor, towel still clasped around her, Shannon began tossing things back in the box. Behind her, she heard Curt limp out into the living room. He was leaving. Though it was what she'd demanded, the pain made her clutch her stomach.
A minute later, he stood beside her, his oxford shirt in his hand. "Take this. I'll wear my t-shirt."
"I don't need-"
"Shannon-" His voice was determined. "Just—until you find your clothes."
Great. Now she would be wrapped in his smell for the rest of the day. Torn between wanting it desperately and needing to reject it, she stared at him. "Okay." She finally reached for it.
"How did this happen?" He ran a finger over her arm, raising goosebumps. Until she realized he was staring at finger marks. Th
eo. The night came flooding back. She'd found a bruise on her hip in the shower.
"It's nothing." Though his touch was gentle when he turned her to face him, Curt had gone dangerously still, his eyes suddenly blazing.
"That's . . . are those finger marks? Who did this?" His voice furious, he froze when she flinched. Staring at her, a tumult of emotions crossed his face. "Shan . . ." He shook his head in disbelief. "I would never—I could never hurt you," he whispered.
"Sorry." She couldn't bear to have him think she was afraid of him. "I—know that. I'm just . . . jumpy."
"Please—tell me what happened."
The anger she'd read in his expression dissolved, leaving a haunting wistfulness. For things to be better. For her to be someone else. Someone who hadn't hurt him. Who hadn't ruined his life.
"It's not important." Ignoring her desire to cave in and talk with him, she nodded to the door. "You should go. I'll be at work in the morning."
He released a sigh. "You don't have to come in-"
Despite her exhaustion, she held his stare. "I'll work the two weeks."
He dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up. Her fingers itched to do the same. "I was angry. I would never make you-"
"I honor my commitments." Remaining expressionless was probably the hardest thing she'd had to do in the past few days. When she wanted to break down and cry. When she wanted to plead with him again. To please, please forgive her. To give them another chance. To start over. "Two weeks for you. One dance recital for Hannah. After that, you'll never have to see me again."
Curt stared at her for several seconds before finally moving for the door. "That's not what I want."
"It's for the best." She pointedly opened the door.
"Shannon-"
"Let's not do this," she suggested, the anguish in his eyes almost undoing her. "You can't forgive me. And I can't . . . be someone else." She released a ragged breath, feeling lightheaded. "I can't undo—what my seventeen-year-old self did to you."
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