When he finally left, she leaned back against the door, waiting to hear his footsteps on the stairs, the stillness broken only by her inconsolable sobs.
"ONLY ONE MORE DAY." This week. Shannon winced. "Maybe he won't come out here." Tuesday, Curt had already been in his office when she arrived. He'd stayed there . . . before slinking out the back with Felix, visiting project sites for the day. "That's what you want," she reminded. Why would she want him there? Staring at her. Not talking. When there was nothing left to say. Yet, his avoidance still annoyed her. How could she be relieved and ticked at the same time?
Wednesday, he appeared in the lobby—cautiously, like a deer at the edge of a forest. Scenting danger on the breeze. Her mouth lifted half-heartedly. He'd grabbed coffee from the pot while she chatted with Billy. Had she not been acutely aware of him, she would have missed the momentary hesitation at the corner of her desk . . . before he'd beaten a hasty retreat. Bolting back to the safety of the shop.
Today, Curtis had finally spoken, his voice sounding rusty as he asked her for the files she'd created for seven new projects. Heart in her throat, she'd handed them to him. As he turned to go, she'd summoned the nerve to blurt the question haunting her. "Should I place an ad for you? So you can start getting some candidates in here before I leave next week?"
Curt had paused, his gaze flicking over her as though he couldn't stop himself. And she'd stupidly held her breath . . . praying he'd say-
When the phone rang, Shannon startled. "Like that's gonna happen." Grateful for the interruption, she listened to the caller, before transferring him to Dave back in the shop. "Don't leave, Shannon," she mimicked. Instead, Curt had shaken his head. Apparently, he would be handling it himself.
"Shannon-"
She rocketed back in her chair, hand to her throat. "God—you scared me." Her face heating, she wondered how long he'd been standing there.
"Sorry." Curt stood in the hallway. "I was wondering—if you could help me with something? I'd . . . ask Felix, but, he's on the road."
"Dave?"
"Just left," he confirmed.
Swallowing hard, she rose from her desk. "Of course. What do you need?" Trailing him back to the shop, she prayed it would be quick. If she had to smell him in close quarters—all the memories she was keeping at bay would overrun her. She'd probably burst into tears. Each night she went home with a headache . . . from stress. From trying to hold herself together when he was around. From trying to blot out the knowledge of what she'd lost. Each night, she gave back any gained ground—by wearing his shirt to bed. To be surrounded by his scent as she prayed for sleep. As she prayed for the rest of her days at Four Seasons to go fast. And heartbreakingly slow.
"I NEED-" CURT CLEARED his throat, ignoring the pulse roaring in his ears. You. I need you, Shan. And he didn't know how to reach her. I don't know how to fix this. "A s-set of specs," he stammered. "We did a job a couple years ago . . . and this project would be similar. I wanted to check . . . what we did last time."
"Where are they?" Her beautiful eyes downcast, she held herself rigidly as tension crackled around them.
He tore his gaze from her face. "Up . . . there." He pointed to the shelving that ran around the perimeter of the shop. "I can't . . . risk the mobile staircase yet." He frowned at his braced leg.
"No—of course not." Shannon's eyes flared with worry.
When she reached for his hand, his heart stopped. Until she thought better of it—and stopped herself. What he would have given . . . for her touch. Her fidgeting hand in his. Even for a moment.
"Not for a few more weeks, Curt. At least three or four," she clarified. "Don't risk anything like that. Uneven surfaces-"
"Yeah—I-I know." He should be teasing her . . . about Nurse McCarty fussing over him. He should be stealing a kiss from her before she went up the ladder. Inhaling her scent until he was drunk on it. Instead-
"I promise . . . I won't." Because you won't be here to make sure. Because she'd be gone. And he would return to the solitary confinement life he'd lived before her. Only this time—he'd know what he was missing. He'd be absolutely certain of what he'd lost. And the knowing . . . would slowly kill him.
"I'll go." Her voice determined, she skirted past him. "You stay here."
Despite the staircase being locked, Curt stood next to it, his grip tight on the railing. Teeth clenched as her scent drifted over him, he watched her . . . eighteen inches away, yet so far out of his reach. She climbed past him, her long braid taunting him as she passed.
Somehow, he got through the next several minutes. Her husky voice asking direction. Her muttered curse when the box wasn't where he remembered it. Curt couldn't help his smile. She was so—alive. So natural. Easy to be with. And . . . lost to him.
By the time she started down the staircase, box in her arms, his smile dissolved. When she stumbled at the bottom, he caught her. His reflexes faster than his brain screaming don't touch. For a wondrous moment, she staggered into his arms. The box top flew off, landing on the floor. His body tightened with the painful, glorious contact before she stiffened against him and jerked back.
"I'm s-sorry." Her ragged breath broke the unbearable silence. Shannon stared at him, her haunted eyes suddenly glistening, before she set the box on the workbench and ran back to the lobby.
"Me, too," he said to the desolate, unending quiet of the workshop.
"ARE THINGS ANY BETTER?" A week later, Travis flipped the rib eyes on the grill as Curt stood next to him, pretending to help. His appetite non-existent, he was about to waste an expensive steak.
"The only way it's improved is she only has two days left." After that, you'll never see me again, she'd promised. The gnawing sickness in the pit of his stomach had basically taken up residence.
"She still not talking?"
"To me? No." He sipped his beer. To everyone else, she was the same old Shan. Subdued, maybe. Pale. Like him—unable to eat. But, friendly with the guys. Cheerful. Kind. Asking questions about their lives. He'd resorted to standing in his office . . . listening to them. Craving her. A single smile. A glint in her eyes—that would somehow tell him what to do. What to say. How to fix the terrible, unfixable wreckage smoldering between them. He missed . . . her presence beside him. Her hand in his. The moments he spoke with her about business . . . when—every so often, she'd forget that she hated him. And she'd joke. Or smile. The hollowness inside him would ease for a moment.
"Just fix it for Christ's sake."
His smirk held no humor. "Yeah, because it's so easy to take back the terrible stuff I said." The flame of regret inside him had burned itself out. A pile of ashes remained where hope had once resided. He relived the morning two weeks earlier—in her apartment. Shannon too sick to know he was there. Watching her for hours as she slept. Knowing he should leave—that she didn't want him there—but unable to do it. Lying next to her, praying she wouldn't wake up—so he could hold her for a little while longer. At night, he relived their last night together, wishing he'd memorized every second. Wishing he'd known it was the last time.
"You know, MaryJo's set her up with some guy at work. A date."
His head whipped around. "What?"
"Keep your voice down." Travis nodded toward the house, where his wife was feeding Sean. "She likes Shannon. That means she's trying to control her life."
"What the hell?" Curt released a frustrated sigh. "I'm trying to fix it with her."
"This is you fixing it? How's the not-talking-to-her thing working?" His brother cocked his head to the open kitchen window. "Anyway—try telling her that."
Stalking to the window, he yelled in to his sister-in-law. "Why the hell are you setting Shannon up?" He winced when he heard Hannah crow about his 'bad word'.
Baby Sean cradled against her shoulder, MaryJo appeared in the French doors. "Travis—why did you tell him?"
Wisely, Travis shrugged and turned back to the grill. Hannah nudged by her and crossed the deck. "Lift me, Uncle Curt," she o
rdered.
Baby Sean on her hip, MaryJo approached him, her expression fearless. "Curtis, I adore you, but you can't seem to get your act together."
As his sister-in-law lectured him, Curt endured Hannah's sticky fingers, sifting through his hair to mess it up. "Thanks. This is really helping."
MaryJo rolled her eyes. "She loves you—but you don't want her."
"Who loves you, Uncle Curt?" Hannah's eyes lit up. "I hope it's Shannie."
Hannah giggled when he blew a kiss on her neck, squirming to get away from the tickling sensation. Suddenly curious, he asked. "Why do you hope it's Shannon?"
"Because your eyes get so happy when she's here." Her sticky fingers moved to his cheeks. "Right here. They crinkle up instead of looking sad."
"My eyes are sad?"
Liquid, brown eyes stared into his. "Uh-huh."
MaryJo raised an eyebrow. "Han—time to set the table. Daddy's almost done with the steaks."
Curt lowered her to the deck, his gaze locked with MaryJo. When his niece was safely inside, he spoke. "I just learned a major piece of information about Shannon. I—need time . . . to process it."
"You're holding a grudge," she corrected. "Over something she did as a teenager. Do you think what she did were the actions of an adult?" She patted baby Sean's back, soothing his gusty hiccups. "She was a heartbroken kid. She didn't get to make the rules. She didn't get to dole out the punishment. She lost her grandmother. She was grief stricken—and she acted out—the only way she knew how."
"How do you know more than me?"
"Because I talked with her instead of ripping her head off." Her soft words tore through him as she rubbed his nephew's back.
He closed his eyes. "What else do you know?"
"Her family sounds awful," she recited. "Her parents were divorcing—but it was one of those marriages where it should have happened a decade earlier. Their parents used the kids to hurt each other." MaryJo sighed. "She told me she'd hoped to move in with her grandmother—that she didn't want to stay in that house anymore."
Shannon's words echoed through his head. You don't know what my life was like. Knowing MaryJo was right didn't make it easier to accept. "You have to set her up with another guy . . . like right now?"
MaryJo paused when Hannah shouted that Little Curt was awake from his nap. Moving for the door, she spoke. "She's my friend."
Her defensive tone spoke volumes. As the beneficiary of MaryJo's friendship, Curt knew what that meant. Protectiveness. Affection. Whole-hearted involvement in your life. Wanting your happiness—at any expense. For him—it had meant tugging him into their lives. Her refusal to give up on him. Her persistence in including him. In everything. Dragging him off the precipice of loneliness. He swallowed around a sudden lump. "I'm—glad for that."
"I like her—so, I set her up with a super nice, stable guy. He works at the bank."
A silent, married-people message, laden with innuendo, passed between Travis and MaryJo before she turned. There was little point trying to decipher it. With his sister-in-law safely in the house, he turned on Travis. "Thanks for your help, there."
"I know better." His brother shifted the steaks to a cooler spot. "I'm curious- besides the omission, did she do anything else to hurt you?"
Omission? Travis made it sound as though she'd left out a comma on a sales report. "It's a little bigger than an omission—wouldn't you agree?
"She protected your business." Travis switched off the gas. "She physically nursed you back to health. I mean . . . she didn't poison you or anything, right?" He transferred the steaks to a platter. "And—she redecorated your lobby. Jeez—what a bitch."
"It's not that simple-"
"I think it is." Travis finally faced him. "You're pissed because of what a teenage girl wrote you. Years ago."
"No-" Curt was suddenly speechless. He'd never thought of it that way. Removing the pride and embarrassment from the equation—was that all it truly was? "If it was possible—she made me feel worse about myself."
"Yeah—I get that. But . . . all these years later, a beautiful, caring, adult woman nursed you back to health." His brother stared at him. "Around the clock . . . she took care of you. She took care of everything that matters to you. If you're looking for some sort of redemption, doesn't that count for something?"
"You think I'm overreacting?"
"You suffered a shock. A big one. But . . . once you get beyond that, what are you afraid of?" He set the platter on the warmer. "Look—I know where you're coming from."
Uncomfortable with where the conversation would undoubtedly lead, Curt sighed. "Okay—I'll bite. How can you know how I feel?"
"Our defense mechanism is to lash out. You-" Trav poked him. "And me. We keep people at a distance. Especially if we feel vulnerable. Sound familiar?"
Normally, Trav's comment would've begged for an insult. But, his skin prickling with the accuracy, Curt nodded. "I'm listening."
"That's how I almost lost MaryJo," he admitted. "I believed the first bad thing someone said about her—despite knowing she was the most loving, honest person I'd ever met."
"Why?"
"Because it confirmed what my head was already saying—what we both grew up knowing-" He took a pull from his beer. "That we were worthless. That there was no way in hell someone like her could love someone like me."
"What happened?"
His brother's gaze faltered. "She—wasn't going to take me back." His voice trailed off. "She refused to change herself because I had issues trusting her." He swallowed hard. "She didn't believe I could change."
Heart pounding, Curt was afraid for him—despite knowing how it had ended. "What did you do?"
"I told her . . . I would do anything," he admitted. "That I would . . . get help. If she would give me one more chance." He released a shaky breath. "Thankfully, she agreed to stand beside me while I did it."
"Jesus." His brother's expression finally shifted—as though he'd left the bleak, desolate place he'd just visited.
"So, here we are. My view now is . . . that each day living this life-" He raised an arm to encompass his home. The laughter floating through the kitchen window. Baby Sean's fussy cries. "Each day I get to live this—wonderful, amazing life—makes up for one of the days we survived as kids."
Curt was swept with humility, for gaining a glimpse into his brother he'd never seen before. Never would have guessed before.
"I have nearly seven years back already," he confessed. "I like feeling as though I'm evening up the score." Travis stared at him. "I think it will feel good to you, too."
A shiver rippled across his shoulders. Forcing a sense of calm, Curt leaned back against the railing. "I don't know how to fix it."
"What would you have done?" His brother's stare lasered through him
"About what?"
"If it was your grandmother? Reverse the roles," he suggested.
It was hard to imagine—when they'd grown up with virtually no adult interest in them. "I—I don't know."
He smirked. "Yeah, you do. We fight dirty, Curt." He closed the lid on the grill. "At twenty? You'd have exacted revenge."
Curt agreed. "Your point?"
"You keep saying you wanted to apologize to Elizabeth . . . but until two weeks ago, you'd never mentioned it. Would you truly have manned up and apologized? Did you ever try to find her? I mean . . . really searched?"
Suddenly defensive and unsure why, Curt frowned. "I looked- at the tournament . . . and reviewed the photos-"
Trav shot him the look—as though he'd just said something stupid. "MaryJo found her in like . . . four hours."
A sick sensation swept over him. Stunned, he stared at his brother, wondering why the realization never occurred to him. "I avoided looking for her."
"Why?"
Curt swallowed, remembering Shannon's words. I was a coward. "I was . . . ashamed. I was . . . afraid she'd use it as another opportunity to tell me how much she still hated me." He hadn't been able to fa
ce it. "I already felt terrible. Meeting her face to face—if she'd . . . still hated me, I don't know what I would have done." Any time he risked thinking about it, he'd always managed to talk himself out of it. The way Shannon had. "How do I-"
Travis shrugged. "Bro, you gotta figure that one out on your own." He winced, as though dreading the suggestion. "Or—you could ask MaryJo." Thrusting the platter at him, he turned for the door. "Let's eat."
LATER, TRAVIS LAID Sean in his crib. Alone in the comforting darkness, he stood for several minutes, watching his son sleep. He smiled when Sean raised his fist to his mouth to suck his fingers.
"Is he asleep?"
MaryJo's whispered question drew him back to the hallway. "Yeah." He closed the bedroom door. "This may be a new record." He kept his voice low, in case little Curt or Hannah were still awake. He trailed his wife back downstairs.
"Only eight o'clock," she marveled as they clinked their glasses and headed for the family room. She waited only a moment for him to drop onto the couch. "Okay—what did you think of my plan?"
"You were right. He needed the push." Travis grinned at the excitement in her eyes. "I hope it worked."
"When Curt left here, he headed over there."
He did a doubletake. "How can you possibly know that?"
MaryJo's glance slid away. "Well-"
He leaned in to scrutinize her. His wife was honest to a fault. Her only tell—was being unable to look him in the eye when she was planning something devious. "Holy shit—what did you do?"
She blushed his favorite shade of pink. "I may have . . . stuck a tracking app on his phone . . . while he was outside at the grill with you."
"While juggling three kids and cooking dinner?" Travis cracked up. "Baby, have I ever told you—I'm a little . . . afraid of you?"
Her grin told him she took his concern as a compliment. "Is it bad that I like to keep you on your toes?" Straddling his lap, she kissed him.
Travis knew he didn't have long before every thought in his head would vaporize. Replaying his conversation with Curt, he hoped his brother would find his way with Shannon. Because if Curt could manage to find what he'd found, he'd be the second happiest guy on the planet.
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