by Shandi Boyes
A grin curls on my lips when Wesley flops into one of the suede couches in our sunken living room. “I hope your fascination with creamy pasta laced in garlic up and left town like your fashion sense today. That discount is done and dusted.”
Ignoring his snide comment at my disheveled appearance, I take the empty seat next to him and sling my arm around his shoulders. “You alright?” I ask, my tone sincerer than the one I was using earlier.
Wesley connects his blue eyes with mine. “Perfectly A-Okay. She was just another female who couldn’t comprehend she didn’t have all the necessary equipment a guy like me requires.”
Quicker than a flash of lightning brightening a pitch-black night, the glint in Wesley’s eyes changes. I roll my shoulders and straighten my spine when I notice the suspicion his usually candid eyes are carrying.
When Wesley doesn’t buy my attempts at acting unaffected by his inquisitive stare, I leap from the lounge chair while blubbering, “I’m going to grab a quick shower.”
My brisk pace slows when Wesley demands, “Wait right there Ms. Gemma-I-never-sleep-with-a-guy-unless-we-have-been-dating-a-minimum-of-90-days.”
He graciously rises from the sofa and teeters toward me. I hold his gaze as he spans the distance between us with blazing eyes and a smug grin. He runs his heavy-lidded gaze down the length of my body before locking them back with mine, making me squirm.
With one brow arched, he declares, “You had sex.”
Before I have the chance to respond, he slings his head to the doorway. “I spent the entire trip in the elevator trying to work out where Jeremy did the naughty as he didn’t smell like sex when I arrived home an hour ago.” He returns his eyes to me. “But that intoxicating scent wasn’t coming off Jeremy. It’s coming from you.”
My mouth moves as a range of lies filter through my brain, but not a syllable escapes my lips. It would be pointless for me to lie anyway. It would be like the time I told my dad I didn’t eat an entire jar of Nutella in one hit while it was smeared all over my face. Wesley would see straight through any ruse I dangled in front of him.
Wesley’s spurred-with-excitement eyes stare into mine as he asks, “Who was it? And please for the love of god, don’t say it was the stockbroker with the gap tooth you went on a date with last month. I know the economy is bad and all, but taking a pay cut doesn’t mean you date a man who isn’t even close to a six.” He stares me straight in the eyes, his composure stern, his nostrils flaring. “Tens never date below a seven. Say it with me, Gem.”
“Tens never date below a seven,” we recite.
Rolling my eyes at the ridiculous drunken pledge we made three years ago, I spin on my heels and pace to my bedroom. Although Wesley remains quiet, I know he is shadowing me. It isn’t just the shuffling of his bare feet on the thick, plush carpet that gives it away; it is because I can hear his brain ticking over as he tries to work out whom I broke my stern 90-day rule on.
“At least give me a number,” Wesley says, flopping onto my bed.
I brace myself on the dresser in my room and remove my shoes. “Do you remember that up and coming actor I was seeing in the middle of last year?”
“The one I’d happily give up pussy for?” Wesley asks, his tone unwavering and calm, a complete contradiction to his admission.
I throw off my second stiletto and kick it to the side of my drawers while nodding my head. “This guy was even hotter than him,” I declare.
“Bullshit,” Wesley retorts, shaking his head. “It’s not possible. He’d need to be a god.”
I cock my brow and stare Wesley straight in the eyes. “Gladiator.”
“No fucking way,” Wesley yells when he reads the truth in my eyes. He runs his hand across the five o’clock shadow on his cut jawline before muttering, “What about down…” He gestures his head to his crotch. “The rules of not dating below a seven don’t just apply to looks. They also refer to inches.”
My teeth catch my bottom lip as images of Carey’s manhood rush to the forefront of my mind. There is only one word I can use to describe Carey’s impressive package: anaconda.
Spotting my flushed expression, Wesley throws one of the scatter pillows from my bed across the room. I grunt when it hits me in the chest. “That good?” he asks, surprise in his tone.
Wesley knows I’m not the type of girl to overly gush about my dates. Don’t get me wrong, they get credit where credit is due. But if they fail to reach the high standards I set for myself three years ago, I don’t hesitate to call it how I see it.
“Better than good,” I reply with a precise nod of my head.
Wesley curls off my bed and follows me into my large bathroom. “So when’s round two?”
I cringe as a whiny moan involuntary parts my mouth. “I’m pretty sure it was a one-time only deal.”
Wesley props his backside on the granite countertop as I move into the shower and switch on the faucet. “If it was better than good, why no round two? He’s either an idiot or no nookie for nearly a year has played tricks with your head, and he wasn’t really an eleven.”
As I undo the buttons on my shirt, I choose between giving Wesley the short version of events or the long-winded one. Deciding I need any help I can get in this awkward predicament I’ve managed to get into, I give Wesley the entire rundown of everything that happened the last twenty-four hours.
“So what did you say when you discovered who he really was?” Wesley asks once every sordid detail has been revealed.
I sweep my hand across my forehead, removing a beading of sweat I’d like to blame on the steam pumping out of the shower. But unfortunately, it isn’t the muggy environment making me a sweaty mess. It’s my stupidity the hour following finding out Carey’s real identity.
After swallowing away a lump in my throat, I mumble, “I said it was a pleasure meeting him and that I was sorry for his loss.”
Wesley flops his head to the side as his mouth gapes open. “Gem! What the fuck? Why would you say that?”
“Because it was the truth,” I reply, throwing my hands into the air. “What was I supposed to say? ‘I’m not sorry for kissing you in the house your wife grew up in?’ Or perhaps, ‘hey, last night was a lot of fun; if you ever get over your grief, look me up.’”
“Now you’re just being a bitch,” Wesley responds to my childish outburst.
You’d expect my feathers to be ruffled by Wesley’s bluntness, but they’re not. After seeing the flare of disappointment in Carey’s eyes grow from my statement, I feel like a complete and utter bitch.
“I didn’t mean to treat him like everyone else at brunch, but the words slipped out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop them. It’s like a double-edged sword. If I didn’t express my sympathies for his loss, wouldn’t that make me callous and heartless?”
“No, Poppet, it wouldn’t have.” Wesley slips off the counter and strides to me. “You know what it was like for you after your attack, and only a handful of people knew what happened to you. Carey can’t escape the pity stares as he couldn’t keep something like that a secret.”
The guilt weighing down my shoulders increases. I understand what Wesley is saying. Wholeheartedly. I kept news of my attack to a bare minimum so only those involved in the case knew the entirety of what happened that night. I couldn’t stand the thought of people looking at me differently, so I did everything in my power to keep myself and my assault out of the spotlight. I still can’t stand the sympathy my dad’s eyes hold every time he looks at me, and I love him more than anything, so I can imagine what Carey is going through.
I prop my backside onto the bathtub and drop my head into my hands. “Oh god. I’m a terrible person,” I snivel softly.
“No you’re not. You’re human,” Wesley replies. The warmth of his hand on my back soothes my shaking. “Everything happens for a reason, Gem,” he slowly breathes out.
“You know I don’t believe stuff like that. Everything doesn’t happen for a reason. I wasn’t attacked for
a reason,” I snap, my voice getting louder with each word I speak. “Carey didn’t lose his family for a reason. That’s just a cop out people use when they can’t find a reason for a fucked-up situation.”
“Whether you believe it or not doesn’t make it untrue.” Wesley drops down so he can meet me eye to eye. “You know I’d give anything to go back six years ago and warn you about what was going to happen just to stop your pain, but I can’t. But do you know what? If that horrible thing didn’t happen to you, this beautiful, creative, kindhearted woman sitting in front of me would still be afraid of her shadow, and I’d probably be singing show tunes with Frank Sinatra in heaven.”
Just the concept of not having Wesley in my life causes tears to prick in my eyes.
“You saved me, Poppet, because you understood what I was going through. If you ever get a second shot with Carey. . .”
I attempt to interrupt him, but he keeps talking like he hasn’t noticed my endeavor, “If you get a second shot, remember that he doesn’t need your sympathy. He has it in bucket loads - he’s probably drowning in it. Treat him how you’d want him to treat you if he ever discovered your secret.”
My throat tightens at the thought of Carey looking at me differently. Last night was so magical, as for the first time in years, I was the Gemma I was before my attack. I wasn’t guarded or weary. I was open and adventurous. I will forever cherish every minute that Carey made me feel whole again.
I stop staring into space when Wesley says, “Now get your sexy ass into the shower before my ego can no longer hold back its desire to wipe that puppy love look out of your eyes. How dare you let another man steal the glint only I can place in your eyes!”
A smile spreads across my face. “Jealousy is a good look for you. You should wear it more often.”
My last statement comes out in a hurry when Wesley snags the hand towel off the bathroom vanity and whips it against my thigh. A loud crack splinters through the air, closely followed by my girly scream as I race out of the bathroom with a grinning Wesley snapping at my heels.
Chapter 13
Hawke
I step back in time when I enter the main bedroom of Hugo and Ava’s home in Rochdale. Even though nearly five years have passed since Jorgie and Malcolm were laid to rest, the bedroom I shared with Jorgie remains in its original condition. Her favorite bottle of perfume sits open on top of her chest of drawers; her clothes are hanging in the closet, and a hideous lace-edged towel is draped over her dressing chair. If there was a speck of dust to be seen, I’d assume no one has entered this room in five years. But since every surface is clean and well-presented, I know that isn’t the case.
Placing the keys to my Camaro in the silver tray on the dresser, I pace to our bed in the middle of the room. My blood thickens when the faintest scent of Jorgie’s perfume lingers into my nose. My visual memories of Jorgie are as clear today as they were the day she passed, but little things like her scent, the smoothness of her skin, and the softness of her hair aren’t as vibrant as they used to be. It isn’t from lack of trying to keep her memory alive; it is the fact I’ve been grieving Jorgie longer than she was mine. We only had four short years. She’s been gone for five.
Ignoring the shake encroaching my hands, I snag one of the moving boxes from the middle of the bed and set to work on packing away Jorgie’s belongings. The first half of her clothing is done before my brain has a chance to register exactly what I'm doing. The second half, that’s a little more challenging. The more items I pack away, the more reality dawns on me. I guess that is why Ava and Jorgie’s mom have kept both of her rooms in their original condition. Neither of them have been strong enough to face the reality of the situation either. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’ve been suddenly engulfed with a mass surge of courage. I'm only here because I don’t have a choice. With Hugo and Ava moving to Ravenshoe at the end of the month, this property will once again become vacant. Although I haven’t decided what I'm planning to do with this house I once called home, I know I will never live here again, so why should Jorgie?
Packing away Jorgie’s belongings is a hard task, but it is also freeing. It is easing the pain in the middle of my chest from my betrayal this morning by replacing it with memories we created in this room. It is in that bed our son Malcolm was conceived. That’s also the same bed I asked Jorgie to marry me in. It was the most unromantic proposal in the history of proposals. I didn’t even get down on one knee. But I didn’t need to show Jorgie that I loved her by using flowers and gimmicks. It was how I expressed it. She knew I loved her because I still wanted to marry her even when she had messy bedhead and horrid morning breath.
Being yourself is one of the biggest indications that you’re on the right track to finding your better half. When you can take someone at face value and accept that you will never change them, that’s true love. I knew the instant I saw Jorgie that I was going to fall in love with her. Just like I knew the instant I saw Gemma my life was about to change. If you asked me right now if it was going to be a good change or a bad change, I wouldn’t be able to answer.
For the quickest moment on the front stairs of the Marshall residence this morning, I both hated and appreciated Gemma. I hated that she had the ability to make me forget Jorgie, especially considering she is a stranger, but I also appreciated that she could make me forget, because if she hadn’t, I would have never been strong enough to endure this weekend on my own.
I tried to rationalize with myself the last two hours of brunch that the spell Gemma had on me cleared away the instant she discovered I was a widower, but that isn’t true. She looked at me with the same amount of empathy everyone does when they express their sympathies for my loss, but there was something much deeper in her eyes that said way more than her words did. They told me she didn’t just wonder what I was feeling, she understood. Part of me wonders if that’s why she causes bizarre feelings to stir deep within me?
This kills me to admit, even more so because of the location I'm standing in, but I’m drawn to Gemma. I don’t just mean in the physical sense. I mean mentally as well. There is something about her that brings out a side of me I swore I’d lost years ago. A side I never thought I’d see again in my lifetime and one I'm more than tempted to explore. A side I wish I could bury right alongside my heart.
My thoughts stray away from dangerous territory when I detect another presence in the room. Hugo has his arms crossed in front of his chest and his shoulder propped against the doorframe. The small section of skin between his eyes is creased, his lips are quirked. His baffled expression has me wondering if I said my private thoughts out loud.
I release the breath I'm holding when he mutters, “I didn’t realize you were planning on packing up Jorgie’s things today.”
“Someone has to do it,” I mumble more to myself than Hugo. He must hear my statement as a puff of air parts his nose and he nods his head.
“I’ve been trying to pack up this room for months, but Ava wouldn’t let me,” he confesses. He rubs his hands together as his eyes that are identical to his sister’s in every way scan the room. “I know you probably feel like decades have passed since that day, but to me it only feels like yesterday when Jorgie had us shifting furniture around this room over a dozen times. No matter how many times we told her the bed wouldn’t fit under the window, she was adamant it belonged there.”
“A dozen? More like thirty,” I banter as my lips curl into a grin. “I didn’t think either of us were going to make it out of that den alive when she found us hiding down there hours later with half a bottle of whiskey in our stomachs.”
Hugo’s boisterous chuckle quickly fills the room. “I got off easy by buying pizza for dinner. I’d hate to think of what you had to do to get into her good graces again.”
Hugo makes a gagging noise when I waggle my brows. The bitter coldness sitting in the middle of my chest warms from our playful conversation. Hugo is my best mate, but I still find it hard to talk to him about Jorgie. It
isn’t because he doesn’t understand my grief; I can tell just by looking into his eyes that he still hasn’t come to terms with losing his baby sister. I just don’t talk about Jorgie to anyone. It isn’t because I don’t have stories to share—we made plenty of memories—I just find it hard to talk about her without letting my emotions get the better of me. Then when Malcolm is added to the mix, I can barely function, let alone articulate a conversation.
After a few moments of silence, I say, “What are you doing here? I thought you and Ava were heading off on your honeymoon today?” My words come out shaky since they were forced through the tightness of grief wrapped around my throat.
“We were supposed to, but when Ava said you were packing up Jorgie’s room, we set it back a day as I want to help. When you married a Marshall, you didn’t just get Jorgie; you got all of us,” Hugo replies, his deep tone low and crammed with sentiment.
Even though Hugo’s statement is one hundred percent accurate, I can tell he is holding something back. Hearing an “and” hanging in the air, I verbalize it.
Hugo pushes off his feet and secures a flattened box from the middle of the bed to assemble it. “And I thought it would be a good chance for us to talk. We’ve got years of catching up to do.”
I barely stifle a groan. Hugo has always been a communicator. Before he vanished, the only way you could shut him up was by placing a stack of pancakes in front of him. That guaranteed you a minimum of fifteen minutes of peace. It was fifteen minutes filled with him drooling while shoveling pancakes into his mouth like he’d never eaten a thing in his life, but it was still fifteen minutes of peace.
Although we’ve been back in contact the past nine months, we’ve never had the chance to talk like we did before Jorgie passed. That isn’t Hugo’s fault. He has tried numerous times. But with the rawness of my loss thrusted in my face, I immediately shut down any attempts he made. And unfortunately, most of the time my way of expressing that I didn’t want to talk wasn’t in an overly friendly manner.