And knocked.
And knocked.
He’d given up and was turning to go back to his place when the door finally squeaked open and Tabby stood there, several paintbrushes threaded through the fingers of one hand. Her hair was haphazardly pinned on top of her head in a messy knot, and she had a smear of red paint on her cheek.
“Looks like you still throw yourself entirely into your painting,” he said and swiped his thumb over the dab of paint, holding it up to show her.
She tossed the rag that was hanging over the shoulder of her misshapen T-shirt at him. “If your plumbing’s stopped up, call a plumber.”
“Nice landlady you make.”
She made a face at him and turned on her bare foot. “Come in and close the door. You’re letting out the heat. I suppose you’re here about the note,” she said, heading out of the living room.
He wiped the paint off his thumb and pushed the door closed with his shoulder before following her. “Since I could only make out about three words of it, yeah.” He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom she’d entered and stared. “Damn, Tabby.” There seemed to be dozens of paintings stacked up against the walls. Large canvases. Small canvases. And every size in between. “Do you paint instead of sleep these days?”
“Sometimes,” she muttered. She’d sat down on a tall wooden stool in front of her easel positioned near the window but remained facing him. She took up another rag from a stack of them and started cleaning her brushes. “Any night’ll work.”
He tilted the nearest stack of paintings away from the wall so he could look through them. They were all abstracts. “Looks like Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe had a baby.” He glanced at her. “Any night’ll work for what?”
She turned to set aside her brushes on her worktable, and her T-shirt slipped off one shoulder. “Dinner. Did you read the note or not?”
He tossed the note next to her brushes. “It’s harder to figure out than your paintings.”
“My mom expects me to bring you around for dinner this week. I couldn’t come up with a good reason to tell her no.” She folded her arms across her chest. She was wearing narrow blue jeans with stains and rips on them that he knew came from years of use rather than some deliberate fashion style. She had one knee bent to prop her foot on the base of the revolving stool and one leg stretched out in front of her, and her toes were painted as brilliantly red as the smear he’d wiped off her cheek.
Over the years, he’d noticed lots of things about her, but he couldn’t remember ever really noticing her toes. They were decidedly...cute.
Shaking off the thought, he started looking through another stack of paintings. “I don’t care what night. Just pick and get it over with.” He lifted the canvas closest to the wall to look more closely at it. “Reminds me of a blizzard. Remember that time we got stuck at the high school during that February blizzard?” Twenty kids and one adult, sleeping on gym mats in the auditorium with no lights or electricity.
The corners of her lips barely lifted in acknowledgment. “How about Wednesday? Six o’clock. If you can manage an hour, I’m sure they’ll be satisfied. We probably won’t have to play this charade again until Christmas Eve.”
When his family had always gone to her folks’ place after church. When they’d been kids, they’d all bedded down together in the basement, whispering about what Santa might bring, while upstairs, they could hear their parents laughing.
“Wednesday’s fine.” He lowered the painting back in place and carefully leaned the canvases once more against the wall. “Do you sell them all?”
“Most of them.” She clasped the round seat beneath her. “Bolieux sells them, anyway.”
“That the gallery Sydney got you hooked up with?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She spread her fingers and looked at her fingernails. Picked at some dried paint. “Once I ship all of these to them, they’ll display and catalog them. List them online, too. I’ve sold a lot more since they started doing that.”
“You getting good money for them?”
“Not enough to buy Ruby’s yet, but I’m getting there.”
He stopped in his tracks.
She raised her eyebrows. “What? You find that surprising?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. Does Erik know about this?”
“I’ve mentioned it a time or two in passing.” She shrugged, and the shirt slipped down her shoulder another inch. It was clear that she wasn’t wearing a bra. At least not one with straps.
He shook himself again. Why the hell was he noticing stuff like that? He’d worked damn hard over the years, training himself to overlook such things where she was concerned.
“Until I started making some money with my art,” she continued, “it’s just been a nice thought.”
“Tabby’s Café,” he mused. He wasn’t sure whether he liked the idea or not. It was as unsettling as thinking she had cute toes.
But she shook her head. “I wouldn’t change the name. The place is Ruby’s. Always has been. Always will be. At least as long as I have any input on the matter.” She pushed off the stool and slipped past him through the doorway. “Wednesday at six. You s’pose they’ll think it’s odd when we don’t drive out there together?”
Her parents lived outside town on a small spread where her dad still trained cutting horses. He found his gaze dragging over the stack of paintings containing the one with the blizzard-like blue, gray and white swirls. “Uh, yeah.” He went after her. “They’d think it was odd.”
She’d gone into her kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. Unlike the plain white model in his unit, her stainless steel one looked brand-new. So did the coordinating range and the built-in microwave.
“So what’re we going to do?” She took out a diet soda and pulled the tab. It was obvious she wasn’t going to offer him one.
“Drive out there together.”
She turned her head around, as though she had a pain in her neck.
Of course, he was pretty certain his presence was the pain.
“Tell me again why you couldn’t do this oh-so-important work of yours in Boston?”
Her T-shirt had slipped off her shoulder again.
He turned away from the sight and headed for the door. “Too many distractions there. I’ll drive on Wednesday.” His voice was abrupt. “Like you said. We’ll probably be safe after that until Christmas Eve.”
* * *
They weren’t safe.
Two nights later, Tabby stared out the passenger window of Justin’s truck as they drove back into Weaver from her parents’ place.
What was supposed to have taken only an hour or so—just long enough to politely eat and run—had ended up consuming the entire evening. Mostly because Jolie had invited Tabby’s brother and his family to join them.
The only saving grace was that Evan and Leandra’s three kids—Hannah, Katie and Lucas—had kept the spotlight off Tabby and Justin.
And the fact that they’d barely exchanged five words even though they’d sat next to each other at the dinner table.
“Hannah looked good.” Justin’s voice broke the monotonous sound of the tires on the highway. Who knew how long ago the radio in the borrowed ranch truck had stopped working.
“She’s comfortable at Mom and Dad’s.” Her eleven-year-old niece had autism. “She would have had a harder time with the whole crew at your folks’ place on Thanksgiving. That’s one of the reasons why Evan and Leandra tend to go see Helen in Gillette.” Helen was her dad’s stepmother. She was a difficult woman, to say the least. She had always been kind enough to Tabby, but the older she’d gotten, the less she appreciated Helen’s attitude toward Jolie. Even after all these years, Jolie and Helen’s relationship was strained.
“Your grandmother still dote on Evan?”
<
br /> “To his chagrin, yes.”
“He, uh, ever see—”
She knew where he was going. “Darian?” Her father’s half brother was Evan’s biological father, though he’d never spent one minute of his life acting like one. That had always been the role Drew Taggart held. He’d met Tabby’s mom when she’d been pregnant with Evan, and they’d been married ever since. “No. Not for years, far as I know.” It wasn’t the only twist in her family tree, but given what was going on with the Clays and Templetons, it seemed mild in comparison. At least to her.
To her it was easy. Jolie and Drew were her parents. Evan was her brother. End of story, as far as she was concerned.
They fell silent, and she listened to the roll of the tires for a few more minutes. But it felt as if those tires were connected to a string that kept pulling tighter and tighter until she couldn’t bear the silence another second.
“I didn’t know they were going to bring up the tree lighting,” she said abruptly. “It never occurred to me. You’re never here for it and—”
“It’s not the end of the world.”
She finally turned her head and looked at him.
The only light came from the occasional headlights of an oncoming vehicle. But even though she felt that he’d become a stranger these past few years, his features were forever imprinted in her mind.
“It’s just one more time when our families are going to be together and we’re going to have to keep pretending everything is hunky-dory between us.” The tree-lighting ceremony was a town affair, scheduled for the coming Friday, just two days away.
She’d always enjoyed the festivity.
Now, the entire idea of it made her want to climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Could she do that until January without anyone noticing?
Inside her brain, she let out a frantic laugh.
“Well, maybe things would go back to being hunky-dory if you’d just let the past go.” He slowed suddenly and pulled the truck off onto the shoulder of the highway, shoved it into Park and looked at her. “It was a mistake, Tabby.”
“You got that right,” she said tightly.
He exhaled noisily and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Okay, not a mistake. An accident. Do you think I intended—” He broke off again and swore under his breath. “I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to—”
“Call out another woman’s name while you were caught in the throes of passion?” She filled her voice with sarcasm, because it was so much more preferable than letting the pain she still felt show.
“Yes!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, making her jump.
Then his wide shoulders rose and fell. “Yes,” he repeated quietly. “I was drunk, Tab. You and I were both drunk. I was home, celebrating getting my PhD. Gillian and I were on the outs. Again. And you were my best friend. I didn’t plan to get you into bed. I didn’t plan any of that. It just...just happened.”
It felt like a noose was tightening around her throat, and her eyes stung.
And when he spoke again, his voice was as ragged as she knew her own would have been. “And I know none of it excuses anything.” His long fingers closed over her arm, squeezing. “D’you think I haven’t regretted everything? That I haven’t kicked myself every damned time I turn around? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. A hundred million times, I’m sorry. Just—” He cleared his throat. “Just tell me what I can do to make it right again, and I’ll do it.”
Did he regret making love with her? Or did he regret calling her by another woman’s name?
Or was it the entire humiliating fiasco that he wished away?
Her throat felt raw. “It’s not something that can be made right, Justin.”
He exhaled. Squeezed her arm. “You haven’t done anything in your life that you wished like hell you could take back? That you could undo?”
She closed her eyes, and a hot tear escaped. “Yes.”
She wished she could undo falling in love with him. But she’d done that when she was about fifteen years old, when they’d been stuck together in the high school auditorium during a blizzard.
And she’d long ago given up hoping that she’d get over it.
“Then you understand,” he said huskily. “I know you can’t forget it. But you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known, Tab. Can’t you find some way to forgive?”
Yes, she could forgive.
But for years now, ever since he’d gone off to college and had never really come back, she’d had to watch him leave.
Again and again and again.
And in January, she’d watch him one more time.
So after the debacle four years ago, it had just been easier to hold on to the anger that resulted. And now, she wasn’t sure if she could actually let it go. Even if she tried.
His fingers were hard and hot on her arm. Insistently reminding her that right now, right now, he was here.
“Fine,” she whispered and felt something hard inside her chest start to give. A little. “It’s over. In the past.”
He waited a moment. Even in the shadows, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. “You forgive me?”
She inhaled deeply. Let her breath out slowly. Her tight shoulders sank.
“Yes. I forgive you.”
Chapter Six
When Justin showed up at Ruby’s before she’d unlocked the door at six, she realized he was determined to make sure she’d meant her words from the night before.
He’d always been determined that way. And she’d always been one to stand by her word.
So she unlocked the front door and threw her arm wide in invitation. “Scrambled eggs?” Her tone was dulcet.
The lines beside his violet eyes crinkled. His hair was damp, and he smelled like heaven when he walked past her.
“G’morning to you, too.” He crossed to the counter and dumped his messenger bag on a stool before sitting down. “And you know I hate eggs.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh and failing.
And laughing, honestly laughing, with Justin felt too good to regret. Even though she knew the opportunity to do so came with an expiration date. “I knew you ordered those the other day just to be contrary.” Some things about him hadn’t changed.
“Fortunately, Bubba’s sausage gravy helped cover the taste. Mostly.” He leaned over the counter to grab the coffeepot, and she quickly looked away from the sight of his faded blue jeans hugging his very perfect rear end. He didn’t have quite the brawn that his cattle-ranching brother possessed, but there wasn’t a single inch of Justin Clay that wasn’t lean and oh so prime.
She didn’t want to get caught ogling his butt and quickly went behind the counter to finish filling the saltshakers, which she’d been doing when he’d knocked on the glass door.
“So what are you going to be doing at the hospital today?” The night before, during dinner with her parents, he’d talked briefly about the space Rebecca had situated him in at the hospital, but he hadn’t said much about the project he was working on there. And when he’d talked about it the other day right here in the diner, Bubba’s arrival had interrupted.
“Reviewing five years’ worth of research.” He got up and went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with one of her sticky cinnamon rolls on a plate. He sat back down and cut the oversize roll in half before picking it up. “They’re still hot.” He took a bite and blew out a breath. “Really hot,” he said, chewing fast.
She poured him a glass of water, slid it in front of him and went back to filling saltshakers.
“What’s the research about?”
“I could tell you.” His set down the roll and gulped down half the glass of water. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’ve already said it’s not a cure for the common cold, so I know it’s not that. Some newfangled weight-loss pill? The next advance in the little blue pill for men who can’t—”
“No. And no. But if the research bears out, then it could be another step forward in treating infertility.”
She capped the last saltshaker. “You think something’s wrong with the research?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your expression did.”
“It wasn’t my research project. I have no idea what I’ll find.”
“Whose project was it?” She told herself she was prepared for him to say Gillian’s name, but when he didn’t, she still felt her shoulders relax.
“A guy named Harmon Wethers.”
“Why isn’t he handling it?”
His lips twisted. “He’s got other things to take care of right now. Regardless, my boss—Charles—assigned it to me. I’ve got a lot less time than I would if the research project had been one of my own design. We’re both in research, but Wethers’s area of expertise was entirely separate from mine, and there’s a lot of stuff to validate before I can even start writing the paper.”
Tabby studied him for a moment. “You’re really worried you won’t finish in time.” It wasn’t a question. She could see it in his eyes.
“Pretty much.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“CNJ loses a whole lot of money.”
“It’s a multimillion-dollar company.”
“And they’d be losing millions.” He frowned slightly. “I’d just as soon not lose my job over it.”
“You’ve been Charles Jennings’s golden boy since you identified that one cancer strand thing right out of college—” She had the clippings about it from the medical journals still tucked away in her dresser.
“I wouldn’t say golden,” Justin countered. “But he has invested a lot in me, and now it’s time for me to keep delivering. If I succeed, there should be a good promotion in it.”
The BFF Bride Page 7