“It certainly isn’t, thank God for that,” he replied, looking down the street.
Bill grumbled under his breath as he stole a look at the house behind us, then extended his hand to the portly man. “You must be the appraiser.”
“I’ve already been around the yard and exterior,” the man said. “If you have the keys, I’ll just take a look inside.”
He followed Bill to the front door, leaving David and me behind. I glanced up at him from the corner of my eye and gave him a half-smile, to which he responded with a friendly wink.
“What do you really think about the house?” I asked.
“It definitely has an organic, fluid feel.”
“What do you mean by organic?”
“It works with nature, not against it. Rustic yet modern, a prairie-style home. You can tell by the horizontal lines and overhanging eaves. They’re reflective of a sweeping prairie,” he explained, gliding his hand through the air to demonstrate. “It’s a fairly popular style in Oak Park because of Frank Lloyd Wright’s influence—he designed several homes around here. You’re right that it does seem out of place on this street, but it’s not unusual for the area. I meant what I said—it’s a find.”
I followed him through the door into the front room, where his eyes went to the ceiling and worked their way down. “Open floor plan,” he observed. “My personal favorite. You could really do something unique with the interior.”
I twisted my lips. “Bill’s pretty traditional.”
“This isn’t a traditional home, Olivia. It would be an injustice to turn it into one.”
I flushed. He said it with such conviction, I felt as if I’d insulted him. “Um,” I said. “It seems like a lot of work.”
“Right off the bat, yes, you’re looking at a long renovation period. Maybe up to a year, depending on what you want to do.” I followed his gaze down. “These floorboards have to go,” he continued, “and I’d put money down that the roof leaks. But the hearth is big and central—I wouldn’t even touch it.” He walked toward the wall of windows and peered into the backyard. “Bonus for great lighting. Wright loved nature. This house is an ode to that. The landscaping needs work, but once it’s scaled back, it could take on a woodsy, earthen feel. Romantic, in a way. I’d run with that, maybe incorporate water somehow—a pond or fountain. Reminds me of my place in New York a little bit, minus the yard.”
It was maybe the most I’d ever heard David talk, and I hung on his every word. He was even more devastating when he was passionate, and I fell more in love with the house as he spoke.
Bill returned then, and it took a great deal of effort to peel my eyes from David. When I decided that their conversation was benign enough, I left the three men and headed upstairs to explore further. As I walked between rooms, the amount of necessary work overwhelmed me. I couldn’t help but feel selfish for expecting Bill to go through with it when “fixer-uppers” had been firmly in his No column. He’d just seemed so pleased with the idea of showing me the house, and now, I didn’t want to give it up . . .
“Hey,” Bill said from the doorway. I turned around to find him nearly panting. “The fucking jury is already back. I have to run, like five minutes ago.”
“Oh,” I said. “All right, let’s go.”
“Actually, can you stay with these guys?”
“No, Bill, please—I have to get back to work, too.”
“Just a few minutes longer. I talked to the appraiser already, and David has an estimate, but they haven’t hit the second floor yet. I wouldn’t feel right leaving the two of them alone since David is doing us a favor.”
“David thinks he knows what the renovation would cost?” I asked. “How much?”
Bill cleared his throat. “A lot. But not impossible. It helps that the sellers are willing to work with us on the price. David says his office is near yours and can drop you off after.”
“What if he has plans or something?”
“Liv, I can’t,” Bill said, disappearing back into the hall. “I have to go.”
I twisted my hands nervously. Footsteps ascended, and the bass of David’s voice resounded throughout the second floor. Their conversation drifted to the master bedroom and then back down the hall. I was still stuck to the same spot in one of the spare rooms when they entered.
“David, I’m so sorry,” I blurted. “You’re already doing us this big favor, and now you have to give me a ride.”
“It’s no problem. I insisted,” he said before turning back to the appraiser, who was making notes.
He looked up and waved his clipboard at me. “Mrs. Wilson, would you like to go over this now?”
“Um, not really,” I said. “I should get back to my office, and my husband is the one driving this ship. Can you just talk to him?”
“Sure, we already talked quite a bit,” the appraiser said. “There are a few more things I’d like to cover, but I’ll e-mail him.”
“Can you CC me?” David asked, handing him a card. “Since I promised to help.”
“Sure.” The appraiser looked between the two of us before turning away. “I’ll be in touch.”
I crossed my arms over my breasts, and David stuck his hands in his pockets. “The issues aren’t just surface deep, but it’s not the worst I’ve seen,” he said. “The owners are giving you an extremely fair price. It’s a steal. Honestly, they probably don’t realize the value.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But most importantly, it’s obvious that you love it.”
“I do,” I said slowly. “I think I really do.”
“Come on.” He nodded backward. “Follow me.”
My heels clunked on the wooden steps as we descended. Back on the ground floor, David removed his jacket and set it on the covered couch. He said something I missed, rolling up his sleeves before crouching to pull on a floorboard. My eyes followed as he walked over to a doorway and inspected it. He was talking as he moved, but I only heard the bass of his voice, felt the vibration of it inside me.
I realized in that moment that I should’ve done everything in my power to stop him from coming here. That now, I’d never be able to erase the image of him in this house.
The home I couldn’t seem to grasp before unfolded before me. The living room would be sylvan, rustic; it smelled of cedar, like David. It glowed with a blazing fire on a cool autumn evening. Abundant, leafy maple trees just out back rainbowed from green to yellow to red. David was there, lifting me off my feet in a consuming hug after he walked through the front door.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed the heels of my hands into my sockets. Pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Bill and I had seen almost ten places since we’d started looking and not one had been right. I pictured Bill at the apartment on our run-down couch, yelling at the TV. I pictured him in the late morning, goofing off as he fixed me breakfast. I’d never felt at home in the apartment, because I knew we’d eventually move somewhere permanent.
Davena’s words from our last moments together floated back to me.
“It’s about who you make the home with.”
It wasn’t that the places we’d seen hadn’t felt like home. It was that Bill didn’t feel like home.
“Come here,” David said on his way out of the room, ripping me from my heartbreaking realization. I obeyed, following with my eyes glued to him. “You could put built-in seating there under that window,” he said in the kitchen, “and a breakfast nook on the other side. And look.” He pointed into the next room and said something. I leaned over to peer through the doorway, but I had no idea what I was looking for because my mind was whirring. Bill was so far, and David was so close. So close that if I angled slightly, I would whiff that earthy, subtle David-ness . . .
“Did you just smell me?” he asked.
Oh my God.
“What?” I drew back, blinking as I shook my head hard. “N-no. Of course not.”
“Yes, you did,” he said, a smile creeping onto his face.
I
scoffed. “I did not. I was just trying to get a better look.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Well, I’m very close to you, and—okay, you do smell nice, so it is possible that I sniffed you, I just . . .”
The look on his face stopped me. After a few moments of silence, he said, “You never answered my question.”
“I just admitted that I may have—”
“Not that one.” He paused. “Are you depressed, Olivia?”
I blinked in shock at the unexpected change in topic. I wanted to shake my head that no, I wasn’t. Not since he’d come back into my life the night of the wedding. But before that . . .
“You’re overthinking it,” he said. “Just answer. Don’t—”
“Do you ever think about that night?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying.
“Do you?” he asked.
“No. I don’t let myself.”
“Because of what you did?”
I glanced down, ashamed that my answer wasn’t what it should be. That wasn’t why.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“I hate myself for what I’ve done,” I said slowly. “I think about how it would hurt Bill if he found out. It would wreck him. The guilt is almost unbearable.”
David’s expression morphed into something tortured before he looked away.
“But . . .” I said.
He turned back, pinning me with intense eyes.
“But what I hate more,” I continued, “is that I don’t regret it. I don’t think about that night because I’m terrified that nothing will ever come close to it again.”
He inhaled sharply and locked his arms across his torso.
“That sounds crazy,” I said, shaking my head and looking away. “I guess for you it was just—”
“I think about it all the time. Our one night together.”
My gaze jumped back to his. We stared at each other, the space between us vibrating. My hands began to tremble with the agony of months of wanting to touch him. Slowly, he unfolded his arms. His hands hovered in the air a moment before scooping under my hair to grasp my face. He ran his thumbs over my jawline, and when I didn’t move away, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. We sat that way for a long time, both breathing until he puckered his lips gently.
When he pulled back, it was to rest his forehead on mine. “I’ve been dreaming about that for almost sixteen weeks,” he said quietly.
I laughed in a gust of breath at his attention to detail. I felt his cheeks with my hands, relishing the rough, bristly spots. I ran my fingers through his obsidian hair, even silkier than I remembered. I traced his lips reverently with my fingertip. “Why can’t I forget you?” I whispered.
He leaned in and pecked me on the lips twice before nuzzling his nose into my neck. “The way you smell,” he said into my hair. “It’s irreplaceable.”
I hugged him, feeling the muscles of his back through his shirt. He brushed his mouth down my cheek until reaching my lips. They parted for him, and he kissed me with careful movements, allowing me to appreciate every slide of his tongue and tremor of his lips. He tasted fresh but warm; he tasted like home.
As we kissed, he molded my arms around his neck to lift me by my waist so we were eye-level. I felt safe in his arms again, hidden from the outside world in our own private one. He untucked the back of my blouse and slid a hand underneath. It was a simple act, his hand skating over my back, but comforting. And then it was sensual, dizzying. Without disconnecting our mouths, he set me on my feet and unzipped my skirt so it fell to the ground.
I pulled his shirt from his pants and undid the buttons with tremulous hands. I slid it over his shoulders, his hard and coarse pecs under my palms. I kissed them, breathing in the fresh, woodsy smell that had been muted by his shirt.
He undid my top button deftly. After each button, he glanced up and looked me squarely in the eyes. His hands glided under the fabric to hold my waist. We looked into each other’s eyes, my body securely in his grip as if it were made to be there.
He pulled me to his bare torso and wrapped me in strong arms. A hand over my hair pressed my cheek to his chest. Between his heartbeat and mine, I heard nothing else.
My desire grew, and my skin burned with the need to meld with him. I remembered how he’d felt inside of me, driving me to the edge with the entirety of his focus. When I was sure I couldn’t stand another minute, he let go.
Confusion cut through my euphoric haze. “What are you doing?”
He stepped back suddenly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know,” he said up to the ceiling. “I wanted this . . .”
I stood staring at him, wavering with my skirt pooled at my feet. The blood drained from my face. “Wanted?”
“Want. I want it. I can’t stop thinking about you, about that night, Olivia. But you really fucking hurt me when you ran out, and I told myself I wouldn’t . . .”
I knew what he’d say—he’d already said it at the wedding. He’d promised himself he’d stay away from me, as I would him. “I want this,” I whispered so softly, I wasn’t sure he heard.
I wanted it, too, but once it was over, I would leave again. And I’d be haunted by the hurt in his eyes.
His face still pointed upward, appealing to a higher power, maybe. Avoiding my gaze, he took my open blouse, lingering at the bottom button a long second before closing it. We both watched as he re-dressed me.
He crouched down and picked up my skirt. Methodically, he tucked in my blouse, smoothing his hand over my stomach, and reached around to zip me up. I just stood there as his smell taunted me, tempting memories on the verge. His fingers combed through my hair. They went to touch my lips, but he leaned in to kiss me desperately instead. I was still shocked into immobility, but my body responded on its own. My arms wrapped around his neck, and my mouth gave in to him. I did not wonder why he’d stopped this. I did not wonder why I couldn’t stop. I blocked the thoughts from my brain and melted into his hands in my hair, his breath with mine, a kiss that was a different kind of passionate than I’d ever experienced.
But we broke apart when he tore his lips from mine. I fixated on the rising and falling of his chest, trying to catch my own breath. My arms slithered down from his neck, and he caught my wrists. “I can’t do this because I care, not because I don’t,” he said. “I can’t do this again to myself or to you, and I don’t think you can, either.”
He was wrong. I could do it. The realization came with a painful constriction of my heart. He had me so wound up in him that I saw nothing else. But his words made sense, so I nodded.
He dropped my wrists and backed away. I watched, transfixed, as he re-buttoned his own shirt and shrugged on his suit jacket. Watching him dress himself in clothing I couldn’t touch—a chest, a face, hands that I couldn’t feel—put my entire body on edge. I had almost been allowed to show him how much I had missed him, but it had been dashed away, disintegrating under my fingers.
My phone chiming from my purse relieved me of my torture. But relief quickly drained away, and my jaw fell as I read Bill’s text message.
Bill: Called Jeanine. Gave her our offer! Champagne tonight, babe.
David was leaving the room when I finally looked up from the screen. I’d just thrown myself at another man. And worse, I’d realized only minutes before, that Bill’s and my problems might be deeper than I thought. That with him, this was a house, but with David, it could be a . . .
David stopped short in the doorway. “Jesus,” he said, peering at his phone. “The appraiser already e-mailed.”
“I know.” I walked toward him, and he cocked his head at me. Before he could ask, I said, “Bill just made an offer.”
David’s expression morphed from curiosity to confusion. The grandfather clock chimed. It was as if every thought that passed through his mind was trying to break free, but his mouth remained set in a rigid line.
“David?” I asked as he stared down at me in
silence. “Are you all right?”
He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze over my head. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
He gripped the knob of the front door and hesitated a moment. I waited for him to speak, my eyes darting between his face and the handle. Instead, he turned it and stepped out onto the broken walkway. I followed him to a sleek, silver Mercedes-Benz.
I ran my hands over my suddenly cold arms, wishing for a sweater to curl into at that moment. With automatic movements, David opened the passenger door to let me in. I tried not to look over at him as we drove away and left the house behind, but after a few moments of silence had passed, I couldn’t help myself. He looked back at me and smiled.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” he assured me.
I looked around the unfamiliar car. “Are you mad about what just happened?” I asked the dashboard.
He reached over confidently to squeeze my bare knee. “No.”
I covered his hand with mine. There was nothing and everything to say. We drove the rest of the way in silence, our hands on my leg. I studied both of them, the way his long fingers and massive palm took up the whole lower half of my thigh. The gesture was meant to be comforting. But to me it was erotic. When he adjusted his grip, I silently willed his hand to slide up my skirt. But it didn’t, and when I smoothed a fingertip over his knuckles, he flipped his palm up and took my hand.
There were no appropriate words: good-bye, see you soon, see you never—none of it felt right. So when he pulled up to the curb in front of my office building, I let go of his hand and climbed out.
“Olivia.”
I leaned back into the car. His jaw set, his eyes fixed on me. Then he said, “There are still other options.”
I shut the car door, too shocked and scared to respond.
Other options.
Blood drained from my face as he drove away.
David’s words echoed what he’d said in his apartment before I’d fled. He still wanted me. But if Bill’s offer on the house was accepted, then my future would solidify. None of the reasons I’d left had changed, though. David was still a charming playboy with a past and a present. He was still a man I’d known for a blink of an eye. A man who could love me one minute and leave me the next.
Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set Page 36