by Cara McKenna
“No, that sounds great. Or I could take you out for breakfast.”
A warmth bloomed in her chest. “Maybe some other morning. I was looking forward to cooking, actually. I’ve got bacon, waffle mix, syrup, coffee . . .”
“Sounds good.”
“Cool.” She paused before going on, feeling silly, but also soft and pleasantly . . . exposed. Vaughn made it easy to feel those things. “Those are some of my best memories, all through my life. Making breakfast with my parents, friends, roommates, whoever. Just drinking coffee and talking until it’s pushing noon.”
“Let me shower real quick, and you’re on.”
“I’ll have your coffee waiting. Now, you always seem to be making mine, so remind me what you take.”
“Black with just a little sugar.”
“Done.”
She gave his knee a pat through the covers, then stood. “Come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Clare went back down the hall, greeted by the smell of coffee and also by Bree, who was putting in earrings by the counter and looking poised to depart.
“Morning. Heading out?” Clare asked.
“And running late.” Her eyes made an inventory of Clare’s outfit—not her usual day-off MO, which involved pajama bottoms until well after lunch was eaten, whenever possible. “You got a hot date?”
“Sort of. But I’m staying in.”
Bree smiled. “He slept over, didn’t he?”
“It was late. And raining.”
“Such the humanitarian you are. Did you guys . . . ?”
“We had already. I think last night we both intended to just keep it platonic, but . . . anyway. I’m going to make waffles.”
Bree snorted. “He must be good. You haven’t made me waffles since Ethan dumped me.”
“Jesus, I forgot about him . . . Med student, chin-strap beard—those two things should not go together.”
“Amen.”
“And I would happily make you waffles if you asked.” Clare smirked, pulling mugs out of the dish drainer. “And yes, Vaughn is very good.”
“Better than that mystery guy you were seeing?”
“Different. Just as good, but different. The other guy’s way too hard to read. Hooking up with him was like trying to get a cat to love you, you know? The tiniest little scrap of affection and you’ll feed the thing forever, but you have no idea what it’s up to for the other twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day.”
“Does that make Vaughn the loyal guard dog, then?”
“Nope. Just a grown-ass man. One who shows up when he says he will.”
“And an EMT,” Bree added, rifling through her purse. “Very sexy. Both upstanding and rugged. Plus, he can restart your heart if he fucks you into cardiac arrest.”
Clare laughed. “Jesus, just go.”
Bree came in for a cheek kiss, then shouldered her bag. “Be good. Not too good, but don’t burn the waffles.”
“I’ll try. Is your flavor of the moment still out of town? I’m home tonight, if you feel like splitting a bottle of wine and binge-watching something cheesy.”
“It’s a date. Later.”
“Later.”
A date, she thought, assembling breakfast components. Were these waffles a date? Did Vaughn think so? Did she want that? Was she ready for that? She felt ready, felt excited. And maybe that meant she hadn’t had it quite as terminally for Mica as she’d feared.
Vaughn appeared shortly in a familiar ensemble and a nice coating of stubble. “Yesterday’s clothes look good on you,” she said, and set a coffee on the table for him.
“Thanks.” He took a seat. “It was fun, you know.”
“Last night? Which bit?” she asked, curious whether he was being gentleman flirty or dirty flirty.
He shrugged and tasted his coffee. “Running through the rain. Playing Clue. And other stuff.”
She smiled, pulled a whisk from a drawer, and tapped her lips with it. “Other stuff?”
He played it cool, just a tiny flash of a smirk. “Certain other stuff, yeah.”
“Well, good. Also, if you hate waffles please tell me now before I make a huge mess.”
“I love waffles.”
“Excellent. Check this bad boy out.” She stood on her tiptoes and hauled the ancient ten-ton waffle iron from off the top of the fridge. It was vintage but barely used, straight out of the seventies and finished in key-lime green enamel.
“Wow, that is some serious machinery.”
“Eight bucks at a yard sale. It’s probably a fire hazard, but it still works.”
They shot the shit while she cooked, and Vaughn took over the bacon when it became clear either it or the waffles were going to burn if she kept up the happy-housewife charade. They sat down with steaming plates and tepid coffee, everything about this morning feeling easy and effortless.
Maybe I’m not straddling that exciting knife’s edge of uncertainty with Vaughn, she thought, studying him as he poured his syrup, but I’m also not going to drive myself crazy, trying to guess what’s going on in his head. If she wanted to know that, she only had to ask. In fact . . .
“What are you thinking about?”
He looked up as he capped the syrup bottle, those eyes just about the exact same maple brown. “Not much. Mostly about how weird a thing maple syrup is, and what other things do we eat that seep out of trees?”
“What are the other things?”
“None I can think of.”
“Huh.”
“Why do you ask? Did I look worried?”
“Nope. It’s just been a while since I’ve hung out with a guy whose thoughts I feel like I stand even a tiny chance at guessing. Not that I had my money on edible tree seepage.”
He smiled. “He can be mystifying, I know—”
“Try infuriating.”
“I get him better than anybody,” Vaughn said, “and I still never have the faintest clue what he’s got on his mind. Or even what he’s feeling, half the time.”
Clare speared a hunk of waffle on her fork and used it to shuttle syrup around the rim of her plate, lost in the task. Lost in her brain.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Vaughn prompted after a minute’s silence. “Or maybe an equal exchange, since I shared my riveting theories about syrup.”
“Sorry.” She shook her head, needing to clear it. Needing to shake that man but knowing it’d take a little time, still.
“Where’d you go, there?”
She sighed, wondering if the truth would make her sound fixated and pathetic, and fearing she knew the answer. “Can I ask you sort of a weird question?”
“Sure.”
“Does Mica ever call you by your name? The times you two have been sexual, I mean.”
“I don’t know that he’s ever used my name. Not aside from trying to get my attention from across a crowded room, maybe, but even that I’m not sure about.”
She set her fork down. “Really? In, like, fifteen years?”
“Twelve. And honestly, no. I don’t think he has.”
“Huh.” She sipped her coffee, feeling a little relieved, a little sad. “Well, he’s never used my name, either, if it makes you feel any better.”
“I didn’t notice it for ages, but once I did, it was hard not to notice. He does it to everyone. Why, I dunno. Some weird emotional block, no doubt, like it’s too intimate.”
“Ex-actly. Thank you. I wondered if it was just me or what.”
He shook his head. “Totally not just you. He withholds that for some reason. Some facet of his not wanting to be known, or not wanting to let people know they matter . . . ? Fuck if I know.”
“And if you don’t, nobody does.”
“I swear the only time you’ll hear your name from him is when it’s written on a coffee cup.”
After a pause, he continued through a heavy sigh. “He’s always going to be a part of my life. Not sexually, not forever. Not once I find the right girl. It feels like monogamy’s getting kind of old-fashioned these days, but I like it. I like the idea of it, and I’m good at it. But Mica might always be my best friend, for all his faults. Can you handle that? Can you handle that if you and I go on a few dates, maybe even get serious? Me and him, sharing an apartment, knowing what’s happened between us? What would probably still keep happening, if I was single?”
Did he mean because she’d liked Mica herself, or because he thought maybe his fidelity couldn’t be trusted, with Mica staying just one door down? Either way, she knew the answer. “I can. He’s not my ex-boyfriend. We were only ever lovers, and I’m starting to let him go. Really. The spell, or whatever it is he does to people . . . It’s fading. I can feel it. And I’d never try to tell a guy—or anybody else—who they can be friends with. Plus, he never made me any promises. There’s nothing to have hard feelings about. I’ll just feel a little foolish about it, for a while.”
“The way he makes me feel saddled me with about six years of shame and confusion,” Vaughn said with a guilty smile, “so go ahead. I get it.”
She touched his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve got anything to feel ashamed of.”
“No, and plenty of people wouldn’t . . . but my dad would be disgusted if he knew, and disappointed, embarrassed . . .” He was looking down at the mug in his hands as he said it, as though his shame was burning at the mere mention of the man. “I can’t help it. He’s, like, everything to me. Just because I don’t share those values doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, knowing what he’d think about it all. All I’ve ever wanted is to make him proud, and be even half the man he is. It’s tough.”
She nodded. “I get that.”
Vaughn looked up. “So, where do we go from here, Clare?”
She warmed all over at the sound of her name. It was an intimacy she’d been missing lately, even more than she’d realized. “I dunno. My bedroom?” She laughed, letting him know she hadn’t the faintest trace of a real answer to his question.
“You still think you’re up for us going on a date? I know it’s all backward and a little absurd, given how we hooked up to begin with, but—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting him off. “Of course I would.” In a breath she forgot about Mica—all she could recall was the feel of this man’s strong, solid body against hers through the night, his smooth voice in the dark, his hand around hers and his scent in her sheets and her dreams.
His brows rose. “Yeah?”
“A date with a man I already know is fantastic in bed and who treats me better than anyone ever has? Fucking yes, of course.” Maybe she’d gotten a taste for a more doomed and desperate flavor of romance of late, but she wasn’t stupid. Guys like Vaughn didn’t come along every day, no matter how they’d met. She was well and truly over her ex, and while she might never quit fantasizing about the memories she’d forged with Mica—and, indeed, Vaughn—she was quickly growing weary of his siren song, as well.
“Good,” Vaughn said with a decisive nod, and put a forkful of waffle in his mouth.
Better than good—a man eager enough that he was trying to pin her down now? What a revolutionary concept. She’d happily let him pin her down in any number of other contexts just to show her appreciation. She’d like his company with their clothes on, she knew that already. She’d like being seen with a man like Vaughn, like the way he’d no doubt hold the door for her and refuse to let them go Dutch. He’d treat her with all the courtesy Mica had been starving her of, offer her the affection and passion Davis had always withheld, and she’d welcome it. “What kind of a date?”
“Dinner, then maybe drinks back at your place? I mean, it’ll have to be your place, for the time being. Until he moves out. Otherwise it’d look like an invitation to another three-way, or some kind of weird move on my part.”
“No, I agree. And that sounds great. Have you been to Kaya? I’ve only been once, but it blew me away. It’s over in the Strip. Caribbean food, cool atmosphere.”
“Never, but I’ll make us a reservation for this weekend,” he offered. “Tomorrow okay?”
“Hey, I’m free whenever—unemployed, remember? Damn, I can taste the swordfish now . . .”
He laughed. “The last time I saw that look on your face, you weren’t thinking about food.”
“No, I bet I wasn’t . . . Okay, here’s another weird question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“If this all goes well, and we decide to date or whatever . . . would it be okay, acknowledging everything that went down? In a filthy context, I mean.”
“Like dirty talk?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t see why not. It’d be hard to feel jealous, considering how you and I wound up in bed together the first few times, right?”
“I hope that’s the case. Those were probably the most erotic nights of my life to date.” Probably? Try undoubtedly. “Because of both of you.”
“Listen, in theory, if you and I ever got serious . . .”
“Yeah?”
“If he came back to town at some point, or if you ever decided to come out to the Southwest on one of our trips . . . like, it’s on, as far as I’m concerned. If you’re up for it, and he’s up for it, and nobody’s heart is in danger of getting broken? That’s the one tiny loophole I can see in my monogamy policy.”
“That’s a very intriguing proposition, Mr. Tucker.” And what a delightful loophole it was, the only stipulation being that all parties were present. And, Jesus . . . if she could get over Mica emotionally but still get to enjoy that body, that face, that voice and all its sinful suggestions . . .
She shook off the haze of lust fogging her brain and found Vaughn smiling. “What?”
“Just the look on your face. And maybe I can’t be straight with my dad about everything I’ve experienced, and maybe I wouldn’t be willing to with any woman I might date, normally . . . but it’s a relief, knowing that you already know, and that it doesn’t freak you out—”
“Quite the opposite.”
“And it’s more than a relief, really. It’s . . . I don’t even know how to say it. It’s like this part of me I’ve been so paranoid about not wanting anyone to know about, but you do know, and you’re not just tolerant of it, you’re into it.”
“Understatement.”
“Yeah, exactly. So yes—you want to talk about it, in bed? Sure. You want us all to go there again if the opportunity presents itself? I’m probably game. Play it all by ear, but probably.”
“Wow. Dating you comes with unexpected perks.” Though right now those perks weren’t much more than intriguing. What truly sounded exciting, even novel, was another chance to find herself alone in bed with just this man, to feel all his energy pouring into her, and all of hers into him. Two bodies, two voices, two sets of needs and hands and eyes, trading jokes and pasts and secrets and pleasure.
“So is that our plan?” she asked. “Let’s just see where this goes?”
“Let’s see where this goes,” he agreed, sounding earnest and eager. He took her hands. “Maybe nowhere, maybe somewhere amazing.”
“I’m in. And let’s make sure right now that it doesn’t go nowhere.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning come to my room. That’s not nowhere, right?”
He smiled. “Just you and me, huh?”
“Yeah.” She kissed him, a flirting graze of her lips across his, and she grinned as their eyes met once more. “Just you and me sounds like plenty right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Later that summer
The Feurhy was packed—easily forty people already buzzed around the small gallery, and the doors had barely been open ten minutes. Two servers circulated with trays
of complimentary red wine and champagne, and the room hummed with cheerful conversation, set to the click of high heels on hardwood. On three of the pale gray walls hung eighteen large color photographs on uniform white mats, all framed in black, though the photos’ diverse subjects were every shade that human beings came in.
The woman of the moment held court by the door, having her glass tapped again and again, as each new well-wisher approached to toast her big night. Vaughn hung back and snapped a few shots of the photographer herself. Just cell phone pics, not like the true works of art on display tonight. He’d watched Clare meticulously cut each and every mat, Windex every pane of glass and attach every hanging wire, and long before that, fuss and obsess over which images to use.
“This one or this one?” she’d asked him a hundred times over the course of the summer, holding up two seemingly identical prints.
“Uh, that one?” he’d hazarded when confronted with such a side-by-side comparison of photos of Zariya, his colleague from dispatch.
Clare had shot him a skeptical look. “Can you even tell what’s different?”
“Not at all. Can you?”
“Look at her necklace.”
Vaughn had. “They both look blue to me.”
She’d rolled her eyes and taken the prints back. Where he saw blue, Clare probably saw turquoise and azure and cerulean and cornflower and a hundred variations in between. Whatever she’d tweaked, the change was lost on Vaughn.
“Sorry. I’m useless at art stuff.”
A smirk had curled the corner of her lips. “But dynamite in the sack. You’re forgiven.” She’d drawn him in by his collar for a kiss, the both of them sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the clutter of her craft. They’d wound up in her bed not long after that, and Vaughn never did figure out what the difference was between those necklaces.
Whichever print Clare had gone with now hung opposite him, on the far wall, dead center. Zariya herself was coming later that evening, and several of Clare’s models were already here.
Not Mica, though.
Vaughn checked the time. Six fourteen. But this was Mica he was talking about—fashionably late, when he did manage to show up at all. He will. He can’t pass this up. Vaughn would text him if he didn’t show by eight thirty.