A New Leash on Love

by Debbie Burns

  Maybe there’s a time for being rude. She tried the idea on like she was stepping into a costume. She could start today. Tell the cashier she didn’t care about this year’s squash crop. Or how the price of pork should start to drop next year. From there, she’d work on no longer seeing the good in people. Learn to take people like Craig Williams, dog dumper, and never let them become more than a harshly formed first impression.

  Circumstances could never be extenuating. And things could never happen that weren’t planned for.

  This didn’t make her feel any better. She said good-bye to the checker whose line she’d choose again next time and pushed her rickety cart outside. She was loading her bags into her trunk when her phone rang.

  It was her ex-fiancé, Paul.

  He’d called twice last week, and she hadn’t picked up. He hadn’t left a message either.

  So he was thinking about her now, when for months she’d been thinking about him. Only she wasn’t any longer.

  Megan sank into the driver’s seat and released a tired breath. Her body ached from the unexpected hurt of this afternoon. She’d only known Craig a few weeks. How could his words have wounded her so much?

  She drove home through the streets of Webster Groves, trying to sort out a tangled mess of feelings that wouldn’t unravel. When it came to Craig Williams, everything was too knotted together to decipher.

  Pulling onto her cul-de-sac, she felt her heart thump erratically when she spotted a BMW 7 Series parked in her driveway. She hit the brakes, then the gas a bit too hard. The engine revved, and heat rushed all the way into her fingers and toes.

  Please don’t let him have seen that. She parked in her driveway alongside his car and attempted to step out as gracefully as possible. He was still in his seat, talking on the phone. She headed around and leaned against her passenger door. Meeting her gaze, he held up a finger and offered a secretive smile that lightened her mood more than a whole bag of comfort food could’ve.

  She heard a handful of words through his closed window. They were boring ones that had to do with sales and reports and projections. Then he said he had to go.

  With a wave of insecurity washing over her, Megan pulled her jacket closed. The sun was setting, and the temperature was dropping.

  Craig stepped from his car wearing a dress shirt that was open at the collar and no coat. Keeping one arm draped over his door, he stared at her without saying anything. Just three feet, maybe four, separated them.

  “Hey,” she said. Why was the onus on her to talk first? He was standing in her driveway.

  “I wanted to give you something. If you have a few minutes.”

  She rocked back on her heels. “I think I have a few.”

  With a hint of a smile curling his lips, he reached into his car and pulled out a brown-paper gift bag. “It isn’t another donation, so I’m hopeful it won’t piss you off.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her. “Based on our history, I’d have to say you never know.” She took it, admiring the gold tissue paper poking out the top. “Did you bag this yourself?”

  “I feel compelled to say I’m not that good at domesticity.”

  She separated the folds of tissue, then paused. “Let me guess… You bronzed my pooper scooper?” She said it in hope of easing the tension still hanging in the air. He’d commented at lunch that with the new employee they were going to add, her poop-scraping days might well be over.

  Whatever he’d given her was flat, wide, and rectangular. Pursing her lips, she pulled it out and held it up in the dim light. “Um, is it a little chalkboard?”

  He laughed in the low, quiet way that made her tingle down to her toes. “It’s more of a metaphorical gift.”

  Megan tilted her head, looking from him to the chalkboard. “If you’re saying not to use your donation on new technology for the shelter, you could’ve given me a Hallmark card. Nothing says I don’t do technology like Hallmark.”

  “Try again, Megan. This is about this afternoon. It has nothing to do with the shelter.”

  That word again. Her name. Only when he said it, it was like a tall stack of chocolate chip and pecan pancakes with extra syrup.

  With her heart running its own marathon, she forced her attention to the shiny new chalkboard in her hand and tried to figure out how it could be metaphorical. Suddenly she got it. Unable to keep the grin from spreading across her face, she held it up. “Are you offering me a clean slate?”

  He smiled wide enough to show a set of very white, straight teeth. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” Pulling one hand from his pocket, he held up a finger. “And hopefully a better explanation than the one I gave you this afternoon, if you’ll allow me.”

  Her heart plummeted into her stomach, then leaped into her throat. “I will.”

  “That’s good. Really good.” He moved a step closer, returning his free hand to his pants’ pocket. Megan suddenly wondered if he wanted to touch her as much as she wanted him to. “Look, you haven’t had kids so you may not understand this, but the thing is, right now my life is about my kids. My ex-wife and I didn’t divorce for the chance to be with other people. Not now. Not at this stage in the game.”

  Why did it suddenly feel like he was dumping her? With a chalkboard? Swallowing hard, she nodded. “I get it, Craig.”

  “Please let me finish. I hardly ever say things. But I have to say this. To you. Because you’re real and because you matter.”

  She swept a lock of hair behind her ear and nodded him on. “Okay.”

  “You see, a few years ago, something happened and the kids—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

  Her own throat was so damn tight, but she had to spare him from continuing. “Sophie told me. She told me what happened.”

  Craig stared at her for a mile of heartbeats before starting again. “Then you know that I can’t hurt them. Not now. Not more than the divorce already has.”

  Her insides turned to mush. “I know, and I get it. Like I said, I’m sorry for the accusation I made earlier.”

  With a bitter laugh, he walked away from her, pacing again. “I deserved it. And more. You caught me off guard right from the start. With what you said to me the first time I met you. About rising to the occasion. And just about everything else from then on. But I’m not making decisions for me. I can’t move forward with you in that way. And let’s face it, it’s obvious to the world you aren’t one-night-stand material. I probably wouldn’t be half as attracted to you if you were.” He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. “This is a terrible apology. I’ve never been good at them, but now I’m really out of practice.”

  “It’s all right. I’m okay with your faults, numerous as they are.” Megan grinned and held up the bag she’d slipped the chalkboard into. “Besides, we’re starting over, remember?”

  Shoving his hands back in his pockets, Craig walked close, stopping just a foot in front of her. “That’s the thing I wanted to ask you. I don’t have room for a lover. Not now and not for a long time. Nor am I asking you to wait. But right now I do have room for a friend. A genuine one.”

  He was laying his feelings out there without even questioning whether she returned them. Was it that obvious? Who was she kidding? You don’t insult someone, then start to cry because they’re donating money to your work. He knew her feelings.

  Hardly daring it, Megan brushed the tip of one finger over the ridge of his collar. She wanted to brush her fingers over his smooth, muscular neck but knew it wasn’t okay. Pulling her hand away, she nodded.

  She forced a playful tone into her voice. “Do you want to know one thing friends do for friends in need?”

  He shook his head. “What?”

  She jutted her thumb toward her trunk. “They make them dinner. Calorie-laden but very tasty and wounded-soul-healing dinner. Grab a bag, will you? As long as you’re here, I’m
putting you to work.”

  * * *

  This feeling twisting up his core wasn’t new. The first time he’d experienced it, he was still a teen. He’d wanted the Yamaha street bike for sale in the cycle shop so badly his muscles ached. So he’d saved up and, against his parents’ wishes, bought one shortly before turning eighteen. He’d ridden it every day of his senior year and loved that little bike all through college too.

  Later, after college, interning at the marketing company where Jillian supervised him and a few other wet-behind-the-ears newbies, the feeling rocketed through him when she bent over his desk, letting her hair drape over his shoulder, always chewing on her lip and smelling of upscale perfume. Three months later, she was pregnant with Sophie, and they were both scared as hell.

  He’d felt it when Andrew was born sick, a desire so deep-rooted he was certain he’d be able to move mountains to save his son. And he thought he had. The best doctors. The best facilities. The best treatments. He’d watched his son grow, lagging behind Reese but not so far he couldn’t keep up, and that feeling had faded as a false and wicked sense of security crept into its place.

  Now he stood in Megan’s kitchen, watching her twist a mass of wavy hair up into a knot, leaving lone strands clinging to her neck, and he felt it again. His world was full of women who would be less complicated. Women who wouldn’t tie up his core and make him ache until his lungs seemed to scrape against his ribs.

  What was he doing? He’d sworn to himself he’d stay away, but he’d driven here as if on autopilot rather than waiting for another time to give her the silly little present. Being with her was a mistake, even under the pretense of friendship, when he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He’d make a bigger mess of a disaster.

  She was unpacking groceries and making small talk he couldn’t process. Pulling out a colander, she filled it with fruit and washed it in the sink. When she turned off the water, she looked his way for the first time since he’d followed her inside carrying her packed-full reusable shopping bags.

  “You okay?” She wiped her wet hands on her hips. “You look, I don’t know, confused.” She grinned suddenly and made air quotes as she continued. “Is it your lack of domesticity? Did I blunder by bringing you into my kitchen?”

  Craig shook his head, surprised by the laugh that erupted from his chest. “No, you didn’t blunder.”

  “Good, because I’m going to let you put together a plate of cheese and fruit while I take a shower. And don’t think that’s anything special because I always shower after I work in the kennels. I hate smelling like bleach and God knows what else.”

  He felt his tension easing away as she spoke. He could do this. He could handle being with her. Tonight at least. A salve for wounds so raw he couldn’t ignore them any longer.

  Megan pointed to one of the bags. “There’s fresh bread in that one. And crackers in the cupboard if you prefer.” She walked over to a cabinet beside the fridge and made a ta-da gesture as she opened it to reveal a latticed assortment of wines. “You can choose the wine, if there’s any you can stomach. I’m sure you don’t know any of the brands because they’re all under eight bucks a bottle.”

  “Funny,” he said, “but most likely true.”

  She shrugged, clearly unoffended. “Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”

  Under the watchful gaze of the cat that had scratched him, Craig pulled the rest of the contents from the bags after she left, then searched through cabinets and drawers to find a cutting board, a plate, and a knife.

  By the time he’d chosen the wine, opened it, and laid out a decent-looking arrangement of cheese, fruit, and crackers, Megan was back, filling the small room with the scent of shea and lavender. She was dressed in a long-sleeved Henley and lounge pants, her hair still dry but free again. It was full, wavy, and beautiful, and made him want to lose his hands in it.

  “Impressive.” She eyed his plate and cocked an eyebrow. “So there’s more to Craig Williams than marketer and entrepreneur extraordinaire.”

  “You forgot abandoner of dogs.” He leaned back against the counter, trying not to focus on the small patch of skin between the rim of her shirt and the elastic-waisted pants that would be very easy to slide off.

  “I didn’t forget. I’m officially forgiving you for that. And excuse the pants,” she said, noticing the direction of his gaze. “But your little slate came with the call for friendship, and there’s nothing like a pair of look-I’ve-added-ten-pounds cozy pants to meet that call, if you want my opinion. That and they’re comfortable.”

  He passed her a glass of the wine. “As long as they’re comfortable.”

  “Ha, are they that bad? On second thought, don’t answer that.”

  “I won’t, but for the opposite reason of what you’re thinking. After asking for friendship, I don’t want to come across as if I’m hitting on you.”

  A blush lit her cheeks as she sipped the wine. “Okay then. So, since you made the first course, I’ll get busy with the pizza. I’ve been told I make a killer pizza. In fact, it’s one of my best dishes.” She gave an exaggerated toss of her hair. “All it takes is one slice to become a true believer.”

  Craig refilled his glass, noting the buzz washing over him. A buzz he realized he desperately wanted. Letting the halfway decent Syrah roll across his tongue, he sank to a chair at her table and watched her move about her kitchen with the confidence of someone who not only had committed everything about it to memory, but enjoyed it.

  “I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

  “You mean in my shoe filled with dogs?” Megan wrinkled her nose at him, remembering a joke he’d made about his thoughts on her home life during his and Sophie’s tour. “I do actually. I love it.”

  “What’s your favorite dish?”

  “To bake or cook?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “A huge one. My favorite thing to bake is an in-season pie from fruit I’ve actually picked. To cook… That’s a hard one. I like to mix it up.”

  “I’m sold on the pie.” He ran his fingertips over the smooth top of her table. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”

  “You’re good for a bit. I’m going to teach you how to toss a crust. Everyone should learn to toss a crust.”

  Craig chuckled. “Like they do in Italian kitchens? Don’t tell me some of those Europeans you mentioned at the coffee shop were Italian. You don’t look it.”

  “I’m like an eighth or something. My dad worked his way through college in a pizzeria. I think I could toss a crust before my training wheels were off.”

  He sank back in his chair and shook his head. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was her. Most likely it was her.

  The cuts and scrapes and bruises that filled his insides had fallen silent for the first time in a long while. Finishing off his wine, he savored the peace washing over him.

  * * *

  “So,” Megan said, sinking onto the couch with the same, cautious, at-least-eighteen-inches-separate-us space they’d maintained before she’d gotten up to grab another bottle of wine. She twisted sideways this time, tucking her feet under her and facing him. “About this drinking thing…”

  “What about it?” He sank against the back of the couch, resting his muscular, defined hands over the tops of his thighs. The pizza was almost ready, but Megan had a feeling that, like her, he’d snacked too much already.

  “Would you think it was weird if I asked for your keys?”

  His brows furrowed together. “Is there somewhere you need to go?”

  She bit her lip, embarrassed to take this where it needed to go. Unable to think of anything more tactful, she plunged ahead. “No, but I’m worried you might have to. Or I might say something wrong and you’d want to take off. And I…” Her throat constricted into a knot. She cleared it and forced out what she could. “I was close
to someone who made the wrong decision once. One of those decisions you can never take back.”

  He studied her face before answering, perhaps debating whether or not to ask for more. “Okay.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a set of three keys. Their hands met in the middle of the suddenly cavernous space. Megan’s palm lit with electricity as their fingers brushed together. His hand lingered over hers, his thumb trailing the side of her palm.

  Then he pulled away and sat forward, reaching for the wine. “Do you have a time frame for me reaching full sobriety?”

  “Nope,” she said, feeling her tension start to recede. “I have another four bottles in the kitchen. There’re a half a dozen bars within walking distance too. And more than one person has slept it off on this couch.”

  “Hmm, be careful what you offer. This couch is a thousand times more comfortable than the stiff bed I’ve been sleeping on.” He sat back, wine in hand, and Moxie hopped to his lap for the second time, purring loudly and digging her paws into his thighs.

  Ever jealous, Max found Megan’s lap, adding percussion to the purring. She was glad for his company, to have the distraction from Craig. Right here on her couch. A hint of flour dotted his temple where he’d miscalculated his dough twirling. She contemplated brushing it off, but didn’t. She didn’t tell him either. All she could think about was that it was there because of her. A temporary, fleeting sign she’d touched his life. Stupid really, but hers to hold on to all the same.

  She thought of him staying in an apartment furnished with impersonal things, sleeping on a stiff mattress, away from his kids more often than not, and a fresh twinge of sympathy filled her. “What you’re all going through… It has to be hard.”

  “Divorce…” He pursed his lips and waved his hand through the air. “It’s a bitch. When you have kids at least.”

  “They’re okay though?”

  “As far as Jillian and I and our over-consulted therapist can tell.”