But, God, his seriousness. The sadness in him. His fucking dark eyes in that shadowed face.
“Ask me your questions, then,” I tell him.
“Why did you decide to have the baby?”
“Whoa.” I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Way to skip the preliminaries,” I tell him.
He stops and touches my arm through the wool of my sweater. Then he thinks better of it and pulls back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay.” I can barely make out his face in the dark, but I feel him there, inches away from me. Pulling me in. “I kind of appreciate you straight-up asking. Instead of, you know, making small talk and wondering about it the whole time.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
I start walking again, and he follows, tugging gently on Alice’s leash. I’m grateful for the question, actually. It cools me—makes me think with my head for a minute instead of with my body.
“I wanted to be a mother,” I tell him. “And I could do it this way, on my own terms, without having to share it with a man.” I chuckle quietly, realizing I have effectively shut down all possibility of sex thoughts. “Is that honest enough?”
“You don’t want a father in the mix.”
He says this as a statement, not a question. As though he’s weighing the idea. Testing it.
“Kids can be raised in all kinds of ways, Tony.”
“I know that,” he says. “I’m not judging. I didn’t plan on my girls living in two separate households, but Alexa and I are working it out. And they’re doing okay.”
“You’re doing an excellent job.” I look toward him in the dark, though he can’t see me. “Both of you. They’re fantastic kids.”
“Thank you. We like them.” I hear the smile in his voice.
“Was it hard on you, the divorce?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Thanks. I guess we’re both single parents, then.”
“Right,” I say. “But I get that I’m doing it by choice. And that it wouldn’t have been your choice.”
“Yeah, well, what can you do?”
He stops and turns toward the house, now a half mile down the road. “Should we head back?”
I crouch down and scratch Alice’s ears. She licks my hand happily. “I think she’s ready.”
“Okay.” He holds out his hand to help me up, and I take it. His palm against mine is warm—a contrast to the cold night air. He doesn’t let go right away. He holds on to steady me, and a shiver of sparks races up my arm.
I take a step back, and although what he clearly is supposed to do is let go, instead what he does is move with me. So that it’s like I’m pulling him. He stumbles forward, and braces himself by holding my two arms in his hands.
I don’t know what he’s thinking in this moment. Whether he wants to lean in more and is afraid to. But I do know what I want.
I want to feel his mouth on mine. I want to taste him.
The gentleness and quiet of him. The disappointment and the shame. The anger and the desire. I want it.
And that is wrong of me, I know that.
The one rule I have about men is that I try to do no harm. If he were the kind of guy who took a fling lightly, I might let it happen. Or make it happen. But that’s obviously not his style. And even if it were, he’s still vulnerable from his divorce. He’s under a shitload of stress at work. And he’s Ray’s brother, which means not only would I be messing with him, I’d be causing trouble in Holly’s closest relationships.
So I can’t do it. As much as I want to.
And I do want to. Every time he’s looked at me tonight, every time I’ve felt him near me, breathing beside me, it’s stoked the fire that’s been building in me since I first met him.
I’m willing to bet he feels it, too. His hands tighten on my arms. He takes a breath.
And then Alice, her leash looped around his wrist, pulls his arm away. He catches the end of the leash right before it slips off his hand, and as he turns to adjust his grip, I take a step back.
My legs are literally fucking shaking.
I start walking back to the house. And pray that this is just pregnancy hormones taking hold of my body. That I can resist them.
And that it will pass.
Chapter 7
Tony
I wake in the morning to full sunlight shining through the window. The guest bedroom is modestly furnished with a single chest of drawers and a sturdy queen-sized bed covered in soft quilts. I lie here in the warmth for a few moments, drowsy still, and listen to the trill of wind chimes and birds outside the window.
It’s usually a rude bustle of garbage trucks and car horns that wakes me in Queens, and I don’t mind that. I like the city’s sense of purpose, its drive and movement. Down there, I get out of bed early and hit the ground running, like everyone else.
Up here in the woods, though, everything feels slower. Grander. Like the trees that stand guard outside this house, tall and silent, or the wind that moves gravely through them.
Last night, I walked with Beth among those trees and felt their dark pressure bearing down on me. On us.
After we said good night I went to bed with the window open, hoping the cold air would freeze the heat out of me. But when I closed my eyes, I still saw the rise of her breasts. I remembered the scent of her shampoo and thought of brushing my mouth over her throat, her lips.
I felt a tremor move through Beth last night, in that moment before Alice pulled us apart. I felt it spark into the palms of my hands and rumble through me. I had a glimpse then of what it would be like to be naked with her, stripped bare. To take away all pretense of politeness and to just, finally, fuck her.
I laid here, hard and aching, and tried to relieve the pain of wanting her. I thought of the way she’d touch me, the words she would say. I wanted her voice in my ear, her full, throaty voice, telling me what to do to her. When I came, sweating and breathless, I turned my face into the pillow and prayed she couldn’t hear me.
I can only hope it will be easier now that the light of day is on us. Last night’s dark mist felt like another world—like a place where no one existed besides us. And that is dangerous thinking. Beth is not a fantasy I can project all my needs onto. She is a real, whole person, and so am I. Even in my imagination, I can’t act like getting involved with her wouldn’t have consequences.
But I wasn’t thinking about that possibility last night, and that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking at all. I was feeling, and wanting, and it was raw and scary as hell.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to face her now and act as though that hasn’t happened inside my head. It seems like a bullshit way to be—making small talk with her over coffee as though this weren’t there.
Especially now that I’m pretty sure it isn’t one-sided. When I held her last night, I felt the way the air changed. There is something happening between us, and there’s no pretending anymore that there isn’t.
I don’t know what to do about that.
But I can’t lie in bed forever wondering about it. Eventually I have to get up and face her. I push the blankets aside and head to the bathroom to wash up. Then I pull on a gray hoodie and go in search of coffee.
She’s there at the kitchen table in her soft pajamas, looking pink and rested. I force a tight smile.
“Hey.”
Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing glasses, drinking from a ceramic cup, a book in front of her.
“Hey, Rocky.” She smiles at me, relaxed, a mix of amusement and appreciation in her eyes. “There’s coffee in the pot for you.”
“Rocky?” I reach for a mug in the cabinet.
She gestures toward my gray sweats. “It’s the crucifix necklace that really ties it all together. Do you start every morning in Queens running up and down a set of steps while motivation
al music plays?”
I chuckle despite myself. “Rocky was set in Philadelphia.”
“Seriously?” She frowns.
I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Yep.”
“Well, you’re cute as shit anyway.”
I almost choke on a sip, but I manage to recover. “Thank you?”
She laughs. “Sorry. Is that too personal?”
I don’t know what to say. I sit down across from her and hold the hot cup between my hands.
Beth watches me for what feels like a long time. She leans back and crisscrosses her legs on the chair, a move that emphasizes her belly. I am appalled at myself for finding that hot.
“Listen, Tony.”
I’m not sure I like the tone of her voice. It’s the voice of a woman who wants to have a serious talk. And at this point, that could mean any number of things.
It could be that she heard me last night. Or even if she didn’t, that she’s getting creeped out by whatever it is that’s going on here. It could be that it’s time to think about packing my bag and heading back to the city.
I’m not ready to do that. I don’t want to do that. But I know that whatever she asks of me now, I will do it. The last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable about staying here.
I eye her warily, and she holds my gaze. “I’m thinking we should talk.”
“Sure.” I have no idea what is coming. I only know that sitting here with her, both in our pajamas—even with the threat of God knows what conversation hanging over us—feels oddly right. She’s not wearing any makeup, and she hasn’t showered yet today. She looks gorgeous, and what I really want is to tell her so.
But what I need to do is wait, and listen.
“I just want you to know…” She unfolds her legs and puts her feet on the ground. And leans forward, both hands flat on the table.
I put my coffee down. “Yes?”
“I’d really like to fuck you.”
Wait…The whole room swings out from underneath me and starts spinning. “What?”
She laughs softly. “Too personal again?”
I just look at her.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she goes on. “Or do anything. For one thing, I’m a bundle of raw pregnancy nerves at the moment, and horny as hell, and that’s just a fact. But for another thing…I mean, look at you. Those arms of yours, Jesus Christ. Any woman with a pulse would want to have sex with you. I’m not kidding.”
“Beth—”
“No, listen. Let me finish. I want to put this out there. Because last night was…it was tense, okay? I don’t want you to have to deal with all that will-we-or-won’t-we bullshit. And I don’t want to deal with it, either. We’re two grown adults. I don’t know if you feel it, too, or if it’s just me, but—”
I manage to find my voice. “It’s not just you.”
She smiles at that. “Yeah?”
“Um. Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. I still got it, I guess, even with all this.” She gestures at her round belly.
It’s very hard to breathe at the moment, but I nod, slowly. “You still have it.”
She stops and looks at me, and her gaze is hot and direct now. And if I thought I knew what it meant to want her before, I was very, very wrong.
She holds up both hands. “It’s not a good idea, though, I know that.”
I shake my head slowly, in a daze. “No.”
“No,” she says. But her breathing deepens, her chest rising and falling.
I let my eyes move over her—openly, for the first time. And God, she is beautiful. Luscious and confident, a woman firmly rooted in her body.
She is doing right now what I didn’t have the balls to do, which is address the situation head-on and defuse it. After this, we will decide to be friends and move past whatever magic charm was on us. But for this one moment, I can let her know how much I want her.
I look at her hands, her arms. Her shoulders, her throat, her breasts. Her lips.
She shudders gently, as though I were touching her.
“Christ, Tony.”
I breathe in brokenly. “Yeah.”
“But it would be a bad idea,” she says again, “for about a thousand reasons.”
I nod. “Right.” Maybe if I weren’t fresh off a divorce, or if she weren’t on the verge of a major life change, we could make it work. Or maybe if my brother and her best friend weren’t involved. But there are too many complications. Far too many.
I wish I could tell that to my body, which is screaming right now. Screaming for me to drag her across the table and take her mouth with mine.
I blow out a ragged breath and she smiles, slyly. “Maybe if you just put it in a little?”
A laugh wrenches out of me then, from the gut. A deep, hard laugh. I press a fist against my forehead, and Beth grins.
And just like that, the tension is gone. Replaced with something like connection. A tenuous thread, linking us together.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “For putting it out on the table.”
She smiles at me warmly. “Maybe you don’t want to be talking about me putting out right now.”
I laugh. “Maybe not.”
“But for the record,” she says, “you are kind of ridiculously hot, okay? I want you to know that.”
I breathe in, deeply, and hold the breath. She can’t possibly know what it means to me to hear that. After so many years of Alexa’s indifference. I know I’m not bad-looking. I know I’m a decent guy. But when your wife doesn’t want you, how can that not crumble your confidence?
When I exhale, it comes out shaky, and Beth’s face immediately shifts into concern.
“Tony?”
“It’s okay. It’s just…thank you.”
She eyes me questioningly but doesn’t say anything.
“I want you to know…” I clear my throat and start again. “I want you to know that for me, it was from the first moment I met you. I—”
Beth nods. “Me too.”
“Yeah?” My heart trips, and I struggle to set it right again. “That’s…that’s reassuring, actually. I thought I was going crazy.”
“No,” she says softly. “You weren’t.”
I blow out a long breath. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she says.
“I can set it aside, Beth. We can be…we can be friends. All right?”
“All right. Yes. That’s what we’ll do.” She tips back her coffee cup and, finding it empty, reaches for mine and takes a sip. Then she exhales, long and slow. “I’m gonna go take a cold shower now.”
I laugh and shut my eyes. “Don’t talk about yourself in the shower, please.”
“Right.” She nods. “Good point.” She stands and heads for the hallway. “See you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “See you.” When she leaves the room, I slump down on the table, head in my hands.
Chapter 8
Beth
The local news station shows amateur photographs of tree limbs down in Poughkeepsie, and footage of people huddled outside their doors in blankets, complaining about the cold. The electric company says it’s restored power at the college campuses in town and is working on fixing the wires in the rest of the city. “Residents can expect their power back on in the next twenty-four hours,” the reporter says, white teeth smiling.
Tony eyes me from across the room.
“Can you stand having me here another day?” I ask from the couch.
“Of course,” he says.
I’m wearing a black cotton dress, sleeveless and soft, and my feet are bare. Tony lets his gaze linger over my toes and then up my body to my belly, my chest, and my face. It’s fascinating to watch him let himself show it—that he likes what he’s seeing. That he wants something.
I thought it would be easier once we talked about it, and maybe for him it is. He seems less pent-up than he did before, more relaxed. More himself.
Which would be great, if a slightly more relaxed Tony weren’t even sexier
than a totally repressed Tony. His body is looser now, more fluid, and all I can think about is how much looser I could make him. How desperate and open.
We’ve made an agreement, though, and I intend to honor it.
“Why don’t you go clean up and I’ll make breakfast?” I say. “I owe you a meal.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “And when you come out, try to look a little less gorgeous, okay? I’m trying my best over here, but you’re making it difficult.”
He grins at that, and it’s sweet as hell.
“Sure thing, friend.”
—
When he comes out, eggs are sizzling on the stove, along with some sausage I found in the freezer. I’m mixing yogurt and frozen blueberries in a blender to go with it, because suddenly I’m starving.
“Are you working today?” he asks, and starts setting the table.
I shake my head. “It’s my day off.”
“That’s good. I mean, it’s lucky.”
“Except that now I’m gonna be up in your grill all day.” I hand him a smoothie in a tall glass. “But I could go out to the movies or something. I don’t need to stay.”
“Don’t be silly,” he says. “This is delicious, by the way. Thank you.”
“No problem. It’s fun to cook for someone.” And it is, actually, although I usually shy away from it. Men get certain archaic ideas once you start making food for them, and I don’t want to mislead them. Anyway, I’ve never been a big fan of the kitchen. But Tony and I are friends now, or at least I’d like us to be. And a plate of eggs between friends is not a big deal, especially when Tony’s already cooked me dinner.
I sit down and poke a fork into my yolk to break it. “You and your ex-wife,” I ask, “when did you separate?”
Tony builds a sandwich with his eggs, sausage, and toast and eyes it thoughtfully.
“About a year and a half ago. But we didn’t sign the divorce papers until last spring.”
“That’s a long time.”
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