She met his gaze. Emotions swirled in his eyes as a muscle worked in his jaw. The admission had come with a price, and it wasn’t cheap.
“Why?” she asked. It seemed he’d opened the door a crack and maybe she could get him to swing it wider.
He looked down for several moments, then said, “I don’t want to eat alone. Again. Every night you leave something to nuke or feed me before you go. I can’t remember the last time I had dinner with a beautiful woman.”
He thought she was beautiful? “Now I know you’re not serious.”
“You’d be wrong. And it’s about time you took the night off from cooking.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re going to do the honors?”
“Sure.” One dark eyebrow rose in challenge.
She put her hands on her hips and stared down at him. “You don’t have two good legs to stand on.”
“One is a hundred percent, and I’ve progressed to needing only a single crutch for the other. But me cooking is not what I had in mind. There’s an Italian place close by that delivers. Let me show my appreciation. It’s the least I can do to thank you for—everything.”
He thought she was beautiful? She couldn’t seem to get her brain to record over those words. Her insides went all warm and gooey, like sweet, melted chocolate. Blow in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere, she thought. Danger, Megan Brightwell. The message came through loud and clear. She should say thanks, but no thanks.
“Simon, you don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
“Okay. But in a few minutes it won’t be. How often do you get pampered? Let me take you out to dinner—so to speak.” He smiled, a devastating flash of white teeth that was too appealing for words and had her heart doing the happy dance.
And he was finally reaching out.
Damn. Why did she have to think about that?
For the first time, he was telling her how he felt and what he needed. It was another sign that he was opening up. Maybe he was ready. Maybe it was time she helped him begin to deal with the tragedy of losing his son so he could move forward with his life. How could she walk away now? It’s what she’d been waiting and hoping for.
She looked at him. “It’s an offer I’m finding very hard to refuse.”
“Good, then—”
She held up her hand. “I haven’t officially accepted. Ground rules first.”
He folded his arms over his broad chest. “And they are?”
“Actually it’s only one,” she said, swallowing hard. If she’d ever seen a more masculine sight than Simon Reynolds, all shoulders and bulging biceps, she couldn’t recall. “No more kissing. If you do, I’ll have to quit before the assignment ends.”
“We’ve been over this before. So, okay,” he agreed with a casual shrug of those terrific shoulders.
That was too easy. There was a loophole somewhere that she just wasn’t seeing, but that didn’t really matter. She was going to stay. She had to. What if he never reached out again?
“Thank you, Simon. I’d love to have dinner with you.”
Two hours later, Megan was glad she’d stayed. Simon had phoned Marchetti’s, the Italian restaurant he’d told her about, and ordered the Takeout for Two special. He’d had the strangest expression on his face when suggesting angel-hair pasta with herbs and sun-dried tomatoes along with a lovely Caesar salad. She’d had no objection. The package included a bottle of the house wine—a wonderful cabernet-merlot combination that was nearly as smooth as Simon’s voice when he’d said she was beautiful—in that roundabout way.
In addition to plastic utensils, sturdy paper plates and disposable place mats, the distinctive takeout included complimentary plastic wineglasses with everything featuring Marchetti’s logo. The crowning touch was two red candles and holders that the delivery guy, acting as a waiter, had lit after arranging everything on the dining room table.
He’d turned out the kitchen lights, lit the gas log in the fireplace, then dimmed the chandelier above the table, setting the mood he assumed a man ordering Takeout for Two would want. Any second she expected the complimentary violinist to stroll in and start playing. After payment that included a generous tip from Simon, Marchetti’s best departed with a wide smile and a reminder to keep them in mind for their next romantic occasion.
Yeah, like that was going to happen. But it didn’t mean Megan couldn’t enjoy the moment. Bayleigh was safe and happy with her grandparents. So Megan was off the clock, personally and professionally.
Simon sat across from her at the table with his leg propped up on the chair beside him. His single crutch rested nearby.
He held up his wine. “Here’s to—”
“A carefree dinner,” she finished.
“Whatever you say.” He sipped, then set down his wine, trading it for his fork.
She drank and the liquid slid down her throat easily. Before she knew it, her glass was empty. She watched Simon pick up the bottle and refill it. Candlelight flickered over the angles of his face, giving him a brooding, mysterious look that worked for her way too well. She was warm inside and out and was pretty sure it was the man not the wine. The depth of feeling she experienced for the amount of time she’d known him scared her. But there wasn’t a problem as long as she kept everything under control.
“This is lovely, Simon. Thank you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” There was an intense expression in his eyes as he looked at her. Five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw gave him a dangerously sexy air. “I wonder if Bayleigh knows how lucky she is.”
“Of course she does. Right now she’s stuffed full of nuggets, fries and whatever else her heart desires.”
“That’s not what I meant. Every night she has you across the table from her.”
The words coated her bruised soul like honey and lemon soothing a raw throat. Simon wasn’t the only one living in isolation. How long had it been since she’d had dinner alone with a handsome man? A sexy man? A man who tempted her with a single look? She couldn’t remember. She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter— Bayleigh was all the family she needed.
But at a moment like this, Megan couldn’t deny she was lonely. Because she was a woman with a child, her dating pool was dry. Either men shied away from the added responsibility and complication or they were lousy father material.
Always the thought was there that her daughter deserved more. A complete, two-parent home like she’d had was her dream for Bay. A dad who would love her. But the prospects of that actually happening weren’t looking too good.
What did look good was Simon opening up. Megan took it as a very positive sign that he’d brought up Bayleigh.
“So tell me about her father.” His gaze rested on her face, and he seemed to be studying her.
Megan nearly choked on her pasta. “I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“It would spoil my appetite or interfere with my digestion. Or both.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “How did you meet him?”
She considered not answering, but she’d learned one thing about Simon: when he wanted something, he didn’t let it drop.
“He’s a drug rep for a pharmaceutical company. The hospital where I was doing my clinical training was his territory. We met in the cafeteria.”
“How long did you go out with him?”
“Until he disappeared.”
His eyes hardened. “Did your parents like him?”
“You mean did they have any idea he was a spineless weasel?”
“Yeah.” He twirled a forkful of pasta and put it in his mouth.
“They were okay with him right up until I found out I was pregnant and he didn’t propose marriage.”
“Why didn’t he?”
She shrugged as she chewed her salad. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to answer the question; an engineer like Simon wouldn’t have too much trouble figuring it out. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“
You’re a guy, Simon. What do you think?”
“I think I want you to tell me. He didn’t ask you to marry him. But he didn’t walk out on you then.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you said he walked out when you needed him most. I assumed that was when you told him you were pregnant. But after what you said the other day it was clear he hung in. At first.”
She met his gaze across the candlelit table. Simon was asking why she hadn’t married her daughter’s father. What he really wanted to know was what happened to make him walk out. It was the only thing she couldn’t reveal.
“He didn’t love me. Or his child. There. I said it. Are you happy now?”
“No. A man doesn’t walk out on his child. Clearly, he’s pond scum.”
She nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. Now can we change the subject? How about those Lakers? Lovely weather we’re having. Do you think the Democrats will win back the White House?”
“Does she ever ask about him?”
“Who?” Megan knew good and well who. But what had happened to getting him to open up? He’d gone on the offensive like a wide receiver with a Hail Mary pass and she couldn’t seem to strip the ball out of his hands. This was supposed to be all about him sharing with her. She was losing her grip on the situation.
“Come on, Megan. You know who. Does Bayleigh ever ask about her father? Why she doesn’t see him?”
“That’s not something I want to talk about.”
“You know when two people are friends—”
“Is that what we are?” she asked.
“I like to think so. I respect you and your profession. You boss me around.” He shrugged. “It works. A match made in heaven. But there’s a definite lack of cooperation on your part—in the information-sharing department.”
“Just because we’ve spent a lot of time together, doesn’t mean I have to tell you the personal details of my life.”
“I’m not asking about personal stuff. I was wondering about Bayleigh.”
“She is personal. And doing just fine, thank you for asking.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her as a muscle worked in his jaw. “That’s it?”
“I don’t owe you anything, Simon.”
“Maybe not. But you pried information out of me like a dentist working on an impacted wisdom tooth.”
She laughed. “You call what you told me information? Three—no three and a half details.” She held up the appropriate number of fingers. “You’re divorced. Because you’re a workaholic. And you don’t have a job.”
“What’s the half?”
“You sold your company—that not having a job thing is sort of a by-product.” As she’d ticked off everything he’d told her, one by one she’d curled her fingers into a fist. “A lot of men are divorced workaholics, but they don’t sell the company. They don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater. What’s your story?”
“I don’t have one. Like you, everything’s fine.”
“Liar. Something’s eating at you. Three trips to the ER in less than two years because of your dangerous hobbies? The things you said the night they brought you in gave me the impression you were almost sorry about surviving. You’ve quit more than your job, Simon. Most people don’t give up that easily. Most people try to hang on to their company. Most people—”
He stood up so fast, his chair scooted back and tilted, almost toppling against the wall. “What the hell do you know about it? I’m not like most people.”
“Why?” she asked, standing, too.
His eyes were blazing. He slapped his palms on the table as he leaned forward and glared. “Most men don’t lose their ex-wife and son in a car accident.”
Megan blinked. She felt like the defense attorney who’d just hammered away at the prosecution’s star witness and come up with the piece of information necessary to clear her client. She could hardly believe she’d gotten what she’d wanted. “What did you say?”
Without his crutch, he limped into the living room and sank down onto the couch. He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, then rubbed a hand across his neck.
She sat down beside him, so close that their thighs brushed. She put her hand on his forearm and felt the warm skin. “Simon?”
He glanced at her, then away and out the window. “They died, Megan. Both of them.”
“I see.”
He laughed, and there was anything but humor in the sound. It was tinged with bitter self-loathing. “You don’t see anything.”
“Were you driving?” she asked. Her stomach dropped to her toes at the idea.
He shook his head. “Marcus was supposed to be with me that weekend. Donna and I shared joint custody after the divorce. We worked out a schedule. You know how it is. Every other holiday, every other summer, every other weekend. It was my every other.”
“What happened?” she asked, willing him to get it all out. So afraid he would shut her out before he did.
“I had a business trip overseas.” He glanced at her, his eyes brimming with deep, profound pain. “Marcus was upset because I’d promised to take him to a hockey game that weekend. I told him there would be other games—” He stopped when his voice caught. His shoulders hunched as he hung his head. “I never saw him alive again. He was gone before I could get back.”
She squeezed his arm. “And you’re playing ‘what if.’ It’s a game you can’t win, Simon.”
“No?” When he met her gaze, his look held harsh irony. “If I’d taken him like I should have, he would be alive. If business hadn’t come first. If he’d been with me as arranged. If he hadn’t been with his mom. If we’d gone to the game, he would still be here.”
And if Marcus hadn’t died, Bayleigh might not be able to see. To learn to write her name in kindergarten. To pick out her favorite purple dress and the matching lavender top. Oh, God, this was breaking her heart.
She took his big hand between both of hers. “Listen to me, Simon. Please.” There was no reaction. “Can you hear me?” His only response was a nod. “Stop it right now. If you keep doing this you’ll go crazy. No one knows why these things happen. Fate. Karma. Destiny. Did you know Donna was going to have a fatal accident?”
“No.” The word was harsh, grating, like gravel on concrete.
“If you had known, would you have gone on that business trip? If you’d known keeping Marcus with you as arranged would save his life, would you have canceled your travel plans?”
“In a heartbeat,” he breathed.
“Wouldn’t life be simple if we could see the future? If I’d known my daughter’s father would bail on me, would I have gone out with him in the first place? Of course not.”
“But you said something positive came out of it. He gave you your daughter. My son is gone. There’s nothing good about that.”
She could help him make sense of the loss if he would let her. But he wasn’t ready to hear it yet.
Megan willed herself to patience as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “We can’t know the future, Simon. All we can do is put one foot in front of the other day after day. We do the best we can, make the best decisions we’re capable of making with the information we’ve got. You loved him. His mother loved him. You had no reason to believe your son wouldn’t be safe with her.”
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I miss him so much it hurts.” His tone was tortured.
Megan ached for him and played her own game of “if only.” If only there was a surgical procedure, an injection, some medical therapy that would take away his pain. But all he had was her. She’d pushed until he’d let her in, and she prayed now for the words to keep him from closing up again. She’d never felt more inadequate in her life.
“Simon, listen to me. I won’t say that I have any idea what you’re feeling. I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like to lose my child. And I don’t know what I would do in your shoes—”
He looked at her then, his ey
es blazing as hot as the flames crackling in the fireplace. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I swear I’ll go in-line skating on crutches.”
“Even if I’d been planning to say it, wild horses couldn’t drag the words out of me now.” She didn’t know where she found the courage to go on, but she did because the words had to be said. “Simon, I want you to want to live again—”
Her voice broke. The lump lodged in her throat made it impossible to speak. Tears burned her eyes.
He’d opened his wound to let the toxin out. But there was still one more agonizing fact left. One more detail to reveal so he could move forward. It would be the last step in healing. She had to tell him his son’s loss wasn’t meaningless, that he’d helped her daughter. She had to thank him for his gift. Her gut was telling her now wasn’t the time. But soon. And how would he take it? Would he close up again and go where no one could reach him?
He looked at her, and she made the mistake of looking back. The bottomless, gut-wrenching pain and loss in his gaze pierced her heart. Moisture gathered in her eyes, making his image waver in front of her. She felt a big fat tear spill over and slide down her cheek.
“Megan?” He straightened.
“I—don’t mind me.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded as if she was choking. This was so awful. She started to get up, but he gripped her arm, gently but firmly.
“Look at me.”
Unable to say anything, she shook her head.
He cupped her face in his hands and forced her to meet his gaze while brushing the moisture from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t cry. Please. Not about me.”
His gaze swept over her and he leaned in close. Her eyes drifted shut, and she waited to feel his lips. She ached for the touch of his mouth. Her heart pounded as she craved the sensation of a physical connection. She needed the closeness with him.
When it didn’t happen, she opened her eyes. He looked tortured, but every female instinct she possessed told her it had nothing to do with his personal pain and everything to do with passion and desire. He rubbed his thumb across her mouth, then urged her just a fraction closer. And waited. She could feel his warm breath on her face.
Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles Page 12