Love to Believe: Fireflies ~ Book 2

by Lisa Ricard Claro

  “Are you a man?”

  “Last I checked.”

  She nodded. “Then you did something. Flowers. Chocolate. Jewelry.” She ticked the items off with her fingers. “Those are the old standbys.”

  “She’s not an old standby kind of lady. If I ever mess things up with her, I’ll have to come up with a bigger peace offering than that.”

  “You might consider giving her your heart, Mr. Kinkaid. Try it once. You might just like the way it feels.” Her dry tone made him grin.

  “You’re a funny lady, Mrs. M.”

  He missed her parting shot because his cell phone buzzed. When Rebecca’s name came up on the screen he snatched the phone from his desk. “Hey. Busy day?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I just—um, I’m just returning your call.”

  Sean hesitated. Something was off. He heard it in her tone and cadence. “Change of plans, and I’m free tonight. You?”

  And there it was. The pause that lasted just a moment too long before she cleared her throat and said, “Uh. N—no. Not tonight. Sorry. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”

  “You had that doctor appointment this morning. Bronchitis better?”

  “What? Yes. No. I mean, yes, it’s better, but not gone, so she prescribed a stronger round of antibiotics, but it’s no big deal. I feel fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sean.” She disconnected the call before he had a chance to respond.

  Sean tossed the phone on his desk and leaned back in his chair, swiveled around to face the window, and watched a pedestrian stop to adjust her bulky scarf against the chill, noted the light at the corner must be red because traffic had stopped. The pastor of the Methodist church stood on the opposite corner chatting it up with the pastor of the Baptist church—what were their names again?—and the light turned green, because traffic flowed now. The activity equaled visual white noise. It registered in Sean’s mind but made no impact.

  What the hell was wrong with Rebecca? She sounded like she had a cold, but if that were the case or her bronchitis had worsened, wouldn’t she just say that? And if she were crying—well, hell. Maybe Mrs. M was right and he had fucked something up.

  His eye caught the photo of him and his siblings, and he stared at his brother’s smiling face. “What do you think, Jack? Did I screw up?”

  No. Rebecca wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she didn’t play games. If he’d done something to piss her off, Miss Freaking Awesome would say so in plain English. That left something being wrong, something that probably had nothing to do with him. Whatever. He’d head over to her place after work, see if he could cheer her up.

  He swiveled his chair back to his desk and got to work.

  ***

  The cornflakes Rebecca poured into a bowl for her dinner had absorbed the milk while she poked at the food with a spoon and stared out the window into her back yard through eyes reddened from tears. In time, the cereal took on the characteristics of unappetizing gruel. She dumped the whole of it down the sink to the whir of the garbage disposal.

  She wasn’t hungry, anyway.

  She glanced at her phone lying on the counter and considered calling Sean—no, not Sean. Maddie or Brenna, maybe even Caleb. Anyone, so she wouldn’t have to sit here and mourn the loss of her beloved Mr. Peabody alone. But, after a moment’s consideration, she left the phone where it lay and instead curled up on the couch with a box of tissues beside her.

  Man up. To everyone but you he was just a cat.

  The harsh thought brought more tears welling, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the onslaught.

  She sat up at the sound of knuckles rapping against the front door. Probably Vern looking for tutoring with his econ homework again, she thought, but then a key scraped in the lock.

  Sean. She jumped from the couch and lunged for the door, opening it before he had a chance to let himself in.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too. I came to see what’s going on with you.” Sean stepped inside without waiting for an invite.

  Rebecca stood holding the door open and drew a shaky breath. “I’m not up for a quickie tonight. I said I’d call you tomorrow.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not here for sex. It was obvious over the phone that you’re upset. I’d like to help if I can.”

  “You can’t.” She shook her head and blinked, but the tears welled and tumbled anyway.

  Sean’s eyes widened and he drew her into his arms. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  His voice mirrored his touch, warm and gentle, and, with the gift of both, Rebecca dissolved anew into gut-wrenching weeping. Sean rubbed her back while she sobbed into his shoulder.

  At some point, he maneuvered them to the couch and settled her onto his lap to hold her closer still, all the while remaining silent while she soaked the soft fabric of his shirt with her tears. When at last her crying ebbed and her shaking sobs had reduced to shuddering hiccups and sighs, he murmured, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Sniffling, Rebecca drew back. “Mr. Peabody was hit by a car.” Her eyes welled again. “I had to put him down.”

  Sean’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “Were you by yourself?” At her nod, he said, “Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

  Rebecca scooted off Sean’s lap and grabbed a tissue to wipe her nose. “You were at work and it wasn’t your problem.”

  “Rebecca—”

  She shook her head. “I had no right to bother you. We’re not—you’re not my boyfriend, you’re just the guy I’m sleeping with. This kind of stuff isn’t part of the arrangement.” She went into the kitchen to throw away the tissue and stopped to open the fridge. “I’m having a glass of wine. Do you want one?” She grabbed a bottle of pinot grigio, shut the door, and gasped when she turned around to find Sean standing within inches of her, glowering.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Rebecca sucked in a surprised breath. She’d never seen him mad before and was pretty sure she didn’t like it, though even with his eyebrows forming an angry vee over storming eyes too blue to be true, he set her heart to beating triple time.

  God, I’m pathetic.

  She found her voice and rasped, “I just meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant, and it’s insulting. Our arrangement doesn’t preclude us from being friends. We are friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, of course. Cool your jets. Geez. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just…” She looked away and hunted for the right words before meeting his eyes again. “It isn’t always easy to know the boundaries with you. I’m afraid of overstepping and screwing things up. And, anyway, I didn’t call anybody. I left work the second I got the call, and there was no reason to drag someone else away from their responsibilities too.”

  “You don’t have to stand alone to prove you’re strong and capable. You don’t always have to cope with everything alone.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh, yeah? When was the last time you asked your brother for help with something at work? Like last week when you had to inspect a job site near Chatuge and still be back here in time to make the zoning hearing? You get a flat tire and you’ll turn your schedule into a pretzel to take care of it yourself rather than ask for help. God forbid you should call someone for a ride, or for help changing the damn tire. Your father has no clue that you’re doing the job of three or four people because you refuse to ask for help. I understand your desire to be self-sufficient and prove that you’re capable, but there isn’t any shame in asking for assistance. The people who care about you would be happy to step up. I’d be happy to step up. I want to be here for you, but you have to let me.”

  “Fine. You can ruin your two-thousand-dollar suit to change my tire next time. And there’s a week’s worth of dirty laundry down the hall if you’re so eager to take something off my plate.”

  “Now you’re just being a smart ass.” He took the wine from her hands and
set it on the counter while he rummaged in the utensil drawer for a corkscrew.

  She removed two wineglasses from the cabinet and set them next to the bottle with a ting of glass against glass. “If chewing me out is your way of trying to make me feel better, I think you should go home.”

  Sean removed the cork and filled both glasses, chose one for himself, and handed her the other. “I’m not chewing you out. Much. And I’m sincerely sorry about Mr. Peabody. This has to rank as one of your worst days ever.”

  “It does.”

  “Just…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration shimmering. “Look, Rebecca, I care about you. You didn’t have to be alone today, that’s all. If you need me, call me.”

  Rebecca’s heart opened wide. She nodded and cleared her throat, her voice hoarse when she pushed the words out. “You never should have said that. I plan to be high maintenance now, calling for help at all hours of the day and night just to prove you’re wrong about me.”

  “I’m not worried. Hey, are you hungry? Let’s order Caravicci’s and find something on TV. A couple hours from now, when I’m sure you’ve consumed plenty of wine and enough carbs to put you into a stupor until morning, I’ll go home.”

  Sean surprised her by ordering a hand-tossed Dante’s Inferno, a spicy Italian sausage pizza that included toppings of jalapeño and serrano peppers, which delighted Rebecca because it was her favorite offering from Caravicci’s. She ordered it on rare occasions because, until now, she knew of no one else who could handle the heat. They had dessert as well, because Sean never met a sweet treat he didn’t like, and he took charge of ordering—Italian crème cake that Rebecca swore melted in her mouth even as she complained about the calories.

  “Big deal. We’ll work it off this weekend.”

  “No we won’t. We’re going to Amelia Island for the wedding, remember? No gym time for you, mister.”

  Sean wriggled his brows and ogled her, Groucho Marx style. “Who’s talking about the gym?”

  Rebecca laughed and ruffled his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

  He fed her the last bite of cake. “Wait till I show up on the beach in my purple Speedo.”

  “You do not have a purple Speedo.”

  Sean’s lips twitched. “I guess you’ll find out.”

  “You’ll be swimming alone, Chocolate Man. It’ll be too cold for me this time of year.”

  “You’re such a negative thinker. We can’t go to the coast and ignore the beach.”

  “I’ll walk on the beach all you want, but you’re not getting me into a bathing suit.”

  “I don’t want you in a bathing suit.” He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth and left the couch to bring their plates to the sink, talking over his shoulder. “I want you out of one.”

  They cuddled up to watch television, argued over whether to watch crime shows or comedies, and settled on the old movie channel where Bogie and Bacall held their attention for the remainder of the evening.

  Around eleven o’clock, Sean shooed her off the couch to get ready for bed while he cleaned up the kitchen, and then he joined her in the bedroom, tucked her in, and, fully clothed except for his shoes, lay in the bed with her and snuggled her close.

  “Thanks for coming over,” she said, her voice low in the dark and raspy from hours of weeping. “You were really great tonight.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” He laughed when she pinched him.

  “Sean, I—”

  “Shh. Close your eyes.”

  “But—”

  “Shh.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and settled her head against his chest.

  Wrapped in Sean’s warmth and relaxed by the rhythmic beat of his heart against her cheek, Rebecca closed her eyes and dropped into an untroubled sleep. She woke before dawn and reached for him in the dark, disappointed to find him gone. The bed held no warmth without him, so she snuggled farther into the covers and inhaled long and deep to capture the last vestiges of his spicy scent. With that subtle aromatic trigger permeating her awareness with a sense of comfort, she sighed and fell back into a contented sleep.

  Chapter 8

  “Oh, my god, Sean. Frank Sinatra? Are you serious? How old are you?”

  Sean increased the car stereo’s volume and joined his own rich baritone with Frank’s. With the top closed on the ’68 Shelby in deference to the winter cold, he and Old Blue Eyes crooned about sly come-hither stares and witchcraft while they roared down the highway leading them south toward Florida and the wedding. Rebecca covered her face with her hands and laughed.

  “Hey, what’s so funny? I can carry a tune.” Sean glanced her way but his eyes were obscured by sunglasses.

  “I like the Rat Pack as much as anyone, but I’m not listening to this the whole way. I get to pick the next round of songs.”

  “My car, my rules, my music.”

  “If you want to get laid this weekend, and I mean at all, you’ll switch to something more current.”

  Sean dropped his head to meet her eyes over the top of his sunglasses for a quick second before returning his attention to the road. “You drive a hard bargain, Xena.”

  Rebecca grinned. “I’ll listen to one more crooner, but then I get to pick.”

  “Okay. But no rap, and none of that weird alternative shit Brenna listens to sometimes.”

  “I like Country.” Her laughter filled the interior of the car when his jaw dropped in immediate protest of her pronouncement. “Carrie Underwood Country, not old timey Country.”

  In the end, they bounced from genre to genre for the entire seven hour ride, singing along to everything from ’40s classics through Country and current Pop and Rock and Roll, leaving no musical decade unexplored. It turned out they had more in common than they thought.

  The weather warmed up as they traveled southeast toward the coast, and by the time Rebecca admired the first of countless oak trees draped in Spanish moss, Sean had opened the car’s top so they could take advantage of the beaming sun and near-sixty-degree temperature.

  “GPS says we’re about thirty minutes out,” he said.

  She nodded. “Have you been to Amelia Island before?”

  “I have, but just in passing on my way to Jacksonville.”

  “I used to come to the resort with Andrea during our spring breaks. It’s very inclusive. They have a full service spa, tennis courts, two pools, and horseback riding on the beach. Really nice. They’ve made it so spectacular you don’t ever have to leave.”

  “Andrea—that’s the woman who’s getting married, right?”

  “Yes. And her husband-to-be is named Josh, but I’ve never met him.”

  “So you took spring break here. Stole booze and food from the hotel restaurants and bar, I’m betting, and stayed out past curfew.”

  “Hey, we were in college. And anyway, over spring break the hotel does a big bonfire down at the beach every night—or at least they used to. It was private, so only people staying at the hotel could attend. It was a great party, but safe and contained, you know? Plus, we always had Andrea’s two brothers hanging around us like Secret Service. We used to duck into an empty event room and hide from them. Each meeting room had these huge lecterns, and Andrea and I used to squeeze in behind them. After the first time her brothers caught us, we couldn’t get away with that anymore. They made sure we didn’t get away with much.”

  Sean threw her a look. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Okay, well, nothing I’ll admit to, then.” She grinned and laid her head back against the seat, enjoyed the sun beaming on her skin and the fresh air blowing her ponytail across her face. “I know it isn’t that warm, but this feels like a heat wave compared to Bright Hills.”

  “It’s the sun, and it’s more humid down here.”

  “Does that mean I’ll get to see you in that purple Speedo?”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  They drove down the main drag, a beachy tourist strip of seafood restaurants, bars, T-shirt shops, by-the-week rent
als, and high-rise beachfront condos. Antsy to arrive at their destination, Rebecca drummed on her thighs with her hands and watched for the entrance to Dreams by the Sea Hotel and Resort. It looked as she remembered, lined on each side of the road with rolling flowerbeds overflowing with seasonal color. She thought the blanket of purple and white might be pansies or petunias, but they all looked the same to her so she gave up trying to figure out what was what and just enjoyed the beauty of it.

  Excitement and apprehension bubbled inside her at the prospect of seeing Andrea and other college friends who might be in attendance. It had been years, and beyond Christmas cards and superficial online exchanges, the occasional wedding or baby shower, she had not kept in touch with most, Andrea being the exception. Rebecca was the last marriage holdout, something that had never bothered her until now. There would be questions about Sean, and a lot of them.

  “How do I explain you?” Crap. Did I really just say that out loud?

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they’re going to assume that—you know, we’re not really—but they’re going to think we—I just—” She swallowed hard and stared straight ahead now, feeling like an idiot.

  Sean parked under the hotel portico and cut the engine. He removed his sunglasses—Serengetis, Rebecca thought, and damn, the man wore them well—and met her gaze with an expression steeped in amusement.

  “How about the truth?” he said.

  She raised her brows. “Our arrangement isn’t anybody’s business, Sean.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Why do women overthink everything? You don’t have to say a word about the arrangement. We’re seeing each other. Plead the Fifth to anything else. They’ll see us together and draw their own conclusions.”

  He was right, of course. She didn’t have to admit to anything she didn’t want to. Except to Andrea. Five private seconds with Andrea and they’d both be spilling their guts about every corner of their lives. Most women, the lucky ones, had a friend like that, where time and distance disappeared the instant they were together. Andrea was hers.

  Sean lifted the suitcases from the trunk and handed the uniformed valet the keys to the Mustang, but he didn’t look happy about someone else getting behind the wheel of his car.