Loved You Once

by Claudia Burgoa

  “You can’t possibly still be in love with me, Hayes.”

  I run a hand through my hair and ask, “How can you expect me to stop loving you when you are the only person I’ve loved. Every day and every night, I think of you. I still remember our first kiss. Your lips are seared on mine, and the memory of that moment is branded in my heart and my soul. Do you remember how it felt like the world stopped, and everyone disappeared, leaving just the two of us to wander the earth? With every kiss I fell more in love with you.”

  “Stop!”

  Blaire holds her head and closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she stares at me and says, “Why are you telling me all this nonsense? You put an end to our story. Those old feelings are just memories, and there’s no point in reviving them.”

  “They are very much alive. You’re just denying it,” I assure her. “This is the first time I’m being honest since the day we broke up, Blaire. I’m opening my heart to you again. What I said after Carter died was despicable, but hearing that you married him—”

  “Because—”

  “I now know why you did it, but…” I rub the bridge of my nose. “Those days were a blur. I was hurting. I lost my little brother.”

  “You had four other little brothers who you neglected, too,” she says, with an anger I’ve never seen before. “Have you been there for any of them? No. You just walk away from everything and everyone, including those four guys.”

  Her eyes scan my face. “You’re still the same guy who likes to avoid feelings and messy entanglements,” she concludes. “It’s sad, because, when you open yourself up, you’re a great guy.”

  She looks toward the door we’re supposed to enter then at me and says, “I’ll be happy to work for you if you choose to buy this practice. However, I’m not sure if I can be a part of a partnership.”

  “Why?”

  “Partners trust each other, and honestly, I don’t think I know you well enough to say that I can rely on you. We’re different from those kids who fell in love and believed they’d be together forever,” she concludes. “That’s what we are. We’re two strangers.”

  We’re not, but there’s no way I can convince her that she’s wrong, not after everything I did before. I could argue with her and tell her that I’m still me, the same man she fell in love with, but she’s right. We’re not the same people we were back then, but she can’t deny who we are to each other, even now.

  “Yet, it still feels like I’ve known you all my life,” I say, pushing her against the wall, connecting our gazes, allowing me to get lost in her big blue eyes.

  “Hayes,” she whispers, and I feel as if every ounce of air is taken from my lungs. I need to kiss her in order to stay alive. My hand curls around her neck, and I bend, the sizzle between us increasing the moment I bring my lips to hers.

  Softly, I kiss her. It’s a slow injection of desire and love. Blaire’s hands hold onto my biceps, grasping me hard, as if trying not to lose her balance. Her lips are like silk. She tastes like vanilla, butter, and Blaire.

  So much for going slow. In an instant, I lost my mind and all the self-control I gathered during our walk to the office. How can I not kiss her like that, when I fucking missed her so much. I snake one arm around her waist, pulling her tightly to me and caress the nape of her neck with my other hand. I kiss her possessively, fiercely, with all the hunger that has built up during the past twelve years.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks, out of breath.

  We’re panting, our gazes locked. I can feel her heat searing my skin, see her hunger getting out of control, and the lust melting her determination. Knowing that I have an effect on her and that our connection still exists makes it feel like oxygen has returned to my body.

  “I needed to remind you that deep down, it’s still us,” I answer, looking at her sparkly eyes filled with lust. “That my heart beats just for you. That we can’t ignore what’s between us.”

  “There’s nothing between us,” she insists.

  “I thought you only like truths, Blaire,” I say, challenging her.

  “You’re insufferable,” she protests, serving me with an angry look. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

  “We can’t just pretend there’s nothing between us, especially when we’re going to be living together for almost two years.”

  “You go and buy your practice. I’ll check with the contractor,” she says, refusing to acknowledge what’s happening between us. “I can’t be around you right now.”

  Twenty

  Hayes

  My meeting with Dr. Garrison doesn’t last long. He shakes my hand and is out the door after accepting my verbal offer. He told me to have my lawyer send the paperwork to get things rolling. So now, on my way to the big house, I call Pierce.

  “Hey, I’m buying Dr. Garrison’s practice. Can you draft me a contract?”

  “Who is Dr. Garrison, and don’t you have a lawyer?” he asks, a little put off. “I have work to do and shit to figure out before I pack and move. Leyla will only agree to sign the divorce papers if I give her half of what my father left me, today.”

  “We won’t receive anything until his last wish is completed.”

  “Exactly,” he says angrily. “Look, I have money but not that much. She knows it, and she’s just trying to see how not to give me the divorce.”

  I’m tempted to ask what happened between them, but I don’t. Instead, I ask, “Does she know that she has to come here with you?”

  “Yeah, and she’s actually researching the area,” he says frustrated. “She’s fucking packing and making arrangements to move the animals. Even though she hates small towns. I think she’s bluffing.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “You know, I tried to look at the fucking silver lining like my mother told me, when we concluded that there’s no fucking way to work around the testament. I’d be divorced and living in another town. Leyla just can’t let me be happy,” he complains. “I’m going to try to buy her out of the marriage.”

  “If you need money let me know,” I offer.

  “Thank you. I might have to ask everyone to pitch in. I’d pay you when this circus, that is our new life, is over,” he says. “I’ll send you an email with a questionnaire. Fill it out and then I’ll get someone to work on that contract.”

  “I appreciate it, and sorry about your wife,” I mutter, not sure if I should tell him that if he needs anyone to talk to, I’m here. Is it too soon? He said it the other day. We’re not that kind of brothers.

  “So, about Blaire…”

  “She’s keeping the money,” I warn him.

  “Actually, I was going to ask if it was cool with you that I donated money to her non-profit,” he responds calmly. “I did some research, and the thing is legit.”

  “She’ll be happy to have it, more so now, when she’s not allowed to travel,” I tell him.

  “Sorry, I wish I could do something else for her.” He sounds apologetic.

  “We can figure out a way to help the foundation,” I suggest.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Let me figure out what my role will be at the firm and then we can sit and talk about Carter’s Kids Foundation.”

  “Your role?” I ask confused. “I assume you’re going to have to make some drastic changes. What are your options?”

  “I could take a long sabbatical or open a branch in Baker’s Creek.”

  “Which one do you prefer?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he states. “I could take a sabbatical and focus on the legal operation of father’s businesses. We can save a whole lot of money on legal fees. There are a few things I still need to discuss with the senior partners—my grandfather and Mom—before I make a final decision.”

  “I’m at the house. The contractor is already talking with Blaire. Let’s plan on meeting later tonight, so we can discuss the renovations, the resort, and whatever Henry feels is imperative to complain about before the day is over.�
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  “Don’t forget the home offices,” he reminds me. “I’ll check with Sophia to see when the best time would be to schedule the video conference.”

  “Now that you mention it, what if we convert a couple of the conference rooms at The Lodge into offices?” I suggest. “Adding any rooms to the house might not be wise.”

  “I hate to agree with you,” he says. “Can you oversee that, too? Maybe get a couple of offices, so we don’t work on top of each other.”

  “You got it,” I say and hang up the phone.

  The gate is open. I walk inside, and I notice Blaire is moving her hands around while speaking to the contractor.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late,” I apologize, as I approach them.

  “Easton Rodin,” he introduces himself, shakes my hand and gives me his business card. “As I was telling Ms. Wilson.”

  “You can call me, Blaire,” she says in a friendly tone.

  “Ms. Wilson is fine,” I insist, glaring at him, because his eyes are focused on her toned legs.

  She huffs at me and rolls her eyes.

  “I’m new in town, too. I own a big construction company in Seattle. The one I’m starting here is like a hobby. I’m planning on just building custom homes or renovations. I don’t have the manpower here to remodel under your timeline. However, I have it in Seattle, and with the right price, I can bring my people.”

  “You can assure me that this will be done in twenty-eight days,” I confirm.

  “Twenty-five,” he guarantees. “I’ll have to work around the clock, but I know how to tackle a job this big. As I was telling Blaire, you’ll have to make a lot of decisions within the next couple of days, and you can’t customize any of them.”

  “As long as the place can be occupied and nothing will break within the first two years, we can live with that.”

  “It’ll last years,” he promises, tilting his head toward the house and heading that way.

  “I have measured everything, and I got the original blueprints of the house from the town center's archive.”

  “Imagine a mud room in here,” Blaire says, as we step into the house. “The original wood is in great condition. Do you think you can just sand it and stain it?”

  “That’s easy to do, and you’re right. It’s old but in great condition. They don’t make floors like this anymore,” he concludes.

  “He was telling me that as soon as we pick the style for the kitchen,” Blaire explains as we walk through the damaged kitchen, “he can order the cabinets, and we can choose the slab for the counter.”

  “Well, you get to do that.” I assign her the task.

  “Why?” She crosses her arms, giving me a glare. “Because I’m a woman.”

  “No,” I answer. “Because I have shitty taste and you know it. How about appliances?”

  “This is how we’re going to make this work quickly. I’m going to send you my catalog later today,” he explains. “You can choose the style you’d like to have in the bedrooms, bathrooms, and kitchen. The reason I’m not allowing you to customize anything is because that takes time, and you need this to be done by the end of next month.”

  “But do you think you can deliver?” I ask again, making sure we’re on the same page.

  “Yes, as long as you don’t make too many changes. The pictures I’ll send you will be based on material availability. You have to send me your choices tonight, and you’ll have to pay me fifty percent of what I quote you no later than tomorrow morning. There’ll be an extra charge to rush everything. I’m hoping to receive some of the materials early next week. Tomorrow, I can start with the plumbing and the wiring. There’ll be an option on my quote that includes internet, cable, and security. You can add them or not, but I need the decision to be made by tonight. Once the house is up to code, I’ll continue with the walls and, probably, by next Tuesday, I’ll be able to sand the floors. I will stain them before I paint the walls.”

  We walk through the eight rooms. Blaire is very specific about how she wants the master bedroom.

  “I think I have the exact design for it,” Easton assures her. “This is good. Tell me what else you have in mind.”

  We head into the smallest room, and she says, “This one needs some built in bookcases, one of those beds that are like forts, and security for the windows. I want it to be fun, yet safe.”

  “Who’s going to be in that room?”

  “Arden,” she answers and looks at the time. “We have to plan on setting up a playground for him, too. Let’s hurry because I promised to spend some time with him before I leave.”

  “You have to change your flight,” I remind her.

  She checks the time on her phone and sighs. “I can’t anymore. I’m going to have to pay for a new ticket.”

  “Let’s fly together,” I offer, as we continue walking through the rest of the house.

  Once we’re out of the house, I tell the contractor about Beacon’s studio. I don’t have much information, but his answer is just what Beac would like to hear. “That should take me about two months. I’ll send you the information of the one I built a few years back, and you can tell me if you need something bigger. It’s soundproof, has a voice room and other features I can’t remember at the moment. My brother uses it to compose and also to produce music for bands and other artists. Would that work?”

  I nod and text Beacon, just to make sure it’s something he’d like.

  Beacon: Who is his brother?

  Hayes: Does it matter?

  Beacon: Yes, it does. Maybe he is some shitty musician, and I don’t want his studio.

  I grunt and show the text to Blaire; she chuckles and texts back.

  Hayes: This is Blaire. I assume his brother is Gage Rodin. Maybe I’m wrong.

  I want to ask who the fuck is Gage Rodin. Blaire might be traveling around the world to obscure locations where they don’t have internet, but her pop culture knowledge is more extensive than mine.

  Beacon: Can you ask him? If it is him then I want it. I’ve been in that studio, and it’s fucking impressive. Though, I’d want to make a few additions.

  “Is your brother Gage?” Blaire asks.

  Easton arches an eyebrow and stares at her mindfully, as if trying to solve a mathematical problem—or letting her in on a secret that only a few share.

  “Listen, this studio is for one of the guys of Too Far From Grace,” I say, using a stern serious voice. “I texted asking if what you described could be an option. He’s been in Gage’s studio, and he’s excited about building something similar with a few modifications. Only if it’s that studio.”

  He looks at me and smiles. “You look like Beacon. I wasn’t sure if I was right.”

  “We just don’t tell people. He prefers to keep his private life to himself,” I explain.

  “Yeah, tell him that’s the one, and we can do any modifications if he wants, but that’ll delay the delivery,” he answers.

  “Can you start building the studio this week, too?” Blaire asks.

  “If you need me to, I can get a crew to focus on that starting next Monday, but it might not be ready in a month or two. Is that okay?” He asks.

  “Sure, that’s better than nothing,” I answer. “Let’s also take a look at the barn and the garage. We’re bringing animals and, of course, cars onto the property.”

  Both buildings need some repairs but nothing major. He includes them as part of the stuff he needs to work on for the next month.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “How long will it take you to build a brand-new house?” I inquire casually.

  He cocks an eyebrow and gives me a curious look. “How big do you want it?”

  I shrug. “Multilevel, four or five bedrooms,” I say. “Right by the lake.”

  “We’ll have to design it first. I won’t have time for that until the house is done. I’d say six to eight months after breaking ground,” he answers. “Unless you want a new house instead of fixing the old one, which I w
ouldn't recommend. It needs work, but the foundation is solid and the structure can last you another hundred years.”

  “It’d be a different project,” I answer, looking at the lake.

  “We can talk about it in a few weeks if that’s okay with you,” he says. “I should be emailing you the initial quote and the contracts shortly. Please make sure to send me everything I need by tonight. Any delays or big changes would affect the deadline.”

  I shake his hand before he leaves.

  Once he’s gone, Blaire walks to where I stand and gives me a suspicious look. “Why would you build another house?”

  “The will says we have to live on the property,”

  She smirks. “Not in the house. I thought the same. I’m planning on bringing my camping equipment.”

  “You still go camping?”

  “Yeah, when I’m away from home. They don’t have five-star hotels, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why would you want to sleep out here when we have the house?”

  “Six men and a toddler?” She looks at me as if it’s obvious and she doesn’t comprehend why I can’t understand the issue. “No, thank you. I have brothers, remember?”

  “How are things with your family?”

  “Weird, as usual. We never recovered after my illness,” she answers, and there’s sadness in her voice. “My parents are still afraid the cancer will come back, and they’ll have to deal with me. My brothers blame me for our parents’ divorce. All of them are scared that the cancer will come back. I’m over it, don’t worry.”

  She’s acting as if it doesn’t matter, as if the fact that her family practically abandoned her when they said she was cancer free didn’t hurt. So much happened after she went to college.

  “It won’t come back, and if it does, you’re not alone,” I assure her, and it’s not an empty promise. I’m here to stay, either as a friend or, hopefully, as more. This time I’m not letting her go.

  “After all these years, I’ve made peace with it. So, don’t fret trying to make me feel better about what happened. People come into your life and then they leave. That’s an unavoidable cycle. You have to live with it and keep what you learn from them.”