When would that feeling ever stop?
Parking in the lot at the side of the building, I took the side entrance that led to the main reception of the sheriff’s department. There was no receptionist at the desk, so I walked up the stairs into the open-plan office. Jeff was standing talking to Wendy by the water cooler, and they both looked over at me. Jeff made his way over, and his blue eyes drank me in from head to toe. “Everything okay, Dahlia?”
I nodded, distracted by the busy office behind us. “Everyone’s working long hours these days, huh?”
“We’ve got a killer to catch, and Ian Devlin and his press monkeys constantly on our fucking asses.” Jeff’s response was full of exasperation. He winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re doing great.”
He studied me carefully. “You’re here for Mike.”
Someone should have warned me how awkward it would be talking to an ex-lover about my … well … my other ex-lover. “I wanted to check on him.”
“I sent him home,” Jeff said. “He wasn’t happy about it, but he’s no good to me tired.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure I should go to Michael’s apartment under normal circumstances. I definitely shouldn’t go when he was exhausted.
“As much as it kills me to say this …” Jeff’s lips flattened into a thin line. “You should go to him. He’s taking this a little too personally for my liking.”
I nodded, biting my lip in worry. “And we know it was Freddie who shot Stu?”
Jeff just gave me a look.
I pulled a face. “Right. Civilian. None of my business.”
“You know where Mike lives?”
“I didn’t say I’d go to him.”
“We both know you’re going to him.” Then he relayed Michael’s full address.
“Thanks, Jeff.”
He nodded and then took a step toward me, bending his head to mine. “He’s a good guy, Dahlia. I’m sorry it couldn’t be me, sorrier than I can say, so if it has to be anyone, I’m glad it’s Mike. You deserve that.”
Too many feelings overwhelmed me. I didn’t want Jeff’s blessing, and that’s what he was giving! I didn’t want anyone’s blessing. I wanted to check on Michael, make sure he was okay, and scurry into my cowardly hidey-hole again.
* * *
The cartons in my hand contained falafel wraps packed with hummus, salad, and spicy sauce. I had no idea if Michael liked falafel but the deli across from his apartment building sold them, and they smelled amazing.
If he was tired, he was probably hungry too.
I took a deep breath as I stared at his crisp, white-painted front door. “You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “Friends check on each other.” I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
A few seconds later, I heard his footsteps as he approached the door. The chain sounded, then the lock, and he opened the door wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, no belt, no shoes or socks. Oh, and he was holding a gun casually at his side.
“Expecting someone else?” I nodded at the gun.
I didn’t like guns.
My dad kept a gun in the house; Dermot and Michael both carried them for their jobs, so I was used to them.
I just didn’t like them.
He squinted at me, and I noted the dark circles under his eyes and the pale pallor of his usually olive-toned skin. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought food.” I pushed inside, taking in the modern, sleek surroundings. The apartment was open plan with a French window that led out onto a ground-floor balcony. Light spilled into the white room, showcasing the light gray, glossy kitchen cabinets and island along the back wall. Center of the room was the sitting area where Michael had a black leather couch, armchair, glass coffee table, matching glass TV cabinet, and a huge flat-screen TV. To my left, a doorway led to a narrow hall, which I presumed led to the bedroom and bathroom.
Like his place in Boston, it was devoid of the feminine touch.
His front door slammed shut, and I jumped, whirling around to face him. “Falafel?” I held up the takeout cartons.
“I already ate.” He looked and sounded impatient as he crossed the room to put his gun on the kitchen counter.
“I went to the station, and Jeff said you’d be here.” I felt nervous and awkward. Sighing, I put the cartons down on the coffee table and clasped my hands in front of me.
Michael dragged his eyes down my body and returned to my face. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”
I flushed, unprepared for a snippy Michael. “Should I go?”
He rubbed both hands over his face and groaned. “No.”
The need to reassure and comfort him superseded my uncertainty. I took a step toward him. “This isn’t your fault, Michael. Freddie is not your fault. He always was a creepy little fucker, and if he was capable of killing Stu, then he was always capable of killing Stu.”
Michael nodded, his dark eyes moving over my face. For a moment we stood in silence. When he eventually spoke, it wasn’t what I expected to hear. “I used to come home after seeing some terrible things, and Kiersten didn’t want to know.” The thought of him going home to a wife, as always, was an unbearable sting I tried to hide from him. “I didn’t want to give her the details—I wouldn’t do that to her—but I wanted to talk. Get rid of it somehow, you know. I attempted a couple of times, sliding into bed beside her, reaching for her. She’d push me away. And I’d lie there, looking at the ceiling, and I’d think about you.”
The air between us thickened. His confession hit my chest like a physical impact. “I’d lie there remembering all the times we sat in my car talking about everything. I’d tell you about my day at work, the good and the bad, and you’d listen. Really listen. And then you’d wrap your arms around my neck and kiss the bad right out of me.” Pain slashed across his expression. “I never resented you so much as those nights I’d lie next to my wife wishing she were you so you could kiss the bad right out of me.”
Tears flooded my eyes. Because I wished I’d been there too. So much. So much more than I could bear.
Michael took a hesitant step toward me. “If I asked you to lie with me right now—if I told you I wouldn’t read too much into it, what would you say?”
Without hesitation, I crossed the room and reached for his hand. His warm strength curled around mine, the calluses on his fingertips rubbing gently across the soft palm of my hand. Without a word, I let him lead me to his bedroom, and for one perfect moment, I silenced all my fears, all my worries, so I could do the thing I needed to do most.
Take care of Michael.
Michael knew how he was feeling wasn’t about Freddie Jackson. Yes, it was his job to find the dirty bastard, and he would. He was determined to. However, his need to find the guy had become wrapped up in all the ways he felt he was failing. With his family. With Dahlia. Since moving to Hartwell, he’d spoken to his mom only a couple of times, and any mention of his dad made her clam up. He worried that without him there in Boston, his dad would return to his old ways, taking all his drunken bitterness out on Michael’s mom.
Then there was Dahlia.
He wanted to be patient. He’d promised himself he would be. Yet deep down, he thought the giant gesture of moving to Hartwell for her would’ve broken through all those solid defenses she’d surrounded her heart with over the years.
It wasn’t working.
Michael was failing at the most important thing he’d ever faced.
He was just … failing.
Though as he led Dahlia by the hand into his spartan bedroom, he let go of all his miserable shortcomings. All he’d planned to do was lie down on the bed with her, feel her there in the dark, maybe pretend that everything was okay for a few hours so he could sleep.
He didn’t expect her to stop at the edge of the bed, stare up at him with those soulful blue eyes, and whisper, “L
et me take care of you.”
Michael would never forget Dahlia’s version of taking care of him for the rest of his life. If it was all he ever got from her, then he was sure it was more than most men had ever had from any woman. First, she undressed them both, and then she’d asked him to lie on the bed. She’d hovered over his body, a fantasy of smooth skin, big breasts, tiny waist, generous hips, gorgeous legs, and dark hair that cascaded down her back. Her full breasts, with their tight, erect nipples, were so tempting, he reached for them. Dahlia had allowed the touch for a second and then curled her hand around his and pressed it back to the bed.
“Let me,” she whispered.
Michael would understand what that meant when she touched him. Her lips and hands were tender, slow explorers caressing their way around and down his body, learning every inch of him. She spent so long learning him, Michael’s heart felt like it would explode from beating so fast. He panted in the dark, trying to catch his breath, his legs moving restlessly against the sheets, his hips pushing up toward her in need.
But he never lost his patience because there was a part of him that didn’t want her to stop.
No woman had ever cherished—fuckin’ cherished—him the way Dahlia McGuire was doing right then.
She took him into her mouth, and Michael felt like a boy again, helpless against his own passion. This is heaven, he thought, as the electricity licked at the back of his thighs and his lower spine. He could hear his hoarse grunts of her name, the loving words, the dirty words mingling, falling from his lips as he watched the woman he loved suck and lick and devour him.
Then it hit. Hard and explosive and so fuckin’ phenomenal, he forgot where he was for a second.
Panting in the dark, his chest heaving as though he’d run a marathon, Michael could still hear his own shout of release ringing in his ears. His body melted into the mattress in utter satisfaction, his limbs tingling in the aftermath.
Dahlia.
Forcing his eyes open, he watched as she returned from his bathroom, her skin glowing in the moonlight filtering through his windows.
Christ, she was beautiful.
Not only beautiful on the outside. She was pieced together with layers of every kind of beauty there could be, so deep and full, it shone out of her.
Why couldn’t she see that?
She crawled up onto the bed beside him, and he wanted to touch her, repay the favor, but he was tired. He hadn’t slept more than an hour here and there in days. It seemed to take great effort, but he lifted his arm toward her.
“Ssshh,” she whispered, pressing it back to the mattress. “Go to sleep, Michael. I’m here.”
She rested her head on his chest and draped her arm over his stomach as she cuddled her soft body into his side. Cocooned by her, his eyes closed like they had a will of their own and the bliss of sleep took him into its dark.
For hours I laid awake, afraid to move in case it would disturb Michael. He was so exhausted; the weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders. And I knew his worries weren’t only about Freddie. I knew I was probably more to blame than anyone for his burdens.
Which was why I’d given him the only thing I could. I loved him in the only way I could without ever saying it.
I’d never said it, I realized, tears burning in my eyes as I laid pressed into his side. I’d never told him I loved him. But he knew. He certainly knew after tonight.
My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his even breaths. I glanced up at his face, but it was half turned away. Staring at his jaw, at his beard, I could still feel the prickle of it beneath my fingers and lips. I’d trailed sweet kisses all over his handsome face, learning every line and curve like a blind person, drawing him in my mind forever.
His skin was smooth and hot and hard beneath me. My lips and fingertips had moved over the slight hills and valleys where his muscle was tightly roped. For a while, I lost myself in exploring him. Everything else went away as I disappeared in the adventure of his body. I’d kissed the small scar on his right upper rib where a boy had swiped a fourteen-year-old Michael with a broken bottle. I trailed my fingers over a scar on his left leg above his knee I’d never seen before. The question had hovered on my lips but the night wasn’t for my curiosity. It was for Michael.
The memory of him coming in my mouth echoed in a low, deep ripple in my belly. I was slick and wanting between my legs, unable to sleep for the restless need buzzing beneath my skin.
However, panic was writhing over the buzz, overwhelming everything with the fear that despite him saying otherwise, Michael would take my lovemaking to mean something it didn’t.
I wanted my giving to be altruistic, but somehow it was always turned selfish in the end.
Lifting my head slowly, afraid to wake him, I looked over at his bedside alarm clock, the red digits blinking in the dark. It was just past three in the morning. Wow. Hours had passed.
Good. It was good. Michael needed sleep.
However, I couldn’t be here when he woke up in the morning.
Gently, I lifted the hand he had resting on my hip and scooted down until I could place his arm by his side on the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief he hadn’t woken, I attempted to get off the bed without disturbing the mattress too much. I moved as silently as possible, picking up my dress, shoes, and underwear, and I tiptoed into the living room. I blinked against the lights Michael had left blazing and began to dress.
As I was pulling my underwear up, I heard the creak of the floorboards in his bedroom, and my stomach dropped. With a racing heart and trembling hands, I reached for my shoes and then stopped.
I wouldn’t run out on him like a coward.
Michael was awake.
So I had to face him.
I straightened, barefoot but dressed at least, and then he was standing in the doorway. He’d taken the time to pull on a pair of sweatpants.
The sleep still shining in his dark eyes melted away when he realized I was leaving. His accusatory expression singed me.
“You were just going to slip out?” His voice was still hoarse with sleep. “Like a drunken one-night stand?”
I shook my head, hating that he would think that. “Never, Michael.”
“But you were leaving?” He strode into the room, crossing his arms over his chest. I tried not to be distracted by all the beauty that was him, but it wasn’t easy. My body was still strung taut with unfulfilled desire.
I took a step back, knocking over one of my shoes. I glanced down at them and back up at Michael to find him glaring at me in utter disappointment. “I … I thought it would be better if I weren’t here in the morning.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because you know that I know now without a doubt you love me?”
Panic thickened my throat.
“Tell me you don’t love me,” Michael demanded again.
Shaking my head frantically, I wanted to escape. Bending down, I reached for my shoes, but Michael grabbed my arms. I cried out as he pulled me up, his face a mask of fury.
“Tell me,” he said as he shook me gently. “Because if you run out of here without explaining this shit to me … give me the truth, Dahlia.” He let me go, and I could still feel the heat of his hands banded around my biceps. “I want the real reason we can’t be together. If you don’t give me that, then what I feel for you … it’ll turn. It’ll twist, and it’ll darken, and it won’t be love anymore.”
The thought of Michael not loving me was breath-stealing.
“Tell me,” he begged.
“You won’t understand …”
“Then make me!”
I stumbled backward, falling rather than sitting down onto his couch. “Do you remember?” I whispered. “Do you remember that day with Dillon? I try not to … but it’s one of the most vivid memories I have …”
Ugh, my palms were sweating, I was so goddamn nervous.
“Just do it,” Michael urged beside me. We were sitting in his car outside my place, and we were
about to execute our plan to tell Dillon the truth about our feelings for each other. That Michael and I were going to be together.
I’d decided I would be the one to tell my little sister, so the plan was to call her and tell her I needed to talk, ask her where she wanted to meet, and then Michael would discreetly drop me off.
While I was car-less after mine got relegated to the junkyard, my sister had a beat-up little banger she drove so I knew she could meet me anywhere.
Taking strength from Michael’s reassuring expression, I dialed Dillon’s number. “Christ, my heart is beating so fast, and I’m only calling to arrange a meet,” I whispered.
He squeezed my hand, and I threaded my fingers through his. My sister and I would probably have a temporary falling-out over this, but once she realized how deeply I felt for Michael, we’d be fine.
This wasn’t some stupid fling.
One day—and I knew it to be true—I’d be the mother of Michael Sullivan’s kids.
“Hey!” Dillon picked up.
“H-hey,” I stuttered, surprised because I’d been caught in my own Michael musings. “Where are you?”
“Driving home.”
I sighed. “You’re not supposed to answer your cell when you’re driving.”
“I am a multitasker. You know this.”
Hearing the sweet cheerfulness in her voice, I hated myself for what I was about to do. “Listen, Dill, we need to talk. Do you want to meet somewhere?” I didn’t want to do it at home where Mom could butt her nose in.
“You sound serious. What is it?”
“Let’s meet up face to face.”
“Okay.” She drew the word out, and there was a bite to her tone. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever it is you have to say to me?”
“Dillon—”
“Is it bad news?”
“Um … yes and no. It’s … complicated.”
“What’s it about?”
“Dillon, let’s meet, okay?”
“No,” she said. “I hate these dramatics, Dahlia. Just fuckin’ tell me what it is. You have me worried now.”
Things We Never Said: A Hart's Boardwalk Novel Page 27