by Meghan March
Simon slapped both hands on the roof of the car before peering through the cabin to where I stood outside the open passenger door. “Are you always this stubborn?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t help it.” He slammed the driver’s door shut a second time and came around the hood and grabbed me by the hand.
“Come on, woman.” He led me out of the garage, and when we didn’t go toward the main house, I looked up at him, confused.
“Where are we going?”
“I live in the guesthouse.”
I smirked. “So you only sort of live with your parents? Aren’t you a little old for that?”
He tugged on my hand. “Trust me, I was going to buy my own place when I got out of the Navy. You would have thought I told my parents I was taking a vow of silence. To say they were horrified is putting it mildly. When I refused to move home, my father had the guesthouse renovated, and my mother guilted me into it. It would make them feel ‘so much better to have someone on the property when they’re traveling. And they’d missed out on so much time with me while I was in the service.’ It was easier just to give in.”
“You’re a momma’s boy, aren’t you?”
“As much as any good ole Southern boy. I like sports, huntin’, fishin’, fast cars, and faster women, but I love my momma.”
I smiled slightly, but my heart wasn’t in it. His statement made me think about my relationship with my own mother, which was much too screwed up for such a pure sentiment.
We walked through the front door of a house a fraction of the size of the mansion, and Simon turned to face me. “Hey, Huck’s going to be all right. Jack’s one of the best.”
He’d mistaken my silence as concern for Huck, and guilt flooded me; I’d spent two minutes not worrying about my pup. I was a bad daughter and a bad dog mom.
“Thank you. Again. For everything.” I looked away and took in the dark paneled interior of the foyer and the crystal chandelier hanging overhead. A wide, gleaming wooden staircase curved up to the second floor. I stood dumbly. I didn’t want to get the grime of my person on the pristine furnishings.
“How about a shower?” Simon asked.
“That would be great,” I started, but paused to look down at my blood-smeared shirt. “But I don’t have any other clothes.”
“I’ll find something for you. Might be a little big, but they’ll work for tonight.”
“Umm … okay. Thanks.”
I followed as Simon led the way up the stairs, lost in my own thoughts. He seemed to understand that I needed the silence and didn’t fill it with inane chatter. He gestured to a bathroom and opened the glass enclosure to flip on the water and adjust the temperature.
“Wait just a minute.”
He left and returned with a fluffy white robe, a T-shirt, and boxers. He stacked them on the counter.
“Thanks,” I whispered again. He closed the door as he left me alone in the white and gold bathroom that was quickly filling with steam. I stripped and stepped into the shower. I let the water cascade over me, soaking my hair and skin. Whatever strength had been holding me together was washed away with the grime and remaining traces of Huck’s blood. I lowered myself to the tiled floor, wrapped my arms around my knees, and let myself fall apart.
Ten
Simon
I paused outside the bathroom door, listening to Charlie’s gut-wrenching sobs. I gripped the back of my neck with both hands and stepped away, not wanting to invade her privacy any more than I already had. I hated seeing the stooped set of her shoulders. I much preferred her with her chin held high, blowing me off. Wanting to do something, anything, I called Jack. He assured me that Huck was doing fine, and although the recovery was going to be long, he’d likely come through it as good as new. For Charlie’s sake, I hoped he was right. She treated the dog like most people did a child. For a non-dog person, that might seem strange, but given the way my mother coddled her Pekinese and my father had babied his retrievers until they’d passed, it was nothing new to me. Hell, even the homeless folks in the Quarter twisted the sentiment to their advantage, using pathetic looking dogs to pry dollars from the hands of softhearted tourists.
But for Charlie, it seemed to be something more. She was a mystery, a standoffish enigma. In the age of Google, everything about my life was available for public consumption with a few keystrokes. I didn’t know her last name, but I wondered what I would find if I did. Honestly, though, I’d rather learn about her from her. But that seemed unlikely to happen. She freely admitted she was only interested in one night—or less. But something about her made me want to explore this … whatever this was between us.
I’d almost come in my pants like a teenager the night she’d casually stripped in front of me. She was willing to show me her body, but I wanted more. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Normally I was the one pushing women away. Charlie had shut me down more times in a handful of days than I’d been shot down in years. I wasn’t trying to be arrogant—it was just the truth. First, I was the son of a congressman, then a Navy pilot in a strike fighter, which was a straight up pussy magnet. Most recently, I was the decorated vet returning home to take his place in the family dynasty. The former debutantes my parents pushed at me wilted into my arms. I carefully extricated myself from those situations, because the daughters of the city’s leading families would expect a ring, when I wouldn’t even stay the night.
So why was I so pissed when Charlie turned my very own M.O. on me?
Probably because I had my own reasons for not staying the night, and they had nothing to do with not wanting to do so on occasion. I headed to one of the guestrooms and turned down the bed. Given her worry about Huck, I hoped my actions would seem gentlemanly and not strange.
I met Charlie in the hallway as she came out of the bathroom drowning in the white terry cloth robe. Her clothes were rolled up in a bundle under her arm, and my shirt and boxers dangled from her other hand. Damn. That meant she was naked under the robe. I pushed the thought away and gestured to the guestroom with the two glasses of bourbon I held.
She followed me into the room, and I set one glass on the nightstand. Charlie placed her bundle of clothes on the dresser. She laid out the T-shirt and boxers on the end of the bed.
“Thought you might want a drink to help you sleep,” I said.
“Thank you.” She took the glass and sipped. She surveyed the room, lingering on the artwork. “This isn’t your room.”
“No. Guestroom.”
She turned to face me. “Good to know my instincts aren’t completely off. Cezanne’s fruit doesn’t really seem like your style.” She gestured to the still life painting on the wall with her glass.
My eyes narrowed, and once again I was struck by the feeling that this woman was much more than she pretended to be. She drank the rest of her bourbon, and I cast about for something to say; I hit on the most pertinent fact.
“I called Jack and checked on Huck. He’s still doing fine.”
Her shoulders tensed for a beat before relaxing. “Thank you, again. I was going to ask you for his number so I could do that.”
“I’ll make sure you have it.” The silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward. “I guess I’ll let you get some sleep then. I’ll be down the hall if you need something.”
She watched as I pulled the door shut, but said nothing about my abrupt departure.
I walked down the hallway to my own room, wishing I wasn’t so fucked up that I couldn’t have a woman spend the night in my bed. Because that’s where I wanted Charlie, even if all I was doing was holding her close to take away some of her worry and replacing it with peace of mind. Not that she’d let me. Yet.
I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I shut my door. In the morning, I’d make a call I’d been putting off for years. It was time.
Eleven
Charlie
The night was endless. Bouts of sleep interrupted by flashes of Huck’s collision with the street sweeper and everything that came
after. Then my disordered mind would insert snippets of my parents and the angry faces of my father’s victims into my dreams, and I’d jolt awake. I was exhausted and staring at the blank white ceiling, trying to clear my thoughts, when I heard a shout followed by a loud groan.
Simon.
He sounded like he was in pain.
I threw back the covers, and dressed in his T-shirt and boxers, I padded down the hall to his bedroom. The door was closed.
“Simon?” I whispered. Another pained moan and garbled words. Fear gripped me. I didn’t think; I opened the door and slipped inside. A shaft of early morning light cutting through the open drapes highlighted his contorted face. He thrashed against the covers, hands clenching the sheets.
“No. Fuck. No.”
A nightmare. That was something I could understand. I crossed to the side of the bed, my only thought to wake him up and free him from whatever horrors were haunting his sleep. I shook his shoulder.
“Simon, wake up.” His hands released the sheets and grasped my shoulders, yanking me onto the bed and rolling us both until I was pinned beneath him. I cringed at the pain of his hold. His muscles were flexing and clenching. Fear bubbled up inside me.
“Simon.”
When he didn’t respond and his grip tightened, I acted on pure instinct—I reached up and slapped him across the face. His eyes snapped open, and he looked down at me, blinking and confused. I wiggled to get out from under him, and as he realized he was holding me down, his eyes went wide. His chest heaved with ragged breaths.
“Holy fuck. Charlie. What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Get off me,” I said.
Simon rolled and flopped onto his back.
His chest continued to rise and fall, and he buried his fingers into his hair. “Jesus, fuck. I can’t believe…” He glanced over at me, eyes wild. “Did I … did I hurt you?”
I didn’t respond, only rubbed my shoulders where he had grabbed me. “I’ll be fine.”
“Jesus. That means—fuck. I did hurt you.” He sat up and reached for me. Reflexively, I flinched. “My God. I’m so sorry. I’m—”
I sat up and slid off the bed, legs a little shaky. “It’s fine. I should’ve left you alone. It’s my own fault.”
Simon sprang off the mattress, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I’m so sorry. I…” He looked up at the ceiling, fists clenching. “I … fuck. I’ll take you home.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay.” I sidestepped toward the door. “I’m just going to go back to bed.”
“Charlie, wait. Let me explain—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation. It’s fine.”
He crossed the room, and I felt behind me for the door handle.
“Christ. You’re fucking terrified of me. Because I hurt you.”
I shook my head again. “It’s okay, Simon.”
“Fuck. Please, just let me explain.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six, and I’m not going back to bed. If it’s okay with you, I’ll make some coffee and tell you what the fuck just happened.” He paused. “It’s about time I told someone.”
Well, that was cryptic.
He reached for a pair of USNA sweatpants and shoved his muscled legs into them. My eyes were riveted to him even as I told myself to look away and give him privacy to dress, but it was a losing battle. Although he’d scared the shit out of me, I was still drawn to him. Simon’s outward appearance screamed perfection, but the idea that maybe he wasn’t quite so perfect on the inside intrigued me even more.
I followed him down to the kitchen and took a seat at the table in the breakfast nook. I watched as he ground the beans and set the coffeemaker up to brew. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “How much do you know about me?” he asked without preamble.
“Enough,” I said, even as I thought, not nearly enough.
“So you know I was in the Navy. I flew Super Hornets in Operation Enduring Freedom. I spent six years in the cockpit on missions. Almost all highly classified.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I was young, cocky, and thought I was invincible. Until I saw the first one of my brothers get shot down. That’s a lesson in human fragility you never forget. I lost six more over the years, and I should have been one of them.”
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond. So I didn’t.
He continued, voice haunted. “I can’t tell you the whole story, but I can tell you that a man I considered a brother picked up on a surface-to-air missile locked on me before I could even react. Kingman flew into it, trying to catch it on one of his tail fins so he’d at least have time to eject, but he miscalculated. We’d been flying missions non-stop for days, and we were all dog-tired and off our game. I watched him explode in a ball of fire. And I can’t stop seeing it happen. It was my fault—a misread of my instruments—that we were even there, where they could get a clear shot at us, and he was the one who paid the price. He had a daughter he never got to meet, and I made his wife a widow.”
His hazel eyes were shining with unshed tears when he finished. He turned to fumble with the carafe, hand shaking as he poured two cups. He reached into the fridge and pulled out cream. “How do you take your coffee?”
It was such a mundane question after the emotionally wrought confession. But I rolled with it.
“Black, please.”
He fixed his coffee with cream and sugar, sat both mugs on the table, and dropped into the chair across from me.
I decided to ask the obvious question.
“Do you have PTSD?”
“Not officially.”
“So … what does that mean exactly?”
“It means I gave all the right answers to every shrink the Navy made me see.”
“So you…”
“Lied? Yes.” He took a sip of his coffee.
I was stunned, holding my mug to my lips, unable to drink. Yes, stunned by the confession, but more so stunned by how open and honest he was with me. Someone he barely knew. Someone who could never be so honest with him.
My next question made me feel like a complete hypocrite. “Why weren’t you honest about it? Why didn’t you let them get you some help?”
He closed his eyes for a beat before answering. “Because of the black mark it would leave on my record. And the stigma. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was broken.”
I set my mug down on the table with a loud thump. Goddamn. His honesty tore through me. Staggered me.
“Oh.” It was a ridiculously useless word, but I didn’t have anything else.
“And now, it’s time I did something about it. Because I haven’t spent a full night with a woman in four years. I haven’t let myself fall asleep holding someone for fear that I would scare the shit out of her when a nightmare hit. Like this morning.”
“Why now?” I asked.
Simon looked up, and his stare trapped me with its intensity. “Because I want to spend an entire night with you.”
My eyes went wide.
“More than one night,” he added.
“Oh,” I said again.
I felt a pang in my chest where my heart was thumping double time. His brutal honesty did what legions of charm couldn’t—it broke through my walls. Demolished my better judgment. I tried to appear unaffected, squeezing my mug to hide my trembling hands. He continued drinking his coffee as though he hadn’t just rocked me to the core. One thought echoed through my head: Things were about to get complicated.
Twelve
Charlie
Three sharp raps sounded on the door, and a woman called out, “Simon, I saw your light on. I hope you have coffee!”
“Shit,” Simon mumbled, standing and moving to the coffeemaker.
A petite, dark-haired tornado blew into the kitchen. She looked to be in her fifties and was wearing black yoga pants, a black zip-up jacket, and hot pink sneakers. Her sleek hair hung to her chin in a flattering bob. Her hazel eyes and the angle of her nose gave
her away immediately as Simon’s mother.
“Oh. Hello there! Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said as Simon handed her a mug.
I pictured us from her point of view and winced. This looked like an intimate morning after. Simon was shirtless, wearing only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. I was dressed in his shirt and boxer shorts. Awkward, to say the least. But Mrs. Duchesne acted as though nothing was amiss.
She held out a small hand with perfectly manicured nails. “I’m Margaret Duchesne.”
“Ch-Charlie Stone.” I shook it, choking a little when I realized I had almost given her my real name in response to her formal greeting. What is this family doing to me?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. We get to meet so few of Simon’s—”
“Mother,” Simon interrupted.
She smiled warmly before releasing my hand and speaking to Simon. “I just wanted to stop in and say hello. I’m headed to my yoga class, and I haven’t seen you in a few days. We need to have dinner sometime soon. Time is running short before we leave for Maine. So much to do before we go.” She turned to face me again. “So Charlie, tell me, who are your people? What do you do?”
“Ummm … I … uh…” I stuttered.
“Mother, it’s too damn early for that. You can interrogate Charlie some other time. I’m sure you’ll be seeing her again soon.”
Whoa. When I thought things were going to get complicated, I hadn’t even considered a meet-the-parents scenario and the questions they’d have.
“That’s lovely, Simon.” Her smile was sincere and welcoming, and not strained and fake like my mother’s would have been if I’d introduced her to a guy covered in tats with crazy bedhead. “I’ll leave you two alone then.”
“We have to get back to Jack Richelieu’s office anyway. Charlie’s dog had surgery yesterday.”
Her eyes turned huge and sympathetic. “Oh, you poor dear. I’m so sorry for keeping you. I know you must be anxious to see your baby.”