Setting down the piece of clothing, she approaches me, and when she’s a step away, she halts and widens her eyes until I turn sideways to let her pass.
But instead of walking past me, she inches into the doorway and gestures out through it in a circular motion. “My part of the cabin,” she says in the same tone she uses to explain something to Elliott, and then she points across the high-ceilinged space to the second bedroom. “Your part of the cabin.”
Backing up until she’s clear of the doorway, she grabs the handle and gives me a go-fuck-yourself look as she finishes with, “And never the twain shall meet.”
Then she shuts the door in my face.
I glower at the pale oak door, my pulse pumping and chest heaving with each shallow, angry breath. The strength it takes to prevent myself from busting through that barrier and continue the shit she just started is almost beyond my grasp. My muscles are screaming to do it, my mind like a snarling and slobbering dog at the end of a rusted chain. It wouldn’t take much more of that choking and rabid struggling against the restraint to make it snap.
Goddamn it. God-fucking-damn her.
I’m not going to do it. Pretty sure a fight is what she wants, because by now she’s so used to being pissed off at me that she’s become institutionalized by it.
And she’s uncomfortable with all of this, the case and now sharing this cabin with me. She feels cornered, and that’s why she’s coming out swinging. Because that’s what Paige does. She’s all fight, no flight.
I can deal with that. The biggest benefit of all that expensive therapy with Sharon is recognizing why I react to things the way I do, to see a pattern, and to learn how to stop it before shit gets out of control. That’s why I’ve kept seeing her for the past year, and it’s why I feel like a different person from who I was during the time that eventually drove Paige away.
It’s also why I’m never going to tell her everything that I did. Because it doesn’t matter; I’m not that guy anymore.
Plus I know in my gut that she would take it badly. The eruption would be epic—most likely the final, fatal blow to our relationship. I’d go down in a raging, fiery, face-melting burst of flames.
No. She can never find out. Ever.
My movements are jerky as I walk over to my own suitcase and take it to the second bedroom. Like an automaton, I dig out my running clothes, and with that same kind of numb anger, I change into them. After I’ve strapped on my armband and stuffed my phone into it, the earbuds hanging on my shoulders, I go rummaging around the cabin for more information about my surroundings.
In the desk in the alcove between the kitchen and great room, I find exactly what I’m looking for: a map of nearby hiking trails. After snapping a picture of it with my phone, I head out.
I’m so agitated that I can’t even appreciate the bucolic landscape as I speed walk down the path in the direction of the trail the map indicates is closest. The views on this run are going to beat the hell out of any city park, and I’d be in my happy place if I wasn’t so pissed—at my wife for being so good at remaining resentful, at the Hammer for forcing this bullshit case on me, at Stu for this harebrained attempt to stop his wife from leaving, and at the world in general, because it’s been way too long since I’ve felt like I was on top of it.
Fuck it.
I yank my phone back out of the case, slowing down a bit as I scroll through my contacts until I find Rodriguez’s name.
He answers on the third ring, giving a dispassionate greeting.
“Any progress on the Garnett investigation?” I ask, skipping the small talk.
“Uh,” comes his deep voice over the phone speaker. “I’ve found some stuff. Still working on it. You should have my report in a day or two.”
“Is it bad or good?”
There’s a short silence that I don’t like. “Both, I guess.”
“How bad is the bad?” My facial muscles are tight with apprehension as I steel myself.
“Look,” says the firm’s investigator, his tone impatient, “what I’ve got right now is about twenty-five percent confirmed and seventy-five percent a hunch, so I don’t want to jump the gun.” He pauses before he adds flatly, “But you might wanna ask your client if there’s anything he hasn’t told you.”
Shit. After thanking him and saying goodbye, I stop to draw a deep breath, my teeth clenched. I’m gripping my phone hard, this close to chucking it into the thicket of shrubs beside me.
Instead I pick up my feet and start running down the trail, tamping down on the urge to take off at a sprint instead of pacing myself.
Rodriguez was supposed to find dirt on Caroline, something bad enough to keep her in check. Instead it sounds like Stu’s the one with the skeletons.
Which I need to know about, of course, and honestly, I’m not surprised.
But I’m really fucking unhappy that the best I can hope for now is that whomever Paige has hired to do her dirt-digging—and I have zero doubts that she’s got someone on that job—is someone less resourceful than Rodriguez.
And that hope is slimmer than a crack whore on a liquid diet.
Chapter 12
Paige
“Don’t fuck him, Paige.”
I make a face at Bethany’s hard voice over the phone speaker. “I’m not an idiot.”
“No,” she fires back, “but you are still attracted to him, right? And it’s been how long since you got laid?”
My chest grows tight, and I can’t make myself respond. Which is probably answer enough.
I’m sitting on the patio at the rear of the cabin, the almost-empty dishes from my room service breakfast on the table in front of me. Whichever direction I turn, tall pines loom against a backdrop of green-and-gray mountains and a powder-blue sky. Except for the large hammock strung up between two trees a few feet from the steps leading down off the patio, the view is of unsullied and picturesque nature, and when I inhale the fragrant air, it feels like an espresso shot of oxygen going straight to my lungs—a pure and potent burst of energy.
While enjoying the surprisingly delicious meal and some peace and quiet, I shot off a text to Beth, telling her where I am and why. Less than ten minutes later, she called me, sounding as if we’d just gone to DEFCON 1.
“Right,” my friend says now, when I remain silent. “You’ve said you can’t live with him anymore, but if you could do it without consequences, I’m pretty sure you’d keep him around as a boy toy.”
An exasperated breath rushes out of me. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Don’t do it,” she orders again.
“Are you speaking as my friend or as my attorney?”
“Both!” Her tone takes on a hysterical edge. “Jesus Christ. You should be cleaning him out in family court right now, not getting all cozy with him in a cabin at Tahoe.”
“There’s no cozying. Aside from meetings with our clients, I don’t think I’ll even see him that much.”
Which is true. After Logan left for his run yesterday, I didn’t see him again the rest of the day.
Once he was gone, I went through the hotel information binder and discovered they have a fitness center with a lap pool. Since I’d packed my swimsuit just in case, I decided to go check it out. Swimming is something I’ve found shamefully little time for since having kids, and I’m feeling it in my arms and legs today just how out of shape I am. Back in the cabin, even before getting cleaned up and dressed, the first thing I did was bring up my calendar and shift things around to make room for an exercise routine. Because enough excuses.
While working on that, I did hear the front door open, and realizing he’d been gone for an hour and a half, I wondered if he’s training for a marathon again. Which I suppose he has time for now that he’s only a part-time dad and no longer has much of a commute. In an attempt to derail that ugly train of thought, I indulged in a long and hot shower. Once I got out again, I heard him rummaging around out there for a while before the front door slammed shut again.
> He didn’t return before I went to bed, and I didn’t hear him leave this morning, either. Which I’m assuming he did, because it’s almost nine o’clock without a peep from his bedroom, and I’ve never known him to stay in bed past eight.
Except when occupied with something other than sleeping.
“Don’t fuck him,” Beth repeats, as if she can read my mind. “Seriously. You’re in the middle of a custody battle with that man. He is not your friend. Don’t give him an inch.” After a second’s silence, she adds dryly, “Literally.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’ll talk to you later.”
After setting my phone back down, I finish off the last pieces of fruit on my plate. The padded patio chair somehow feels less comfortable now than before Beth called. I guess by texting her I’d hoped she’d reply with something encouraging and empowering. Instead I got a tirade that put my worst fears into words.
This proximity to Logan, it’s not a good thing. Especially considering he keeps making suggestive comments. He’s been flirting with me, for God’s sake. But why? What exactly is he hoping to accomplish?
On the surface it might seem obvious what he wants. But Logan’s motives are never that simple.
Which was one of the first things I learned about him. On New Year’s Eve in the file room at Stevens and Hammerness, probably. That was the night I realized the biggest threat to my life plans was not his eyes or his jawline or the perfect fit of his dress shirt over his broad shoulders and chest.
No, it was the genuine passion in his voice when he explained why he chose the law, the way he almost teared up when talking about his parents—and the way he reacted to my impulsive confession about my tenth-grade crush.
Smart women are sexy as hell.
I’ve never forgotten those words. They even had a bigger impact on me than the first time he told me he loved me…which happened just a few weeks later.
And that was probably the biggest surprise about him. Not only was he not afraid of me—as he kept reminding me again and again, probably because he figured out it usually led to him getting laid—he also has never been scared of his feelings, the way I am. Once he decided I was the one he wanted, he went all in.
Honestly, with a relationship that started like ours did, with fireworks and almost instant declarations of love, it’d be some sort of miracle for it to last forever, wouldn’t it?
Hooking my foot under the chair nearest to mine, I pull it to me so that I can put my feet up on its cushion. Then I move my coffee cup closer and pick up my e-reader from the wooden table, powering it on.
Because this mild and sunny summer morning is perfect for reading outdoors.
And because I need a distraction from thoughts about the man I never expected to share a roof with again. Something to force my mind away from our roller coaster of a past—and the quagmire that is our status quo.
Halfway down the page of the dark suspense novel I started when the kids were away last weekend, I hear the thump of that front door. My heart does a somersault.
Seconds later, he appears within the frame of the sliding patio door. The slacks and dress shirt are casual attire for him, since he’d be in one of his obscenely expensive suits if he were at the office right now. His sharp-angled face is clean shaven this morning, and a ray of the morning sunlight filtering in through the trees turns his hair a shinier shade of gold.
“I just had breakfast with Stu.” He braces himself on the doorframe, which brings the muscles in his biceps into hard, flexing definition.
Don’t fuck him, Paige. Don't do it.
“Okay…?” I force myself to sound casually disinterested while focusing on a point right above his head.
“He’s agreed to sit down and start negotiating a settlement. So we’re meeting them at his and Caroline’s cabin.”
Uh. What? My attention drops back to his face. “Seriously?”
Logan replies with a shrug, and I fumble for my phone, checking for messages or calls from Caroline, because she’s said nothing about this to me.
I’m frankly finding her to be a far more irritating client than I expected. She’s allowing Stu to call the shots, and I can’t make sense of that, because that woman is the opposite of a pushover. Which just reinforces my suspicion that she’s hiding something from me. There are few things more frustrating to an attorney than clients who keep secrets.
“They asked me to let you know,” my husband supplies.
I regard him narrowly. Is he messing with me?
No. Definitely not. That’d be seriously unprofessional. Something he’s not.
If only I could be left in peace with my book and my coffee and the birdsong and the pine trees. With no need to deal with eccentric clients and my aggravating almost-ex-husband.
“Well, he wants to get started right away. Because, and I quote: ‘I’m not spending all day on this bullshit.’” Straightening, Logan gives the doorframe a slap and steps away. “I’m heading out there.”
Damn it. Turning off my e-reader and scooping up my phone, I hurry after him inside the cabin. Where the silence indicates he’s already walked out, so in a frantic rush, I go into my room and stuff my room key, credit card, ID, and phone into the little pocket of my briefcase.
Mentally cringing at how I’m dressed for a day of leisure in my leggings and loose tee over a tank top, I shove my feet into my flip-flops and barrel out of the cabin, the foam footwear slapping on the wooden boards as I dash down the steps.
Catching a glimpse of Logan just as he rounds a bend in the trail and disappears behind some trees, I take off at a hobbling jog down the dirt path, adding running to my list of grievances on this trip. I hate running.
Once I go around that curve, he comes into view again just as he veers right at the fork. I slow my pace so that I’m following him with no more than a power walk. Definitely don’t need him thinking I’m chasing after him. Literally or figuratively.
Stuart and Caroline’s cabin is like a mirror image of ours, with the same classic log exterior, just facing the other way. I’ve never conducted divorce settlement negotiations in such a scenic setting before, that’s for sure.
I arrive at the front steps just a few feet behind Logan, and from there I follow him around the porch to the back, where my client sits at the same type of table that I just did, and across from her lounges a man in a red polo shirt and white Bermuda shorts. There are bottles of water in front of each seat, which was thoughtful of them—and probably Caroline’s doing.
They both rise as we approach, and Stuart Garnett moves his average-sized frame around the patio set toward me. And that’s the best word to describe everything about him, really: average. He’s not tall, and he’s not short. Neither overweight nor particularly fit. His hair is a nondescript blond, and his middle-aged face also defies definition, with not a single feature that stands out as noteworthy, neither handsome or not. He’d be perfect for a TV commercial advertising some household product alongside his equally generic soccer-mom wife and their standard two-point-three kids.
“The elusive Mrs. McKinley,” he says as he reaches me, and I do a mental double take. Well, there’s something notable about him, at the very least. He has a nasal, croaky voice. If he exaggerated just a little, he’d sound like Kermit the Frog.
Then I mentally replay what he just said to me. Ugh. Mrs. McKinley.
Garnett offers his hand to me, his tight smile not reaching his eyes. “Can I call you Paige?”
“Please do,” I state emphatically as I step in and take his hand.
“And you can call me Stu. It’s about time we met, isn’t it?” he says. So polite. So polished. So…perfectly artificial.
“You’d probably prefer it if we didn’t have to,” I quip without thinking. Not that I regret it. With the crap he’s pulling on Caroline, I’m not inclined to play nice. Yeah, she’s a big girl and can most definitely take care of herself, but I always have this mother bear instinct when it comes to clients. They pay me to lo
ok out for their interests, and I don’t take that responsibility lightly.
Not even when I feel like they’re hiding something from me.
“What?” Stu’s brows furrow briefly, and then his jaw flexes. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”
The look he slants Caroline has a definite sad-puppyish quality. If he wasn’t being such a manipulative jackass, I might feel bad for reminding him that we’re here because his wife of almost two decades doesn’t want him anymore.
I’m still regarding him narrowly, trying to figure out what a woman like Caroline could possibly have ever seen in a guy like him, when he takes a step back, gestures at the patio table, and says, “Well. We should get started if we’re going to wrap this up by lunchtime. Caroline and I are playing golf this afternoon.”
They're doing what now? As we all take a seat—Caroline and I on one side, Logan and Stu on the other—I raise my eyebrows at my client. In response, she only gives a slight shrug, a resigned look on her face.
Sheesh.
The first thing I pluck from my leather briefcase is my phone so that I can check my email, holding my breath and hoping for something—anything—from Luna Gerst, the investigator Beth referred me to last week. I could really use some leverage right about now. Something to help me wipe that smug look off of Stuart Garnett’s face. Permanently.
But my inbox is empty, so instead I’m forced to pull out the case documents and get started with only what I’ve got.
“All right,” I say briskly as I leaf through the papers. “Our goal today is to start the process of negotiating a settlement. The divorce petition was filed last Monday. Did you receive the papers, Stu?”
Garnett’s nostrils flare, but before he can answer, Logan cuts in with, “Please direct your questions to me, not my client.”
It’s like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I meet Logan’s dispassionate gaze across the table, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. I’m only familiar with his heated looks—love, lust, disgust, anger—and I know how to react to them.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 16
