Phones cupped in my hands, I quietly open the door and slip them both into my duffle before easing back into bed. Cecelia stirs slightly with the dip of my weight, and I slowly exhale a breath of relief when I fully make it back in without waking her.
She slept in today purposefully. I’m part relieved, part terrified because I can’t remember much past finishing the book and emptying the closest bottle.
Brief images flash through my mind of what happened after that fatal sip and some of the verbal vomit I spewed. I’m positive an apology is in order at the very least.
Did she see the lights? Chances are with Sir Piss-a-lot, she did last night.
Hopefully, it was some consolation for the complete fucking fool I made of myself. But I know her, and I know her heart. What I don’t know is if that heart has any more forgiveness in it for me at this point, especially now. I asked her for a date, and she came home to a fucking shitshow. Covered in it, I gaze down at her before gently pushing the hair away from her face for a better view. No evident tear streaks, no puffy eyes, and for that, I’m thankful. I’m sure I still reek of gin and desperation, but I don’t want to miss her reaction to me when she finally wakes. It will tell me all I need to know. I don’t have to wait long because a minute into caressing her, she smiles at me before her eyes flutter open.
Thank Christ.
“How are you feeling?”
I draw my brows. “Like I ran a marathon while on an IV of gin and wine.”
Her deepening smile erases more of my anxiety. “Pretty much what happened.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to—”
She covers my mouth with her hand. “You apologized a lot. Yelled a lot. Revealed a lot. And unloaded a lot of that baggage. Unfortunately,” she purses her swollen from sleep lips, “you don’t know how to unlock your suitcases.” Brow creasing with worry, she lifts a hand to my pounding head before gently running her fingers through my hair. “Do you remember anything?”
“Some.”
“Well, to start, you gave the book a bad review,” she says, her soft laughter echoing in the bedroom.
I wince, mostly from the pain in my head, some from humiliation.
“I had a plan, and it seems I’m not so good at executing them these days.”
“Well, you are on vacation,” she edges her chin on her pillow, moving closer to me, and I’m thankful I brushed my teeth. Gin brewed sweat beads at my temple as I try my best to recall the details of my blackout.
“Forgive me, Trésor. I don’t re—”
Her full smile steals my speech. “Remember that your calf had sex with Beau and that you’re expecting in four to six weeks?”
I faceplant in my pillow and then turn to her and grin, opening one eye. She runs her fingers through my tangled, flour caked hair, and I rest in the touch, a hope igniting in me that I’ve been starving for.
Her eyes do a slow sweep down my face before her tone turns to one of concern. “You were brutally honest.”
“I don’t know how to make things right.”
“I saw the effort you put in while I was cleaning my destroyed kitchen.” She widens her eyes. “No more cooking drunk, okay?”
“You should have let me clean it. Forgive me?”
“For last night, I’ll consider it,” she runs her hand down my bicep and arm before squeezing my hand and entangling our fingers. “The lights, Tobias, they are beautiful.”
“I didn’t want you to see them alone.”
“I think I needed to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I needed to see for myself what you haven’t told me in all the years we were apart. You’re…a lot to handle in a room sometimes. I don’t mean it in a bad way, but you’re distracting. And your guilt…it’s eating you alive. It’s been years, Tobias. Haven’t you made peace with any of it?”
“With Roman, all of that, yes, but with…everything else, no,” I close my eyes. “I don’t know how to stop it.”
“We’ll get through this,” she moves her upper half to cover me, and if it weren’t for my pounding head, I’d be all too eager to try and make love to her until she forgets the ass I was last night and remembers the controlled man she met. The man capable of conducting himself.
“Je suis un putain d’idiot,” I mumble, biting my lip.
“My idiot,” she grips my jaw and uses her thumb to pull it free from my teeth. For the first time since I came back to her, she initiates a kiss. Heart rocketing, I cup the back of her head and latch on, keeping her close, and kiss her back through the protest in my screaming head.
“Tobias,” she moans against my lips, and I have a vision of ripping flannel, of more moans, of burying my cock inside her.
Shifting to hover above her, I see the one thing I desperately need in her eyes, permission.
Fuck the headache.
Chest cracking wide, I reclaim her lips and grip her hair, angling her head and plunge my tongue deep into her mouth. Our kiss singes us both, and we set into motion. All at once, I give into every part of me, with the freedom I haven’t had for years as I begin to touch her, taste her neck, inhale her scent, indulge and lose myself in her while dragging moans and rapid breaths from her lips.
“Fuck, I missed you,” I murmur, lifting the hem of her flannel top with an eager hand just as Beau barks, his alert breaking us apart as the sound of an approaching motor stops all our movement. Cecelia glances up at me and frowns.
“Expecting someone?” I ask, ready to murder whoever is interrupting us as my cock weeps in my boxers. There’s no fucking way anyone would make it this close to our front door without my birds aware. Whomever it is, they’ve already been screened and identified if they made it into the driveway. I’m positive there is a text waiting with an arrival announcement.
Hovering above her, pulse hammering, hips still grinding, I pose a hopeful question as she gasps at the friction. “Mailman?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“It runs in the afternoon.”
Groaning in frustration, I spring from her and grab my Glock. By the time I’m armed, she’s already got her Beretta, missing the swipe of my hand to block her as I give chase, tugging on my sweatpants, as I stumble after her.
“Goddamnit, Cecelia!”
“Chill, Frenchman,” she snaps behind her as she heads toward the living room.
I’m halfway to where she stands at the entryway when she turns from the window and rushes toward me, paling with every step. Alarmed, I reach for her to get her behind me, and she stops a foot away before thrusting her gun toward me. Gripping it, and knowing she’s aware of who’s in her driveway, I search her face as the alarm drains from it and concern kicks in. “What’s wrong?”
“Go shower, okay? I’ll get rid of them, and then we’ll have breakfast.”
“Rid of who?”
“Tobias, please, just let me handle it.”
I move to walk around her as a door opens and closes, and panic fully blooms on her face.
“Please!” She begs, jumping in front of me and placing a hand on my chest. “Tobias, let me handle this. Please.”
Jealousy snakes in, and I narrow my eyes. “Who. The. Fuck. Is. It. Cecelia?”
She twists her hands in front of her like a teenage girl. “Tobias, when you got here, I completely forgot about it. We made plans so long ago. It slipped my mind.”
“I have a text waiting that will tell me exactly who it is, and I’m not fucking moving until I know, so out with it.”
She lifts terrified eyes to mine. “It’s my mother.”
Stunned briefly by her admission, Cecelia leaps into action before I gather myself in time to stop her freak out. Within seconds, she slips out the front door as I shuffle to ditch the guns and dress. Racing to the bedroom, I place them in the duffle, not bothering to check my cell, an oversight I won’t repeat. It was both reckless and careless to ignore any potential warning. After yanking on a hoodie, I shove into my sneakers before charging back in the direction
Cecelia fled. By the time I clear the front porch with Beau whining in tow, I’m able to hear harshly exchanged words of a hushed conversation at the back of a massive RV.
“Mom, please, just go, okay. I’ll call you and explain later.”
“You’re being ridiculous. We just got here, and you know we’ve been coming for months. What’s changed?”
“Everything, Mom. Please, just go, and I’ll call you.” Her plea is for me, to protect me, which only makes my love for her grow.
“That’s not necessary,” I speak up, stepping into view, laying eyes on both women as they turn to me with gaping mouths.
“Tobias,” Cecelia says mournfully, her eyes closing as her mother’s bulge.
By reaction alone, it’s easy to see Cecelia never told her about us, as her mother rapidly pales, her eyes darting wildly between us.
I always assumed Cecelia kept our secrets—even from those closest to her—and the proof is standing in front of me, seeming to be on the verge of passing out. Cecelia kept her involvement with me from her mother even after her confrontation with her eight months ago. I never asked her for the details because I was too busy trying to accept her goodbye.
Cecelia looks back at me, sheer panic in her eyes when she sees me moving to greet her mother.
“Hello, Diane,” I say, inching my way in as she takes a lingering look at her daughter before lifting mortified eyes to me. “This is what you’ve been hiding for so long?”
It’s not so much a question at this point, but the truth of it has knocked her sideways. Cecelia tries to stop me from reaching her, but I grab the hands meant to subdue me and squeeze them in reassurance.
“Tobias, I’ve asked her to leave.” Timothy, a boyfriend I’ve only read about in informative emails, emerges from the RV looking between the three of us, his eyes coming back to me. It’s odd how I’ve kept such close tabs on all of these people over the years, feeling as if I know them, and to an extent, I do.
Diane turns to Timothy, her voice shaking with fear. “Timothy, honey, will you grab a carton of cigarettes from the suitcase? I’m out.”
“Not before I give this little lady a hug.” He walks over to where we stand and pulls Cecelia into his arms before turning curious eyes to me. “Hey there, I’m Tim.”
“Tobias King,” I counter, thrusting out my hand. Releasing Cecelia, he takes it and pumps it eagerly. “So, I’m assuming Mr. King is what kept you from answering our calls last night?” Timothy asks Cecelia, sporting a clueless grin.
“Tim, please, my cigarettes,” Diane rasps out, her eyes glued to me.
“All right, honey,” he gives me a ‘women’ look before walking off to do her bidding.
“I forgot,” Cecelia says, dragging my attention back to her. “I swear, Tobias, it totally slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Trésor,” I whisper sincerely, before pressing a kiss to her temple. I sidestep her to reach Diane, who’s now visibly shaking.
“It’s been a long time,” I say softly as Diane rakes her lip with her teeth, her eyes shining with fear.
“I’ve wanted to reach out so many times since that day.”
I nod as Cecelia intercepts. “You’ve met her? You’ve met my mother? When?”
“I was eleven. Dom had chickenpox, and she gave me a ride to the pharmacy,” I turn to Cecelia. “She was pregnant with you. She almost named you Leann.” I lift my eyes to Diane. “Guess I had some sway on that?”
Diane nods, a lone, guilty tear gliding down her face.
“You never told me,” Cecelia rasps. The hurt in her tone has me attempting damage control on them both.
“I didn’t get a chance to, when…that day in my office before you left,” I offer, to indicate which day I’m referring to. “We never made it that far into the discussion.” And those details and revelations didn’t fucking matter because she was ridding herself of me for good. There was plenty left unsaid between us then, as there is now. And due to our own shit, I haven’t gotten to explain much more.
Cecelia mulls the latest dropped bomb and turns to her mother in question. “And you didn’t tell me you met him, either.”
Diane looks on at me in the most unnerving way, and I sense the ill feelings rolling through her. She’s transparent with her eyes, her expressions, much like her daughter. “It was only the once, and I didn’t think to mention it, well because I had no idea you two were… Oh, God,” she runs a hand through her cropped, brown hair. “I’ll go. We’ll go. We’ll go right now.” She eyes me over Cecelia’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come inside,” I say, and both women’s heads pop toward me. The resemblance unreal, mortification on both their faces. “Please, Diane, come inside.”
“Got ’em,” Timothy says, exiting the camper with a pack of cigarettes in hand. “Almost couldn’t find them in that death trap you call a suitcase,” he jests, reading the expressions of both women before looking toward me to relay.
“I could go for some pancakes and bacon, Tim. How about you?”
He takes my easy out, his eyes darting between mother and daughter before flashing an uneasy grin. “My kind of man.”
I look down at Diane as she cranes her neck to study me while I walk her into the house. “Breakfast?”
She nods, stupefied, as we clear the door before she glances over her shoulder at Cecelia.
“Well, damn, this is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” Timothy remarks as he eyes the French press in my hand.
“Tobias is a coffee snob, and he rubbed off on me,” Cecelia replies, on autopilot where she stands at the stove. She insisted on cooking but has been in a stupor since she started, tossing wary glances my way. I do my best to convey in my return gaze that I’m okay with the situation and see nothing but apology in her eyes. Her phone rattles where it rests in her apron on the counter, drawing her attention away. She pulls it out to read a text, staring at it for several beats before she starts to type a response.
All I want to do right now is gather her to me and assure her I’m all right, which surprisingly, I am. I often wondered how I would feel if I ever came face to face with the woman responsible for making me and my brother orphans at this point in my life. It’s a surprise to me how little resentment I feel toward her, but I made peace with it long ago. When I look at Diane now, all I see is the tortured and very pregnant teenager I met. I can still clearly remember the devastation on her face that day and the constant tears she battled the entire time we were together. That, combined with my love for her daughter, keeps me from harboring anything dangerous. It’s uncomfortable, but only because of the two women vibrating with emotions, feeding off each other.
Diane has practically turned to stone where she sits, and I do my best not to let my gaze linger on her, knowing she’s just as torn now as she was then. Some part of me feels the need to comfort her, but I have no idea how to go about it with the way she’s reacting to me. Timothy is clearly oblivious or playing blind to the ten-ton, red elephant in the room as he rattles on about the weather and his new RV.
Nodding every so often, I watch Cecelia closely, her shoulders tensing as she texts. She’s due for work any minute and hasn’t missed a day since I’ve been here.
“Everything okay at Meggie’s?” I ask, and she nods her head subtly before Tim tries to lure her back into conversation. “What you’ve done to this place since the last time we were here is incredible, Cecelia.”
“Thank you,” she replies lifelessly, abandoning the pancakes to type a mile a minute. The next text that comes through has her smacking her phone against the counter. Standing due to her sudden change in demeanor, I walk over to where she’s standing, and she looks back at me, eyeing me for long seconds before directing her scowl at her mother. “What’s going on? Is that Marissa?”
“Everything’s fine,” she responds with a frosty bite. “One of my waitresses no-showed.”
“Do you want me to head over and help?”
>
She bites her lips together and shakes her head. “Of course not. They’ve got it. Go sit down,” she lifts her chin toward the table. “I’ve got this.”
“Sure?”
“Tobias,” she sighs as I circle her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“This is okay. I am okay,” I whisper.
“Well, I’m not fucking okay,” she hisses, tensing in my arms.
She retrieves her spatula from the counter, flipping a perfectly round cake as I run my fingers along her stomach. “Look at me, Trésor.”
Hostile eyes meet mine, and confusion sets in. I can’t get a clear read on her. I press my forehead to hers. “This was going to happen sooner or later.” She bites her lip thoughtfully, seeming to finally focus on me before her eyes soften. “It’s too much to ask of you.”
“No, it’s not. If you can forgive me, anything is possible, right?”
She dismisses me, pulling out of my hold with the sharp dip of her chin. Following silent orders, I reclaim my seat at the table, confused about what’s going on inside of her. It’s clear her relationship with her mother is strained, and our combined presence here isn’t helping.
Timothy swallows, his eyes darting around as he begins to sense it and fidget, but being the man he is, he’s opted to bullshit around it. After another sad attempt by him to break the foot-thick ice, Diane speaks up. “So how long,” she asks in a weak tone, drawing my attention from Cecelia. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”
“That’s a complicated question, but the short version is we were together briefly before she went to college and just got back together three weeks ago.”
“Complicated,” Cecelia harrumphs, “I’ll say.” She flips a pancake, a very, very angry cook, and I frown at her back before she turns to address me. “She doesn’t need to know.” She slams her spatula down and folds her arms across her chest. It seems she’s on a fucking warpath now, and none of us seem to be safe. Timothy audibly swallows, his coffee halfway to his mouth.
The Finish Line Page 21
