Mr. Misunderstood

by Sara Jane Stone

  “You were happy in the beginning,” he says bitterly.

  “I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t like some parts of him.”

  “I don’t want to hear about those parts.”

  I cock my head. If I didn’t know better, I would think … But no, after thirty years of friendship, he couldn’t possibly be …

  “Gavin, are you jealous?” I hear the note of laughter in my tone.

  “Yes.”

  His dark gaze glides over my body as if he’s mentally undressing me across the table. We’ve shared hundreds of meals together, but he’s never looked at me as if he wanted to push aside the containers and take me right here on the table.

  “I’m trying to fight it,” he continues, “I know you’ve had enough domineering men in your life. But I would be lying if I told you I didn’t want to punch Jason again because he’s seen you naked.”

  “We were married,” I point out. “And how many women have seen you naked?”

  “I didn’t say I was right. I’m just telling you the truth.” He rises from the floor and Ava stands up, ready to follow him. “I’m going to grab a beer. Want one? Or a glass of wine?”

  “Beer’s fine.”

  I wait until he disappears into the kitchen, with Cleveland and Ava on his heels, to steal a piece of his dragon roll. Then I turn back to my curry. Three bites later, Gavin returns with two open bottles of Long Island City microbrew.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “How did it happen?” he asks as he settles down on the floor. The dogs retreat to their beds, realizing they are not getting a surprise lunch or walk. “How did you go from happy to miserable? I want to understand what went wrong.”

  So you don’t make the same mistake?

  I shrug. “It just happened.”

  “Please Kayla,” he says. “It will at least make me feel better about hitting him.”

  “It was little things,” I say with a sigh. “He didn’t hit me, or abuse me. I think that was why it took me so long to leave. There wasn’t a single moment or event that I could point to and say that’s when he hurt me.”

  “I would have noticed.” He tips his beer bottle to me. “If that bastard laid a hand on you, I would have sought him out and beat the crap out of him.”

  “At the time, everything seemed so small,” I say. “I felt as if I was getting worked up over nothing. Jason commented on how I dressed from the beginning, but I brushed it off. After he became this big shot who was invited to all the fancy clubs and parties, and I was a teacher who wasn’t teaching, who didn’t have kids …”

  I take a sip of beer.

  “You wanted kids?” he asked.

  “I was open to the idea. But I wasn’t willing to try alternative methods when it didn’t happen for us. Maybe part of me knew that having a family with Jason was a bad idea.”

  His brow furrows. “I remember you told me you were going to a doctor to see if anything was wrong. You never said anything else about it.”

  “And you decided my visits to the gynecologist were none of your business?”

  The corner of his mouth curves up offering a hint of a smile. “It’s still none of my business.”

  “True.” I take another sip of beer. “The doctor didn’t find any reason I couldn’t have children.”

  “It was his problem?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. Or it wasn’t meant to be. Of course, it was one more way I failed to meet his standards, but it wasn’t the only thing that he found fault with. I had one dog and an amazing ability to leave our home a mess. Slowly, I started to see myself as Jason saw me. I liked to eat too much so I never lost that last five pounds that would have made the designer clothes look good on my short frame. He gave me so many suggestions on how to act and what to say when we were out that I felt like a failure before we walked out the door. I stopped talking to people at parties, or really anywhere, because I couldn’t find one reason they would want to spend time with me. His world was defined by dollars and success. I had neither.”

  “Kayla.” He reaches across the table and I place my hand in his. The contact offers instant comfort.

  “One day, I woke up and realized I hated who I’d become. I wasn’t teaching. I wasn’t doing anything. I was barely living. I’d faded away.” I squeeze his hand. “But you know that part. You knew long before I did. For the entire year before I left, you told me I could come to you anytime and you’d help me.”

  “I had the divorce attorney on speed dial. Not because I ever thought that this”—he motions between the two of us—“would happen if you left him. I wanted you to be happy. That pompous jerk didn’t make you happy.”

  “Not in the end. But I blame him less and less every day. He was being true to himself. I was the one who refused to stand up and say ‘this is what I need’ or ‘this is what I want.’ I wasn’t comfortable with myself.”

  “Because you lived with an ass who always told how he thought you could improve. That is not your fault. Kayla, you need to believe me on that.”

  “I do.” I pull my hand free from his. I’m tempted to reach for another take-out bag. He ordered everything I could possibly desire, all of my favorite foods from three different restaurants. Almost as if he wanted to prove that he could give me anything I want.

  But three years after my divorce, I know that I need more than a man with perfect abs who respects my love of New York City take-out. Love doesn’t come in a take-out container, or attached to a fancy dress.

  “I’m so damn proud of you, Kayla.”

  I push the remaining take-out containers away. “I’m pretty impressed with myself too. I remember how unsure I felt towards the end. It seemed crazy to walk away.”

  Just like it feels insane to say no to my billionaire best friend when he’s offering to build my dreams from the ground up.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest and lean back against the couch. My gaze falls on Ava. The Shepard’s sharp eyes follow my movements as if she senses a shift in my mood. Her body tenses. For a second, I think my hundred-pound dog might walk over and curl up in my lap. But then I feel soft paws on my leg. Ginger, the cat who took my side from the beginning of this wild scheme, climbs onto my thigh.

  There aren’t sides to this situation. I’m helping Gavin.

  I unfold my arms and run a hand down Ginger’s back. Yes, I’m helping my best friend. And I owe him after he rushed to my aid. But I can’t lose sight of the personal toll. I know the moments when it feels insane to leave probably mean it’s time to go.

  “It wasn’t crazy to leave Mr. Mistake,” Gavin says firmly. “Now you have the life you want.”

  I look out that window, studying the view of Central Park from Billionaire’s row. It’s beautiful here, but it’s not home. While this scheme might be temporary, what’s happening between us feels frightening real—and terrifyingly isolating.

  My friends, the handful I’ve made since my divorce, and my mother believe I’m getting married. I’m alone and falling in love with the one person I always turned to when I needed help.

  Gavin can’t navigate through this storm for me. I need to find my own way. I didn’t fight for my independence from my ex for my life to look like this.

  “This isn’t the life I want,” I say carefully, turning my gaze away from the window and back to the billionaire across the table.

  His expression hardens and his lips press together. Suddenly, he looks every inch the powerful CEO.

  “I’ll get you back to the country as soon as this blows over,” he says. “I’ll set up Kayla’s Barn for Abandoned Dogs. I will do everything I can to give you the life you want.”

  What about us?

  I don’t ask the question out loud. I’m not ready for the heartbreak. Gavin’s life is here, and he won’t walk away from this world. Not after going to all of this trouble to preserve his image.

  But we’ve moved beyond best friends. Gavin hit my ex-husband. And as soon as we returned to his apartment, I deb
ated taking him to bed. Jealousy and desire—those feelings aren’t the cornerstones of an enduring friendship.

  “I need to head upstate now.” My voice is surprisingly firm. “After today, and all that is happening here … I need to go home.”

  His brow furrows. “Because you saw Mr. Mistake?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t just pick up and leave,” Gavin says slowly. “It will look like we’re running from Alexandra’s accusations. And shit, from your ex.”

  I draw a deep breath and gently move Ginger from my lap. Then I stand. “I know it’s not the best timing for our fake engagement, but I need a break from the city. I’m sure Margaret will find a way to spin the story.”

  “Kayla …”

  I wait for him to add the words I need you, or I’m hopelessly in love with you.

  But would that change anything?

  “I’ll come with you,” he says finally. “We can go as soon as you’re packed and ready.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “I’m coming with you,” he repeats. “But I would like to stay at my house.”

  “The last time I was over there it looked like you were preparing for a feature in Architectural digest. Your décor won’t recover from the claws and pet hair.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my furniture, Kayla. I need to keep fighting Alexandra and her crazy media circus. If we go to my place, Margaret can issue a statement that I whisked you away after the distressing encounter with you ex.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m the distressed one? You hit him.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “Okay. We’ll say you whisked me away to keep me from killing your ex in a jealous rage.”

  “Jason lives in Westchester,” I point out. “We’ll be closer to him up there.”

  “We’ll make the narrative work. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you, Kayla. You know that.”

  Except show the world who you really are.

  “Thank you,” I say. Now isn’t the time to tell him that one trip to the country won’t erase the fact that Gavin Black is a prisoner to his past. The psychologist’s prediction came true in many ways. Every decision he makes protects his secrets.

  And leaving the city won’t change the fact that I refuse to be trapped by my past.

  CHAPTER 20

  GAVIN

  “Where are you with the investigation?”

  I pace back and forth through the empty barn. The interior smells like hay despite the fact it has stood empty for a decade, or maybe more. The structure needs new siding, a new roof, and a new floor. A new damn near everything.

  “I haven’t found any evidence connecting Kayla’s ex-husband to Alexandra’s blackmail scheme,” Margaret reports.

  My PR guru’s dismissive tone gives me pause. I stop beneath the beams vaulting the A-frame ceiling. “You don’t believe the PI? He is your guy, right?”

  “He’s the best I’ve found, but I’m still not convinced Alexandra is her real name. She must have a reason for coming after you.”

  “Money.”

  “If that was her primary goal, she would have demanded another payment before going public with her story, and those pictures.”

  “Perhaps,” I admit. “Maybe she thinks she will get more out of me if she thrusts the knife in and twists it a few times.”

  “Or she could have continued on as your girlfriend and found a way to marry you. An accidental pregnancy—”

  “Not a chance,” I say. “I never planned to marry her. It was just a fling.”

  “When she realized that, she turned to blackmail.”

  “You’re certain she’s not connected to Jason Kemp?” I start pacing again. Money seems like a logical motivation. But I can’t escape the fact that it feels too easy.

  “Did he give you any reason to suspect a connection before you attacked him?” Margaret asks.

  “No,” I admit grudgingly. I spent an hour on the phone with Margaret yesterday discussing the fact that I cannot lose my temper and hit people in public. I look like a “jealous fool” in her opinion. Although by the end of our talk, she admitted that many in New York might view it as proof of my love for Kayla. The fact that we raced off to the country hours later also contributed to that storyline.

  “Where is Kayla now?” Margaret asks.

  “She’s in the house. I came out to the barn to start thinking about repairs. We have contractors coming by tomorrow. I want to make use of our time here.”

  “Are you thinking of getting married there?” Margaret asks.

  “No,” I say quickly.

  “I wasn’t insinuating that you would run off to the courthouse. But the barn might make a nice venue.”

  “It will take months, maybe longer to fix it up.” I glance toward the rafters. “The roof looks ready to collapse.”

  “And you’re standing inside?”

  “Yes, I’m risking my life to have this conversation.”

  “I’m glad to see your sarcasm is thriving in the country air,” she responds. “I suggest that you leave the barn, find your fiancée, and visit a few potential wedding venues. It will distract the press from your crazy ex. It might also give you time to ask Kayla if she told her ex-husband about your past.”

  Yeah, I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

  “She wouldn’t do that,” I say firmly. But Margaret’s right. I don’t need a private investigator snooping for a potential connection between Mr. Mistake and Alexandra when I haven’t asked Kayla one simple question—did you divulge my deepest, darkest secret to the asshole you married?

  “Ask her,” Margaret says again, speaking slowly this time as if I didn’t understand the words the first few times around.

  “I will.”

  Margaret’s silent a moment and I wonder if she’s moved on. Then she says, “There’s one more thing that we uncovered while researching the people from your past.”

  I close my eyes and prepare for the worst. If it turns out my former foster mother is somehow connected to all of this … I’ll drive to Vermont and confront Liz Masters myself. Hell, I’ve been dying to have a face-to-face with her since she left prison. But I’ve kept that temptation in check. I don’t want anyone seeing us together. As far as the world knows, Gavin Black has never met the women tried and convicted for abusing Terrance Montgomery.

  “What have you uncovered?” I demand, opening my eyes and inhaling the hay-scented air.

  “Sophia Galanos died last year of an apparent overdoes in Greece.”

  “Good riddance,” I snap. “I just wish the woman spent the rest of her days in jail.”

  “Gavin,” Margaret chides.

  I know it’s not a nice or charitable wish. Mrs. Galanos had kids of her own. They’re probably grown now, and grieving their mother’s death. And there’s no doubt her family would have suffered if the justice system had ruled in my favor and tossed Sofia Galanos in prison. But it would have been the right thing to do.

  “She was guilty,” I say. “Sophia Galanos deserved to lose a lot more than her license to run an adoption racket after the way she turned a blind eye to my situation.”

  “I’m giving you the facts, Gavin. She’s no longer alive and thus unconnected to the current situation.”

  “And Liz Masters?” I spit out the words. Margaret has followed up every lead. She probably knows what Liz had for breakfast.

  “Still living with her sister in Vermont. We were not able to find a connection to Alexandra,” Margaret says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Now go find Kayla. And please give her my best.”

  I walk across the manicured lawn separating the dilapidated barn from my home. The 1800s farmhouse rests on the top of a hill and offers stunning views of the Hudson River. Not that I spent much time here enjoying the rustic scenery. I bought the damn place so I would have a place for Kayla to escape to if she needed it. And then I purchased the neighboring property when she was ready to leave. I liked the fact that the a
djoining properties mirrored the set-up from when we were kids.

  Although this time I thought I would be the one running to her side and offering help, not the other way around.

  But Kayla proved far more resilient. She rebuilt her life and came out strong. She didn’t need me rushing over to comfort her. Maybe that was part of growing up. When we were kids, I needed her at my side. I would have lost my mind without Kayla.

  I pause beside the stone path. I worked so damn hard to siphon off those memories. I changed my name and wrote a new past to go with my adopted identity. The only place Terrance Montgomery still exists is on the court records that placed the Masters in prison. Sophia Galanos’s records were never found, if she bothered to keep evidence of her crimes. And I wiped out every other trace. I asked my former schools and doctors to destroy my records. I arrived on the MIT campus and introduced myself as Gavin Black. I had the identification—legal papers, SAT scores, and a driver’s license—to prove it.

  But one glance at the damn picture of Terrance—of me—sitting on the bathroom floor and I can’t hide from the memories. I lived every day of my childhood feeling like I was a failure. Every fucking day. I believed the kids at school when they told me I was worthless. And I trusted my foster parents when they focused on my weaknesses.

  I stare out at the trees as the echoes of the past invade and threaten to take up residence. Dammit, I’m not that kid anymore. But thinking about Liz Masters and I can hear the echo of my foster mother’s words.

  Nobody wants to be your friend. You’re a loser. I can’t believe we keep you in the house.

  They were just words. I remember the day at the trial when the defense attorney tried to tell the jury that calling someone a “loser” wasn’t a crime. I wanted to jump up and yell at him, at the jury, and everyone else, that hearing that word over and over hurt more than all the meals I missed while my foster family kept me locked in the bathroom. But Kayla reached over from the audience section in the courtroom, and she placed a hand on my shoulder.