Because bad habits were so very hard to break. But if Claire was willing to try a new path, so was he.
“Get me on a plane to South Carolina.”
Chapter 20
She heard the outboard motor but didn’t make the effort to get up from her lounge chair on the deck to see who was on the boat. The only dock on the private island was right next to the house, but she wasn’t expecting anyone, and more than likely it was one of the many fishing boats that zoomed out to the ocean in the morning and puttered back to shore in the heat of the afternoon.
It had taken Claire a full twenty-four hours to reach this state of calm. After leaving Tom, she’d packed a bag in fifteen minutes, called Carl, the Ramseys’ driver, and was at the tarmac in Bangor. Three flights, a layover in Charleston, and the next morning, Claire stepped off the boat onto Lesley Island to start the next phase of her life.
Whatever that was.
A week ago, she had everything figured out. Her life was like her closet. Her clothes were designer, arranged by season, then color. Shoes were neatly lined up. Handbags were in their boxes.
Today she felt like a two-year-old had been let loose to play dress-up in there. Everything was pulled off the hangers. Scarves were flying, heels were mismatched, sticky fingers had smeared jelly on her silk blouses.
It was ridiculous. Tom had had no practical effect on her life. She still had her apartment, her job—her weekly calendar had all the same appointments: dentist, hairdresser, trainer.
It was the letdown after the wedding, Claire reminded herself for the fiftieth time. She had been so invested in Laurel and Tyler’s wedding that she was obviously going to be at loose ends for a while, until she found a new extracurricular project to suck up her time.
But that couldn’t be normal. Women didn’t escape to private islands for time to reevaluate their priorities after their best friends’ weddings. If they did, they needed a life.
Which brought her back to Tom. Sort of.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax under the morning sun. She would not think of Tom. He didn’t matter. He was not part of her life. Temporary insanity, brought on by the stress of planning a society wedding, that was what her fling with Tom Horrible had been about.
“Hello, Claire.”
The voice scared the crap out of her. She screamed and jumped out of the chair. Her foot caught on the strap of her new monogrammed L.L.Bean canvas tote that swung around between her legs, causing her to trip and fall backward down the deck stairs. She landed on the white sand, on her back, which knocked the air out of her.
“Claire!” It was Tom who was leaning over her. Or maybe she’d hit her head and it was a hallucination. “What are you doing here?” she yelled after she got her breath back.
“Don’t move,” he said in that irritatingly soothing voice. He brushed back her hair from her forehead, his fingers near the spot where she’d worn a bandage just a few nights ago.
“Am I bleeding?” She didn’t remember hitting her head. But people who hit their head sometimes didn’t remember it.
“Not that I can see.”
Good. Claire scrambled backward across the sand, away from him, only knowing one thing for sure. Tom Harrington was dangerous and she needed to be far away from him.
She started walking down the beach away from the house. “Claire, wait!” His voice carried over the waves and wind, and because this was a stupid small island and she couldn’t get off it, he was next to her and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“Go away,” she said.
“I just got here.”
“So?”
“So don’t tell me what to do.”
Claire stopped and turned to get a look at the man. “Oh, I’m done telling you anything.”
“Is that so?”
To prove her point, she started walking away from him again. She was so totally done with Tom Harrington.
He called out to her, “That’s not the Jasmine La Quinta I know.”
Somehow that infuriated her even more. “Jasmine La Quinta is made up, you idiot!”
He had run up to her again, now blocking her way. “She’s real.”
“You’re an idiot,” she repeated.
“Dawson is real.”
“Really? Dawson doesn’t even have a last name.”
“Sure he does.”
“What is it?”
“Robespierre.”
The ridiculousness of that almost made Claire laugh—almost. “Dawson Robespierre the Formula One racecar driver?”
“And possibly an MI6 agent.”
It was too much. She was exhausted by everything. Their games, their lies, their truth. “What do you want, Tom?”
“I wish I’d brought a puppy.”
It was another non sequitur that exhausted her, but she gave in and asked, “Why?”
“Puppies make you smile.” Tom shook his head. “And I’d do anything to make you smile.”
“Why did you come?”
“You know why.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes you do. Deep down you know that we can’t let each other go. There’s no one else for me, Claire. No one else that I want a second, third, fourth, hundredth chance with. No one else that will understand my sense of humor; no one else that makes me want to swim out to an island, just to get the chance to apologize.” He took her limp hand in between his. “I’m sorry. I heard that you had gotten this place and I assumed the worst. I thought you were running out on me again, and I’m…” He seemed to struggle for the words. “I’m an idiot covered in dog hair who’s asking you for another chance.”
Claire shook her head. She understood what he was saying, why he had acted the way he did, but the awful truth was that he had reacted the way he did because of what she’d done seven years ago. When she’d left him. It was another example of their history, their awful patterns coming back to slap their hands when they dared to grasp at happiness.
“I’m sorry for what happened. When I didn’t call you after graduation.” If she hadn’t done that, maybe they would have had a chance.
“The phone works both ways, Claire. I was too scared to pick it up.”
“That’s what Laurel said at the reception. She said I was scared of being wrong about you.”
“And you were scared of losing your best friend. Strangely, that’s one of the things I love most about you.”
Claire’s head swam. “You can’t love me.”
“You do like to micromanage people, Claire. Honestly, at some point you’re going to have to let me love you.”
“You said it again.” The L-word. It was inconceivable.
“I’m going to keep saying it. I’m a man, and men can make their own decisions, like what kind of jeans they like, what kind of car they want to drive, what type of difficult yet beautiful and compassionate women they love. Seriously. You need to let go a little.”
So she did. Straight into his arms. Claire flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was, after all, their only foolproof way of communicating. Kisses, they never screwed up. Kisses were always crystal clear. It was when they started using their mouths for speech that they got in trouble. Still, there was one thing she still had to say.
“I love you, too.” It was a whisper against his lips because both Laurel and Tom had been right. There was fear in her heart. Fear that she would lose her friends, her identity. Fear that she would never get another chance with this man who was so right for her.
Tom kissed her back this time, leaving her breathless and thoroughly glad that they were all alone on this island. “Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “Is it me you love, or is it my access to most of the dogs in Maine?”
Claire pulled away a bit, wanting him to see how serious she was about her answer. “Let’s just say I hope you were sincere about getting me a puppy.”
She was met with Tom’s smile, the echo of one she’d first seen ten years ago. “One puppy, two, three. Anything f
or you.”
And just like that, Claire’s mental closet righted itself again. As long as she had Tom and their animals, everything would make sense.
At least until the next wedding was planned.
About the Author
As a Texan and recovering sorority girl, Lindsay Emory has strong opinions on college football, nachos, and wearing white after Labor Day. Lindsay started writing when her first grade teacher put her in a closet and told her to write stories, instead of teaching her math. When she's not writing, she's raising two daughters, watching movies with her husband, and reading as many books as possible. She is an active member of the Dallas Area Romance Authors chapter of RWA and a semi-active member of the PTA, which is a whole lot less fun.
@Lindsay_Emory
lindsayemorywrites
lindsayemory.com
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