When he finally lifted his head, they smiled at each other. He pulled her up, took her hand, and walked back to the stables, guiding the horses. There was never any explanation or discussion or questioning about the turn of events. No drama or pain or teen angst that could rip and shred the heart and soul.
After that kiss, everything had changed.
They were just . . . together.
Kyle emerged from the fog. He stretched and read over the words, excitement stirring in his gut.
Yes. This was what he needed. He’d been wrong to try and write it as a script. This particular story needed to be written as a book first, evolving from his memory. Once the images and emotions took hold, he’d be able to structure the script from the novel, swapping out narrative and thought for dialogue and action.
He went back to work.
Outside his door, Ophelia cocked her head and listened to the frantic tapping of the keys. He’d been completely engrossed for the last three days. Occasionally, he stumbled out, looking a bit confused, and left the inn. He would return an hour later with a variety of food and drink—especially coffee—and disappear back into the room.
Oh yeah, he was in the zone.
She remembered the same exact look years ago, except back then when he emerged it was always to drag her into bed. He’d silence her pleas to talk with his wicked lips and talented tongue until orgasms became more important than speech.
She steeled her shoulders and walked down the stairs. Distance was crucial. At least he’d stopped testing their agreement by constantly asking to talk, citing an important thing he desperately needed to tell her. Each time, she’d blasted him with an icy stare and walked away.
Damned if she was going to give him an opportunity to try and bond with her.
Of course, his hurt expression only made her more pissed.
Why did she care about his feelings? He was the one who forced his presence back into her life. Hell, she was glad he was back to his old workaholic routine, isolating himself and refusing to engage with anything that didn’t have to do with his career.
Or anyone.
Cursing softly under her breath, she swore it didn’t matter any longer.
It was good to be reminded of how he truly was. She was determined to treat him like a guest who’d requested complete privacy and no interruptions to his vacation.
But he’s not any guest, her inner voice whispered. He still affects you. Crack open the door, and he’ll push right through.
“Nope, not this time,” she shot back.
Liar. His presence alone is beginning to change you. You think about him all the time. You haven’t slept since he arrived.
“Shush. I have no time for you.”
God, her habit of talking to herself had to stop.
The doorbell interrupted her crazed, one-sided conversation. She assumed it was probably FedEx with the cleaning supply delivery. She went through so much she bought in bulk.
She yanked the door open and stared in shock at the person on her doorstep.
“Hello, Ophelia.”
He was old. Battered-looking. Years of hard drinking and hate had done their job well. His decline was evident in the harsh lines of his face, slightly bloated cheeks, and stooped posture. His gray hair was much thinner, but still present. But within those familiar forest-green eyes a light gleamed—one she’d never glimpsed from the angry man who’d raised the man she’d loved.
How long had it been since she’d seen Kyle’s father? Over a year?
He lived down the road, but other than the occasional run to one of the local stores, he kept to himself. His once-productive farm had fallen into disarray after Kyle left. Just another thing Patrick Kimpton could hate his son for.
“Patrick. This is a surprise.” She hesitated, caught between her good manners and the instinct to send him away. Manners won. “Umm, do you want to come in?”
“Thanks.” He moved slowly, reaching out to grip the railing and guide himself inside.
She’d remembered him as much taller and more intimidating, with a deep, angry voice and a whipcord strength that came from working the land. Now, he seemed almost frail.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“That’d be good.”
“Black?”
“No other way.”
“Have a seat.”
He followed her into the kitchen and waited while she poured the coffee. When she leaned over to give him the mug, she noticed there was no stink of alcohol on his breath or tremble in his hand.
Good. She really didn’t need him drunk when Kyle was upstairs.
She settled in the chair next to him. “So what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see my son.”
She blinked, studying him closely. As far as she knew, Kyle hadn’t seen him since he’d left for California a decade ago. His father had made no attempt to ever get in touch with him. Their father-son relationship was so damaged and broken, even Ophelia had finally given up trying to get them to communicate.
When she got back home years ago, she’d tried to check in on Patrick regularly—along with her mother, who’d show up with dinner—and had offered to help on the farm. Ophelia had been afraid that, with Kyle permanently gone, something bad would happen to Patrick.
And something did.
He refused to let them help him, becoming a recluse with a goal of drinking himself to death. Ethan had tried contacting AA and Al-Anon, but there was one message that came back every time: Patrick had to want to get better to stop drinking.
He’d made it clear he didn’t. Eventually, Ophelia and her mom stopped checking on him. She and Harper had rescued the leftover horses, chickens, and other animals from his farm. In the end there was only empty, endless acreage, ghostly barns, and a terrible silence.
Now that Patrick was sitting in her kitchen, looking and sounding nothing like she remembered, a surge of sympathy overtook her. She’d burned with rage toward Kyle’s father and the way he treated his son, but blood was blood, and her Irish genes kept her stubbornly hoping they’d be able to salvage some sort of relationship. That one day Patrick would see his mistakes and offer to make things right. But Kyle swore he’d never talk to his father again.
“Has Kyle contacted you?” she asked gently.
He gave a quick shake of his head. “Didn’t expect it. I know he hates me. Just want to look him in the eye and say a few things that are overdue.”
“I’ll go ask him, but I’m not sure he’ll want to talk, Patrick. Maybe with some time? He just got into town a couple of weeks ago.”
“How long will he be here?”
“Three months.” She studied him. He wore an old mustard sweatshirt and faded jeans. His usually stocky body looked thin. The way he cupped his mug and tended to shake his right foot was so similar to Kyle’s own mannerisms. “How are you doing?”
She expected his gaze to drop, or for him to change the subject. Instead, he lifted his head and looked her straight in the eye. “Better. Not gonna give you a bunch of bull about how getting sober has changed my life. Don’t expect forgiveness, either, but I’m here to ask for it.”
“Did you go to rehab?”
He nodded. “Been clean almost a year and got a part-time job helping over at the Nelsons’ farm. Been working on making my amends, but Kyle hasn’t taken my calls. I just heard today he was in town, so I drove right over.”
Yes, gossip would fly fast in Gardiner, as in any small town. Like Ethan, Kyle was the prodigal son who left to do big things. In fact, she was surprised there hadn’t been a long line of visitors pretending to check in with her this week, simply eager to see Kyle.
“Does he know you went to rehab?”
“Nah. I left a few messages, but I knew he wouldn’t listen to them. Don’t blame him. Thought about going out to California, but I don’t have the money yet. I’m saving.”
Her heart suddenly ached for what could have been. Even though Patrick had caused
so much pain, she hoped Kyle would at least hear him out.
“He’s in his room, writing. I’ll go get him.”
She climbed the stairs and stood at his door, her nerves tightening. Dragging in a breath, she knocked.
Nothing. The mad clack of the keyboard was the only sound.
She pounded harder. “Kyle? Open the door. It’s important.”
A low mutter. The clatter of a chair. Then the door swung open. His beard was scruffier, his hair crazily mussed, and his eyes had that sheen that hinted at a bit of madness.
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
She stepped in closer and kept her voice soft. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Oh. Can you tell them to go away till later?”
“It’s your father.”
His stunned expression ripped at her heart. For just a second, he reminded her of the young boy who had been desperate and happy to take any attention his father would give. It was only later, after being rejected cruelly too many times, that there had been nothing but emptiness when he spoke about Patrick. The rage and pain had numbed over to ice, and Ophelia always believed that was so much worse.
His lips twisted. “Are you fucking kidding me? What does he want? Money?”
“No. Just to talk.”
A vicious curse blistered her ears.
“I cannot believe he actually came here. Damn town gossip must’ve let him know I’m back.” His face hardened with resolution. “I’m going to take care of this once and for all.”
He’d shared his stories with her, and she’d shared his pain. It was as if Patrick’s acts had affected both of them, especially when they ended up falling in love. “Do you want me to go with you?”
He shook his head but reached out to touch her shoulder. “No, I have to handle this myself. But thank you.”
Her heart ached to help him, but she remained quiet. Ophelia watched him stalk down the stairs. She drew a shaky breath. She’d stay right here, out of the line of fire, but close enough . . . just in case.
Maybe he’d glimpse what she just had. Patrick clearly seemed different. He’d stopped drinking. He wanted to make amends. It was a step. Wasn’t the first step always the hardest?
She gripped the banister as their voices drifted upward. No yelling. Just low, murmured conversation. Maybe enough time had passed to scab over some raw wounds so they could communicate for the first time.
Time blurred, but it seemed like a good sign that she still hadn’t heard the door slam. Finally, she heard the shuffle of footsteps down the hall. A click. Then quiet.
She waited for a bit. When Kyle didn’t appear, she made her way down the stairs. He was leaning against the antique writing desk, staring out the window. He shook himself out of his trance when she got closer.
“Hey, sorry. He’s gone.”
She hesitated, studying his face for clues. For a moment, she swore there was a flash of regret in those green eyes, but it was quickly replaced with nothing. “Did you talk to him?”
His features hardened. “Not really. I explained that it was best he stayed away. I told him I had nothing to say to him, and that there was nothing he could say that I’d want to listen to.”
She nodded, but her heart ached. “He looked different. Like he had stopped drinking.”
Kyle lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter any longer, though.”
She took a step forward, wanting to reach out and touch him, then quickly drew back. Pain reverberated in waves around him, urging her to wrap him in her arms and soothe it away with her touch and her kiss and her words—like she had so many times before. Instead, she swallowed back the lump in her throat and forced her feet to turn away.
“Ophelia.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to sit down with me for a bit? I can grab us some lunch in town. We need to talk.”
An impatient sigh escaped her lips. “Look, I can understand if you want to talk about your dad—”
“I don’t want to discuss Patrick.” Ice flecked his tone. “That subject is dead. What I want is for you to give me a few minutes to have a real conversation about something important. It’s about us, Ophelia. You need to hear it.”
Her emotions roiled close to the surface.
Wasn’t letting him live here for three months enough? Couldn’t he just leave the past and their relationship alone in the locked box she’d safely stored them in? God, any moment she softened he tried to take advantage of her.
Twice now she’d gotten flashes of the man she’d fallen in love with. The one who’d taken comfort in her presence and shared his pain about his dad. The one who’d stepped in to take care of her and the inn without hesitation.
But it wasn’t real.
She couldn’t be misdirected by lingering emotions for a relationship that was over. The man she’d once loved had changed, and he was never coming back. She had to stop letting him sneak past her defenses.
Angry at her own weakness, she clenched her fists with frustration. “No. I don’t need to hear it. I need you to follow the terms of our damn agreement and leave me alone!”
His jaw clenched. He studied her defensive stance, then muttered a soft curse. “Do you hate me that much?”
She jerked. She didn’t want to do this. Once, he’d been her everything, but examining the past too intensely would only lead to more pain.
“No. I could never hate you—it would be like hating part of myself. But I don’t want to talk about us ever again.”
His gaze delved deep. “We may have a problem, then.”
Her nerves tingled in warning. Immediately, she sensed everything was about to change. The trembling began deep and broke slowly apart; the words hovered on his carved lips, and she knew she had to stop him. In sheer panic, she lifted her hands up and shook her head hard.
“I don’t want to know. Keep your truth to yourself, and let’s leave the past where it is—behind us. I have to go. I have a million things to do.”
“Ophelia.”
“Let’s just stick to the plan and move forward. I mean it. I’ve had enough.”
“Dammit, I have to—”
“I’m not listening,” she sang loudly as she whirled around and took off down the hall, focused on reaching the safety of her bedroom. She knew she should be humiliated by her ridiculous urge to run and hide, but she didn’t want to have a deep discussion about the many events that had ripped them apart and broken her heart.
A few steps from her room, she heard his voice bellow through the air and vibrate in an explosion of sound that froze her midmotion.
“For God’s sake, woman! We’re still married!”
She’d been right.
His words had changed everything.
Chapter Eight
Ophelia stared at him from across the dining room table.
Her vision was still a bit shaky, as if the world had tilted. Which it had. At first, she’d attempted to deny his declaration a hundred different ways. He quietly told her to take a breath, then guided her into a chair while he got some papers.
Still half in shock, she accepted the glass of water he brought her and gulped the liquid down in a few swallows. She was sure once she saw the papers, she’d spot an error.
Then they could have a big laugh and get back to ignoring each other.
After all, this was impossible. They were divorced. She’d signed the paperwork, and so had he.
“You must be wrong,” she forced out after her voice began working again. “We have copies from the lawyer.”
He pushed a fat folder in front of her. “Those are my copies of what we signed and gave the lawyer. But did you ever get an official dissolution of marriage form in the mail? Legal documents stating the divorce was final?”
She desperately rifled through the papers and tried to think. “No. I assumed they were mailed to our address in California and you just never sent me a copy. I never needed it. I never thought about it.”
&
nbsp; He nodded. “Neither did I. In my mind, we had done the hard stuff. We paid the lawyer and signed paperwork. But recently, I found out the lawyer we used was a fake. He was taking money from clients without ever filing the official documents. It was just a big scam. When the story broke and I realized it was him, I dug a bit deeper and confirmed with the court that we were still legally married.”
“This can’t be,” she whispered. “Isn’t there a recourse for the people he scammed?”
“Unfortunately not. He’ll go to jail or claim bankruptcy and keep our money. If we want to go through with this divorce, we have to start over. Because right now, I’m legally your husband.”
Her lungs seized, and she scrambled desperately for calm. The way he said husband pummeled her back into the past, swirling with memories of raw intimacy, giddy highs, searing pain, and her broken heart that had never fully healed. Her belly tumbled when she thought of still belonging to him, but her traitorous body lit up with anticipation.
Focus. She had to focus on the problem at hand, solve it, and move on. It was the only way to deal with the fallout.
“Okay, so we need to fix this. Fast. Discreetly. No need to panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
Ophelia frowned, taking in his calm demeanor. He looked almost . . . glad.
Was it because he’d had more time to deal with the shock? Or was he up to something more sinister?
“Good, then we’re in agreement to move forward. Do you have a lawyer you want to use? I’m figuring we have to file again in California, right? I wonder if we have to start the whole thing over, or if we can just refile our papers.”
“It’s been too long, so we start at the beginning. We have a fresh slate.” He was staring at her with a strange intensity.
Why did his words sound like they held a hidden meaning?
There was a predatory aura pulsing around him.
A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2) Page 7
