“Fuck you, voice. Just fuck you. I’ve had enough of your bullshit. This is real life, not fantasyland.”
So prove it and say his name again. Prove he took a step at the exact moment you said his name due purely to chance. Let’s see how that theory tests out for you.
“I’m talking to myself!” I shout at nothing in particular. “It’s finally happened! I’ve lost my mind! Might as well go adopt a few dozen cats and start wearing my underwear over my clothes!”
Or you could just go to the window, say his name, and deal with whatever happens next.
“No.”
Maybe he was being literal when he wrote “I’ll always be here?” Maybe he’s done with wandering all through the town at night and has decided to camp out on the beach in front of the Buttercup? And by the way, wasn’t it interesting how when you called Craters and Freighters to find out why Cass’s paintings were delivered so early, they claimed their paperwork had yesterday’s delivery date on it all along? That YOU gave them that date when you signed the contract?
Are you seriously telling me you think THAT was another random coinkydink?
I grab fistfuls of my hair and make a noise like I’ve been punched in the stomach. “Coincidences don’t mean anything! They’re just coincidental!”
Go to the window and prove it.
I let loose a string of expletives that would have my mother’s hair curling. Then I stalk over to the window and glare out the glass.
He’s still standing right where he was.
“Theo,” I say flatly.
He takes another step forward.
I scream like I’ve seen a ghost and stumble back, almost falling in my haste.
Rationalize that, Megan. No amount of logic in the world can explain your connection with Theo Valentine.
“We don’t have a connection,” I whisper, hyperventilating and starting to sweat. “We’re complete strangers. He’s just a guy I hired to work on my house.”
Who’s standing outside at midnight, taking one step toward you every time you say his name. Denial isn’t a good color on you. Stop being such a coward and deal with it.
Racked with tremors, I walk slowly back to the glass. He waits, motionless, staring up at the window, his features obscured in the shadows. I open the glass door, step out onto the patio, and grip the wood railing. The night wind catches my hair and swirls it all around my face. With my heart throbbing and my legs shaking, I stare right at him, focusing all my attention on the word I form in my mind.
Theo.
He bows his head. He starts to shake it back and forth, covering his ears with his hands. Then he turns and runs off down the beach. In a few moments, he’s swallowed by darkness.
My legs like rubber, I sink to my knees on the balcony and stare down the beach at the place he disappeared until my vision is so blurred, I can no longer see.
16
When I can stand again, I go inside, my limbs numb with shock. I can’t sleep, so I pace the floors of the Buttercup, spending long hours in a dark place inside my head.
By the time the sun rises, my brain is spaghetti.
I shower and dress, eat a muffin for breakfast, make myself a cup of coffee, and read the paper. I do all that on autopilot, with minimal awareness. All the other parts of my operating system are tied up in thoughts of a man who makes no sense to me, and the improbability of the situation I’ve found myself in.
It. Does. Not. Compute.
When Coop and the guys arrive at 8:00 a.m., Theo isn’t with them.
“Said he wasn’t feelin’ well,” explains Coop with an apologetic shrug.
That makes two of us. I feel spooked, relieved, and disappointed, all at once.
“We should’ve finished up this afternoon, but without Theo, it might take another day.”
“Take your time,” I answer, already turning away.
I grab my laptop and phone and head upstairs to the master bedroom. I shut the door, sit on the floor with my back against the bed so I can see the ocean, and fire up the computer. Then I send Theo an email, because I only have two options to deal with this situation: avoidance and denial, or tackling it head-on.
Though I’m scared to death, tackling it head-on seems like the better choice.
So here goes nothing.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I’m confused
Here’s a bit of radical honesty for you: I’m confused as fuck.
I know that was you on the beach. Another strange midnight visit from my silent friend. Enemy? Frenemy? What is this? What’s happening?
Am I making things up in my head?
Tell me something true or tell me to go to hell, but communicate with me, Theo. I feel like I might be going crazy.
Please tell me I’m not.
After I hit Send, I wait with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel hungover and strung out, as if I’ve spent the last week drinking wine for every meal. When he doesn’t answer right away, I stand and begin to pace.
After thirty minutes, a chime tells me I have an incoming email. I’m so nervous, the muffin I ate for breakfast almost makes a reappearance, but I manage to swallow it down and click open the email with trembling hands.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: I’m confused
I apologize for not being able to come to the job today. I’m not feeling well. I’ll be back tomorrow to finish things up.
Best,
Theo
The job?
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I mutter, angered by his impersonal response.
This bastard thinks he can prance around outside my house in the middle of the night, kick down my front door, walk out on me in a restaurant, glare bloody murder at me every other time our eyes meet, act like a psychopath one minute and a lost puppy the next, tell me I make all his broken parts bleed, and generally make me feel like I’m starring in a bad soap opera, then brush me off like nothing ever happened?
So not gonna happen.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Give me a break
I’m calling bullshit on your lame excuse for not showing up today. You feel fine, and we both know it.
For future reference, I hate being patronized. Have the balls to tell me what’s up or don’t bother coming back. Coop is perfectly capable of finishing the job without you.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Give me a break
I’ll let Coop know you prefer that he handle things from here on out.
Not even thirty seconds passed before his response came through. Now I’m not just mad. I’m steaming.
I send a single word back to him:
COWARD.
Then I close my laptop and go about my day, telling myself that the next time Theo Valentine shows up outside my house in the middle of the night, I’ll call the cops.
I almost believe it.
* * *
“This here’s the smart home central controller that you can program all your devices and home electronics into,” Coop says, pointing to the small digital tablet installed on the wall inside the kitchen door. There are four more of these controllers in various rooms in the house, I’m told, that can do everything from turn on the heat and lights to send an alarm to my cell phone if the security system—not yet installed—is breached.
“Once you buy your new appliances, we’ll come out and take care of the programming for you.” Coop grins. “At no additional charge, of course. In the meantime, your cell phone is now hooked up to the system, so you can turn on the lights and open the garage door from the car on your way home, among other things.”
Impressed, I scan the interface screen. There are boxes for the garage door, lighting, A/C, appliances, and audio and security systems. “What if I get a voice-command device lik
e Alexa?”
“No problem. It’ll integrate with the system seamlessly. All you have to do is say your command, like ‘Alexa, turn on the master bedroom lights,’ and you’re good to go.”
“Wow. This is fantastic, Coop, but I didn’t see this in the quote. How much extra is all this?”
Coop slow-blinks. “Nothing. It’s included. Theo wanted you to have the best, so…you do.”
Theo—who faked an illness to avoid seeing me—wanted me to have the best. And didn’t charge me for it. I suppose that makes about as much sense as anything else.
The smile I give Coop is brittle. “All righty, then. Pleasure doing business with you, Coop. Hang on a second, I’ll write you a check.” I head upstairs to get my checkbook from my bag.
It’s Friday afternoon, the guys are done with the rewiring project, and I’ve got an hour until Superego Craig picks me up for dinner. I’ve been ruthless with myself and haven’t allowed my mind to linger in Theoland even for one minute, keeping busy with interviewing interior designers and researching their websites for inspiration. Because I felt awkward going out with Craig without telling Suzanne, I called her this morning to let her know.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she’d said, sighing. “I should’ve known. The only guys who are ever interested in me are either married, mama’s boys, or in prison.”
I didn’t ask for details.
We hung up after she failed to finagle a promise from me that I’d call her with every dirty detail in the morning. Vicarious sex was better than no sex, she’d said, to which I’d responded that no sex would be had tonight. Period.
To which she’d responded that I’m dumber than I look.
I pay Coop, the guys leave, then I hit the shower. My wardrobe is lacking in date-night ensembles, so I wear the same dress I wore to dinner at Booger’s with Suzanne. Craig’s already seen me in it, but it’s the only one I own. I dress it up with heels and a pretty scarf, swipe on a few coats of mascara, dab a drop of organic vanilla oil behind each of my ears, and call it a day.
Frankly, if the night doesn’t end in tears, I’ll consider it a success.
When Craig pulls up at the curb in an expensive-looking silver sports car, I pretend like I wasn’t watching from the front window and hustle into the kitchen so he can’t see me as he walks up the path to the front door. After a minute, the doorbell rings. Though I know no one’s listening, I say a little prayer, asking for strength to get me through the evening.
I open the door to find Craig standing there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I’m surprised to see him in black dress slacks and a stylish wool blazer. He looks like he’s going on a job interview. In a way, I suppose he is.
He looks me up and down and whistles low. “You sure know how to wear that dress, Megan.”
“You’re not half-bad yourself.”
“I’m glad you think so. I spent two hours fussing in front of the mirror before driving over here.”
I have a sneaking suspicion he spends hours in front of the mirror whether he has a date or not, but I smile at him pleasantly, admiring the sheen of his freshly shaven jaw and his golden hair, which probably took a lot of coaxing to achieve that artfully tousled effect.
The man could teach me a thing or two about personal grooming. If I’m not mistaken, he even gets his eyebrows waxed. Those arches of his are suspiciously perfect.
“Are you ready to go?”
I nod, happy he didn’t ask to come inside, and turn the bolt on the new door lock Theo installed. He did it without me asking, a small kindness I’m grateful for.
And am not thinking about because he’s banned from my mind.
Great. Not even two minutes with Craig and already your thoughts are wandering back toward He Who Shall Not Be Named.
I turn back to Craig with a big, fake smile, already knowing the night is going to be a disaster.
* * *
Craig takes me to what is probably the best restaurant in the area. It’s one town south of Seaside and obviously expensive, with waiters in tuxedos gliding around silently and a pianist discreetly playing a baby grand on one side of the dining room. We’re seated at a candlelit table by a window with a view of the ocean, while I try not to be overly disturbed by Craig’s taste in music, which I was introduced to on the drive over.
He likes polka. Polka, for the love of all that’s holy.
Other than that extreme failing—and a tendency to dominate the conversation, which I already knew—he has lovely manners and is easy to be around. He’s smart, polite, engaging, and funny. Not to mention well dressed and sophisticated. He’s the kind of man every woman’s mother would love to have as a son-in-law.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks after a hostess brings us menus.
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, examining me. “Like you’ve got a secret.”
I laugh. “I was just wondering how you’re still single.”
He leans back in his chair, smiling, obviously pleased. “So you think I’m a catch.”
I don’t want his ego getting any larger than it already is, so I shrug, because I’m nice like that. My nonchalance makes him throw his head back and laugh.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, you know that, Megan?”
“I’ve never had a man call me a nut before, so no. I didn’t know that. But…thank you?”
“Just an observation, not a compliment, but if you want a compliment, I’ve got about a dozen of them ready to go.”
I lift my brows. “You prefabricate compliments to pay to women? I feel so special.”
Craig’s eyes grow warm. He murmurs, “Not for women in general. For you. I won’t admit exactly how much time I’ve spent thinking about you, but it’s a lot.”
My cheeks heat. I glance down at the white linen napkin on my lap, flustered by the look in his eyes, which is frankly sexual. “You’re very good at this.”
“What?”
I glance back up at him. He’s leaning over the table now, eagerly listening.
“Flirting.”
His lips cant up. He blinks like a debutante, coy as sin. “Am I?”
“Yes. You are. But you already knew that.”
“And you’re very good at being alluringly mysterious and hard to read.”
That makes me laugh out loud. “Mysterious? Hardly. I’m an open book compared to some.” Like Theo Valentine, for instance.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my left ear, silently cursing myself for thinking about Theo. It’s like he’s taken up residence in my head and is just lounging around in there, waiting for random opportunities to shout, Hey, think about me!
Craig watches the motion of my hand with a contemplative look, then meets my eyes. “Okay, since you’re an open book, may I ask a personal question?”
I have a bad feeling about this, but nod anyway.
“You told me during our first conversation when you called for a quote that you moved here because your husband had passed away. How long ago was that?”
A pit forms in my stomach. I swallow, moistening my lips. “Five years.”
Craig asks gently, “Why are you still wearing your wedding ring after five years?”
I hide my hand in my lap and curl my thumb into my palm, twisting the plain gold circle around my finger. I feel exposed and vulnerable. My heart is caught in my throat. “The answer to that probably isn’t something a man on a first date would like to hear.”
Now he’s really interested. His eyes glow with intensity. “I do want to hear it. Please.”
I take a breath, hoping my voice comes out steady. “I don’t take it off because I still feel married. I am still married. My husband just happens to be dead.”
After a beat, Craig leans back in his chair, crosses one long leg over the other, folds his hands in his lap, and looks at me until I’m squirming with embarrassment.
“I told you you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“I’m glad you told me, though. B
ut it begs another question.”
I have to swallow a groan. “Which is?”
“If you really feel that way, why are you having dinner with me?”
I think about that long and hard. I can’t find an answer that won’t sound either pathetic or like I’m using him for a free meal, so I tell him the truth. “Because you make it impossible to say no.”
He winces. “God, you make me sound like a sexual predator.”
I blow out a breath that turns into a laugh. “That came out wrong. What I meant was that you’re charming.”
He cocks a brow, waiting for more. Obviously, he’s not satisfied by my half-hearted attempt to salvage the conversation, but I’m rusty as hell at this, and not in the mood to massage his ego.
I level him with a look. “Craig, you know you’re handsome. Half the women in this restaurant gave themselves whiplash watching you as we walked to our table.”
He smiles serenely. “Go on.”
Unbelievable. “And you’re funny. And smart. And a lot of other nice things I’m not going to list because you’re already too big for your britches.”
His chuckle is one of a man oozing self-confidence, who loves to hear other people tell him how great he is so they can be in agreement. I find it incredibly grating.
Self-confidence is one thing. Arrogance is another. Time to take him down a notch.
“So what’s happening with your company? Any news about the lawsuit?”
If I thought that would put a dent in his ego, I was wrong. He waves my question off like you’d wave off an irritating fly and gets right back down to business.
“My attorneys are handling everything. It’ll work itself out. Let’s get back to you and why you really came on this date with me.”
I briefly close my eyes, wishing for a stray asteroid to smash through the ceiling and kill me. “I just told you why.”
Midnight Valentine Page 15
