She concentrated on unfolding the quilt and spreading it just-so along the couch until she heard him leave. She pulled cushions out of the way and replaced them with the pillow, then reached around to unclasp her bra. She wriggled until she was able to pull her bra free from inside her left sleeve, then flicked off the overhead light and slid beneath the quilt.
Her head spun dizzily for a few seconds and she took a couple of deep breaths before it settled. Then it was just her and the dark quiet and her very unquiet thoughts.
Because it was one thing to recognize on some instinctive level that Michael was a technically available male in his prime and another thing entirely to “enjoy” a full body flush of lust because he outlined in barest detail the content of an erotic dream.
As for what had happened to her body when he’d rubbed her hip…
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, but it didn’t protect her from the realization bearing down on her as inexorably as a freight train.
She was attracted to Michael. And not in a general, admiring-a-handsome-man kind of a way. Her attraction was very specific, very targeted. It was about Michael. About how he looked and who he was and what he said and did.
The awareness made her feel sick with guilt and discomfort. He was Billie’s husband. Her lover. The father of her children. He was off-limits—and yet when he’d talked about touching a woman, Angie’s head filled with images of him touching her, not some faceless dream woman. And then he had touched her and she’d had to step away from him before the tumult he’d triggered in her body became obvious.
God, Billie, I’m so sorry. So sorry.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, overwhelmed by confusion and dismay. This was so wrong, on so many levels. Michael trusted her—witness him confessing, looking to her for advice—and his kids trusted her. She was their Auntie Angie, and Michael was becoming her dear friend.
Yet her body desired his. When he was close, she noticed things about him that she shouldn’t. Like how he smelled and how the warm, sleek muscles of his body moved beneath his clothes.
I don’t want this. I don’t. I didn’t come looking for it, and I don’t want it.
Yet she still felt this way. The knowledge pulled her knees tightly to her body and made her press her fingers even more firmly against her lips. She could feel the hard edges of her teeth against the tender skin of her mouth but she didn’t reduce the pressure, happy on some level to be feeling physical pain when she was so confused and disgusted with herself. She deserved to hurt. What she’d been thinking tonight, what she’d wanted was wrong, a horrible betrayal of the many years of her friendship with Billie.
This stops now. Right this second. Not another thought. Nothing. Because this is not happening. This will never, ever happen. I do not want to be this person and I refuse to be.
The taste of iron filled her mouth. She’d pressed her mouth so hard she’d broken the skin inside her lip. She dropped her hand and ran her tongue over the tender spot as resolve hardened inside her. She’d recognized the problem, stared it in the eye and now she would deal with it. No one except herself would ever know how far her thoughts had slipped.
Definitely Michael never would.
She drifted into sleep with her hands clenched into determined fists. She woke to the dull light of dawn coming through the window. The first thought she had was that something terrible had happened. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling—she’d woken that way for weeks after Billie’s death—but this morning the feeling of dread wasn’t about Billie’s absence but about her own thoughts and feelings.
In the cold light of day, with a queasy stomach and a headache looming, last night’s realization was even more appalling. Angie wanted to pull the quilt over her head and retreat into sleep, to pretend that it had all been a horrible nightmare. But she was lying on Michael’s couch in Michael’s house and any minute now he would shuffle into the kitchen and she would have to deal with him while carrying the full weight of her own guilt and attraction.
She mouthed a four-letter word and rolled off the couch. Moving silently and quickly, she folded the bedding. She placed the pillow on top of the pile before tiptoeing to the bathroom to collect her wet clothes. She waited until she was outside on the porch before putting on her shoes.
She drove straight home. The moment she was in the door she shed her clothes and walked straight into the shower. Standing beneath the stinging heat of the water, her thoughts slowed and she was able to see beyond last night’s drunken disgust and self-recrimination for the first time.
Michael was a good man. He was a great father, and he was smart and self-aware and he had a wicked sense of humor. As she’d noted a number of times, he was also easy on the eyes. She liked him very much as a person in his own right, not simply because of his connection to Billie. Angie cared for him and wanted the best for him.
Given all of the above, it wasn’t exactly a miracle that she’d crossed the line. Not that that made it any more acceptable, but maybe it wasn’t quite so unforgivable. Maybe.
She was toweling herself dry when her phone rang. One glance at the display told her it was Michael. She guessed he was calling to check on her, to make sure she’d gotten home okay. She hesitated about taking the call, her thumb hovering over the button. After a few seconds the phone stopped ringing. A few seconds after that, her phone beeped indicating she had voice mail.
She ignored it. She didn’t want to hear his voice right now. In fact, it might be good to arrange next week’s schedule so that she didn’t have to see him except when strictly necessary. A little built-in safety measure until she had a grip on this unwanted thing that had sprung to life inside her.
It wasn’t much, as far as strategies went. In fact, it felt a little as though she was heading off to fight a dragon with a toothpick as her weapon. But it was all she had—that and her determination to remain true to her friend. It would have to be enough.
* * *
MICHAEL WOKE WITH GRITTY eyes and a dry mouth. He staggered to the bathroom and drank a glass of water before swallowing some aspirin. It had been a while since he’d written himself off so emphatically and when he returned to the bedroom he sank onto the edge of the bed and allowed himself a few seconds of head-in-hands self-pity.
The urge to roll beneath the quilt and sleep off the worst of his self-inflicted discomfort was almost irresistible, but it was a Saturday and Eva and Charlie had swimming lessons at ten. Plus Angie was on the couch, and he should make sure she had some aspirin before the kids started making a ruckus.
He’d stripped to his boxer briefs last night and he tugged on a robe before making his way to the kitchen. Even though it was nearly seven the room was still dim. He flicked on the kettle before crossing to the living room to check on Angie. If she felt up to it, he’d make her and the kids pancakes for breakfast. She might even want to come swimming with them.
He stopped sharply when he saw the couch was empty, the bedding folded neatly at one end.
She’d left already. He confirmed his suspicion by walking to the door and stepping onto the porch. Sure enough, her car was gone.
The cold morning air blew under his robe and he stepped into the house and shut the door. They’d had a lot to drink last night—mostly at his behest—and he hoped she’d been sober by the time she got behind the wheel. Worry niggling at him, he grabbed his phone to call her. The line rang and rang before finally going to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me. Hope you’re not feeling too rough. Thanks for being my wingwoman last night. Just so you know, you’re missing out on pancakes for breakfast.” He hesitated, tempted to ask her to call to let him know she’d gotten home okay. He reminded himself he wasn’t her mother and disconnected.
He moved to the other side of the counter. Pancakes were the kids’ favorite treat and he knew the recipe from heart. He grabbed flour a
nd milk and eggs, and once he’d mixed the batter, set the bowl aside for ten minutes and crossed to the couch to collect the bedding. He knew from experience that if he didn’t put it away today, it would haunt the living room for the rest of the week.
He lifted the blankets, then paused when something caught his eye. A scrap of black lace and coffee-colored silk peeking out from between the seat cushions. He set down the blankets to pull the scrap free and found himself holding an elegant, sexy bra, a confection of caffe-latte silk and sheer black lace.
It had been so long since he’d seen a woman’s bra that he simply stared at it, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. It was Angie’s, of course. She must have taken it off last night and then forgotten it this morning. He rubbed his fingers together, testing the fineness of the silk. It felt cool and softer than liquid against his skin. Then he registered what he was doing—feeling up Angie’s bra—and dropped it as though it was a hot potato.
The last thing he needed or wanted was to know what Angie’s underwear looked or felt like.
“Daddy, I can’t find my swimsuit.” Eva’s voice preceded her as she made her way toward the kitchen.
Michael’s gaze shot to the bra abandoned on the couch. He snatched it, folded it and was stuffing it awkwardly into his pocket when Eva entered.
“Have you checked the laundry basket?” he asked, feeling ridiculously furtive and juvenile and caught out as he faced his daughter.
There was no reason in the world for him to feel self-conscious about the fact that Angie had left a piece of clothing behind, even if that piece of clothing was a bra. Yet his first impulse upon hearing Eva’s voice had been to hide it. As though it was a dirty secret he needed to conceal.
“Does that mean it hasn’t been washed since last week?” Eva asked, already pouting.
For a little girl with a very messy room, she had an obsession with clean laundry that Michael found hard to fathom. “Let’s go check. There’s no reason we can’t run it through the washer and dry it before your lesson, so don’t freak out.”
“I wasn’t freaking out. If I was freaking out, I’d have gone like this.” Eva jumped up and down on the spot, her hands flailing, her face screwed into a comic representation of panic.
“My apologies. I stand corrected.”
Together they went into the laundry room and sorted through a pile of clothes. As he’d predicted, her swimsuit was there and he put on a load of washing and lifted her so she could be the one to measure out the detergent.
“Can we have pancakes for breakfast?” Eva asked as he set her on the floor.
“As a matter of fact, you can. I’ve already got the batter ready to go.”
Eva’s eyes got big with excitement. “Really? Fair dinkum?”
Michael laughed at his daughter’s use of the Australianism, even though a significant part of his brain was preoccupied with the scrap of silk and lace he’d pushed into his pocket. He was burningly aware of it, keen to remove it from his person in case Eva somehow discovered it. Having to explain why he was carrying Angie’s bra around in his pocket would be far, far worse than having to explain why it had been left abandoned on the couch this morning.
“Where did you pick that up?” he asked as he ushered Eva into the kitchen.
“At school. We’re learning about Australia at the moment. We talked about bush tucker, and a whole bunch of other stuff.” She told him more about her classes as he cooked pancakes, but every time he glanced down he caught sight of the black lace and felt uncomfortable all over again. Once he’d served their meal he made an excuse and escaped to his bedroom. As soon as he was alone he pulled the bra from his pocket and opened the nearest drawer, dropping it in with his socks. He turned away, then stilled, thinking how it would look if, by some completely unimaginable series of events, someone happened to open his drawer and found Angie’s bra stashed there. It would look as though he was saving it, like a keepsake. Or a fetish.
Shaking his head, he yanked the drawer open and pulled the bra out. He stood, the bra dangling from one hand, his gaze bouncing around the room as he tried to work out what to do with damned thing.
Dude, it’s a bra. A piece of clothing. Unclench, find a shopping bag and leave it in the studio for Angie. Problem solved.
The moment the thought occurred he felt calmer. He found a bag in the closet and dropped the bra into it, then left it on his chest of drawers. Later, he would take it out to the studio. Right now, he had pancakes to eat and two children to prepare for swimming lessons.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME MICHAEL was sitting beside the toddlers’ pool watching Charlie splash around with the other children, the bra incident had resumed its rightful place in his mind and he felt more than a little foolish.
He’d overreacted. Big-time. And he had no idea why.
He frowned as he watched Charlie smack the surface of the water with his palms, his squeals of delight carrying clearly.
Michael wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself—a pointless exercise if ever there was one—and he figured he wasn’t about to start now. He had some idea why he’d wigged out. Last night, they had exchanged intimate confidences. He’d told her about his dream, about the fact that he’d been thinking about sex again. And she’d told him that she thought about sex, too.
Mind, her confession had come first, which probably explained why he’d felt the urge to come clean about his dream. He gazed at the scuff mark on the toe of his sneaker as he remembered what she’d said.
I miss sex… Not just the sticking tab A into slot B bit, but being naked with someone and trusting them enough to make stupid orgasm faces and noises and lying in bed afterward talking about nothing and everything…
There had been a wistfulness, a wishfulness to her words that had hit him in the gut. She’d made him think of the empty space in the bed and the cold sheets and how long it had been since he’d felt the warmth of skin on skin. She’d made him achingly aware of the absolute aloneness he felt whenever the kids weren’t around and he found himself in a moment of quiet. The sex-dream confession had emerged in an impulsive, ill-thought-out blurt.
Angie had said all the right things about his right to be human and Billie wanting him to be happy, but it was one thing to know something rationally and another to convince the unknown, subterranean parts of his mind it was okay that he still had desires now that Billie was gone. But perhaps this was yet one more thing that would be dealt with by time. Perhaps when he’d had his fiftieth erotic dream he’d be cool with it and wouldn’t have to retreat to the shower to wash away the guilt.
His thoughts drifted—again—to what Angie had said. He’d been so wrapped up in his fuzzy, confused, internal monologue that he hadn’t really considered what her words meant for her. In the bright light of a new day, with a clear head, it was impossible to stop himself from parsing over them.
She’d been incredibly generous with her time and affection with him and the kids. Although she was unstinting with her hugs and kisses for them, she’d always been a little standoffish with adults. Not that she was cold—far from it—more that she was careful about who she allowed close. He couldn’t help but wonder how that reserve would translate into the bedroom. Would Angie be shy? Would she need to be coaxed? Or would she make love the way she worked, with a single-minded, passionate intensity?
An image slipped into his mind: Angie’s lean, supple body clad in coffee-colored silk and black lace. Her dark hair slipping over her shoulder, her blue eyes smoky with need and desire—
A high-pitched scream drew his attention to the pool. He was on his feet before he saw that it wasn’t Charlie. His son was oblivious to the drama at the other side of the shallow pool. One glance at the author of the scream assured him that she was simply excited, not hurt or in danger. Michael made eye contact with the lifeguard, who gave him a reassur
ing nod. After a moment’s hesitation, Michael sank into his seat.
He was uncomfortably aware that there was a heaviness between his thighs, the result of having allowed himself to cast Angie in his own private peepshow.
Angie, his friend. The woman who had almost single-handedly stopped him from slipping under in the past twelve months. Billie’s closest, most beloved confidant.
What is wrong with you?
It was a good question. He’d gone from being dead below the waist to latching onto the first available woman and fantasizing about her like a horny fifteen-year-old.
He crossed his arms over his chest, squeezing them so tightly against his body that his shoulders ached. A wave of anger washed over him. Didn’t he have enough on his plate? Didn’t his life suck enough already without adding this extra bowl full of wrong into the mix? Was it really too much to ask for a few moments of normality and peace and contentment without guilt or grief or pain intruding?
He wallowed in self-pity before something Angie had said recently popped into his head.
“Normal is a setting on the washing machine. I don’t know what it is in real life.”
At the time he’d laughed and now, a week later, he smiled and all the anger and frustration leached away. Last night, Angie told him not to punish himself for being human. Not bad advice. He wasn’t a saint, after all. And he’d never given himself a hard time about looking at or thinking about other women when Billie was alive. Not that he’d made a practice of it, but he had eyes in his head and being married hadn’t made the world less full of attractive women. He’d figured it was an ordinary part of life that he might occasionally look at another woman and wonder. He knew Billie had looked at other men because she’d always made a point of teasing him about it. It had never even crossed his mind to do more than wonder, however.
He’d never looked at Angie in that way, though. She had always been off-limits, an absolute no-go zone. Clearly, that had changed recently. But that didn’t mean anything was about to happen. It wasn’t as though he would suddenly lose control and start humping her leg. He wasn’t some oversexed monkey in the jungle. He was just a guy who had found himself single against his will, trying to navigate his way through a new world.
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