by Locklyn Marx
She could feel him, hard against her back as he washed her hair.
When he was done, he pulled the shower head down and rinsed her off from head to toe, then reached over and shut the water off.
The bathroom was completely steamy now, both of them soaking wet. Somehow he’d managed to keep her the water from getting on her wrist.
“See,” he whispered through the steam. “I told you I’d take care of you.”
***
He gave her a t-shirt to sleep in, then set her up in the guestroom with a fluffy down comforter, plenty of ibuprofen, and a glass of water.
Then he shut the light off and told her to get some sleep.
She lie awake for a while, her heart pounding, listening to him downstairs doing the dishes and locking up for the night. She was sure he would come for her, and she tried to keep from falling asleep. She wanted to be awake to savor every delicious moment of the wonderful ecstasy that she knew was sure to come.
But when his footsteps finally came up the stairs, they moved past her door and into his room. Crushing disappointment bloomed in her chest, and she was sure she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. But she did.
She awoke the next morning, confused.
Looking around the room, she remembered what had happened last night, and she slid the covers up over her head. Regret washed over her like a wave.
Jesus Christ, Lindsay, how could you have been so stupid?
She listened for any sounds of life from the house, but there were none. Then the sound of an ax came through the window. She peeked outside.
Chace was working on the fence.
He’d piled the rotted wood into a pile in the middle of the yard, and was hacking it up with an ax, his muscles flexing under the strain.
She watched him for a moment, then decided she would go home and make some coffee. She would bring him a cup to thank him for taking care of her.
She wouldn’t run away and hide from him, like she thought last night meant something more than it did. She would be friendly and polite.
She hurried down the stairs and out the door.
***
Chace had been up since four in the morning. He’d tossed and turned, not able to get the picture of Lindsay standing there in the shower, completely naked and completely vulnerable, out of his mind. Her skin had been wet and supple, the air hot and steamy.
He could tell she was turned on — hell, he’d been turned on, too. More turned on than he’d ever been in his life, in fact.
Her body was lush and gorgeous, with curvy hips and full breasts, her stomach smooth with just a slight curve. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to stop from going to her room last night. But he’d forced himself to stay away.
The way she’d been looking at him last night, when she’d finally dropped the sarcastic façade, had made his heart ache. She was too good for him. There were secrets buried deep inside of him, along with a white hot anger that pulsed through his soul. He’d hurt Lindsay once, and he would do whatever it took not to do it again.
The problem, of course, was that he couldn’t seem to stay the hell away from her.
Every time she was around, he began to feel alive again, for the first time in as long as he could remember. But he didn’t deserve her. After what had happened, he didn’t deserve to be happy.
At six am, he’d finally dressed and headed outside, deciding he’d get to work on the fence. He needed the physical release. It was cathartic. As he worked, his nervous energy began pouring out of him. With every swing of the ax, every hit of the hammer, every whirl of the saw, he felt some of his frustration drain out of him.
It was a symbol, he decided. He’d put this fence up between them, build it as strong as he could, and then he’d forget about her. No crossing the fence. No crossing the line. He didn’t care what was going on next door – from now on, it was none of his business.
He heard her before he saw her.
The rustle of leaves was the giveaway, and when he looked up, she was walking toward him. She was wearing tight jeans that encased those gorgeous curves, her hair long and loose around her shoulders. A tight, dusty pink sweater completed the look.
She had a smile on her face and two cups of coffee in her hands.
He instantly wanted to kiss her, and the thought made him angry.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft, polite. She held a cup of coffee out to him.
He looked at it, his breathing accelerating. He struggled internally – half of him wanted to take the cup from her, smile, and thank her. Maybe even blow off going into the restaurant and take her upstairs instead. But the other part of him — the dark part, where his worst thoughts about himself lived — wanted to lash out, to tell her to stay far away, and blame her for making it so damn hard for him.
His eyes met hers, and he saw the hope there, saw that she wanted him to be happy to see her. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it could work. He’d explain it all, then beg her forgiveness for blowing her off last year when they’d first me.
She was a good, kind person. She’d understand.
But then he thought about the pity he’d see in her eyes and the look of sadness that would come over her face. The one thing he didn’t want was for her to feel sorry for him.
So he turned away. It would hurt her, he knew, but in the end, it would hurt her more if he let her in.
“You shouldn’t have made that coffee,” he said, and swung the ax over his head and down onto the rotted wood. “Your wrist isn’t ready for that.”
“It was fine,” she said. “I was careful.”
“You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”
“I just said I was careful.”
“I already had coffee,” he said. “But thanks.”
“You can never have too much coffee,” she tried one more time.
But he shook his head. “I have to go into the restaurant soon,” he said. “I can get more there if I need it.”
“Okay.”
She stood there for a moment, looking small against the slanting morning sunlight. The urge to gather her up in his arms overtook him. But it wasn’t good for her, or for him.
So he kept quiet until finally, she turned around and starting walking back toward the house.
***
Tears were pricking against the back of her eyes, tears of embarrassment and shame. How could she have been so stupid? What had she been thinking, trying to bring him coffee like that? What did she think was going to happen? That they were going to have breakfast and chat like old friends? They weren’t old friends. He was a man who couldn’t be trusted, a man who’d been reckless with her heart, a man who acted like he cared when he really didn’t.
He was a horrible person, she thought as she crunched through the leaves, her embarrassment turning to anger as she went. Red, hot, flaming anger that pulsed through her whole body.
And before she knew what she was doing, she was turning around and stomping back to the middle of her yard.
“You know,” she said, “you’re a real asshole.” The words surprised her. But if Chace was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“Yeah,” he said, and swung the ax down. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”
The response infuriated her. “Are you kidding me?” she raged. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? It took you long enough to figure it out?”
“What do you want me to say?” He picked up a piece of fence and threw it onto the pile of broken wood.
“I want you to tell me why you’re acting this way,” she said. Now that she’d broken down, now that she was yelling at him and no long trying to hide how she felt, she was determined to get answers.
“What way?” The ax came down again.
“This way! Blowing me off that night after we slept together. Coming over here last night, then acting like a total jerk to me this morning. Kissing me and then pretending like you’re completely irritated by my presence.”
She crossed her arms.
“Why the hell would someone act that way? Give me a good reason.”
“You want a good reason?” he yelled, and threw his ax on the ground.
The intensity of his reaction startled her, and she took a step back. But he didn’t move forward, just stood there, surrounded by the dismantled fence.
“I’ll give you a good reason,” he said. “How about the fact that my restaurant is completely failing, how about that? How about the fact that I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, have no idea how to run the goddamn place?” His eyes flashed, and his voice got louder, breaking through the calmness of the crisp autumn morning.
She shook her head. “Everyone has work stress, Chace,” she said. “Ask your dad for help. Or go back to Boston and get your old job back. There are things you can do.
The restaurant being in trouble doesn’t give you the right to be a complete asshole.”
“I can’t ask my dad,” he spat at her. “My dad is dead.”
The words were like a slap to her face. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She took a step back, her mind reeling. “I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, he is,” Chace said. “And now you know.” He picked up the ax.
“My stepmother’s dead, too.” The ax came down again. “And my stepsister.” Again.
Again. Again. Over and over he brought it down, harder and harder as he chopped at the fence.
Lindsay flinched every time the blade made contact with the wood. “Chace,” she said. “Please. I didn’t know.”
“And what would you have done?” he asked, turning to her. His eyes flashed.
“What would you have done if you’d known? If I’d told you it happened the day after we met? That they were in a car accident, that I was the one driving? What would you have done then?”
Hot tears slid down her cheeks and over her lips, off her chin and onto the leaves.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“You would have looked at me exactly like you’re looking at me now,” he said.
“And I can’t take that shit, Lindsay. I’m not good for you. I’m no good for anyone right now.” He shook his head, turned away from her. “So, please,” he said softly. “Please.
Just leave me alone.”
She gave him what he wanted.
Chapter Seven
The accident had happened on a rural stretch of road right near his father’s house.
Chace had been driving back from an anniversary party at the Trib that was being thrown for his dad and his stepmom.
Chace had been excited that night, heady and happy from the night he’d spent with Lindsay. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all day — her body, her laugh, the way she’d looked at him when he was making love to her. Before they’d met in person, he’d told himself not to get to get his hopes up. They’d had the best phone conversations, the best emails, the best everything he’d ever had with a woman, and he was being to think she was too good to be true.
He knew it would be different in person, knew there was a chance the chemistry might just not be right. When he’d gone down to the lobby and seen her there, standing by the elevators, his heart had stopped. That’s the woman I’m going to marry, a voice in his head had whispered.
She was more beautiful than he’d imagined. Long dark hair, curves for miles, and a sweet smile that made him want to kiss her immediately. Making love to her had been the best sex of his life.
He’d been looking forward to spending that Saturday with his family, but since he’d met Lindsay, he couldn’t stop thinking about getting home and calling her. He’d thought about bringing her along, but much as he didn’t want her out of his sight, he knew it might be a bit much for her to meet so many people in one night. Now that he had her, the last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.
So he’d left her in Boston and driven down to the Cape. The party had been nice, with a seafood buffet and a huge pumpkin and cream cheese anniversary cake. The guests – about fifty close friends and family – had a good time, and Chace had enjoyed getting to know his stepmother, Jane, and his stepsister, Lara, who was a psychiatrist in Newton.
Since Chace lived in Boston, and since his father had only been dating Jane for a few months before they’d gotten engaged, Chace hadn’t spent much time with his stepmother or her daughter. But they seemed like nice people, and the fact that his father had been beaming all night made Chace realize how sad his father had been without a woman in his life.
When the party ended, the four of them had walked out to the car, chatting and laughing. It was one of the first really chilly nights of the season, and Chace remembered his father putting his arm around Jane as they walked. Chace and Lara had looked at each other and smiled, happy that their parents were content.
They were only a mile from the house when it happened.
Chace had made a joke, something silly about an outfit one of Jane’s friends had been wearing at the party, and he’d glanced into the backseat to see his father’s reaction.
When he turned back around, there was another car that had crossed into the wrong lane and was coming right at them.
He could still remember it. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he had a moment to stop and think, he remembered it. The flash of the headlights. How hard he’d yanked the steering wheel. How his card had hit the guard rail straight on. How the sound of crunching metal reverberated through the car as they’d flown over the rail and onto the embankment below.
He could still hear the squeal of the other car’s brakes, the sound of Lara’s scream as they fell over the side. The airbags deployed on impact. He’d gone unconscious, his head hitting against the side window, giving him a gash on his head along with a concussion.
He’d woken up to find the EMTs loading him into an ambulance. His head pounded, but all he could think about was his family.
“Are they okay?” he’d asked. The EMTs hadn’t answered him, had told him he needed to say calm. That’s when he’d known it was bad. Whenever people weren’t meeting your eyes, weren’t giving you information, it wasn’t a good situation.
They’d stitched him up at the hospital, then told him his stepmother and stepsister had been killed on impact. His father was in the ICU, clinging to life.
Chace had spent three days at his bedside, holding his hand, talking to him, reading to him, telling him stories, begging him to hold on. His father slipped into a coma, then slowly lost brain function.
When it came time to make the decision to take him off life support, Chace didn’t hesitate. His father had told Chace once that if anything ever happened, he wouldn’t want to be kept alive. So Chace had said his goodbyes, sitting with his father as they unhooked the machines.
He hadn’t cried. Not even once.
That afternoon, Chace drove home to Boston. The next day, he quit his job. The only thing that had meant anything to his father besides Chace and Jane was The Trib.
And so Chace was determined that the restaurant would survive.
He bought a house on the Cape and ripped everything out of it – kitchen, bathrooms, everything — because the rustic beach décor made it feel too much like his dad’s house.
He put his dad’s house the market, listing it at an insanely low price, so he could sell it quickly and be done with it. He hired people to box up his father’s things and put them in a storage unit.
The police never found the car that had veered into the wrong lane that night.
There were skid marks on that side of the road, but no other clues as to what had happened. It was probably a drunk driver, the police told him, and there was nothing he could have done, no way he could have gotten out of the way in time.
But Chace felt responsible. He should have been paying better attention, should have turned the wheel the other way, should have done something. He walked awa
y with seven stitches and a headache. And three people were dead.
So he buried himself in booze and women, until Bo had the intervention with him six months ago. He’d laid off the booze, but ratcheted up on the women. The emptiness inside of him had never gone away, not even a little.
Until he’d seen Lindsay, and been struck with emotions he had thought would never come back.
It was overwhelming.
But he wasn’t good for her, wasn’t good for anyone. He was damaged. And to invite her into that would just end up crushing her.
Chapter Eight
Lindsay had a phone call scheduled with her agent that morning, their bimonthly call in which they discussed any pressing business. She got through it the best she could, the whole time feeling a crushing weight pressing on her chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’t think of anything except Chace. He was in her thoughts, in her mind, in everything around her.
She had nothing to distract her – she couldn’t even write because of her stupid wrist. Finally, she decided to drive into town and do some grocery shopping. If she didn’t get out of the house, she was going to go crazy. She pushed her cart through the aisles — being careful of her wrist — and filled the carriage with anything that looked remotely good, which for once, was hardly anything.
When she was done, she drove around town for a while, trying to muster up interest in the shops and businesses that lined Main Street. As she drove, she tried to conjure up some anger toward Chace for telling her what he’d told her this morning, and then turning his back on her and shutting her out. But she couldn’t. It was too upsetting, seeing him standing there in her yard, telling her that his father was dead.
Her thoughts swirling, she continued to drive until she came up to a little bar.
There was a decrepit wooden sign hanging outside, with THE GRISTMILL carved into it in big capital letters. Lindsay pulled in and decided to have a drink. She wondered briefly if she should be worried about the fact that she’d had a glass of wine last night and was now apparently going for another one.
