Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  Turned out she had already set her sights on Gavin, though. And so, I breathed a little easier. But it was a wakeup call. It made me realize I had to steel myself harder against developing feelings for Conor. Either that or stop sleeping with him.

  I wasn’t prepared to do that, though, even if it meant I was opening myself up to possible heartache.

  Luckily, there was only one other time I felt that pang of jealousy. It was Sophie, then, too.

  We were all at a club, having one-by-one climbed in through the toilets window—the only access we had since we were underage. Once inside, it was so crowded that most of us lost track of each other. But Conor grabbed my hand to keep me from being swallowed up by the masses of bodies writhing to the techno beat. It felt good to have the extra bit of connection. He was usually so disciplined that he never touched me with any kind of intimacy if we weren’t in his bedroom. But this was a sweet gesture, not just him being protective, because when we were in a safe spot together, free from any worry of being split up, he kept holding my hand.

  It was only when Sophie found us a minute later that he let go of me. Soon, Gavin showed up with four pints in his fists. God only knows how he made that happen, but we were all only too happy to indulge. We spent the next half hour letting the music wash over us, not bothering to try to talk. Gavin came and went as he saw people he knew. The drink went to my head, and even more so to Sophie’s. I could tell by the way she wavered on her feet and tried to cover it up as a dance move. I saw Conor approach her. He bent at the knees to get eye contact with her and asked her something. She responded with a dizzy smile and by throwing her arm around his neck.

  I think it was more to steady herself, but given what happened between those two years later, who knows? She could have been attracted to Conor even then and just buried it until it could no longer stay that way.

  What I do know is that I was once again relieved when Gavin swooped in to pull Conor away from Sophie just as it looked like he was ready to lean in to kiss her. That was the last time I saw them in a situation like that in our year at school together. Maybe me confessing to Sophie about my arrangement with Conor helped to put an end such moments. At the time, I hadn’t consciously thought how this might be a strategic way to keep them apart. But now I can see that I was doing my own bit of laying a claim. That was about the same time that she and Gavin became an official couple, anyway. Conor completely backed off in deference to his friend.

  Those episodes likely account for how quickly I was able to guess years later that Conor had had an affair with Sophie. I could spot it clear as day. He hadn’t just slept with his best friend’s wife—he had fallen irretrievably in love.

  So much time had passed when I learned this, though, that the same feelings of jealousy and insecurity hadn’t occurred to me. I was more interested in being the one to display the discipline of separating feelings from friendship. And it worked. For a while.

  * * *

  Now, we’ve come full circle and I’m with Conor again. Though, I don’t know if he ever imagined us in this situation.

  Our shower starts the way I had envisioned, us naked with all four showerheads pouring down on us as he holds my body against his, his mouth taking mine greedily. Even now, when I’m mostly numb, his kisses are one of my favorite things in the world. But instead of making me melt like they usually do, his kisses and the way he holds me as if he’s trying to find refuge in me, surprises me. There’s no passion in his kisses, just need.

  It’s not like him. Most of the time, he makes love to me with the kind of toe-curling, high-heat that’s all about satisfying the deep ache he’s so good at generating. Other times, it’s less personal, more of a release that’s built up when we’ve been separated for a while. That’s what I expected it might be today since we haven’t spent a lot of meaningful time together with him in the studio so often. Instead, his hands and body seem to be seeking some kind of solace in our physical connection. I feel it in the way he clings to me, cradling me in his arms as if in doing so he will somehow feel the security of that embrace in return.

  I pull away and try to look into his eyes, but he goes in for another kiss instead.

  “Wait,” I say, breaking away. “What is going on? What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing. I thought we—you’re not into this, are you?”

  The word he could have added—again—goes unsaid. And I don’t explain that it’s his mood this time that has put me off.

  Instead, we shower together in an almost perfunctory way. I step out before him, thinking he might take care of himself if I give him the chance, but he shuts off the water only a couple of minutes later.

  Like most men, he isn’t big on discussing his feelings. But when he goes straight from the shower to getting dressed while I sit on the side of the bed in a robe, I can’t stop from trying again.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” I ask softly.

  “Hmm?” he murmurs, not looking at me as he buttons his shirt.

  I hesitate, not sure I really want to press him for answers on why we just gave up on having sex. I decide to pursue a different line of questioning. “It’s very nice to have you pop round during the day, but why did you?”

  Glancing at me, he shrugs noncommittally.

  “What have you been recording today?”

  That gets a reaction out of him. He meets my eyes and stays fixed there for several long seconds. There’s a mixture of surprise and wariness in his gaze. Even now, after we’ve been together for almost three years, he’s still thrown when I can decipher the reason behind his moods. He spent so many years nurturing his love-from-a-distance for Sophie that he never experienced the intimacy of a real relationship. It’s still dawning on him that that’s what we’ve had almost from the minute we rekindled our friendship upon my return to Dublin to care for my dying mother.

  “‘The Point of No Return,’” he says at length.

  Ah. Now it all makes sense. That song is about his and Gavin’s good friend Christian Hale. It’s about the heartbreak and anger of Christian having committed suicide last year. Now I understand what it was Conor was seeking with this unexpected visit.

  “Come here,” I tell him and extend my hand.

  Hesitating for just a moment, he soon joins me, sitting by my side on the bed. When I wrap my arm around his and rest my head on his shoulder, I feel him waver. It’s barely perceptible and he rights himself quickly. He’s always been the strong one, the one in control. He’s never fallen to pieces like Gavin has. It would be inconceivable to him to do so. But in that brief flash of emotion just now, I realize he hasn’t truly grieved for Christian. Everyone was so concerned with Gavin’s response that it left little room for anyone else to express their own pain. The song Gavin and Conor wrote for Christian is a step in that direction, but with Gavin wailing out the vocals, he gets all the catharsis from it.

  “You know, I still get these pangs,” I say. “It’s moments where I’m going along like normal and then suddenly it hits me that my Ma is gone. Even now, though it’s been a few years.”

  Conor pulls away from me to meet my eyes. He’s not always the most emotionally intelligent man, but he’s a smart man. I can see he knows why I’ve brought this up. But yet, when he speaks, he chooses to deflect from my point.

  “Especially so now, I’d suppose,” he says, nodding to Ella. She’s stirring in her swing, sleepily opening and closing her eyes. Romeo is busy in his exersaucer, pulling on tabs and pushing buttons for the reward of the click and bell noises.

  “Conor, you can lean on me. I want you to lean on me.”

  “I don’t need—” He stops abruptly as Ella cries out. She’s wide awake now and has heard her father’s voice. She can’t ever get enough of him. I was never a daddy’s girl, but it’s already clear at this tender age that Ella is one through and through.

  Standing, he goes to her and pulls her free from the loose restraints of the swing and into his arms.

 
; “There’s my girl,” he coos.

  I watch as he lavishes his attention on our daughter, wondering whether I should pursue my entreaty for him to open up to me.

  In the end, he makes my decision by handing Ella off to me with apologies for having to return to the studio.

  “Do you think you’ll be late?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I think so. We need to push through on this one. No more delays.”

  He’s talking about the song “The Point of No Return.” The song that sent him home from the studio in search of some kind of comfort. I feel like I’ve failed him in that regard.

  “I’ll wait up for you.”

  When he smiles, it’s the smile that makes you feel every heartbeat in your chest. He’s done allowing me to see any of his sadness over Christian.

  “You’ll be fast asleep when I get home and we both know it,” he says. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “And that’s okay, honey.”

  “Wake me, then.”

  “It’s fine,” he says dismissively.

  He’s gone in a flash after that and I’ve got Ella leaning into me, looking to nurse.

  3

  Two hours later, I’ve got some semblance of calm. I’ve fed Ella, cleaned up the kitchen, bathed Romeo and gotten him down for a nap. I skip eating lunch. I’m rarely hungry, though I do try to keep hydrated if only to ensure that I can keep nursing. I’ve just sat down in the living area with my laptop when the doorbell sounds. Ella is occupying herself nearby, lying on her music-themed play mat and gazing up at the black and white piano keys that will make a sound when she’s old enough to stretch up and reach them.

  The ultra-modern home Conor purchased and furnished in his preferred minimalist style has been overrun by baby things. He cringed when I started bringing them in before the babies were here, but quickly accepted the new norm. Having two infants under the age of six months, there was no choice but to give in. Life is no longer about us. I wonder sometimes if he regrets how forcefully we jumped into the married-with-kids thing.

  The doorbell rings again, forcing me from my thoughts. I’ve found that I tend to do that quite often—get lost in my thoughts. The time will slide by in a blur and I’ll have nothing to show for it. Just like now, when I’ve opened my laptop but not even gotten as far as logging on.

  Standing, I smooth down my clothes—Lucy brand pants and a fresh top—and head to the door. I assume it’s the grocery delivery service. Even though I want to be the mother that does it all, I won’t reject these kinds of conveniences.

  But when I open the door, I’m surprised to find Sophie there along with her little ones, Daisy and Hale. Daisy is two years old, the image of her mother, and holds a stuffed pink bear in her hands. Sophie is holding Hale in his car seat. He’s close in age to Ella, having been born just one month before her.

  Sophie is the kind of woman you want to hate because she’s so perfect—a literal supermodel whose body has bounced back after two children—but you just can’t. She’s sweet and caring and genuine. Though it may seem weird to some given her history with my husband, we are good friends. That’s not to say it was always easy, but we’ve put the past behind us.

  “We were just at the Farmers Market,” Sophie says cheerily, “and thought we’d stop by on our way home to share some of our goodies.”

  Her hazel eyes are bright, her skin is clear, and her long blond hair is clean and subtly styled. She looks well rested but I know that’s not the case because we texted each other in the middle of the night while each of us was up with the babies. Still, she somehow manages to look amazing.

  “Is it Farmers Market day?” I ask with distraction, watching as she ushers Daisy inside the house familiarly. I realize I have no idea what day of the week it is and vow—once again—to get my act together.

  Following them into the living area, I see Daisy has joined her cousin on the play mat. They’re not cousins by blood, of course, but that’s how everyone refers to them. Conor and Gavin might as well be brothers, anyway. Sophie’s sitting on the sofa, leaning over the car seat as she loosens Hale’s straps, careful not to wake him.

  “Yes, it’s Thursday,” Sophie replies. She pulls a container of freshly squeezed carrot juice and some sort of granola bar crumble from her tote bag. “Here, have some of this. This will give you a natural boost.”

  Eyeing the unappetizing orange liquid, I say, “I’ll be just like the energizer bunny after this, will I?”

  Sophie laughs. “Just try it. I’ve never steered you wrong, have I?”

  She’s right about that. Sophie has been a huge help to me in making the adjustment to motherhood. And even before then, she was the one who encouraged me to give Conor a real chance. She’s even been my go-to stylist, helping me to navigate the rockstar world I naively joined, first by working for Rogue, and then when I became part of the band’s “family” by being with Conor.

  I brace myself as I take a swallow of the juice but find that it goes down easy. It’s surprisingly refreshing, and I drink several gulps more.

  “How are you doing today?” Sophie asks. She looks me over and then glances around the house.

  It’s not in shambles, thankfully. And neither am I, though Sophie seems to have come with the idea that there’s something to be concerned about. And then it dawns on me what inspired this impromptu visit of hers.

  “Conor called you?”

  She starts to shake her head but thinks better of it. “He just mentioned you might be having a rough day.”

  “Me? He’s the one—” I stop myself before revealing Conor’s struggle.

  “He meant well. And you have to admit that you’ve had trouble . . . focusing lately.”

  “Of course, I have. I don’t get more than two and a half hours of sleep at a stretch. I’m always exhausted. But I’m fine. This is just how it is right now. Soon enough, the little ones will fall into routines. We all will.”

  I know I sound defensive. Defensive and annoyed. But don’t I have that right? My husband has conspired with my best friend to check up on me. He has confided in his ex, for want of a better term, that his wife is somehow deficient in how she is managing his children. All because I’m a little unfocused?

  Sighing, I say, “If he wanted to help, he didn’t have to send you. He could have stayed here so I could nap.”

  “Gavin says they’re at a critical moment in the studio right now.”

  Not so critical that he wasn’t able to come home for sex in the shower, I think but don’t say. Sophie’s the first one to support Gavin and the band’s efforts. She’s always seen and validated the art in what they do, especially in Gavin’s lyrics—even when those lyrics were aimed at hurting her.

  “I know,” I say. “Conor says they’re working on ‘The Point of No Return.”

  As if he heard this, baby Hale fusses in his sleep. We both look at him. He’s a sweet baby with a mellow temperament. But he was named to honor the man who had taken his own life. I wonder if Gavin sees his friend in his son, if he now thinks it was a mistake to have this constant reminder.

  “Anyway, I hope you’re not mad at Conor.”

  I look up, oddly surprised by the fact that Sophie is here. My mind has been fuzzy lately, I do have to admit that. This has all been harder than I thought it would be. I honestly love every minute of it, but at the same time, I feel like I’m teetering on the edge all too often. I think about my mother a lot, wondering what kind of grandmother she’d make. I imagine she’d be tickled by the double-dose of grandbabies. I also miss having her to just speak with. She and I always had a good rapport, one where we were both quick to laugh. I miss her laugh.

  “They’ll be fine. You just go now.”

  I know it’s Sophie who has said this, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts again. “What?”

  She stands and takes my arm, pulling me up with her.

  “I will watch the kids,” she says and leads me toward the frosted glass
staircase. “I want you to sleep as long as you need. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Now she’s pushing my lower back, forcing me to take a step. “Wait. What about you?”

  “I told you, I’ll watch—”

  “No,” I say. I stop and catch my breath as tears fill my eyes. I’m embarrassed and frustrated to be taken care of like this. “Why is it so easy for you?”

  Sophie smiles. It’s a smile of warmth and understanding. “I’m just pushing through a bit better right now, Felicity. It’s not easy for me. But if you and I take turns, we can help each other through, okay?”

  It’s a very generous answer because I don’t believe her. For whatever reason, it is easier for her. She’s able to handle her two small children while I struggle with physical and emotional exhaustion and self-doubt.

  I’m in no shape to argue however. Instead, I wave my hand as thanks and head upstairs.

  4

  As soon as I’m in bed, curled onto my side and looking out at the gorgeous sea view, I’m wide awake. My body is depleted, but my mind is wired.

  I fear that I’ve done something to worry Conor. Is he disappointed in the kind of mother I am? He has to be, what with Sophie being, yet again, the shining example of what he could have had. She’s the ideal woman—beautiful, effortlessly stylish, well-spoken (she came from money), a natural mother. She’s even told me how she makes sure to keep things unexpected and sexy in the bedroom for Gavin. I can’t remember the last time I made the first move with Conor.

  I turn onto my other side, away from the mesmerizing green water in hope that I can still my thoughts by staring at the wall. Instead, I fixate on the large abstract piece of artwork hanging there. It’s a splatter-style painting that forms a loose figure of a woman. If you study it, you can just make out that it’s a woman staring out into the distance, her back to you. Conor got it when we were still doing our flirty friends dance and not yet together and told me it reminded him of me. I hadn’t taken that as a compliment at the time. There’s something forlorn about the woman to me. He assured me that wasn’t what he saw. Instead, he said he saw a vibrancy that drew him in. In any case, I’m captivated now, looking at the way the artist was able to direct his gold, sienna, and rust splatters. There are the tiniest hints of royal blue in the mix and I find myself trying to spot them all. It’s an optical trick, compelling you to examine the piece. This is the thing that drew Conor in, I realize, not some feeling that it is reminiscent of me.