Along Came Love

by Tracey Livesay

  She sat upright, ready to make her presence known. “It’s after midnight. You didn’t drive here from Palo Alto, did you?”

  He started, turning wide eyes to her. “You should be asleep. You need to rest.”

  His deep, sluggish tone stroked her senses.

  “I was. I crashed late this afternoon and woke up an hour ago.”

  “Couldn’t go back to sleep?”

  Not with her mind racing like the lead car at Daytona.

  She shook her head. “Sometimes watching TV helps.”

  He nodded toward the black screen. “Except you’re not.”

  She pressed a button on the remote and the LED screen gleamed to life. She muted the volume.

  “Oh.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. His fatigue was obvious.

  “I’m not the only one who should be resting. Why did you come here tonight instead of staying at the office?”

  “Because you’re here.”

  What did he mean by that? Was he concerned that she was alone in his home with his belongings? Was he reminding her that he was her keeper while she was out on bail, pending charges? Or, more disturbing, was he implying that he wanted to be where she was because . . . he missed her?

  Impossible. But speaking of bail and her case—­

  “Viv called earlier today. The DA has decided to press charges. She said they’ll probably set the arraignment for two weeks from today. She’ll let me know when she gets the official notice.”

  “Fuck.”

  She’d used that exact same word after she’d gotten off the phone with the attorney. Along with a few choice variations. This whole criminal case was being blown out of proportion. Everyone was acting like she was an elusive jewel thief and not a woman who’d had to get resourceful to get into a residence she had permission to enter.

  Jeez.

  “We can talk about it after I’ve grabbed a few hours of sleep.”

  “Do you always work this late?” she asked.

  “Not always.”

  “Way to dodge the question.”

  He hunched his shoulders. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

  “I’m saying this probably isn’t the first time you’ve come through that door at midnight.”

  “You’d be correct.”

  She studied him, thrusting her tongue into the pocket of her inner cheek, before she set aside the blanket and stood, yanking her T-­shirt down to cover her leggings. “Did you eat dinner?”

  He narrowed his eyes as he considered her question. “No,” he finally said, “I couldn’t spare the time.”

  “You didn’t take the time.”

  She padded into his gourmet kitchen, trailing her fingers against the coolness of his soapstone countertops. She turned on the pendant lights—­brightening the room with their gentle glow—­and opened the refrigerator.

  “You’ve got to go grocery shopping. This is a top-­of-­the-­line appliance. You insult it with the paltry ingredients you store in here.”

  He laughed and the invigorating sound warmed her. “I don’t spend much time eating here.”

  “Obviously.” She parsed the contents. “These eggs still have a few days left and there’s some cheese. An omelet?”

  He lounged on one of the bar stools, so sexy she didn’t think she could handle it. “You can cook?”

  “I’ve been cooking most of my meals since I was eight years old. I think I mastered the omelet around age ten.”

  The words were lightly said, and she prayed he’d take them in the manner they were given instead of delving deeper.

  He didn’t.

  “Were you in foster care at that time?”

  “Yup.”

  She hoped she was successful in molding her face into calm lines, though her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped being seeking freedom. She placed the ingredients on the counter and began searching his espresso-­colored cabinets for the tools she needed.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Have you eaten?”

  She shrugged as she sliced cheese on the cutting board that still held a small orange price sticker. “I tried, but after a few bites I knew it was pointless. I’ve been drinking water, though. Staying hydrated.”

  “Good.”

  He walked over to his briefcase—­a black leather and steel-­gray tweed piece too stylish and modern to simulate the old-­school image—­and pulled out a brown paper bag.

  She paused and held the knife aloft. “What’s that?”

  “From my research I’ve learned that tea and crackers is a go-­to for nausea.” His fingers tightened on the sack. “Does it work for you?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  She tapped an egg on the counter. “During your hectic day, you took the time to go out and buy me some tea?”

  “No. I had my assistant call down to the cafeteria and have them bring it to me.”

  He was charm personified. She licked her parched bottom lip. “Still, it was extremely thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He brushed past her to grab a mug down from the cabinet and the hair on her arms stood at attention and saluted. His closeness drew her like a magnet and the effort it took to fight it was overwhelming. She resumed her tasks, still aware of him moving around the space. He reached into the bag and extracted two boxes of tea. “What will it be: ginger, ginger, ginger? Peppermint, peppermint, peppermint?”

  He held a box in each hand, bouncing both up and down.

  She laughed. She’d forgotten about this part of his personality. His secret zaniness had delighted her during their weekend together, and she hadn’t seen it once during their recent reintroduction. Though to be fair, their circumstances didn’t scream “time to par-­tay.”

  “Peppermint, definitely.”

  He nodded and tossed the other box over his shoulder. “I had a feeling you’d pick that one.”

  “How?”

  Could she be any more obvious with this perma-­smile creasing her face?

  “The necklace you wear. It gives off a faint minty odor and you always hold it up to your nose when you look queasy.”

  Surprised that he’d noticed, she lifted the aromatic starfish suspended from the chain. “It was a gift from one of my coworkers in Seattle.”

  “A male coworker?”

  Why did it matter who gave her the necklace? She could receive gifts from men. He had a girlfriend.

  That’s right, Indi. A girlfriend. Remember that the next time his nearness causes your nether regions to go all warm and gooey.

  “No. A woman who recognized some of my symptoms before I did.”

  They moved about the space in a semi-­companionable silence. She whisked the eggs with a fork, while Mike dropped a peppermint tea bag into the mug.

  Turning his back to the counter, he crossed his legs at the ankle and treated her to an intense gaze from his cerulean-­blue eyes. “So, how long were you in the foster care system?”

  Dammit. She thought he’d abandoned that train of thought. “Do you have a skillet?”

  “A what?”

  Was he kidding? Her gaze flew to his slack expression.

  He wasn’t.

  “A pan to make the omelet.”

  “Oh, a frypan.”

  “Skillet, frypan, same diff.”

  He raised his brows, indicating he didn’t agree, but he reached beneath the island and brought out a pan, which he sat on the stove for her.

  Except stove didn’t seem adequate to describe the appliance. A stove was a dingy white range with four electric, circular grates—­though only two ever worked consistently—­surrounded by burned crud that resisted all efforts at removal. Not this . . . war machine, with six gas burners, ceramic grates, a griddle, and a
double oven.

  She ran her fingers over the chunky knobs—­not one missing!—­in appreciation. “Has Jonathan ever cooked on this thing?”

  Grooves appeared on either side of Mike’s mouth. “Why?”

  “This looks like the type of stove you’d see in a restaurant, not in a kitchen. And of course, thinking about restaurants made me think of Jonathan. He’s opening up his newest one in DC, right?”

  “Right.” She felt the blaze of his stare. “You’ve kept in contact with him since the wedding?”

  An innocuous question, if one didn’t notice the tone of voice. Indi not only noticed it, she recognized it as one meant to convey shame and judgment to anyone close enough to hear it loudly expressed. But to hear it from Mike? She patched the tear on her heart before the hurt could seep through. Why was she shocked that he’d asked? They’d only made a baby together. It’s not like he really knew her.

  Her hands shook, but she clenched the edge of the counter and kept her voice calm. “You’re asking if after a weekend spent fucking my new brother-­in-­law’s best friend, I’d set my sights on the other one?”

  He had the sense to recognize his error. “Fuck! Indi, I didn’t mean—­”

  She held up a hand, shook her head.

  He pried the fingers of her other hand off the counter and took both of them in his. “I know you well enough to realize that was a stupid, unfair question. Allow me to blame it on exhaustion, confusion and”—­he gently squeezed her hands—­“a tiny bit of jealousy.”

  “You don’t have the right to be jealous.”

  “Whether or not I have the right to be doesn’t mean the feeling ceases to exist.”

  “Whoa. For a second there, you channeled Adam.”

  “That, more than anything else, proves how tired I am.”

  Maybe, but she was still in her feelings and not willing to forgive him so easily. Pulling her hands from his, she picked up the bowl and gave the fork a final flick of her wrist. She checked the temperature of the pan, added a pat of butter and poured in the eggs, watching the mixture cover the bottom until it resembled an expressionless emoji.

  He settled his hip against the counter. “When you were in the foster homes—­”

  She expelled a forceful breath. “You’re determined to talk about it, aren’t you?”

  “Just as determined as you are not to.”

  “If you know I don’t want to talk about it, why do you keep asking me questions? Why do you feel it’s any of your business?”

  “Because I’m curious. Because you’re the mother of my child. Because I’m intent on convincing you to give Nugget to me and I want to understand why you’d be willing to give him up.”

  She tilted the skillet and used the tip of a spatula to lift the omelet, checking it for doneness. She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. For now.” He took the mug with the tea bag, filled it with water, and placed it in the microwave. He pushed several buttons then busied himself going back and forth between the kitchen and the eating area.

  He wasn’t going to stop asking questions and she had no intention of giving him any answers, so where did that leave them?

  Finding the once semi-­companionable silence now sour, she focused on finishing his omelet. Because she couldn’t help herself, and to show that she wasn’t bothered by his thoughts about her or their conversation, she lifted the skillet from the burner and with a jab she watched the fluffy omelet complete a somersault in the air and land with the slightly browned side on the top.

  “Impressive.”

  “Thanks.” She sprinkled on the cheese she’d sliced and folded the omelet in half. “I worked for a few months as a short order cook in Atlanta, Georgia.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t attractive.”

  “You move around a lot.”

  What was this: midnight confessions with Michael Black? She was starting to regret her offer to feed him. “I do.”

  “Why?” He handed her a plate.

  She took it and slid the omelet on it. “Never found a place I liked enough to stay.”

  “Will you join me?”

  He carried his food to the table where he’d set two place settings. Next to hers was a steaming cup of tea and a bowl filled with saltines. Sensation fluttered in her belly.

  Don’t get any ideas, Nugget.

  “Sure.”

  He held her chair out and waited for her to be seated. He had impeccable manners. He often held the door open for her, ushered her into places. She remembered the heated imprint of his hand pressing into the small of her back. She’d never thought of herself as some damsel who required an offered coat to traverse a puddle, but she liked the little gestures. They showed he thought of her, cared about her well-­being.

  He probably did the same things for his girlfriend, too.

  “How did you two meet?” she blurted out.

  She’d caught him taking a drink of water. He started choking.

  “Mike!”

  Heart racing, she jumped up and hurried to the kitchen to get some paper towels.

  He coughed, his eyes watering.

  “Raise your right arm over your head!”

  He still managed to give her an are-­you-­an-­absolute-­loon look, even as his face turned varying shades of red.

  “Do it!” When he didn’t comply, she lifted it herself. “There was an old lady in my neighborhood, and if a kid started choking she’d tell them to raise their arm over their head. Said it opened the airways, making it easier to breathe.”

  After an interminably long moment, he got himself under control. She lowered his arm then wiped up the spewed water, throwing the paper towels away. She took her seat, relief making her light-­headed. This was way too much emotional upheaval for this time of night.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” he wheezed.

  Talk about gratitude. “You stopped coughing, didn’t you?”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin and took a tentative sip of water. He inhaled and released it shakily. “How did I meet who?”

  He knew who. “Your girlfriend? Cortland? Sawyer?”

  “Skylar,” he supplied with a wry tilt of his lips.

  Why was she being such a bitch?

  Hormones. Yeah, that’s it. Pregnancy hormones.

  And didn’t that show she’d be a terrible mother? She was already shifting the blame to Nugget.

  “I met her at a fundraiser. She’s a Senior VP and CFO of ThomTexteL.”

  She’d whistle . . . if she could. She’d never been able to, another childhood embarrassment. “The one owned by Franklin Thompson?”

  “Yes.”

  She made the connection. “She’s his daughter.”

  He nodded.

  Good lord, there had never been any competition. That’s the type of woman he should be with. Someone classy and cultured, someone comfortable with sharing his life, attending fundraisers and balls and the ballet and other rich-­­people society things.

  “If anyone wanted you, do you think you’d be here? You’re only worth the paycheck we get every month.”

  Her mouth dry, she forced out her next words. “Is it serious?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  She didn’t. “You’re the one who keeps saying we should get to know one another.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “She and I have a lot in common. We socialize in the same circles, enjoy doing the same activities. She’s the type of woman I’ve always imagined myself marrying.”

  Unlike you.

  He didn’t say the words, but that’s what she heard.

  She nodded, took one last sip of her tea, then carried the cup and bowl into the kitchen.

  “Are you angry?”

&nbs
p; An emotion, like the man, she had no right to claim. He wasn’t hers, had never been. Their time together was like a vacation she’d won: sweet while there, but eventually, she’d have to go home.

  She rinsed out her dishes, put them away, and settled on the sofa, wrapping the soft blanket around her.

  “Why did you leave?”

  Like she was going to sit across from him and pretend nothing had just been said or proclaimed? “I was done eating.”

  “Not the table. That weekend.”

  Heat suffused her body and she stared at the muted television. A woman was rubbing cream on her face and, beneath her image, there was a split screen with a before picture—­which showed her skin looking like a page from a connect-­the-­dot workbook—­and after—­where it was miraculously smooth and unblemished.

  “What about it?”

  “Really?” She heard the angry scrape of the chair against the hardwood floors. “What happened? I thought we’d had a great time. Why did you leave?”

  She’d had no other option. Even though it’d only been two days, she’d gotten comfortable with him, lowered her guard, begun imagining what life would be like come Monday morning. In the real world. “We both knew it was temporary.”

  “Temporary or not, it was rude,” he said, standing before her, all masculine anger and frustration.

  Clearly she had the willpower of the gods to have been able to walk away from this man.

  “No one cares about manners anymore.”

  “I do. I invite you into my home and then you sneak out like a common criminal.”

  She tensed. “I’m not a thief. I didn’t take anything from you.”

  He frowned and some of the stiffness leeched from his posture. “I didn’t say you were. It’s an expression.”

  “An expression I don’t like.”

  “All right, all right. It’s probably too late for this conversation.”

  When Mike came to sit next to her on the sectional, she drew her feet closer to her body, trying to keep some distance between them.

  “Just as well you left when you did.” He slid her a side-­eyed glance. “It was good. Too good. There’s no way it could’ve lasted.”