“But he did talk to you, eventually. This whatever-it-is with Ford’s birth mother, it has hooks in him way down deep—deeper than he’ll admit to anyone. I know it’s only been a week, but…” Holly’s voice cracked.
“But you don’t know if he’ll ever open up to you?”
Holly nodded, keeping her lips pressed together.
“If George hadn’t been able to share that part of himself, I don’t think we would’ve stayed married for all those years. Love isn’t showing the other person every little petty smudge and stain on your soul. Everyone has ugly bits they’d rather not reveal—and that’s okay. But the big things?” Dixie breathed out a sigh. “Honey, the big things make us who we are—the big stains and wounds and burdens we carry. Those things we need to be vulnerable enough to let the one we love see. Love can’t thrive and grow without that sort of trust.”
Reaching for yet another tissue, Holly sniffed. “I love him. He knows I love him, but it just doesn’t seem to be enough.”
“Sometimes it isn’t.” Dixie squeezed her hands. “You deserve a man who’ll love you whole-heartedly without holding anything back. Only you can decide if that man is Ford.”
“Well…” Holly dabbed the tissue under her nose then stuffed it into her jacket pocket, practicing the everything is fine smile she’d need when Ford returned. “That’s not at all a sucktastic choice I have to make.”
* * *
Ford crossed his ankles on Holly’s coffee table. He’d been hanging out all week since their trip to Invers to watch the blockbuster sci-fi movie he’d grabbed on DVD. Woman, wine and intergalactic space annihilation, what could be better?
He squinted at the screen. “Who’s the guy with the bald head again?”
“The admiral. He’s a mole for the resistance, remember?”
Muffling a yawn, Ford nodded. “Right.”
Holly’s warmth curled into him, the weight of her head on his shoulder and her hand resting on his thigh a sweet reminder of his plans for later. Assuming after two weeks of crappy sleep he could stay awake. She reached across his body for the popcorn bowl, elbow brushing his groin.
He could definitely stay awake.
But he needed to invent a more plausible excuse for not staying the night than “stuff to do” early tomorrow morning. She’d already caught him pacing in the wee hours or asleep in the living room on the few all-nighters they’d spent together in the two weeks since Pania’s…
Since Holly told me she loved me.
He shut out the background noise of impending Hollywood explosions and concentrated on remembering her words.
Let me love that broken man, Ford. Let me love him, too.
How could Holly possibly love him?
“Nobody loves a needy, pathetic whiner.” Pania’s gruff voice. Pania’s smell—cheap musk body spray and menthol cigarettes. Pania’s thin-lipped snarl, her fingers digging into his upper arm. Being dragged from the car’s back seat and shoved in the direction of the school gates. “You don’t see Harley crying about going to school. Get in there, you little brat, before I give you something to whine about.”
“Ford? Ford!”
“Sorry. I’m going—” The sound of his strained voice in his ears snapped him fully awake.
His heartbeat careened around his body, and for a moment, he still saw his mother peeling away from the curb in their old Corolla, Harley waiting for him at the school gates, his twin’s gaze as anxious and skittish as his own must’ve been.
Holly, on her knees beside him, stroked his face. He flinched away before he could censor the motion.
“Hey.” She rocked back on her heels, giving him room. “Did you doze off?”
Either that or his nightmares had morphed into waking hallucinations.
He wasn’t that screwed up.
Ford dragged a hand down his face, battling to control the harsh wheeze of his chest as he slowed his breaths.
Okay, pretty sure he wasn’t that screwed up.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Her gaze zeroed in on his, her mouth turning to suspicious and about to nail his butt thin. “Must’ve been one helluva nightmare,” she said. “You were whimpering.”
He slanted a glance at the TV. Bald Headed Guy paused mid sneer, looked as if he was about to order a female officer to butt out. Ford understood where Bald Headed Guy was coming from.
“Just a run-of-the-mill bad dream. And I don’t whimper,” he was forced to add, since Holly continued to stare at him as if he were an abused kitten.
“A bad dream about Pania?”
Muscles in the back of his neck pinged like over-tightened guitar strings. His gaze landed on the TV remote and he snatched it up, pressing play. “Nope. Killer cyborgs. Can we watch now?”
He dropped the remote on the couch beside him, folded his arms, slumping into the couch again in the classic I-don’t-want-to-talk pose.
Turned out Holly was done tip-toeing around his ego. She stabbed the TV’s off button, and the screen went dark.
“Killer cyborgs, my ass,” she said. “When are you going to tell me why you’ve got panda circles under your eyes? Why is it any time I try to talk to you about something more serious than movie choices, you shut me down? When will you sack up and tell me what the hell is going on in your head?”
“Sack up?”
“You heard me.”
Apparently reading his mind, she tossed the remote control onto an armchair, preventing a juvenile behaviour lapse should he think of turning on the TV again. He kinda had been. Right now, nightmare tentacles still crept under his skin, and the burning humiliation that Holly had seen him in their grip—which, for God’s sake, he should’ve been done with twenty-four years ago—brought out a side of himself he didn’t much like.
Prototype “Jerk who wanted to screw, not fight”.
“Baby, let’s not fight.”
He thought about running a hand down her thigh—quickly reconsidering as her eyes narrowed, and she slid to the other end of the couch. Though every muscle in his body felt lead-lined, maybe he would be up for some hot argument-sex as a distraction.
He relaxed his arms, patted his lap. “Come over here.”
She shook her head. “No, Ford.”
Something about the way she said his name—completely lacking in sass and fire—put him on high alert.
“Not this time.” She let out a long, drawn-out sigh and hugged her knees to her chest, looking so damn vulnerable his heart rolled belly up. “You still don’t trust me? After all the years we’ve known each other?”
“Of course, I trust you.” Assuming Holly meant in the sense that she wouldn’t broadcast his business around town. He knew that as well as he knew the inner workings of a V8 engine, or that books and movies could take you places where nothing or no one could hurt you. “You’ve always had my back.”
Holly cocked her head. “Is it because you don’t love me?”
Ford’s jaw sagged, but Holly continued to stare at him with her big brown eyes. Cutting him off at the knees with one pointed glance.
“Nope, that’s not it either. Because you do love me, don’t you?”
His throat worked as if trying to dislodge a partially stuck popcorn kernel. “Well…yeah.”
And suddenly the simple revelation of it—the gut-clenching, heart-pounding joy of it—swept through him, and he grinned probably the goofiest grin known to mankind. “Yeah. I love you, Hol.”
“Every part of me?”
His back muscles began to melt. Not out of the woods yet—he knew that much about her. But hey, he’d sacked up and told her he loved her. That counted, right? “Every part. Even your stumpy, weirdly shaped toes and your collection of creepy Beanie Babies.”
“Even when I’m a PMSing bitch?”
“Especially then.” Nailing this…
“And when I change topics six times in three minutes and make your head spin like Linda Blair in the exorcist?”
“I love it when you do
that.”
“When I’m having a bad hair day? When I’m in self-pity mode after my mother rings to lecture me on how twenty dollars cash is a sucky birthday present for my niece’s birthday, even though my mother forgot my birthday two years in a row?”
Handling this like a champ…“Even then,” he said.
Ford reached out to drag her stumpy-but-adorable toes onto his lap, but Holly scrambled off the couch, ducking out of reach behind the coffee table.
“If you love every part of me, why won’t you let me love every part of you?”
He grimaced and sat up straight. Back to beating on the same old drum. Seconds ago, the revelation he loved her filled him with joy. Now, the joy hardened into shiny, cold steel, slicing him to ribbons. Loving someone whole-heartedly made you even more vulnerable when your weaknesses were exposed.
He rose to his feet. “By ‘part of you,’ you’re talking about my childhood—before me and Harley moved to the island?”
She wrapped her arms around her middle and angled her chin. “That’s right.”
“You want me to dredge up some awful memories and lay them at your feet? Will that prove my feelings for you? You can analyze my life like reading tea leaves or my horoscope and feel victorious by forcing me to cave like a cheap suitcase?”
“Wanting you to open up about your childhood isn’t about me claiming a victory.” Holly threw up her palms. “I’m not stupid and I don’t think your pre-school years were unicorns and fairy dust. I know it’s probably worse than I always thought. But it sucks you’d make me feel guilty for wanting to know why you look so haunted whenever your mother’s name is mentioned.”
“She’s not my mother.” The automatic response shot off his tongue as if someone pulled a trigger.”
“Really? That’s the best you can do?”
“The hell do you want from me?”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Normal couples—couples who love each other and want to stay together—they support each other by sharing the burden.”
His gut knotted, little loops that strangled, growing tighter and tighter. Harley warned him about the sharing is caring thing, but stupidly, he’d thought what he offered Holly would be enough. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“You’ll never go there, go that deep with me, will you? Ever.” The challenging stare she’d been directing at him faltered. “I don’t think it’s in you to even want to try.” She lifted a shoulder in a tiny shrug. “So, no, Ford. No ultimatum.”
The knots in his gut lessened, allowing in the sneaking hope that perhaps they were over the worst. Perhaps they were both just tired and on edge. Perhaps in the morning, he could convince her that in every other way, he wanted to make it work.
He dodged around the coffee table, wrapping her in his arms and nuzzling the sweet-smelling skin of her throat. While making love to her was off the table tonight, he’d run her a bubble bath and brush her hair. Hol loved it when he brushed her hair.
“How ‘bout I run you a bath…?”
His words trailed into silence. Holly held herself rigid, her arms stiff by her sides. He pulled back, scanning her face. She wouldn’t make eye contact, instead her gaze fixed on the floor.
“I’d like to be alone,” she said. “I think you should leave.”
The words had the brutal punch of a horse kick to the heart.
So much for the no ultimatum claim. Spill your guts, or get out. Guess this introduced the get out section of the evening. Was she kicking him out not for something he’d done, not for something he’d said, and not even for choking on the three little words that for the first time in his life he’d actually meant?
First time for everything.
Resolve like concrete hardened his spine. Ford hooked his jacket off the armchair and walked to the door, meaning to toss over his shoulder something flippant, something along the lines of “whatever”. Only not for the first time his throat clogged up at the sight of her. Standing there, her dark eyes shimmering in the lamplight as she watched him walk away, he told himself the same sad set of lies his five-year-old self had once listened to.
It’ll be okay. It’ll be better tomorrow.
Chapter 21
It wasn’t okay.
It wasn’t better tomorrow—or the day after. Or the day after that. A week after the CSI—Colossally Screwed-up Incident—at Holly’s place, she still wouldn’t be alone with him.
Her posse closed ranks. Each time he’d shown up at Holly’s, one of her friends was there. Either Shaye wedding planning, Piper getting a massage, Kezia smiling over Zoe and Jade’s heads then muttering in Italian when the girls were out of earshot, Erin dropping off muffins, Carly Game of Thrones binge-watching, or Bree helping with salon-stuff paperwork—and none of them would budge an inch from Holly’s side.
Bloody cock-blocking him.
If only that was the part of him missing Holly the most. It’d taken him a week of brooding like a bloody Supernatural character to figure out this couldn’t continue. Bad enough that, thanks to Holly, he knew how a Supernatural character brooded.
So. After backing off for the last three days…no texts or phone calls, no more attempts to hijack time alone with her by bribing Zach with fifty bucks to make a fake hair appointment—Zach had sung like a canary when Holly grilled him, and Ford had been down the fifty and still no closer to his goal—it was time to put Plan B in action.
Sunday morning. Not too early but early enough that one of her bodyguard friends probably hadn’t arrived. He changed into the blue shirt he knew she liked. Shaved, doused himself in cologne and underarm deodorant because, God knew, he was sweating bullets. He resisted the black jeans and opted for the khakis. Even considered a goddamn tie.
Yeah. That desperate.
Ford left the house and headed to Holly’s. Sunshine beating down on his head, he passed the beach, spotting Ben and the girls walking Sparky. Ben did a double-take at the sight of him while Sparky sniffed suspiciously at Ford’s dress shoes.
Jade’s forehead creased, her Cupid’s-bow lips turning down. “Are you going to a party?”
“Ah.” Ford hooked a finger between his neck and collar. Man, the sun was hot for a winter’s day. “I’m off to church.”
“Is that right?” Ben asked.
Zoe bounced over and hooked her little fingers in the crook of his arm. “Us, too! After we take Sparky home, of course. Mama says dog’s don’t belong at Mass. Hey—you can sit with us, right, Daddy?”
Ben’s eyes widened in direct proportion to his wide smile. “Course he can. In fact, your mama will insist.”
Evil bastard. Ford cleared his throat and gently disengaged his elbow from Zoe. “Sorry, Zoe—not the Catholic Church. I’ll, um, sit in on the Presbyterian service with my mum.”
Zoe’s face fell. “Oh. Maybe next time?”
“Yeah.” He dredged up a smile while his gut twisted with the worry that Ben—who knew Ford majorly screwed up but not the exact cause—would warn Holly before Ford even hit her street.
Sure enough, Ben dragged out his phone. “Gonna fix it or fu—” His gaze shot down to the girls. “Or fudge it up?”
“Fix.” Ford mentally crossed his fingers.
Ben shoved his phone away and picked up Sparky, who’d been clawing at his legs. “Good. Then you can quit drinking my beer and making me sit through your damn spaceship movies.”
“I like spaceship movies.” Jade grinned at him.
“Me, too,” said Zoe. “You can watch Star Wars with us for family movie night tonight if you want. Mama said it’s kids’ choice.”
“We’ll see,” Ben said, ever the dad. “Ford might have plans later on.” He gave Ford a pointed glance then switched his gaze to the little dog licking the pocket of his shirt. “C’mon, then, let’s get home.”
Ford really hoped he’d have other plans tonight.
But first…he strode past the shut up workshop and Russell’s, his heart pounding way faster than could be bl
amed on physical activity. He went over and over what he’d say to Holly, but nothing stuck. Damn. Maybe note cards hadn’t been such a bad idea.
At the bottom of Holly’s driveway, a small figure in a sunhat bent over the flower beds, turning dark eyes in his direction at the sound of his footsteps. She raised up on her knees, fists braced either side of her pregnant belly.
Rutna, soon to be Holly’s first employee as a masseuse. The soon-to-be single mum was more than happy to move from Invercargill to live rent free and work for Holly—with the added bonus of an abundance of baby-sitters in the community, waiting to get their hands on another cute infant. In three days, she’d cleaned Dixie’s house from top to bottom and happily taken the position of Holly’s small but ferocious guard dog.
“What you want?” she called out, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Just to talk.” He slipped into his laidback Maori fella persona, showing her empty palms and a we’re all mates smile. “Won’t be long.”
Then he hoofed it to Holly’s door. Her eight-month-pregnant guard dog would surely take a few minutes to get to her feet and walk up the path to Holly’s place.
Before he tried the door, he crept sideways to peek in her living room window. His stomach plummeted at the sight of her curled up on the couch, still in her pajamas—and wearing one of his tee shirts—watching, of course, Supernatural. His stomach, now residing in his leather dress shoes, lurched.
Hell. Season one.
The everything-in-my-life-is-crap-so-let-me-escape-reality season.
Ford returned to the front door, but instead of pounding, he tried to emulate how he thought a polite, new-neighbor knock would sound. It worked. Soft footsteps came from the other side, and the door swung open.
Holly’s eyes flicked to his, widening slightly then immediately returning to a dull stare. “I thought you were Rutna.”
“Nope. It’s just me, the guy you won’t talk to and have avoided like a plague carrier.”
Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6 Page 26
