“What?” Griffin sounds confused.
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I grumble on a cough, trying to clear the fowl tang from my mouth.
My brother grabs the reins of our conversation. “I think we need to take this more seriously, Reuben. This time, it’s serious. Ryan is troubled. He’s going through a real rough patch.” Griffin makes a decent effort at guilt tripping me but I won’t fall for it. Not when we both know the truth.
“His conscience is eating him alive,” I mutter under my breath.
Griffin exhales heavily. “Ryan made a mistake. He fessed up to it. You think maybe you could forgive him so we can all move on?”
I scoff. I can’t believe that I have to explain this to Griffin. He should understand. “So, you’re telling me that if you were in my shoes, you’d just forgive him and move on?”
“I’d try.”
Anger begins to swell inside of me. “I have no intention of forgiving him. Brother or no brother. His betrayal was too fucking deep. I will never forgive him.” I give up on my sorry excuse for a meal, pushing my plate aside and lying back on the pillows. I bury my nose in the fabric, searching for Isla’s scent. That warm, saccharine fragrance that covers every inch of her body. It grows fainter everyday but it still subtly permeates the sheets. I close my eyes to indulge in it and for a moment, it’s almost like she’s still here, her warm frame pressing against mine, her sweet cries filling the room.
"And Delia –" my brother starts.
Well, why don’t you throw a wet blanket on me while you’re at it, Griffin?
I interrupt him immediately. "I can't believe you would even mention Delia. It’ll take me a lifetime to get over what she did.” Or maybe it will take me a good woman. A woman like Isla. I run my fingers over the pillows where just a few days ago, the beautiful redhead was lying next to me. I need to get her back here. I need more of her.
“Reuben – are you listening to me?”
The visual evaporates like a puff of smoke and annoyance sets in as the reality of this unwelcome conversation returns to me.
“I don’t want to talk about Delia!” I shout. “Let the lawyers deal with her. I don’t want any part of that woman!” As soon as my attorneys get their heads out of each other’s asses, I’ll sign the necessary paperwork, a judge will give it his seal of approval and I’ll be free of that bitch forevermore. Until then, I refuse to even entertain the idea of her.
Griffin grumbles, indicating that he’s finally willing to drop the conversation.
“So can we finally talk about what I called you to talk about?” I growl.
“The floor is all yours, little brother.” He’s a snarky fuck, my older brother.
“We’re moving too slowly here in Reyfield. Marquette is making more and more ground. He just started a new condominium project.”
He exhales heavily. “I don’t think you should be out there, Reuben. You’re far too emotional with everything that’s happened over the past few months. You’re about to start a war with our father and frankly, I’m not sure we can win. Why don’t you come home to Denver and let Carl and the others deal with Reyfield?” I hate my brother’s patronizing tone. It pisses me off that he doesn’t have more confidence in me. Yes, I’ve been through some ugly personal shit in recent months but that won’t affect the work I’m about to accomplish out here.
“And why would I do that?”
“Because our father will find out what we’re up to and when he does –”
“Harvey Marquette doesn’t scare me!”
My brother stays quiet but I know that he’s building his case against me in his mind. He always plays it safe. That’s his biggest flaw.
“I’m out here working my ass off and this is the thanks I get?” I shake my head.
“Don’t go starting a war, Reuben,” he mutters in a low, exasperated voice.
I pull my phone away from my face to stare at the time. “I’m sorry. I have to go,” I say as I stand and adjust the collar of my shirt. “I’ll check in soon.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I end the call.
I’ve got to get to work.
Chapter 10
Isla
I hold two bottles of mayonnaise in my hand. The one I want and the one I can afford.
The organic, cruelty free brand is $2.29 more expensive than the generic store brand, but I get the shudders just reading the ingredients on the label of the cheap stuff. This should be a no-brainer, but I have $63.57 in my bank account for groceries this week. So, I stand here in the condiment aisle for a full minute weighing the decision in my mind. Tonight's dinner is riding on this choice because light, whipped mayonnaise is the unsung hero of my world-class egg white quiche.
Unexpected tears begin to tumble from my eyes. I don't want to be a bitter person but damn you, Zayn.
At the end of the day, it isn't about the freaking mayonnaise. It isn't about the $2.29. It's about the fact that I'm trapped in my shitty life. It's about the fact that I'm so broke that I can't even buy the fucking mayonnaise I want without having an existential crisis in aisle 4. It's about the fact that even after crushing my heart with his bare hands, Zayn Wilkinson still has his fingers in my pocket.
He abused me, he humiliated me, he devastated me when I loved him the most. And now, he wants a piece of the pie?
Well, fuck him. I'm keeping my pie and I'm keeping my mayonnaise, too. I feel renewed determination take root in my soul. I'm going to get this investment and as soon as all the paperwork is finalized and the money is sitting in the bank, I'm hiring a new lawyer and I'm appealing the alimony judgment.
I'm taking my life back.
I chuck the freaking organic mayonnaise into my basket and move toward the cash. I push a tear away with the corner of my thumb and chuckle to myself. Here I am, crying in the middle of the grocery store like a mad woman. If someone else could hear my inner dialog right now, I'd be committed to an asylum.
As I approach the cash register, broad shoulders and lustrous dark hair catch my eye. He’s peering over the shoulder of the cashier as she instructs him on how to use the machine. He works at the grocery store, too? I don’t even know why I’m surprised anymore. I sniffle and discreetly use the end of my sleeve to wipe the last of my tears.
I clear my throat and paste on a pleasant smile. “Hello Reuben.”
He glances up from the screen of the cash register and his brilliant gaze hits me like a ton of bricks in the chest, almost winding me. “Isla. Hello.” His eyes scan my body with lustful appreciation like they always do.
I try to maintain my cool. “Exactly how many jobs do you have? Seems like you’re singlehandedly trying to put every resident of Reyfield out of work."
He offers a quick chuckle. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
I start pulling the groceries out of my basket and placing them on the conveyor belt. Meanwhile, the cashier rings up my items one by one. “There’s a position open down at the gas station if you need yet another job,” I tease.
He smirks. “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”
He bites his bottom lip, staring at me in a way that makes me feel naked; self-conscious but beautiful at the same time. I brush a lock of hair out of my face and I realize that I didn't even check myself in the mirror after my vinyasa session. Suddenly, I wish I had swiped on a layer of lipstick or brushed my hair before rushing over here after a long day of massages and yoga classes.
“So, enough about me,” Reuben says in a growly voice. “Did you have a good day?”
I nod. “I did." Then, I add. "Did you?”
He nods, eyes twinkling, evidently recalling the time that I deliberately refused to ask. “I did.”
We share a lingering gaze that has my insides fluttering wildly.
"So, it rained last night. Did the roof hold up okay?"
"The roof is perfect. Thank you again."
"My pleasure." He looks at me and one of those rare, elusive smiles touch his perfect lips. I didn’t
realize that it was possible for him to be even more handsome, but in this moment, he is. And it has me nervous as a schoolgirl.
I feel compelled to speak. Just to break the sexual tension building between us. "Tell your friend to send me the bill—"
"Isla! Stop it," he says sternly. "I told you – nobody's taking your money."
I sigh, hating to concede but this is a losing battle. Reuben stubbornly refuses to let me cover the roof repairs even though I offered to set up a payment arrangement with his friend and pay off the cost bit by bit.
He reaches over the counter as I lay the last of my items on the conveyor. His hand brushes mine as he takes the basket from me. My body reacts in a visceral way. My pulse picks up speed and my palms go clammy.
What is wrong with me? I'm not some naive college girl who's never been touched before. I'm a grown woman. I've been married and divorced. I'm a businesswoman - albeit an unsuccessful one, but still, a businesswoman. I've been around the block. So I don't understand why this man's attention affects me so much.
I like him.
I scold myself silently. The barista-slash-bartender-slash-grocery-clerk in front of me may be gorgeous and funny and kind but I can’t get involved with a guy juggling three part-time jobs to make ends meet. I’m not superficial, just practical. Nobody works that hard unless they're in debt or in trouble of some kind. I’m already paying alimony to one man; I can’t afford another liability.
But tell that to the throbbing ache between my thighs. Especially when Reuben’s voice drops dangerously low. “What are your plans for the evening?”
“My plans for the evening?” I say with a little laugh meant to mask my frayed nerves. “I plan to make myself an egg-white quiche and binge watch Shark Tank to prepare for a big meeting I have tomorrow.”
“Exciting,” he says teasingly. “Egg-white quiche happens to be my favorite. Think that maybe you could set a place at the dinner table for me?”
Wow, he's still trying to get me on that date!
I laugh. “You don’t relent, do you?”
He waggles his brows. “Not a chance.”
Shaking my head as a blush creeps up my neck, I turn away from him. My eyes fall on the cash register. Shit, I’m already at $43.37 and the cashier just keeps ringing up items. With every beep of the scanner my heart rate accelerates.
Whole grain bread: $4.59.
Free range eggs: $6.19.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice: $3.49.
Organic mayonnaise: $5.29.
Total: $62.93.
Inwardly, I sigh in relief. I pull my card out of my wallet with a victorious flourish, smiling broadly at the cashier.
"We don't give out plastic bags anymore. New management, new policy,” the woman tells me in an uninspired monotone. “Would you like a cloth bag for a dollar extra?"
I laugh out loud at the irony. Just when I thought I was off the hook, just when I barely squeaked by with enough money to cover my groceries, I can't afford a freakin' bag.
#TheUniverseIsTestingMe
I pull in a breath, determined not to get pissed off again. I maintain my calm even when challenges appear. All is well. "No thank you," I say graciously. "I don't need a bag." I hold my card over the reader, anxious to pay for my shopping and get the hell out of here.
And of course, Reuben promptly begins arranging my groceries in a sturdy cloth bag.
"Really, I don't need a bag." My voice comes out a wee bit frantic. I don't want this transaction to be denied for insufficient funds. Especially not in front of him. I'd die of shame.
But Reuben just keeps packing the cloth bag. "The bag's on me, Isla. I'll pay for it. It'll be easier—"
"Reuben!" I say firmly. His eyes jolt to mine. The people in the line growing behind me begin to grumble in irritation. Now, I feel like a bitch but I don't need him trying to take care of me. Embarrassed by my outburst, I lower my voice to an acceptable octave. "I don't need a bag, thank you. I'm parked near the entrance."
He holds my gaze for a moment obviously irritated that I won’t accept his help. He pushes out a deep breath before piling my groceries into my outstretched arms with a resigned grunt.
"Thank you," I say with a quick, weak smile. He watches me, his mouth pulled into a tight, flat line as I head toward the exit.
I feel so fucking bad right now. Embarrassed. Welp! Now, he's seen firsthand that I'm a nutcase. Maybe he'll finally stop pursing me.
And then, it all happens in slow motion. The bottle of mayonnaise slips from my arm, heading for the floor. Instinctively, I reach down, attempting to grab for it just as my carton of eggs goes sliding out of my grip and crashing on the toe of my sneaker in a bright yellow, slimy mess.
No. No no no. No.
There goes $6.19. There goes my dinner. There goes my favorite pair of sneakers because how do you even begin to clean raw eggs out of white polyester mesh? I raise my left foot and the slimy yolk rolls off my shoe in waves. And just as I take one step forward to extricate myself from the mess, my other foot slides through the slop, the rest of my groceries heave up into the air and I crash, ass flat, in the mess at my feet.
Is this moment a metaphor for my life?
I bury my face in my shaking hands as I sit on the cold grocery store floor in the mess of slime and cracked eggshells. I feel hands on me and voices gathering around me. I think I make out Delores’ voice in the cacophony but I can’t be sure. This almost feels like an out-of-body experience. I hear the cashier call for clean-up over the PA system. Tears burn my eyes and I just let them pour down my face. Because I'm tired, dammit. Tired of trying to hold all the pieces together all by myself.
Strong hands take me by the wrists and help me to my feet. I open my eyes and Reuben’s face is all that I see.
“Come, Isla,” he says gently. His arm wraps protectively around my shoulder and he leads me out the automatic sliding doors into the parking lot. I’m completely numb, tears streaking my face, eggs damp on my ass as we move toward my car. "Don't worry," he whispers against the side of my head. "I'll take care of you."
He slides his hand into the purse hanging from my shoulder and digs around for the keys. When he finds them, he opens the passenger’s side door and sets his own jacket down on the seat before helping me in and strapping me to my seat. He rounds the car and sinks behind the driver’s seat.
Betty screeches and howls, needing four attempts before finally igniting. He opens the glove compartment and peeks at the address printed on my car registration before pulling out of the lot. We drive in silence down Pomello Street to Park Road before eventually making a left on Wood Lane.
Chapter 11
Reuben
She hasn’t uttered a word since I scooped her up off of the supermarket floor. All she's done is sob quietly, head hung low.
She's embarrassed.
I hated seeing her get hurt back there. If she had just let me help her in the first place, none of that would have happened. But she's so damn insistent on taking care of everything herself. I want to change that. I want her to learn to rely on me, to trust that I will do what needs to be done to provide for her.
I know. It's crazy. I just met her and there’s so much we don’t know about each other but I've never felt such a strong urge to care for another person, to protect them from the malice of the world. (Oh, and I know the world can be a malicious place.) I don't know if that says something about me or about her.
We pull up outside of her three-story apartment building on Valley Road. I get out of the car and go around to open her door. She steps out onto the gravel drive, head hanging, tears wetting her cheeks. My fingers curl around her jaw, redirecting her gaze to me. "You're all right, Cinnamon. I'm right here with you." She blinks back tears as new sobs threaten against the back of her throat. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
We take the short walk up to the lobby door and climb two flights of stairs. When we get to her apartment door, I take her purse from her trembling hands, fish ou
t her keys and unlock the door. The fragrance of soft floral incense greets us. A deep sense of peace and calm washes over me immediately.
My eyes wander around the room, taking in the eclectic furnishings. The wall of East Indian art encased in bright wooden frames, the huge multicolor cushions strewn about the overstuffed couch, the potted plants, the oriental rug and of course, the books. All the books.
“This is really nice.” I kick off my boots and step into the small living room, inspecting the trinkets adorning the bookshelf.
Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3) Page 7
