"Yay. I'm so happy for you," Claire exclaimed before raising her eyes to the kitchen entrance. "Oh, hey Nick."
Before Aubrey could turn around, she heard him say, "Uh, Claire, Sara, Aubrey, this is my good friend, John Trelawney."
"Wait, aren't you the—" Sara started before Aubrey sprang to her feet. Her eyes bright, she turned to face the person she most wanted to see at that very moment.
And he looked like a million bucks. Taking in his neatly pressed khakis and cranberry-colored polo, she blurted, "Oh my God. What are you doing here?"
She could already detect traces of that intoxicating cologne that drove her to distraction the night before.
With an expression that read this day can't possibly get any better, John laughed, "I'm a friend of Nick's. I'm in the wedding party."
Aubrey felt the blood drain from her head.
Wait. What?
Fighting back the urge to demand, "You're the guy Nick met when he was volunteering at a homeless shelter?" all she could manage was, "Small world."
Her online search of his background had turned up absolutely nothing. Zilch. Like he was completely off the grid. Now she knew why.
Can I pick 'em, or can I pick 'em?
* * *
Shocked as hell to see her there, John was dismayed to see Aubrey's smile falter when Nick introduced him.
He trusted that his buddy kept his word and hadn't divulged his true identity; he just wasn't sure what to make of her reaction. He was about to ask when Claire swooped over, handed Aubrey a glass of white wine, and asked, "John, honey, what can I get you? We've got all sorts of beer, wine…"
He waved her off with a smile. "Thanks. I'm good for now."
She then took them both by the elbow and nudged them to the front door. "Would you guys do me a huge favor and let the others know when they get here that we'll be out back?"
And I thought I was smooth.
Aubrey walked through the screen door without holding it open for John and proceeded to sit in one of the white Adirondack chairs on the deep covered porch. After she set her untouched wine on a little tile-top table between the two of them, she folded her hands in her lap.
As he leaned against the white wooden porch railing, she glanced in his general direction with her lips pressed into a thin smile.
Here goes.
"Is, uh, something wrong?"
After a moment, she spoke, her expression unchanged. "I, uh, didn't expect to see you here. That's all."
Perplexed by the disappointment in her voice, he dragged a smile out of somewhere, but it didn't stick. "Yeah. Who knew, right?"
Getting the sense there was something more going on, he narrowed his eyes and waited.
"You look really great by the way," she offered.
He didn't reply. He was too busy trying to figure out what was bubbling just below the surface, ready to blow. Before he had the chance, she bounced up and greeted a guy with short black hair walking up the broad porch steps with a narrow decorative bag that, more likely than not, held a bottle of wine.
"Hi Andrew."
Aubrey gave him a quick hug before introducing him with, "This is John. John, this is Andrew, Sara's boyfriend. He's the music director at the church where the wedding's taking place."
"Hey," Andrew offered as he shook John's hand, giving him a quick once-over with his piercing blue eyes. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. Nick mentioned how you guys met, and I just want to say it's really inspiring to see that you're back on your feet—"
Bingo.
Andrew held his hand out before concluding, "And doing really well from the looks of it. And that running club you're managing back at the shelter. Such a blessing."
"Ha, well, thanks. Thanks a lot. They're a great bunch of guys." John pointed through the screen door. "I, uh, believe the others are out back."
"Ah. Great. Thanks."
As soon as the screen door banged shut behind Andrew, John leaned back against the railing.
"So Nick told you how he and I met?"
"No, Mattie did."
She hung her head a minute before finally looking him in the eye "I told you my whole life story today. I even introduced you to my nana. I don't know the first thing about you."
That's a funny thing to say for someone who made it clear she doesn't want a relationship is what he wanted to say.
Instead, he nodded, "You're right, and I'd very much like to change that."
After a long, quiet minute passed, he was just about to sit down beside her and fill her in on as much as he dared when a woman in a short Hawaiian-print dress with long red curls came out of nowhere, nearly tackling him. "Hey stranger. I heard you were here. I'm so glad you could make it. I miss you."
"Hey you," he laughed as he returned the hug of one Mattie Ross, investigative reporter at the Gazette and the bride-to-be. "Long time no see."
"Yeah, tell me about it." Aubrey stood and embraced her friend when she released John. "It's been what—about two days?"
With a laugh, Mattie asked, "So you two have met?"
The pair nodded.
Wrapping an arm around John's waist, Mattie rested her head against his chest before addressing her friend. "This guy is one of the best people I know."
When he noted that Aubrey's grin had not yet faded all together, he just smiled and shrugged. "I wouldn't go that far."
Mattie looked up at him. "I would." Speaking directly to Aubrey, she continued, "I wouldn't have gotten back together with Nick if it wasn't for him."
"Not true," he said to Aubrey.
"And I definitely wouldn't have finished the marathon."
"Also not true."
At that, she stopped and sniffed his shirt. "You smell really good."
"I know. Doesn't he?" Aubrey chimed in, only her tone sounded more like What's with that?
Holding her nose up as she sniffed the air around him, Mattie asked, "Which cologne is that? I don't recognize it."
"Ah…I can't remember. Now, go back inside. Aubrey's going to think I staged this."
Which would've been genius.
But it didn't matter. Aubrey had a genuine, if not curious, smile going now that spread all the way up to her dark sparkling eyes.
We are so naming our first child Mattie. Boy or girl. Doesn't matter.
His goal for the night was to keep her smiles coming—which was almost easier done than said, given that the evening was filled with great food, good friends, a rousing game of charades, and the obligatory pass the orange.
At 9:45, while the party was still in full swing, Paul called from the front door, "Hey, did somebody call a cab?"
That's when John noticed her smile fade. "Oh, I did."
His heart sunk, until she glued her eyes on his and announced, "I'm sorry, but I have to be somewhere at ten."
Not an hour later, as he gazed up at the sky from the rooftop hammock, he thanked every single star that his day ended as it had started—with his arms full of Aubrey, even if her last words before dozing off were, "Remember. No relationship."
CHAPTER NINE
"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain." —Dolly Parton
In the morning, there was no Mr. Hammett to ahem John awake, no sun breaking over the lake, and if beer bottles had been tossed in a dumpster, he must've slept right through it. There was only his cell phone, the faint chirp of which could barely be heard from deep within the pocket of his now very wrinkled khakis that he had shoved under the hammock the night before.
Who could be texting me at this hour?
Too tired to move but too awake to dip back into oblivion, he just lay there with his eyes closed in a state of unadulterated bliss. The day before was clearly going down in the books as one of his best ever—even after Aubrey learned that he hailed from the Lincoln Park community shelter.
Maybe their friends' endorsements helped.
Her nana likes me. That had to count for something.
&
nbsp; John drifted back to sleep, savoring the knowledge that he still had one more full day to spend with her.
Although yesterday's gonna be hard to top.
He was almost completely out when the distant rumble of thunder stirred his consciousness. And he realized he was alone.
* * *
I am so in love with this man.
After Aubrey and John had once again tested the weight-bearing thrust capacity of the roof deck hammock, this private admission was what lulled her to sleep.
The very next morning, however, it jolted her awake with no small amount of alarm.
No, not again. And definitely not with a window washer.
Her imagination fast-forwarded years ahead, unsettling her with a nightmarish image—the two of them, still living in his tiny apartment, bitter because her debts prevented them from getting a mortgage which was probably for the best because she probably wouldn't be able to hang on to her job at the paper. And what if John got injured at work, or God forbid, died, and she found herself back where she was now? Widowed and alone. Again.
Her first instinct was to bolt.
After carefully extracting herself from his unconscious embrace, she tipped herself out of the hammock and slipped her clothes back on in the pre-dawn dark. Fully intending to sneak back down to his apartment, grab her things, leave, and never look back, she squatted to reach beneath the hammock for his pants so she could retrieve his keys from the pocket. As she did, he turned with a low groan, and her eyes fell on his still-asleep face, just inches from hers.
The well-educated phrases and vocabulary he had tossed out the day before sprang to mind. And then there was his scent. It was something you'd find in the better stores peppering the Magnificent Mile, not the toiletry aisle of a dollar store.
Her friend Sara's words rang in her ears. "He's no Max."
"Ya got that right," Aubrey had replied as they watched him put both hands on Claire's belly the night before, waiting in wonder to feel movement after she had announced the baby had the hiccups.
"But he's just scraping by," she had whispered. "Like me. I'd be no better off."
"Money doesn't buy happiness," her friend had quipped.
"That may be true," Aubrey had responded, "But I'm pretty sure having more than I do now wouldn't depress me either."
She had started pouring herself another glass of wine.
Right at that moment, John had let out a gasp. Looking right at Aubrey, he had announced, "I felt it. I actually felt the baby." Holding her gaze for several seconds, his cheeks had been ruddier than usual when he had finally looked away.
"Uh…Aubs. You can stop pouring."
Aubrey had looked down at her filled-to-the-top glass and the puddle of pinot surrounding it.
Handing her a towel, Sara had mused, "You're so whipped." Looking back at John, she'd added, "And so is he."
Aubrey's fingertips touched the cold metal of his apartment key. Latching her fingers around it, she carefully pulled out her hand. Before standing, she looked into his sweet, handsome face one last time.
I don't even know how old you are.
She fought back the urge to kiss him on the cheek, fearful that she might wake him. Instead, she got up and carefully opened the door to the stairwell, praying it wouldn't squeak, and headed downstairs.
Unlocking the door to his tiny but homey apartment, she took a look around. No stereo or laptop. Just a small TV, a twin bed, futon couch, an area rug, and a bookshelf that was crammed with, oddly enough, old Scott Turow and John Grisham novels along with an assortment of nonfiction books, like Steven Covey's The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and Marie Kondo's The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.
The bare-essentials kitchen held no such surprises—just a small refrigerator, smaller oven, a four-cup coffee pot, and a sink, next to which sat a wooden drying rack.
The place was immaculate.
Aubrey opened the fridge and found a carton of eggs, a bag of Dunkin' Donuts coffee (hallelujah), a half gallon of milk, some apples, half a loaf of whole wheat bread, and a jar of apricot jam. In a cabinet over the sink, she found a jar of peanut butter, spaghetti sauce, whole wheat fettuccini, a box of Wheaties, coffee filters, and a roll of paper towels.
Everything she saw flew in the face of the unsecured, unstable image she had conjured of him.
Maybe I'll just shower first. And make some coffee.
She flipped the coffee pot on just as a rumble of thunder made the window in his living room-slash-bedroom-slash-dining room shudder.
Spotting her bag on his bed, she pulled a pair of jeans, clean underwear, and a gauzy blouse from it, retreated to the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. She started the water in the shower straight away to give it time to warm up and brushed her teeth.
Shedding her clothes, she slipped into the steamy shower, feeling more like her bold self than she had in a very long time, and nothing was going to change that—not an intimidating editor, not a risky assignment.
Not even saying goodbye to the man who helped her get over her fear in the first place.
When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed and ready to go, she spied John sitting on the futon, coffee cup in hand, as he scowled at his phone. He sprang up the second he saw her, looking a little on edge. Worried even.
Just thank him and go. Just thank him and go.
If she could just keep her wits about her and not focus on the yearning she felt every time she laid eyes on him, the conversation would go as follows:
Her: "I'm cured. Thank you for everything."
Him: "You're welcome."
Her: "OK. See you at the rehearsal."
Him: "See ya."
After which, she'd walk out the door, get into her car, and drive home where she would have the happy privilege of informing her nana that her prognostications no longer held her in their fateful grip.
But her wits abandoned her the moment she heard him scrape out her name, and her heart crammed itself into her throat.
Manage breathing. Keep it steady.
Focusing on her bag and the dirty clothes she was trying to shove into it, she murmured, "Morning."
She then zipped it up and turned in his direction. "Listen. Thank you for everything. I've had an amazing—"
He was in front of her, his hands lightly clasping her upper arms and still smelling of that heady cologne. And fresh air. And her.
"Forty-eight hours. You said I had forty-eight hours."
She dragged her eyes up to his.
Big mistake.
"Yes, forty-eight hours to cure me of my fear of falling which you did yesterday." She plastered on a fake smile, the same one she sported so frequently during her lunch with Malcolm that her cheek muscles started to spasm. "I'm cured," she whispered with an unconvincing shrug.
He didn't let go of her. "Is that right?"
Clearly, he was unconvinced. That he was a tad brokenhearted did not escape her attention.
Averting her eyes that were starting to well like Buckingham Fountain, she gave him a quick nod.
He let her go but stood his ground. "OK. So today's lesson should be a piece of cake."
She blinked. "Lesson? What lesson? I thought we were done."
"Consider it your final test." Then, pulling some clothes from a drawer, he headed for the bathroom.
* * *
John had banged through the stairwell door, clutching his shirt and shoes, with just two words blaring in his brain. Six days.
In six days, he stood to lose it all—his fortune, his career, his former life, and all that went with it.
As he had raced down the stairs, though, he'd realized what he feared losing the most was his heart.
She hadn't even said goodbye.
Finding his door unlocked, he had turned the knob and pushed. The first thing to hit him had been the smell of coffee. While that went a long way towards easing his anxiety, the sound of the shower running had just about made him cry.
Fill
ed with relief, he had taken a mug down from his cabinet and filled it, waiting for his racing heart to calm the hell down.
When his phone had let out another chirp, he dug it out of his pocket and found two unread text messages, both from Gary Revets at Windy City Jumpers. The first had been Sorry, man. Storms forecast. All jumps cancelled.
The second had read Just got the all clear for this afternoon. Plane goes up at one.
Another rumble of thunder had rattled his windows, followed by the ting, ting, ting of rain pelting the panes.
John had texted back Is my gear ready?
All set. Chute's packed.
When he had heard the doorknob to the bathroom jiggle, Aubrey had stepped out, her face full of trepidation. He knew that look all too well. Bridget had worn it when she had explained, "A guy like you—what with no car, no career, no security—is not for me."
At least Aubrey had the decency to thank him first.
But he wasn't about to let her walk out of his life without getting her to fall. In love with him.
"So what's the game plan?" she asked as they walked to her car, still parked on the street next to his building.
He cocked his eyebrow. "I thought you said you were cured."
Catching her cheeks redden, he softened his tone. "Mind if I drive? We have to be where we're going by noon."
"But it's only ten."
"And?"
She handed him her keys.
It wasn't long before they were tooling west on I-88, cutting through suburbs then industrial parks and finally budding farmland.
When his attempts at small talk fell flat, the silence became deafening. It wasn't until they approached the Rochelle exit that the lightbulb went off over his head.
"I'm twenty-nine."
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aubrey shift her gaze from the view out of her passenger side window to him. "What?"
"My mother left when I was a baby. My dad and grandmother raised me. My dad died two years ago. Heart attack."
"Oh, John. I'm so sorry."
Keeping his eyes on the road, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and flipped the turn signal, trying to think of other facts he could share. "My favorite color is blue." Looking her way, he pointed to the periwinkle trim on her blouse and added, "Like this."
Flight Risk Page 13
