by Shirley Jump
The doorbell chimed. Mack scowled and let out a whispered curse. “Prince Charming has arrived. Right on time, damn him.” Mack spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Alex thought of calling after him, smoothing the waters, but where would that leave them? Right back where they’d started, in a jumbled mess. Instead, she let him go, crossed to the wide oak door and pulled it open. “Hi, Steve.”
Every strand of Steve’s black hair was perfectly in place, his chin freshly shaven. Steve was as meticulous about his looks as he was about his accounting job, about everything, in fact. He planned every detail of their dates, kept his car white-glove clean, made sure he was ridiculously on time. She’d never met a man as detail oriented as Steve.
“Hi, Alex. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” His gaze traveled down her frame, lingering on her legs. “Quite a pleasure. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She thought of inviting him in, then decided Mack’s foul mood would put a damper on their date. Besides, she had no desire to add any more complications to her relationship with Mack. What used to be as straightforward as a ruler had become as tangled as a strand of Christmas lights. She needed time and distance from Mack, and more of the kind of quiet certainty a man like Steve offered.
There was no topsy-turvy with him. Nothing unexpected. All calm waters, the kind where she could see miles and predict what was coming over the horizon for the next five years. That was what she needed, not the tumultuous ocean of Mack.
“I’m ready to go if you are,” she told Steve.
“Absolutely.”
He put out his arm, waited for her to insert hers into the crook—such a gentlemanly thing to do Alex nearly forgot the protocol—then they headed down the stairs and over to Steve’s car. A moment later, she was seated in the passenger’s seat and Steve was pulling out of the driveway.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Last time I saw you, you were living in an apartment. Now you’re living with Mack. I don’t mean to pry, but…” He glanced over at her. “But what’s up with that?”
Alex sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got a long drive to that outdoor jazz concert. And I’m a good listener.”
Steve proved true to his word. Alex told him about the house, leaving out the part about her past. Why, she couldn’t have said. Was she embarrassed? Did she think a guy like Steve, all spit and polish and CPA perfection, would find her background pitiful? She shrugged off the analysis. Between Mack and Willow and Renee, she’d shared enough about her past to fill a scrapbook store.
As they drove, she told Steve how she hadn’t wanted him to see the dilapidated house, which was why she had pretended to be living at Renee’s, then how Mack had insisted she live with him until the house was habitable. “Mack and I have been friends forever. Living together is totally platonic.”
Except for that kiss the other day. Except for that time they’d ended up in bed together and rounded the first couple of bases. Not to mention, she’d had an orgasm that had rivaled the Fourth of July. Her face flushed and a whoosh of heat ran through her veins.
She didn’t mention that, now, did she? There’d been nothing platonic at all about any of that.
An aberration, Alex told herself. Granted, one that had shook her from head to toe, but an aberration all the same. One that wouldn’t happen again.
She was looking for a man who believed in commitment. A man who wouldn’t break her heart. A good, dependable Clydesdale, not a wild, untamed mustang.
Steve reached across the gearshift and took her hand in his. A warm, solid grip. Nothing sexual about it, but there was a measure of dependability and strength in his touch. She willed her nerves to leap with desire, but they lay as dormant as hibernating bears.
“If you need anything at all,” Steve said, “call me. I’m pretty handy myself.”
She bit back a smile. She couldn’t imagine bookish accountant Steve wielding major power tools, but perhaps this man had a few surprises up his sleeve. She noticed he didn’t make a specific offer to help, either, simply one of those vague, call-me kind. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Did you get that assignment you wanted? The one with the reclusive author?”
“You remembered.” She clearly had been picking the wrong guys, because she couldn’t recall the last time a guy had picked up on the details of her job.
Well, except for Mack. He had always paid attention. Every day, he asked about the Willow Clark saga. He, however, was her friend. Friends were supposed to do that kind of thing. Whereas her dates, on the other hand, had paid attention—but usually only to what was below her brain.
Steve shot her a look of surprise. “Why wouldn’t I? That was a pretty big deal for you.”
“It will be, if I can get Willow Clark to talk. My editor gave me the assignment, and I went out there to try to get her to talk, but she’s a little…odd.”
As they drove, Steve asked more questions about her off-beat noninterview with Willow. For the first time in a long time, she did most of the talking, with Steve tossing in the occasional comment and question. He had genuine interest in her career, and that, Alex found, was more intoxicating than his late-night kiss.
They pulled into the parking lot of the Tweeter Center. Steve parked the car, then came around to Alex’s side and opened her door. “Is this good?” he asked. “If not, I can look for a closer space.”
“It’s great,” she said.
“Let me get the backpack. I’ve got a blanket, some seat cushions, a couple bottles of—”
Before he could say another word, Alex grabbed Steve and kissed him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, bringing his tall frame closer to her. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, clearly caught off guard, then his arms wrapped around her waist, and he responded, his tongue dipping in to dance with hers, his hands splaying across her back.
After a minute or two, Steve pulled back, a grin on his face. “What was that for?”
“Nothing turns a woman on more than a guy who takes the time to listen.”
“Then start talking,” Steve said, lowering his mouth to kiss her again, his breath warm against her skin, “because I could listen to you all night.”
Mack suffered like he’d never suffered before.
He paced the floors, back and forth, back and forth, so much, Chester gave up on following him. The mutt trotted over to the corner, and with a sigh, put his head on his paws, content to watch his master wear out his socks. Mack told himself he should have called Deidre. Boomer. Anyone. He should have gone out, gotten good and drunk, so he wouldn’t have had hours alone to let his imagination run wild. Finally, a little after midnight, Alex returned, laughing as she entered the house.
“Thanks, Steve. That was an amazing concert.”
“We should do this again. Soon. Very, very soon.” Steve’s voice was low and dark, clearly closer to Alex. Within inches.
Mack knew that voice. He’d used it himself, more than once. It spelled only one thing. Steve was about to go in for a kiss.
Mack stalked out of his kitchen and into the hall, then sputtered to a stop when he realized he had no viable reason for interrupting them. Either way, he was too late. Steve already had his arm around Alex, and his lips on hers.
Jealousy roared to life in Mack’s gut, a vicious, untamable beast. He curled his fists at his sides so he wouldn’t slam them into Steve’s skull. Maybe he should interrupt them. Extract Alex from this horny wolf in gentleman’s clothing.
Then he noticed something. Alex was responding to Steve. Curving her body into his. Kissing him back with clear desire. Her pelvis had that unmistakable arch of invitation.
Mack swallowed hard, then turned on his heel and went to bed, using the back staircase. He lay on top of his sheets, waiting for what seemed like hours until he finally heard Alex’s soft footfalls as she headed down the hall to her room.
He stared at the cei
ling and prayed that when her bedroom door shut, she would be climbing into that queen-sized bed alone.
Too late, Mack Douglas realized he’d made the biggest mistake of his life when he’d agreed to introduce Alex to Mr. Right. Because she was clearly falling in love—
And breaking Mack’s heart in the process.
Chapter Twenty
“Where have you been?”
Renee stopped short, her hand halfway to the light switch. Even in the ebony darkness of the foyer, she knew that voice. Tony. Waiting for her to come home.
She took in a breath, steadied herself, then flicked on the light and strode forward, depositing her keys into the dish by the door. They jangled an accusatory song. “Out with a friend. Where’s the sitter?”
“I sent her home two hours ago.” Tony sat in an armchair facing the front door, his lanky frame dwarfing the leather seat. His face was lined, his eyes shadowed. A half-empty beer sat on the end table beside him, but his voice was clear. “It’s after midnight, Renee. Where were you?”
“Since when do you care? Ever since we got married, you’ve gone out almost every night. And God only knows what you were doing when you were living with your brother last week. I have a right to a social life.”
“You’re a mother. You should be here with your kids.”
“And you’re a father. The same goes for you.”
“I am here.”
“Tonight.” She stowed her purse in the closet, pausing to draw in a breath, then ran a hand through her hair. “Can we not have this argument? I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re never in the mood for anything.”
She refused to rise to his bait. Refused to rehash the argument. Renee sidestepped the living room and the heated words on the tip of her tongue, heading instead for the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, looking for a snack she didn’t want. Willing Tony to follow her, because half of her still hoped.
The crazy half that had yet to give up. The half keeping her from filing for divorce.
For a long time, there was no sound of footsteps behind her. The light and cold from inside the Maytag spilled onto the floor, casting a single shadow. Renee sighed, closed the refrigerator door and turned around to head for bed.
Tony stood in the doorway of the kitchen entrance. “Renee.”
Her name escaped his throat in a soft, vulnerable way. Like it had before—before they’d drifted apart. Before they’d stopped talking. Stopped touching.
And for a moment, Renee wanted to believe things hadn’t changed.
Tony’s gaze met hers. His eyes were clear—he must not have gotten very far with the beer, and for that she was grateful—and filled with the softness she had missed. She found herself falling into those brown depths, getting caught up in the past. The memories.
“Renee,” he said again, and he took a step forward.
She found herself moving toward him, hoping, wishing.
Tony reached out, his arms curling around her body, hers fitting into his as familiar as a hand into a well-worn glove, and then he lowered his mouth, slowly and tentatively, unsure. She met him halfway, wanting her husband, the one she had fallen in love with, not the one who abandoned her when the bonds got too tight.
Before his lips met hers, he hesitated. Her heart rate accelerated and she wondered if Tony knew. Knew where she had been tonight. Knew who she had been with. Knew she had been kissed by someone else a half hour earlier.
But wishing all the time her own husband would love her like that.
“I can’t do this,” Tony said, pulling back and away from her.
Cold air invaded the space between them. Disappointment thudded into Renee’s gut. “Can’t do what?”
“Can’t pretend. We’re either doing this or we aren’t.”
“You mean having sex? Is that all you wanted tonight, Tony?” She turned away from him. Every conversation came back to this. To the basics, instead of to something with meaning. To a conversation that would take them somewhere, move them forward. Instead they always ended up in bed, where they used their bodies as a way to avoid everything else.
“No. I meant we’re either going to stay married or break up. I can’t live in limbo any longer.” His gaze sought hers. “I want more, Renee. I want us.”
She pivoted back. “You’re living in limbo? You never plugged in, Tony, as much as I wanted you to.”
“Did you ever let me try?” He threw up his hands. “Or did you just keep on playing the martyr and make it easy for me to check out?”
“I—” She cut off the sentence before the protest finished working its way past her lips. Had she done that? Renee thought back, her mind racing over the eleven years of their marriage, and she realized that from the start, she had held the reins, believing that if she didn’t hold on tight, control everything that happened, their marriage, their life, would become some runaway train. “Maybe I did. But you never fought me on it. You…let it happen.”
“I did. And I’m sorry.” A smile curved along his face, slow, reaching into the corners, the dimples she knew so well. He held her gaze, and she saw him want to reach out, to connect. “I guess you could say I’m a marital couch potato, huh?”
Despite everything, Renee laughed. The feeling was so sweet, she could nearly taste it, like a slice of chocolate cake after a very long diet.
“It’s good to hear you laugh.” He trailed a finger along her jaw, and Renee wanted so badly to lean into that touch, to let all the ugliness between them wash away.
But she’d done that a dozen times before, and where had it gotten her? Right back where she started. Things would get better for a day, a week, then Tony would slip into his old habits, and she would go back to hers, and before she knew it, she was alone in a marriage built for two. “I can’t do this again, Tony,” she whispered, her voice scraping past her throat. “I can’t.”
“We can make it work, Renee. Let me try.”
She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “We’ve tried and tried, and every time we come back to the same place. When are you going to grow up and realize you’re really married?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
This was the argument Renee had put off, the words she hadn’t spoken, because she knew they would set off the storm she’d been trying to avoid, but she couldn’t do that any longer. “Why haven’t you taken over the concrete business yet? Your dad wanted to retire five years ago, but you haven’t stepped up to the plate to run the business. If you had—”
His face soured, anger flushing his features. “If I had, what? We’d be out of this apartment? Living the life you wanted?”
“The life we all wanted, Tony. And, yes, we’d be out of this place. It’s too small. It has been since Kylie was born.”
“We’re saving for a house.”
“No, Tony, we’re stuck in limbo,” she said, using his word from earlier. “Because if you don’t take the big steps, the permanent ones like taking over the business and getting a mortgage, then you can keep on pretending that you’re only half-married, and you can keep on letting me shoulder the load for both of us.” She let out a breath that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. “I’m tired, Tony. Tired of all of it. Isn’t it about time we got honest?”
“We are being honest. Painfully so, if you ask me.”
She moved away, because if she stayed too close to him, her resolve, already thin as a strand of floss, would break. “No, we’re not. We keep on lying to ourselves because neither one of us has been brave enough to say what we should have said eleven years ago.” She braced her hands on the countertop, took in a deep breath, then let it out. “We rushed into this and got married for all the wrong reasons. We barely knew each other when I got pregnant.”
She sensed him behind her, but didn’t turn around. Tony didn’t touch her, simply stood there.
“Lots of marriages survive after starting out like that.”
Renee wheeled around and faced her husband.
And a hard reality she’d never spoken aloud. “Tell me the truth, Tony. If you could do it all over again, knowing what you know now, would you have gotten married? Had three kids bang-bang-bang? Sunk ourselves into this never-ending cycle of fighting?”
“We can’t undo what’s already done, Renee.”
“Yeah, but we can stop it from getting any worse.” She sucked in another breath, one that seared her lungs. “And file for divorce.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The doors were locked. The sign turned to CLOSED. And Willow Clark was nowhere to be found.
Alex sat on the front step of Theodora’s Tearoom, blew her bangs out of her face and dropped her head into her arms. She had failed.
She’d be stuck extolling the virtues of waterproof mascara until the day she died. Her epitaph would be written in Revlon Red, for Pete’s sake.
“All is not lost. The day is just beginning.”
Alex jerked her head up. Willow Clark stood over her, the taller woman’s frame casting a thin shadow onto Alex’s skin. “I thought you were closed today.”
“I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here. I’m just not here, here.”
Of course. That made perfect sense—in Willow’s world.
Alex got to her feet, pulling her pad of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans as she did.
“You won’t need that,” Willow said, laying a hand on Alex’s. “Today, I want you to just soak up the words. Let them settle on your heart.”
“I want to get the quotes right, Miss Clark. If I misquote you—”
“You won’t.” Willow smiled and began to walk, strolling around the building, and toward the small patch of woods that ringed the back of the building. Theodora’s Tearoom occupied an odd little corner of real estate backing up to suburbia, but with a long rectangle of untouched wooded land that divided the area between the store and the four-bedroom white boxes planted one right after another, a long stretch of nuclear family sameness. “We’ll walk today.”
“In that little patch of nothing?” Alex scoffed. “It’ll take, what, five minutes?”
