Regret

by Max Henry

  “That it’s fucked, which I knew he’d say, and that it’ll take a week to get the parts in, which I hoped he wouldn’t say.”

  “Damn. You checked in until it’s fixed then?”

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Still not used to having that shit flapping about on my head in a strong breeze …

  “Look, I appreciate the concern, Cam, but I’m okay. You can carry on.”

  Her foot shifts backward as though she’s going to take my advice, but then she freezes, the cogs working behind her eyes. “They’ve got the A&P show this week.”

  Shit. Fuck local knowledge.

  “Where are you staying?” She narrows her darkened eyes on me.

  “I’ve got the option of two nights at the Atlas later in the week, but I haven’t found anything until then.”

  “So your plan would be?” Her hand shifts to her hip.

  “Not sure yet.”

  Her chest rises and falls on a heavy exhale. Of course I look.

  “We got off on the wrong foot, I think.” Here it comes. “If you need somewhere to stay, my place is on the table.”

  My fist flexes on the strap of my bag. “Never knew it was to begin with.”

  Cammie swallows, her gaze drifting over my shoulder to the car I hear approaching. “All I ask is that you respect my space and don’t ask questions I can’t answer.”

  Her gaze flicks back to me as I nod and offer my hand. “Deal. As long as you can do the same.”

  She places her palm in mine as her eyes hold mine, and fuck it all if that isn’t the game-changer right there. Pressure like I’ve never known explodes inside my head, ricocheting into my chest before seizing my heart in the devil’s chokehold.

  I swallow hard as we shake hands, her grip lax before I’ve even finished the movement. Cammie tucks her hand away as though I’ve literally burned her with my touch, tucking it beneath the opposite arm.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s sorted,” she says on a chuckle. “Because I’ve got ice-cream in the back of the car that’s probably started to melt, not to mention the milk getting warm and the deli meats … I mean this weather, huh? It’s so unusually warm for this time of year …”

  I follow her back to the BMW with a smile on my face. She’s back to the same chatty girl that got under my skin earlier. Only this time, the irritation doesn’t seem so bad.

  Perhaps it’s the kind of pain that I need to jar me back to being the man I used to be.

  ELEVEN

  Cammie

  What the ever-loving hell was I thinking? Since I returned from doing the afternoon show, Duke has not only driven me mad by critiquing where I put my groceries, but tidied my bathroom counter, and made himself at home in the living room with his shoes and belongings spread everywhere.

  I check the time on the microwave display again and stare back out the kitchen window that overlooks the driveway. Jared’s due at any minute, and even though I’ve told Duke I’ve got a visitor and that I’d appreciate him keeping himself scarce for it, Jared’s not one to let a detail like a houseguest go without interrogation.

  The polished black paintwork of Jared’s truck comes into view in the clearing between the trees. I pull a levelling breath as the vehicle approaches the house, and promptly parks in such a way as to block the driveway for anyone else. Typical Jared.

  “That your guest?” Duke asks from my right.

  I glance over to find him at the window beside the dining table, eyeballing the truck. “Yeah.”

  He simply nods and backs away. “I’ll be out in the yard. Come get me when you’re done.”

  “Thank you.”

  He brushes it off with a flick of his hand as he heads for the hallway. The sound of Jared’s car door slamming shut sends me into a frenzy. I whip about the living room in a blur as I pick up any evidence of Duke I can find, and set his bag, shoes, and jacket in the corner, tucked behind the largest sofa. Hopefully, Jared will be so damn distracted with his own agenda, he won’t notice.

  The echo of his knock on the front door jolts me out of my panic. I head into the entry, and suck another, less satisfying, deep breath as I reach for the handle to let him in. “Right on time.”

  The arrogant bastard breezes past, a white portfolio tucked under one arm. “There’s something to be said for punctuality, Cam. You should try it.”

  Arsehole.

  “Make yourself at home,” I quip as he takes a seat on the sofa and spreads his papers out over the coffee table.

  Ice-grey eyes meet my own. “I will, thanks, considering it’s still my home, too.”

  I press my lips together and retreat into the kitchen to avoid saying something that really isn’t going to help my plight. With a crisp carton of juice in my hands, I return to take a seat opposite Jared, on the floor, and pop the straw into the foil-sealed hole.

  “Fuck me, Cam.” He rolls his damn eyes at me. “You still drink those?”

  I stare down at the carton in my hands, realising that I grabbed it without a second thought of how it looks. “I’m only one woman. A whole two-litre bottle takes me too long to get through.”

  My lie convinces him no more than it does myself. We both know why I still drink from kids juice boxes.

  Because I can’t let go.

  “What are the choices?” I ask, doing my damnedest to divert the subject.

  “Terry Searle, Bob Anderson, and a woman—Amanda.”

  I close my eyes briefly, reopening them on the wall rather than looking at the man opposite me. Good to see some things never change; he still feels women are to be looked at and appreciated at face value, rather than used for their skills in the business world.

  “Tell me about the woman.”

  His jaw clenches. “She’s fresh on the job. You wouldn’t want her.”

  “And yet, you brought her info along to show me.” I cock my head to the side and narrow my gaze on him. “Why?”

  “She’s Kell’s step-sister.”

  Bingo.

  “Obligation is a bitch, isn’t it?”

  I’m getting to him; I can tell. His hands track a path up and down his chino-clad thighs, his jaw firm as the tell-tale vein in his temple swells. Easy on, Cam. If I want a chance at him agreeing to my proposition, then I need to tamp back the attitude.

  “I’ve heard of Bob,” I appease. “What’s the Terry guy like in your opinion?”

  Jared drivels on for the next however long about this guy’s ranking in his company, the last few sales, and why he thinks that Terry is the man who can secure us a good price. Correction: secure Jared a good enough price. No amount would make me part with this property if I had final say in it.

  It’s my home.

  It’s where I left my heart, and I’m yet to get it back. I can’t go yet.

  “Are you even listening?”

  “Pardon?”

  Jared eyes me cautiously. “You’ve got that faraway look.”

  “I was listening.”

  “But?” He laces his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees.

  “But, I’ve been thinking the past few days, and what if we didn’t have to sell to separate completely?”

  He frowns, thumbing his chin. “I don’t follow.”

  “You don’t care about the money, right?”

  “Not particularly, although I have plans for what I could do with it.” His frown deepens.

  “What if I turned the place into a B&B, and the business paid you back what you invested over the course of the next five, ten years?”

  “That’s a long loan, Cam.”

  “I could even apply to the bank for it.”

  “A mortgage on a mortgage?”

  “A business loan.” I set my empty juice box down.

  He sighs, pinching his nose with closed eyes as though I’m some child he can’t make head or tails of. “Two problems, Cam.” I feel scolded the second his eyes reopen on me with the tired frustration that I came to know well during our last few months living
together. “One, I’d still know the money came from you, so that doesn’t really work as far as cutting ties completely.”

  “Selling this house won’t erase who you were or what we had once,” I remind him.

  “Two,” he snaps, frowning at my interruption. “I don’t think the bank would loan you that sum of money on the promise of a few stray vagabonds stopping through every so often. You’d need a solid business plan to convince them it would turn enough profit to cover the investment, and I’m sorry, but a cute villa in the middle of nowhere doesn’t really fit the bill.”

  Fuck him and his concrete boots made for stomping on my dreams. I honestly thought it was a solid plan. Look at the popularity of sites like Airbnb. People jump at the chance for a weekend away in a quiet oasis.

  He takes my silence as acceptance, and slides the realtor profiles across the table toward me. “Pick one, Cam.”

  Naturally, I point to the woman. “Her.”

  He slumps back in the seat in true dramatic Jared style. “Really?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll call Terry in the morning.” He bunches the papers up, ready to leave.

  “No. You’ll call Amanda.”

  His glare is enough to strip paint. “Terry.”

  “Damn it, Jared.” I push violently to my feet, my hands fisted at my sides. “It’s my house, more than yours. I own the majority share of it, and I say pick Amanda. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. You gave up that right when you checked out of your responsibilities as a husband.” A tear tracks over my cheek, but I refuse to wipe it away. Let him see the damage he’d caused. Let him see what he does in the vain hope that somewhere in that cold heart of his it still beats red.

  “I checked out?” he roars, stamping a fist to his chest. “Well, shit, Cam. I was simply following suit, since you’d long checked out of being a mother.”

  “Get out.” My jaw aches from the pressure. “Get the fuck out of this house!”

  He snatches the file with a flourish and storms from the room as my carefully contained guilt crashes forth over the walls of my denial in a tidal surge that the greatest engineer couldn’t have withheld.

  I never checked out from my responsibilities as a mother. I might have failed our daughter, but fuck it all, I never stopped being her mamma. I loved her until that last breath, even as my own threatened never to come again. I still love her, and damn it, I’m still her mother. The love for a child doesn’t disappear after death. Some days, I believe it simply intensifies, until the ache of what is lost is all you can feel, hear, and taste.

  My hand shakes so violently I can’t even hold my phone, let alone trust myself to tap my mother’s number to dial. All I want is to talk to somebody who I know will understand, someone who’ll have my back after that showdown. I need validation that Jared is being unfair, and that I have every right to fight to stay in the house that acts as a shrine to my greatest mistake.

  “You okay?”

  The whispered question takes me by surprise. I never heard Duke come back inside. I’d totally forgotten he was here.

  “Not really.” I offer a pathetic smile as I sniff and wipe away my tears.

  “Want to talk about it?” He crouches down beside where I’ve crumpled onto the sofa.

  “Not right now.” He frowns as I pat his knee twice and push to my feet. “How about we decide what we’re having for dinner tonight? I don’t think scrambled eggs will cut it two nights in a row, huh?”

  He watches as I absently wander through to the kitchen, confusion clear in his richly coloured eyes. “You know”—his lazy grin returns—“there is more than one way to cook an egg.”

  I can’t hold it back—I laugh at his ridiculous comeback. “Yeah?”

  “Poached, fried, hard-boiled. I could get real fancy and do a platter with the whole lot assorted on it.” He follows to where I am, taking a seat at the counter same as last night.

  “As appealing as that sounds, we need to have a proper meal. It’s a grocery day ritual. Tell me you do it, too.”

  “Do what?” He rests his elbows on the counter, which only serves to showcase how broad his shoulders are.

  “Make the most of having fresh food and whip up a healthy feast.”

  Duke shakes his head. “Afraid not. I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  I lean in conspiratorially. “Tell me.”

  He matches me, leaning over the counter as far as he can manage, to whisper, “I’m a lousy cook.”

  “Well,” I announce, bouncing on the balls of my feet, “you’ve come to the right place, my friend. Because although I don’t have much in my cupboards usually, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to whip up a feast.” I tug a wooden spoon from the drawer and point it at him. “Settle in, and watch a master at work.”

  TWELVE

  Duke

  Swear to God, I have never eaten savoury meatballs as good as the ones Cammie makes. They’re nestled on a bed of rice that she made even better with a secret mix of herbs and spices, and drizzled with homemade sauce. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was a master in the kitchen.

  Her eyes are alight as I sop up the last of the sauce with a slice of bread. “Good?”

  “Woman, you could cook for me any day.”

  Her smile fades, the light in her eyes extinguishing. “I miss making these kinds of meals; I don’t get much opportunity to anymore. No point making such a huge dish for just me.”

  “Well, I’m in town for at least a week, so I’m telling you now, make the most of it. I won’t complain.” I throw her a wink, just to round the playful tone I’m going for off.

  It works, her features softening as she straightens in her seat and reaches for my empty plate. “You know, I might just take you up on that. I’ve got one rule, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The person who cooks doesn’t have to do the dishes.” Her lips tilt up on one side as she stands, and then carries the plates and utensils to the kitchen.

  “Fair enough.” Hell, if a little grunt work is all I have to do to get a cooked meal like that every night, then have at it. “I’m guessing you’re back to work Monday?”

  She nods, putting some of the ingredients she’d left on the counter away in the fridge. “Yeah.”

  “You okay with me hanging here while you’re away?” It’ll make me feel better if there is somebody here to watch the place. I didn’t catch all of what she said to that jackass who came to visit this afternoon, but I get the vibe he’s some jilted ex. And that never fares well.

  “I don’t mind.” Cammie returns to her seat at the table, a bottle of water in hand. “Oh. I’m sorry. Did you want one?”

  “No, you’re fine.”

  She nods, unscrewing the cap. “What do you think you’ll do to pass the time? I’ve got Sky TV and a Netflix subscription you’re welcome to use.”

  “Don’t really watch much TV.” Something about having to sit still for that long without it being productive time spent doesn’t fare well with me. Never has.

  “You’re kidding.” Her jaw drops as she openly gapes at me. “You don’t do movie marathons? Binge-watch an entire series?”

  I shake my head.

  “Duke, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

  I’ve got a fair idea. “Rather be doing something constructive with my hands.”

  She leans back in her seat, looking me over me as though I’m some interesting specimen on display at a zoo. “What do you do then? To pass the time?”

  “Fix things. Re-sell them. Try to make a little extra to get me through week to week.”

  Her expression grows serious, the smile lines around her eyes fading as the corners of her mouth turn down. “I know you don’t like talking about the army, but do you mind if I ask, do you get paid anything after you leave? Like, I’ve heard you get a kind of pension from them, but I don’t know if that’s just older vets who get it, or if you had to have a certain rank or something.”
<
br />   “You get something. But it’s not enough to live on.”

  “The government would help, right?”

  I shake my head. “Not unless you fall into their regular benefit categories: sickness, unemployment, that kind of thing.”

  “And I take it you don’t?” She taps her fingers across her bottom lip, drawing my attention there.

  “Only been out of work for a couple of weeks, so I don’t qualify for help yet, no.” Not that I’d take it. I’ve never felt right about accepting a hand up when I should be able to do it myself.

  I drag my gaze from her mouth, and find her watching me. Her eyes are lazy, her fingers stilled on her bottom lip as she absently pushes at the plump flesh.

  Fuck. This woman … She’s got no idea what she’s doing to me right now. Absolutely none.

  “Anything I can do around here for you to say thanks for the board?” I shift in my seat, doing my best to subtly rearrange my jeans so the fabric doesn’t choke my dick so hard.

  “I’ll think on it.”

  For once, the woman appears out of things to say. Is that because of me? I test the theory, leaning back in the seat to stretch my arms, lacing my hands behind my head in a way I know shows off my muscles.

  The hand over her mouth drifts to her throat before she snaps out of the trance with a gasp. “Tell you what …” She comes close to tripping over her chair in her hurry to stand, “you wash, I’ll dry. A bit of teamwork to cut the chore in half, huh? I’ve got less than an hour left before I have to be back at the theatre anyway, so the quicker we do this the better.”

  Interesting.

  I give my arms a flex before dropping them to my sides and rising to my feet. I’d say something further, rile her up a little more, but she’s already in the kitchen with her head in the pantry as she retrieves her cleaning supplies from the cockamamie place she keeps them.

  “I really don’t get why you don’t keep them close to the sink, you know, where you use the dishwashing liquid all the time.”

  She stills, bent double with that pert little arse poking out toward me. “Really, Duke?” I shift my gaze up her body to her face as she straightens and turns toward me. “Less than twenty-four hours in this house, and I’ve already lost count of how many times you’ve criticised the way I keep it.”