“Do you have Band-Aids? A first aid kit?” he asked as he stepped onto the deck.
“Above the bathroom sink.”
“I’ll bring you a towel. Will you be okay out here for a minute?”
“F-fine,” she said. Her teeth chattered as Dexter gently set her down on the chaise longue, making sure her foot was elevated.
“Use the end of the shirt to keep pressure on it,” he added. “Be right back.”
As he walked away, his back muscles flexed when he opened and closed the door. His jeans were wet, too, and clinging to that body in the most perfect way jeans could cling to a guy. It was so beautiful, she wanted to whimper.
He was back a minute later, carrying supplies. Lucky for her, he was still shirtless. Or was it unlucky, because she couldn’t keep her eyes off him?
“First thing’s first,” he said. “You need out of that before you freeze. It’s sunny enough on the porch that you’ll warm up quickly, but…” He placed one of her cotton dresses on the table beside her, then opened the towel, holding it up like a curtain between them.
Without speaking, she pulled the wet shirt over her head, momentarily struggling with it when it got tangled in her hair. She threw it across another chair, then pulled on the dress, leaning back to tug it all the way on over her legs.
“Done!” she said in a bright voice.
Dexter slowly lowered the towel. “Ahem. Right. Okay.” He dragged a chair to her feet and sat. “Let me take a look. Hmm.” He ran a finger across the arch of her foot. Tingles started at the point of contact then sizzled north.
“Do you want to tell me about Quent?”
His initial reply was a mere clenching of the jaw, but then he said, “I haven’t told anyone.”
Translation: he didn’t want to talk about it.
“Okay, but you seem to carry unnecessary baggage. Aren’t we good enough friends now that we can share the bad stuff?” She touched his arm. “I’m here to listen, if that’s all you need.”
“I’m going to slide this up a little.” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. He pushed her dress up to her knee, then gently lifted her foot and held the heel in one hand.
“We met in high school,” he said without preamble. “I was a senior, Quent was a sophomore.”
Jules didn’t say a word.
“We got along fine, but Quent picked up some habits—drugs, bragging about going bareback, every douchey guy cliché out there. I played hockey and basketball, pretty clean living comparatively. Couple months into fall semester, the school did a campus-wide drug sweep. I was with Quent when the officer was leading the dog through the locker room. A second later, Quent was gone and the dog was heading straight toward me, barking like the devil. Long story short, I got busted for a bag of weed in my backpack, but several witnesses came forward saying they saw Quent slip it in there when I wasn’t looking.”
“What happened?” Jules asked, hanging on his every word.
“In the end, nothing happened to me, but the next day, Quent got expelled. I never said anything to anyone. I’m no narc, but Quent blamed me, used to trash my car, egg our house, pretty much made senior year a living hell.” He paused and stared into the middle distance for a moment. “Anyway, a few years later, he and Roxy started hanging out. I didn’t know about it for a while because I was working in Manhattan, and thought Quent was in college out west.”
As he spoke, his head was lowered, and he dabbed medicated cream on the bottom of her foot. “Does it sting?” he asked.
“No,” Jules whispered.
“Even back then, Roxy’s never been able to keep secrets, and she told me they were dating. Quentin Sanders doesn’t date. He manipulates and hurts for the hell of it.” It was quiet for a moment as he began wrapping her foot in gauze.
“I hadn’t talked to him in almost five years, but he hadn’t changed—he was making it a point to mess with my sister on purpose. I contacted him and told him to end it, but…”
He broke off, and Jules touched his arm again, gazed at his lowered head, wishing so much that she could help.
“Quent just laughed,” he finally said. “To paraphrase, he said my sister was…too good to stop playing with.”
Jules couldn’t speak, so she slid her hand down his arm and wrapped it around his hand.
“A few days later,” he continued, still not looking up, “he did break it off. But Quent’s a pathological liar, and instead of cutting her loose, he said he was spending the summer overseas with the Peace Corps, which of course Roxy loved.”
“But he wasn’t?”
Dexter shook his head. “He was living with a woman—one of his mother’s divorced friends, actually. She was paying for his college and law school because evidently Quent lost his tuition at a casino in North Dakota. The guy had major issues, and I could’ve almost felt sorry for him had he not reached out to Roxy again, told her he’d joined the military and was being deployed.”
“Roxy told you that?”
“No.” He pulled her hand toward him and squeezed. “Quent did. He made it a point to tell me everything he’d said and done to her, and he…threatened to do worse if I told her the truth.”
“Blackmail?”
“There was no money involved, just my sister. He was hurting Rox, but she didn’t know. He was doing it to mess with me, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Dex.” She cupped her other hand over his, pressing them together.
“At the end of that summer, right before Roxy was leaving for college, they ran into each other. She thought he’d been deployed. Quent told her he’d been wounded in action.” He scoffed darkly. “A war hero. He just wouldn’t let her go no matter what I offered, so I had to ride it out from two hundred miles away. He bragged that he’d gotten into Puget Sound, and Rox would be in New Jersey soon, and I was sure it was finally over.”
When he didn’t finish, a cold, black, heavy cloak of understanding wrapped around Jules.
“Until this weekend,” she said, feeling sick. “Until I brought him back into your lives.”
Dexter finally lifted his chin to look at her, but she could barely see from the tears flooding her eyes.
“Dex, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’d never hurt Roxy…or you. I’m so sorry.” Her voice shook, her throat was thick, and when she tried to pull her hands away, Dexter wouldn’t let go.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, close. “Jules, hey. I know that. Trust me.” He touched her chin. “I know.”
For a moment, they just sat, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes, and Jules’s heart hadn’t felt this full since the last time she’d been in love.
When everything had gone wrong.
“My”—she cleared her throat—“my foot hurts a little.”
“It’ll stop soon,” he said, sitting back and releasing his grip on her hands. The sudden coldness of his absence made her shiver. “But you have to stay off it for the rest of the day,” he added, “otherwise the cuts won’t heal.”
“I can’t,” she said. “Your entire family’s coming over tonight.”
Dexter packed up the first aid kit. “I’ll take care of that.”
“You’re canceling?”
“No. I mean, I’ll take care of it. Get the house ready.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “The food?”
“You tell me what to do. I’ll even let you help if your foot is elevated at all times.”
She exhaled a sound of amazement. “You’ll do all that, host and everything?”
His eyes drifted from her face to her foot, and he tucked in a frayed piece of gauze. “I know tonight’s important to you.”
For about the tenth time in an hour, Jules’s heart filled with warmth. Despite everything she thought she once knew, there was so much more to type-A Dexter.
She looked at him, at his dark hair and blue eyes, the muscles of his chest, his arms and hands. Then she thought about all his wonderful qualities, too many to list. Suddenly, her
heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to burst out and fly.
Then wrap around Dexter Elliott.
Chapter Twelve
“’Night.” Dexter waved. “Thanks again.” As soon as the last taillight disappeared, he shut the door.
“Well.”
From across the room, he shared a tired smile with Jules. “Well.”
“Your mom loved the bacon wraps. Who knew?”
Dexter chuckled and leaned against the couch, feeling worn out but energized. “I’ve never seen her eat with her hands like that.”
“It’s the cottage,” Jules said. “It does something to people. Think about it.” She stood and hobbled across the room.
Dexter’s instinct was to rush over, put an arm around her, and let her use him as a crutch, like he’d been doing all evening. Now that his family was gone, it didn’t seem…proper. No more need to play the doting husband. How many times had she told him in the last five days that she was independent and didn’t need anyone? Least of all a husband.
It was nice when she needed him—or at least acted like she did. He loved when she’d look across the room and without asking, he knew she needed to lean on him. He’d never felt more like a man than when he was making life easier for her. His wife.
A part of him felt like he owed her. Even though nothing could change the past, an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders after he’d told her about Quent. She’d sat there and listened as he’d gone on and on, sharing with her what he’d never shared with another soul.
Yes, he owed her. But that wasn’t why he’d played host tonight, it was because he’d wanted to.
He swallowed and looked the other way. “Think about what?”
“The cottage,” Jules replied. “Today, for example. Only once did I have to kick you out to the deck when you were on the phone. And tonight, your cell was on the dresser the whole time and you didn’t talk about work once.”
Dexter could’ve explained that he hadn’t talked work because he didn’t want to get into it with Dad. But his cell? Huh. Not once had he even thought about it. There were probably a hundred messages and missed calls, but he didn’t care.
Tonight, he’d been Jules’s husband, and that had taken top priority.
“Do you want to keep the living room this way?” she asked.
It had been totally Jules’s idea, but Dexter had heartily approved when she’d suggested they move one of the chairs and two of the end tables (along with all their knickknacks) into the spare bedroom before the party.
“Only if you like it.”
“Ha!” That loud, cheerful voice echoed from the kitchen. Hearing it made him smile, made him want to go to her right then. Just to see her.
“With the furniture spread out like this, it gives the room a better…” He paused to search for the right word. “Feel…flow.”
Jules was in the middle of a snort-laugh when he entered the kitchen. “I hate to tell you this, but you just described feng shui.”
Dexter laughed too, and took the mug she was holding out, the smell of peppermint warming him all over.
“And you’re saying my magic cottage can’t change lives.”
He chuckled under his breath and took a sip, allowing his eyes to linger on the long black skirt she was wearing, its thick lines of off-white paisleys around the waist. Her black shirt, low neckline, rolled-up sleeves, short enough to show a slice of toned stomach whenever she moved her arms.
It had been a relentless challenge, but he’d managed to keep his hands off that skin all evening.
“Hey,” Jules said, bringing him back to the present. “What about the fight?”
“What fight?”
“We were supposed to fight in front of your family. That was the whole point of tonight—the exit strategy.” She set her mug on the table. “You’re supposed to be catching the red-eye.”
“Oh. Right.” He rubbed his chin. That fake argument had completely slipped his mind. He’d been too caught up in…being a husband.
A knot formed in his chest, clenching tightly. It was a new kind of pain, though not actually painful. He didn’t know if it was a good feeling or a bad one. Bad, of course. Jules was right; he was supposed to have laid the groundwork for their divorce and been on his way to New York.
“I kept trying to bring it up, but then I’d get sidetracked.”
“Thinking about your virtual art meeting?” she said with an exaggerated eye roll.
“Exactly.” No reason for her to think it was anything else. “Speaking of, Natalie really loves your paintings.”
“No.” Jules shook her head. “She was just being polite.”
“Trust me, I doubt Nat says anything she doesn’t mean.”
“You think?”
“The one over there, with the big daisies.” He pointed at the wall. “You called it Urban Blossoms. She wants it. I heard her talking to Luke about it before they left.”
“She can have it.”
“How much?”
“I’d never sell a painting to a friend, let alone family.”
“Natalie isn’t really your family, though.”
Jules frowned at him and blinked, processing the comment he wished he could take back. Before she turned away, Dexter saw the sadness in her eyes, the same misplaced anguish as when she’d blamed herself for Quent. He’d do anything to take that away, by putting a friendly arm around her, a squeeze of her hand, just like she’d done for him.
“Well, she feels like family—they all do,” Jules snapped as she poured the rest of her tea down the sink. “Could you get all your stuff out of my room now? I want to go to bed.”
He stared at her screwed-up expression that he didn’t understand. The moment to comfort was gone. Too slow, Dex had let it pass. “Sure,” he finally said.
For a while, he tried to work, but couldn’t keep his mind on his project. With the couch turned the opposite way now, he kept finding himself staring across the room at the bedroom door. The light had been out for hours, he hadn’t heard a sound, but he knew she wasn’t asleep.
Something was wrong with Jules, though he didn’t know what. And his damn brain wouldn’t let him think of anything else. Could her foot be bothering her? Knowing how hard-ass-determined she could be, a little foot pain wasn’t enough to put her in a bad mood.
What could it be?
He shut off his computer and lounged back on the couch, eyes drifting from the door to the wall. Jules’s paintings. Maybe because he’d listened to her explain some of them to his family tonight, he was seeing them through different eyes. As a group, they had an underlying energy. Chaotic, yes, but her brand of chaos was addictive, and it weaved its way through his brain all night.
No sledgehammer or annoying sister waiting to do yoga woke him the next morning. He’d done it all on his own. He knew Jules was already up because he smelled her mint tea in the air, so he sat up, looked straight through to the kitchen and out the window.
As expected, Jules was on the deck, feet curled up, mug in her hands. Morning sunlight made her hair look almost red. When she tipped her chin, laughed, then spoke, a cold chill hit Dexter’s spine.
She wasn’t out there alone. Someone was with her. Someone like Quent.
Feet tangled in the blanket, Dexter tripped over himself as he pushed from the couch and sped toward the deck. “What are you—” he began the moment he flung open the door. There was no one on the deck but Jules.
She stared up at him. “Hold on a sec.”
Dexter almost fell through the floor. “Are you talking on the phone?”
“It’s Roxy,” Jules said, displaying his cell. “My phone isn’t charged and yours wasn’t password protected and I figured you’d have her number saved. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course he doesn’t mind!” came Roxy’s voice through the phone.
Dexter chuckled, pulse slowing to non-attack mode. “I don’t mind, but I am mildly shocked—so out of context.”
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She held up a finger. “Rox, sorry. Dexter’s awake and, um, up now. Gotta go!” She snickered and held out the phone. “Your sister thinks we have sex every five seconds, but I swear it’s the only thing that makes her go away. Oh, not that I…”
“No need to explain. I know you like Roxanne as well as anyone, but she can be a little much. She grew up in a mansion with only my parents for her last formative years. Never taught personal space.”
When Jules smiled, it felt like he hadn’t seen it in ages.
“If your phone is dead, or you need a number, or whatever, you can always use mine,” he added. “My car, my computer, my…well, anything else I have that you want, it’s yours.”
Hell, man. Calm down. Talk about smothering.
“Thanks. Rox is heading back to Jersey on Friday. I don’t know if I’ll see her again, so I wanted to say good-bye. She didn’t know it was good-bye, but…”
Seemed a good night’s sleep hadn’t done much to lift Jules’s mood. He tried to remember when it was last night that she’d started sounding sad. It might’ve been when they were talking about her painting, the one Natalie liked. Maybe he’d insulted Jules without realizing it.
“Have you got a lot going on today?”
“Not much,” she said, gazing toward the water. “My foot’s better so I might go for a hike. The trails at Governor Dick park should be dry enough now. Is your contractor friend coming to look at the house?”
Dexter nodded. “Tomorrow afternoon, it’s all set.”
“Great. What about you? Did you rebook a flight?”
Why did it seem like she was trying to get rid of him? Of course he needed to get back to the city ASAP, but did she have to push him out the door?
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.” He pulled up a sea-foam-green chair and sat across from her. “I’m stuck and need your opinion. Probably more than just your opinion.”
Wife for the Weekend Page 17
