“What if she was genuinely trying to help you get Ben back into your life?” Mrs. Rosa asks.
“She spent money, Mrs. Rosa, and it couldn’t have been cheap. Hundreds of dollars, if not more. Why would she spend that much money to help me? She must’ve wanted to verify my story too. There’s no way that didn’t figure into it.”
Mrs. Rosa and Roger exchange a long look, and a weird, almost panicky feeling steals over me. It’s obvious they don’t agree with my assessment of the situation. Did I fuck up?
Mary was adamant that this had nothing to do with distrust, but I’m so used to being the person who gets side-eye looks. So accustomed to being accused.
“I know you’re a proud man,” Mrs. Rosa says softly, “but what if it was a Christmas gift? What if, instead of buying you a bottle of Old Spice cologne, she was trying to get you something more meaningful? Something she knows you want more than anything in the world?”
I know she’s referring to Ben, but it dawns on me that he isn’t the only person I want in my life. That panicky feeling tightens around me. “My sister’s not going to change her mind.”
“But Mary doesn’t know that.” She gets up and walks over to me. “Your Mary’s a doer.”
“What?”
“She sees things that need to be done, and she gets to work. Look at how she took charge of the search for Cleo. She wants to fix things for you and Ben. So she went about it the only way she knows how.”
“By having me investigated?”
“By trying to find information to change your sister’s mind. Did the detective find anything?”
“It doesn’t matter what the guy found. I already told Amanda what Lester did, and she doesn’t give a shit. She thinks the sun shines out of his ass.” I glance at Mrs. Rosa. “Sorry.”
But she just waves a hand in dismissal. “You’re entitled, dear.”
“No,” Roger says. “The issue isn’t that your sister doesn’t care. It’s that she doesn’t believe you. What if Mary found proof?”
That thought sinks into my head like an anchor in the ocean, plummeting all the way to my feet. What if she did find proof? She’d insisted she knew something that might make a difference, and I refused to even hear her out.
I had my head up my ass, assuming the worst of her, just like I was convinced she was assuming the worst of me.
I push out a breath. “It doesn’t matter. Amanda won’t want to see it. She won’t change her mind.”
Mrs. Rosa gives me a pointed look. “Mary doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would let that stop her from trying anyway.”
A song starts playing from her pocket—Lizzo’s “Juice”—and her face brightens. “The cake’s done. Gotta go. But you think on what I said, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, thrown by the fact that Mrs. Rosa even knows who Lizzo is, let alone has her song as an alarm.
She reaches up and pats my cheek. “You’re a good boy. A little slow at times, but you eventually get there.”
Then she winks and walks out the door, the song still playing on her phone. I can hear her singing, “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” as she walks down the hall.
I’m still gaping when Roger says, “That song’s got a catchy beat.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
“She’s right,” he says. “Think about it, then go grovel. But don’t take too long.”
“What?”
“Grovel. On hands and knees if that’s what it takes. That woman’s special. Don’t let her go, son. I’ve got a lifetime of regrets, but going after my wife was the one thing I got right. And it was the one thing that really mattered.” Then he gets up and walks out too, leaving me with the knowledge that one, he’s probably right, and two, he just called me son.
I grab my keys and go.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mary
Jace made it very clear that he doesn’t want to learn what I’ve discovered.
But what a person wants and what they need can be two very different things. So even though tears are still tracking down my cheeks and I barely managed to get out of that ridiculous poodle skirt and change into my comfy UVA sweats, I grab a glass of wine—because I do have some sympathy for my broken heart—and sit down at my laptop. Dennis has already sent me his report, and I prepare to forward it to Jace.
My hands shake a little as they linger over the keyboard. What in the world should I write? In the past, I would have apologized, but Nicole is right. Apologies shouldn’t be doled out like breath mints at a restaurant. And the thing is, even though I hate being at odds with the man I care about, I’m not sorry I did it. Not even a little. If I’d told him what I wanted to do, he wouldn’t have let me, or he’d have insisted on spending money he can’t afford, and there’s no reason for him to go another day without being an uncle to Ben.
I’m still wary of Glenn’s motivations for suddenly wanting to see Aidan, especially since he didn’t once mention him in his voice message, but Jace?
I’ve heard the hurt in his voice when he talks about Ben, the raw edge of a pain that hasn’t dulled. And even if he’s decided I’m (a) a mess, (b) a control freak, and (c) utterly not worth the trouble, he deserves to have a relationship with his nephew. I want that for both of them.
I just wish it wouldn’t take him from Aidan and me too.
More tears escape my eyes, and I swipe them away, staring at the blank email. Feeling a weird sucking emptiness at the core of my being. When Glenn told me he was leaving, I didn’t feel like this. It’s like my belly is full of broken glass but I’m ravenous, and the only food is more broken things.
Before I can write a word, a knock sounds at the front door, and I startle enough to spill the wine on both the couch and my shirt.
“Shoot. Shit. Shit.”
The knock sounds again, so I settle for swiping at the mess with my hand, which only makes the stain larger. I’m not going to be satisfied until I wash the cushion cover and my sweatshirt—on hot—but someone’s at the door, dang it. Who’s here on a Saturday night, anyway?
My mind conjures images of Nicole, saying she’s decided to honeymoon in my attic. (It’s just a crawl space, actually, but there’s really no knowing with her.) Or Dottie, come to offer tea and cakes because she psychically felt the shattering of my heart.
But when I open the door, it’s him. Snowflakes glitter in Jace’s hair, and his eyes are shining with some emotion I can’t begin to read. His cheeks are slightly pink from the cold, and good God, no wonder, he’s in a T-shirt and shorts. Relief courses through me, even though it’s bitterly cold tonight, until I see the box in his hands.
Oh.
He came back to bring me Nicole’s present. Self-consciousness rides on the wave of that revelation. Because I’m wearing an old sweatshirt—currently covered with wine; red, because screw Glenn—and I’ve always been an ugly crier. My face is probably blotchy with it. I’ll bet he’s looking at me and wondering what he ever saw in me, and…
And he’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts in winter weather, Mary. Take the present or invite the man in.
I run a hand ineffectually over my wet sweatshirt, then reach for the present, intending to take it. Somehow, my hand falls on his arm instead, his very cold, very muscular arm, and I find myself pulling him inside. He comes without an argument, that inscrutable look still in his eyes, but at least he doesn’t seem angry.
Once he’s inside, I close the door behind him. I’m tempted to lock it, but if he wants to leave, a measly lock won’t hold him. Besides, I’ve learned the joy of being around people who want to be there. Jace helped me realize that.
“You have a bad habit of underdressing for the weather,” I say, because the words just spill from my mouth.
His expression stays solemn. Intense. He lowers the gift to the foyer table, and the action must have triggered the gift inside because the box suddenly starts vibrating.
“I wondered if you were joking about that,” he says, an
d now the corners of his mouth do kick up a little.
I shrug, riding another wave of self-consciousness, because I still look frightful, and now there’s a vibrating box sitting next to my door, and we both know what’s in it. “I wanted to get her something she’d actually like.”
He eyes the box and then picks it up. For a moment, I think he’s going to unwrap it and suggest that I get Nicole something else, something wedding-ish, so we can test it out instead. But that’s obviously just wishful thinking. He raps it against the table again, and the vibration stops.
It’s his turn to shrug. “You must have spent a lot of time wrapping it. I didn’t want you to have to redo it.”
My heart swells. Jace has a way of noticing me that’s both wonderful and unnerving. I want to ask him if he’s changed his mind. If, maybe, he wants to hear about Dennis’s report after all. But I also don’t want to break this fragile truce, if that’s what it is.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask casually, as if men frequently stop in with vibrating presents intended for other people.
“No.” He paces inside a bit, as if restless, and his gaze lands on the tree before skipping back to me. “You don’t have to do anything else for me, Mary.” There’s frustration in his voice, and his eyes look like the ocean in a storm. “You know, at first I thought you hired that guy because you didn’t trust me, but Mrs. Rosa and Roger talked some sense into me.”
I’d be more relieved if he didn’t seem so ill at ease, like a tiger in a cage.
He scrubs a hand through his hair, now wet from where the snowflakes melted. “You told me about your club. Nicole keeps trying to get you to stop putting your own needs last. But here you are, trying to right my wrongs. Mary, I don’t want to be another item on your to-do list. I don’t want to be one more person you feel responsible for.”
For a moment, I can only gawk at him, because he’s at once so right and so wrong. I always have felt responsible for the people around me. Those words my mom drove into my brain—big sister, big sister, big sister—stayed with me, and not just in regard to my actual sisters. My tendency is to fill that role or wound myself trying. But that’s changing—well, not in regard to Aidan, obviously, since I am responsible for him, but with the other adults in my life. It has finally allowed me to see them for who they are and for them to see me.
Finally, I find my voice. “I didn’t do it because I felt like I had to, or because I felt sorry for you. It was something I wanted to do. This was me putting myself first.”
I take a step toward him, needing to touch him, but he steps back. My heart lurches, but then he asks, “Don’t you see?” There’s torment in his tone, as if his words are tearing him apart. “I can’t give anything back. I’m a dead end, Mary. A nonstarter.” He waves at what I’m wearing. “You went to law school at UVA. You’re a successful, beautiful woman, and I’m a convict with a shit job and no money. I’m no one.”
His words feel like they’re tearing me apart too because I can’t stand for him to see himself that way. For him to suffer from the same awful feelings that have lurked within me for years, whispering in my ear that I’m not good enough. I’m only pretending to be all right, and someday it will all catch up to me. Jace is gorgeous and strong and brave and confident. But that same nasty voice lives within him, and I expect it sounds like his sister. Or maybe that bastard Lester.
“How can you say that?” I ask, sounding angry. No, furious. Tears are running down my cheeks again, and they’re so hot they sear me.
I cross to him and take him by the arms. I’d shake him if I could hope to do such a thing, but he’s as solid as ever, so I only grip him as if he’s a lifeboat and I’m marooned in that storm in his eyes.
“I’ve never met a better man. You listen to people when they talk without trying to tell them what they’re saying, and you go out of your way to do things for the people you care about. You got Aidan that model, you make Roger dinner every night, and Mrs. Rosa told me about the mobile kitchen island you built for her. Free of charge, even though you say you’re broke. And you’ve helped me more than you can possibly know. You’ve helped me feel again, Jace, in ways I didn’t think were possible. You’ve opened me to new experiences.” My voice breaks. “So don’t you dare fucking say you can’t give anything back. You already are, just by being you.”
I try to shake him, because I need him to understand what I’m saying. I need him to see himself as clearly as he sees me. I need him to look into the mirror I’m lifting, just like he showed me my reflection earlier.
He reaches up—his hand shaking slightly—and wipes the tears from beneath my eyes, his touch so gentle I almost cry harder.
“You don’t want to get tangled up in my shit life,” he says, his voice husky. “I want more for you.”
“Well, I want you.” My voice is firmer than I’ve ever heard it, and suddenly, the tears dry up, because I know it’s true. I repeat it. “I want you.”
Still, he hesitates. “I can’t be casual with you, Mary.”
“Good,” I say firmly. “Because I don’t want casual. I want everything.” It’s what I said to him our first night together, but the meaning is different now, and we both know it.
“What about Aidan?” he asks, still unsure.
“Maybe I’m selfish,” I say, “but I’m not willing to give you up. I want you for both of us. We’ll figure out later what to tell him and when.”
Before I can lose my nerve or allow any what-ifs to creep in, I take his hand and lead him toward my bedroom. His breath catches, but he follows me. Is his heart hammering in his chest too?
When we get inside, I shut the door behind us, savoring the click it makes. Savoring the sight of him standing there, staring down at me with eyes full of wonder and warmth and admiration.
I thought we were done.
I thought I wasn’t ever going to see him again.
My heart feels like it’s going to swallow me whole.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s obvious it killed him to ask.
My response is to pull him to me by the hem of his T-shirt. He leans down as I lift up, kissing me with a passion that consumes, our mouths fitting together as if we can only get oxygen from each other, not the air. But it’s not enough. I break away and lift the hem of his T-shirt over his head, revealing his ripped torso and his tattoos. He sucks in a breath as I trace the meandering line of the anchor tattoo with one finger. Then, because I want to, I lean in and trace it with my tongue, pausing here and there to plant a kiss. A slight moan escapes him, and he spears a hand through my short hair.
I’m close enough to feel his arousal against my body, but he doesn’t try to take over. The anchor tattoo ends just above his shorts and boxer briefs, and I pull them down, gasping at the sight of him. He’s hard for me even when I’m like this—undone, no makeup, no polish.
Nicole wasn’t wrong. Although I obviously haven’t had much basis of comparison, Jace’s dick is absolutely impressive enough to be a model for dildos. And it’s mine.
I run my fingers down his length, memorizing him. I feel a shudder of pleasure run through him, but he doesn’t try to take over or urge me to do anything. He just strokes my hair with his hand, his gentle touch sending shivers of sensation through me as I trace his dick with my tongue and then take him in my mouth. I experience a moment of panic—Glenn once told me that I wasn’t any good at this—but I don’t let that stop me. Everything in me wants to know Jace this way. And then he moans, and a feeling of power builds within me, edging my own pleasure higher. Swirling my tongue, I work him, up and down, his fingers still woven in my hair, tightening slightly but not pushing me to take him deeper or change my pace.
Then, suddenly, he’s pulling me up. The panic surfaces again for only an instant, there and then gone, because no, he’s not stopping me because he wasn’t enjoying it.
“Fuck, Mary,” he says, his expression strained. “I can’t take anymore. I need to come inside you.�
��
The words send a dirty thrill through me, like I made my claim on him and now he wants to make his claim on me, and I start to tug off my sweatshirt before his big hands still me. “Let me do that.”
He slips it over my head and lets it fall to the floor, sucking in a breath when he sees I’m still not wearing a bra underneath, and one hand is already reaching for my breast, palming it and playing with my nipple, while the other slides down my sweatpants and underwear. (I changed into an old, comfortable pair before he came over, but I can’t find it in myself to care about that or the stain currently setting into my couch cushion.)
I step out of the pants, our mouths already locked together again, our lips and tongues fighting to be closer, to connect deeper, and his clever hand finds the sensitive spot between my legs, and he touches me there and strokes in one finger, two, and I’m already so close, and…
He pulls away, breathless, and it takes him a second to get out the words. “Please tell me you have a condom. Mrs. Rosa tried to put, like, twenty of them in my suit pockets, but I didn’t let her.”
At another time, I’d be tempted to laugh and ask about a dozen questions, but right now, a more demanding need is coursing through me.
“I don’t,” I say, feeling another flutter of panic, but new sensations and emotions push it out. Warmth. Adoration. Trust. “But I was tested after Glenn and I separated, and I have an IUD. Have you been tested since your last partner?” Even though it’s beyond stupid, I feel a little prick of jealousy toward whoever she was.
“I have. I’m clean.” His eyes are boring into me in a way that instantly soothes me. “Are you sure?”
I know what he’s asking. He’s asking if I trust him, and I do. All the way.
“I am. How do you want to…”
He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, and leads me through our strewn clothes to the bed. I don’t have a single errant thought about the mess. My focus is solely on him. On us.
I thought maybe he’d ask me to turn around like last time, or that he’d throw me onto the bed and lower down over me, but when we reach the edge of the mattress, he picks me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as if they’re desperate to keep him here too, and kisses me again—one of those oxygen-stealing kisses that makes me lose myself and not care—and then lowers backward onto the mattress, leaving me straddling him, his hardness pressed against me, rubbing against me. And oh God, he wants me to…
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 29
