To be honest, I was more of a tea person than a coffee one, but the gesture was nice, and I hadn't gotten very good sleep the night before.
I wanted to blame the creaking house, the night animals outside—invasive and unfamiliar—but the fact of the matter was, it had nothing to do with those things.
It did, however, have everything to do with the man across the hall from me, likely peacefully sleeping the night away.
While I fretted and obsessed and had thoughts I had no business having about the man.
The situation was sticky enough already without me getting too wrapped up in this giant fantasy world I had created for myself. And therein lay most of my anxiety, my restless sleep plagued with worries.
That maybe he knew.
Or he might come to know.
About the calls.
His calls.
About who was the one making them.
"God," I whimpered, burying my face in my hands as I stood alone in the kitchen, mortification making the heat rise up my neck, blooming across my face.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
Of course, it wasn't.
What can I say?
It was the night that my divorce was finalized from a man who—when I had served him divorce papers—had told me that I could keep the car (which was mine to begin with) but that he was never going to let me get his precious Playstation or collection of comics.
I had been feeling really, really small.
Infinitesimal, really.
Damn near invisible.
I'd felt that way a lot in my life—overlooked, unnoticed—but something about the failure of the marriage that, admittedly, had only been a band-aid to my confidence issues from the beginning, made it feel all the more terrible.
I felt scratched raw, a wound you kept picking and picking and picking open, never letting it heal right.
And I was desperate for something, anything, that might make me feel better. Even for a moment.
My mind went to all my usual coping mechanisms.
A therapy visit.
But that would, at best, be first thing the next morning.
Calling my mom.
But she'd already taken me out to a "Happy Divorce" party where I had faked being relieved and happy to start again.
I didn't want her to know I had been putting on a show, that I was feeling this more than I should have, more than I ever would have imagined.
Not because of Blake, mind you. Good riddance to him and his utter inability to put the seat down, or pick up milk on his way home, or give me five minutes of his undivided attention on any given day.
But just my own deep well of dissatisfaction that was now mingled with a heady dose of failure.
I hadn't failed alone, of course. Blake had been an active part of the dissolution of our relationship.
We'd both seen it coming for months, a year, even.
But neither of us wanted to fix the underlying problem. So we spent our time angrily scooping water out of our sinking boat instead of patching up the hole that was causing the leak in the first place.
I guess it hit me so hard because I wasn't sure any of the nonsense I had said to my mother could ever be true for me. That I would ever be ready to date again. To feel the humiliation of a first date where someone who got incredibly frustrated with my inability to carry on a normal, casual conversation with a complete stranger.
God, I wasn't even sure I would ever find someone who would ask me out again.
I wasn't someone who had friends, who went out with them. Which left online dating. And my crippling fear surrounding it. Because I could be all kinds of things behind a screen, given space and time to think about my replies, to let my real self through, unhindered by the social awkwardness, my bumbling tongue, my shyness. I could be smart and interesting and, even at times, funny. But then someone would get me on a date and I was a nothing like that woman online.
Even just the idea of it gave me stress hives.
So I was pretty sure as I sat there alone in my empty apartment with my new/old last name, that I was never going to feel wanted again.
I mean, not that my marriage had been a heated one. Blake was happier lost in his fantasy worlds with female characters that were all boobs and hips and thighs, than in bed with me. And everything about our sex life made that clear.
Lights off.
Socks on.
Half-hearted.
Often unsatisfying.
And even when I did manage to get there, it was always—as Fee and the girls at work would call it—a "little O" and not the whole she-bang.
All those swirling thoughts mixed with the bottle of red wine I'd nearly finished—when I had never been much of a drinker because of my inability to handle it with any degree of decorum—made a crazy idea cross my mind.
Grab my credit card.
And call in at the office.
Because there was a man there.
And he had really pretty eyes.
And a really nice body.
And a deep, sexy voice.
And, if I tried hard enough, I could imagine that what he was saying to me when I called wasn't a job, wasn't something pathetic I was paying him to do, but something he wanted to say, something he wanted to do.
So I plugged in my information that I knew he would never see because Fiona was really good about having safeguards for callers' anonymity, I waited for him to answer.
Then when he did, I chugged the last of my wine, closed my eyes, and drifted away into the fantasy.
I meant for it to be a one-night thing.
But I hadn't anticipated how good it would feel, how empowered it made me the day after.
I'd held off for a while after, finding the confidence boost lasted several weeks before it started to fade.
I told myself I would find another way to get that same fix.
But then there I was in a low moment one night, my information plugged into a computer, his voice on the other end of my phone.
It seemed to go that way for a while.
One call would last me weeks, months if life wasn't too hectic.
But then, within a year, I was finding myself oddly addicted to the high of feeling desired, to having connection with a man. However fake it was.
The calls started to be every other week. Then every week.
Then, God, damn near nightly.
The nights he worked, anyway.
He called my 'baby' and my full name, and, God, the things he said. The things it did to me.
It started to fill a void inside I thought might always be painfully empty.
I knew how sad that was.
No one knew that better than me.
No one could ever say things to me that I said to myself about how weak and pathetic and needy I was for continuing on.
But I did.
Even though my bank account hated it, even though my savings hadn't seen any new deposits in six months.
I tried to remind myself that it was harmless.
It was fantasy.
Just like porn.
Or like the books I read and slipped away into.
No one was getting hurt.
Everyone was getting what they needed from the interactions.
But, deep down, I knew the truth.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
First, because one day, and there was no telling when, he wouldn't be available to me anymore. Then what? I hollowed out again? I went back to silent nights at home by myself? Clinging to my mom for every spare bit of attention and affection she could give me, pretending it was enough when I knew it wasn't, when I knew she was worrying about how dependent I was on her when I should have long ago developed a support system that didn't involve my mother.
Or, second, and worst of all... he would find out.
My stomach clenched any time I even thought those words, a sharp, unmistakable surge of bone-deep fear. That anyone, absolutely anyone, on this earth would k
now what I had been doing.
Let alone that person being Rush himself.
Which was why I had been so careful at work.
I scooted out the door right after he came in, avoiding anyone involving me in conversation, increasing the chances of him recognizing me from our late-night phone calls.
All for nothing, it seemed.
Because I was pretty sure, even after talking to him quite a bit the night before, that he had no idea.
There had been a couple of moments when I thought maybe he was onto me, but once I gave myself space from the conversations to analyze them, I saw that it was just my fear that made me think that.
I mean, I didn't talk a lot on the phone, to be honest.
I gave him short responses when he needed them, but for the most part, I just played to both of our strengths.
He was a good talker.
I was a good listener.
It worked out beautifully.
A lot of time, I didn't even call because I physically wanted to. It had become more of an emotional crutch.
Though, if I were being completely transparent, there had been times.
Of course.
Because Rush knew exactly what to say, when, how to say it.
He turned me to a puddle of need some nights.
And then he took that need away with his words, with the fantasies they conjured, as my hand worked, as he got a different kind of response from my end of the phone.
Sometimes, I went ahead and let myself believe his voice got husky on those nights too, that he was enjoying the sounds of pleasure he was creating.
Then, of course, during my shower afterward, I would remind myself it was a job; I would tell myself I wasn't going to call again, that this was over, that I was going to go back to my normal life.
I said it.
Every single day.
Of every single week.
For the past six months.
For God's sake, I'd called him two nights before the retreat.
And now here I was.
Alone with him.
Not for long, I reminded myself as I grabbed my coffee and book, heading out the back door to go claim my chair before, I imagined, our other coworkers would start showing up. Hopefully before the rain.
I had just curled up under my blanket when I heard a rustling that had me tensing, eyes darting around, wondering if Rush was in hearing distance, if he would rush to the rescue if he heard me scream.
Adrenaline surged through my system, but in the end, it was a little cottontail that came hopping into the clearing, clearly not used to having human intruders, not even looking around for predators, just munching down on a patch of clover, his little nose twitching, his ears flicking around, listening to all the forest sounds.
Then, a crunch. The loud kind.
The kind that had him turning and darting, no questions asked, as my heartbeat tripped into overdrive, as I damn near spilled my coffee all over myself as my body jolted as it turned instinctively toward the noise.
And then I did drop my coffee.
On the ground at my feet.
Because there was Rush freaking Rivers.
Walking up from who-knew-where, naked from the waist up, water dripping down from his dark hair, slipping over his strong shoulders, down his pecs that had seen more than a few push ups and chest presses in their day, then down the dip between his six-pack. My shameless gaze followed the droplet's progress as it shivered over the happy trail then disappeared along with it into the low-slung waistband of his pants.
My gaze stayed there for a long moment. Too long. Obscenely long. Long enough that he likely knew exactly what my mind was thinking about.
My head whipped up.
"Are... aren't you... um cold?" I asked, feeling a shiver work through me, but only I knew it wasn't a cold shiver, but, rather, a hot one.
"Fucking freezing," he admitted, giving me one of those easy smiles I came to know him for, shaking his head at himself. "Got this wild hair to explore the woods this morning. And some stupid fucking part of me saw the lake and thought it would be refreshing," he said, rolling his eyes as I unfolded from my chair, walking toward him without giving the action any thought at all beforehand.
"Here," I said, pulling the blanket off my shoulders, reaching to wrap it around him.
His eyes went soft a that, his head tilting to the side a bit as he grabbed it to pull it fully around him.
"Thanks, baby. I will trade you one of the extras from my room. Dry."
"No, that's alright. Just toss that one back in my room when you're done with it," I said, then felt myself wincing, wondering if he was reading into that, sussing out what I meant.
That it might smell like him.
That I was just needy enough to want to find out.
God, I needed to get back to Navesink Bank, schedule an appointment, and come clean about all of this to my therapist. This couldn't be normal, or healthy, behavior.
Maybe she could help wean me off my dependence to him.
A Rush Rivers Recovery program, of sorts.
"Anyone else show up yet?" he asked as I fetched my coffee and book, following him back toward the cabin.
"No. I'm starting to worry about them."
"If it eases your mind at all, Katie, there's no way they could all be stranded somewhere or anything like that. We didn't end up on the same plane. None of them likely did either. Or maybe more than anticipated had some kind of excuses not to be here."
"You're not worried about Fiona?" I asked, knowing she was practically like an in-law to him.
"She's got a whole tribe of people to fall back on if she needed it. But I don't think she does. I think there was some sort of mix up. Maybe we both got the date or time wrong or some shit. It was all so last minute."
"That's true," I agreed.
"I'm gonna go get this chill out of my bones. Then maybe we can find something to eat."
"I, ah, I can make something," I offered.
"Yeah?" he asked, turning back, eyes bright.
It was such a cliché, that thing about men and their hearts and their stomachs. But I'd yet to see it be wrong.
"Yeah," I agreed, my lips curving up. "What do you think of crêpes?"
"Sounds like you just offered to make all my breakfasts from now until we leave here I think," he told me, eyes dancing, and my heart did an embarrassing little shimmy at the sight. "I'll be down in ten. Not to help," he added, shaking his head. "Just to watch. Give completely unhelpful commentary. That kind of shit."
"Looking forward to it," I said, getting a wink from him before he was off.
"Oooh, boy," I sighed when I was alone, planting my hands on the cool counter, taking a couple of deep breaths, reminding myself that this was just how Rush was.
He was charming. And playful. And boyish. And effortlessly sexy.
It wasn't personal.
It was never personal.
I was just the woman with the crêpes to a man with an empty stomach.
Nothing more, nothing less.
No matter how much I might have wanted it to be more.
And how sad that was.
To put my mind off those negative thoughts I was so known for, I gathered my ingredients, giving each step a careful consideration I hadn't needed to do for decades, not since my grandmother first taught me the recipe. This would be the first, and likely the last, chance I would get to cook for him. And I wanted it to be good. Maybe he would remember me as something other than the mumbling, bumbling, uncomfortable office mouse.
"Uh oh," he said after his fifth crêpe, gaze going to the window where the clap of thunder was loud enough to make the window panes rattle in their frames. "Hope no one is on the road," he went on. "You alright?" he asked, brows furrowing. "You haven't eaten anything."
"I'm not anorexic." The words shot out of me, knee-jerk, defensive, my voice a mix of frustration and desperation.
"I, ah, yeah, baby, I wasn't saying that. You ju
st haven't touched your food. And it's banging. So I figured something was wrong."
"Sorry," I said, eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, my stomach wobbling. "That was just a knee-jerk reaction. People assume I don't eat because I'm so thin," I admitted, sucking in a deep breath, feeling it settle the anxiety that skittered across my nerves. "I had the stomach flu once. It came on while I was at school, and I was throwing up in the bathroom, and every day after that, the whole school joked about me being bulimic."
"Okay, first. Everyone you went to school with was a dick. Secondly, it never crossed my mind, Katie. Some people just have that kickass metabolism."
"I would like it if mine kicked a little less," I admitted. My weight had always been an issue for me. And as far as we had come as a society with body positivity, people still felt like it was okay to tell thin people to eat a cheeseburger, as if we wouldn't have thought of that ourselves. I used to sneak weight-on pills into the house in high school, desperate to get a body that rounded out in all the nice ways the other girls' bodies had, while mine stayed stubbornly flat and narrow.
I thought, largely, that I'd overcome the insecurity about it. But I found it still crept up. Especially where men were concerned.
I remembered crying in the bathroom after I found out my ex's browser history included anime porn where the women had boobs bigger than my head.
And, apparently, it mattered just as much that Rush know I had no control over how my body chose to metabolize the food that I very often shoved in my mouth.
I would deal with the clear dysfunction of that when I was back in Navesink Bank.
"So, is there, ah, something wrong?" he asked, eyeing my plate. "Or are you just not feeling the crêpes?"
"You're a pig," I told him, feeling a smile pulling at my lips as I passed him my plate, feeling no small surge of pride as he dug in with gusto, even with a stomach full already.
"You should open a breakfast place," he decided, scraping the plate clean of strawberry filling and powdered sugar.
"You're going to have a stomach ache. That was a lot of sugar."
"Oh, sweetheart, you underestimate my ability to eat complete crap without feeling bad about it. "I'm already planning something cheesy for dinner. Just gotta figure out if we have enough for whoever shows up. If they can make it in this. That street sucked in good weather," he said, getting up, gathering the dishes, taking them to the sink to wash. "Get a look at this wind," he went on, making me get up, walk over to his side to look out the back window.
Pull You In (Rivers Brothers Book 3) Page 4
