“Come on,” I say, urging her up. “Let’s go back to bed.”
As she gets to her feet, her spirits rise.
Mine don’t. I didn’t love Curt Bowery before. I hate him now.
“Are you going to cuddle with me?” she teases.
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, taking my hand. “Just a little cuddle.”
I look at her and try not to let her pouty lips soften my resolve.
“I already answered you,” I say, heading up the steps with her at my heels.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t ask you again.”
“Don’t I know that,” I mumble.
She laughs.
I follow her into my bedroom and ignore the ache in my chest. Nothing can be done about it tonight.
We slip between the sheets, and just as I knew—and hoped—she would, she curls up against me.
“Good night, Wade. Sweet dreams.”
“Night, Dara.”
We lie still, and it’s not long until her breathing evens out. Then I kiss the top of her head and go to sleep too.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WADE
“What the …?”
I squint into the bright light streaming through my window. I cover my face with the back of my hand and wonder why in the hell the sun is out so early in the morning.
Reaching out to my bedside table, I rough my hand around until I find my phone.
9:30 AM
“What?”
I sit upright, jolted awake by the time. And sun. And … Dara.
The side of the bed that I don’t sleep on is made—but not the way I do it. Even if I could justify that somehow in my mind, my body doesn’t lie.
Coconuts still scent the air. A strand of her hair shines against my white pillowcase. There’s a distinct red mark running down my forearm from her fingernail.
I rub my hand over my face and exhale sharply. It takes me a little longer than necessary to piece together the events of last night and to figure out what day it is.
Sunday.
I stumble out of bed, thrown by the late time, and step into the hallway. The house is eerily quiet. I’m not sure whether to call her name or just creep around like a nutjob looking for her.
I choose the latter.
The doors lining the hallway are all shut, so I go downstairs. There are still no sounds, no scents of breakfast, or any other indication as to where she might be.
I head to the kitchen, my hand clamped around the back of my neck, and stop short of the refrigerator.
A note is propped up against a box of donuts next to my coffee pot.
“What the hell?” I walk over and pick up a piece of Mason Architecture stationery from my office.
Good morning!
I had a ton of work to do today, and you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t want to wake you. (Don’t be mad. You can’t be “late” on a Sunday. Besides, you’re the boss.) I had my friend pick me up—but not before she grabbed some donuts for you. (And me. And she ate two on the way over so there’s that. Sorry. I’m friends with scoundrels. A scoundrel. One. I have one friend.) Anyway, I had a very nice time with you yesterday. Thank you for stepping out of your comfort zone and showing me a (really) good time. Feel free to invite me to all of your family events from this point forward. Ha!
I folded your suit and my shirt from last night and set them on the sofa.
Also—you snore.
Xx,
Dara
I lift the lid of the donut box. Three donuts—one with a bite taken out of it—await me.
“Dara, Dara, Dara.”
The words echo through the kitchen. Somehow, it feels emptier than usual.
My feet smack against the hardwood as I wander into the living room. Just like she said, our clothes are neatly folded and placed on the end of the sofa.
I stand in the middle of the room. The space feels different. Maybe it’s that I’m seeing it midmorning—something I never do. I’ve never realized that until now.
I’m either in the office at this time of day or in my office here. Rarely, I’m with one of my brothers or having brunch with my mom, but I’m never here.
Is that weird?
Or maybe it’s because she was here.
My breath stalls in my chest as last night replays vividly through my mind.
Her mouth on mine.
The way she took what she wanted.
The way she let me take everything that I asked for.
“Damn you,” I say, collapsing onto a leather chair.
My head starts to throb as reality rears its ugly fucking head and settles in for the kill.
“What have I done?”
A zip of fear hits me so hard that I shift in my seat. The power of the memory leaves me reeling.
I don’t think about it often. I can’t.
The peace I woke up to is suddenly thrashed to the side with as much impact as the events of that night so long ago.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull my mind back to the center. I focus on my breaths—in and out. In. Out.
“This isn’t that,” I whisper before inhaling again and then deflating my lungs slowly. “This is different.”
But it’s not.
I can look at other people and lie. I doubt that I’d be good at lying about things that matter, but I’m an expert in the field of lying to save someone trouble. And I can lie about my feelings—and make people believe it—with the best of them.
The problem is that I can’t lie to myself.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be with a woman. Not one as a means to an end, but someone you laugh with. Tease. Look forward to seeing again.
Someone you could imagine yourself potentially seeing every day for a long time.
And now? Now I remember. And I’m not sure I’m going to be able to forget.
My eyes open, and I glance around my living room. It’s everything it was meant to be. It’s stately and grand and, to the world, it was a sign that I’d made it. How could you possibly live here and not have your shit together?
It’s simple. You move in … and on.
But as I take in the pile of clothes, the spot on the couch where I kissed her last and then the chaise, I’m reminded of something else that I wanted at one point in my life. And I remember why.
For the first time in over a decade, I give myself a second—the briefest second in the history of mankind—to contemplate that kind of life again.
It makes me smile.
But I’m still too scared to hope.
Dara
“So did you sit on his face?” Rusti asks before stuffing the end of a donut in her mouth.
I gasp. “Russell!”
She rolls her eyes and carries her napkin to the trash can. Cleo trots behind her like the princess she thinks she is.
“What? I’d give you the sordid details of my sex life if you asked,” she says, leaning against the counter in my kitchen.
I turn my attention back to my computer and work on an image of a family of four.
“I don’t want that imagery of you or Zack,” I say.
“So did you?”
I look up long enough to give her a look.
“You’re an awful best friend,” she says.
“Why would you even want to know that?” I ask. “Like, fine—yes. At one point in the night, his face was between my legs.”
She squeals. Cleo yelps in response.
“And it was an absolute masterpiece.” My heart flutters as I giggle, ignoring the now-howling dog. “But I’m not sure why we need to discuss that.”