Breakfast in Bed

chapter 19


RICH WENT INTO WORK THE NEXT MORNING DREADING the day. When he walked past Dean Stewart's office, he was called in by the dean's assistant. "Dean Stewart would like to see you, if you have a moment. Just go ahead in."
"Thanks." Rich knocked before sticking his head in. "You wanted to see me?"
Dean Stewart waved Rich in while he finished his telephone call. As soon as he hung up the phone, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. "I've got some interesting information I think might help you out."
Rich unbuttoned his trench coat and sat down. "Okay."
"Now, I hope I'm not making things worse, but I've found out that there's been a deal brewing between Becca, Annabelle Flynn, and Ben Walsh to sell them a majority interest in the Ben Walsh Gallery."
Rich's first thought was, way to go, Becca. It would give her a place to show her work, which would have nothing to do with her family. The second thought wasn't quite as positive. "You said this has been brewing for a while?"
"Yes, they've already finalized it. I would think it would take weeks, if not months, to put something like this together."
"Months, huh?" Rich picked up his briefcase and stood. "I have something personal to take care of. If it's okay with you, I'm going to take the day off. I'll call one of my doctoral candidates to cover my classes."
Dean Stewart smiled. "I was hoping that was what you'd say." Dean Stewart walked around his desk and slapped Rich on the shoulder. "Good luck, Rich. Take as much time as you need."
Rich set everything up before leaving his office and headed home. Everything made sense now. Like what Aunt Rose said about Becca staying in the city in a man's home. That man had to be Ben. She'd been living over the gallery the whole time they'd been apart, which meant that she had this deal brewing before they ever split up—not that she saw fit to mention it to him.
The entire time they'd been apart he'd been beating himself up, convinced that the breakup was all his fault. What a joke that was. Well, at least now he knew it was over. He was tired of living in limbo, hoping and praying she'd come to her senses.
As soon as he got home, he locked Tripod in the mud room and started packing Becca's artwork into the back of his SUV and felt more loss with every piece he removed. The apartment looked empty, like a blank canvas—all the spark, the life that made it his home, dwindled with every trip he made to the car. He lovingly wrapped the statue Becca had made of Annabelle and left it in the crate he'd used to hide it. The only thing left was the first piece Becca had ever done—the one piece that exhibited everything that he loved about her. He sat on the bed, staring at the slightly crooked piece, and knew he should pack it with the rest of her things, but he couldn't bear to part with it.
Rich let Tripod out and gave him back the toy he'd found hidden in Becca's bedside table along with several more notebooks. He took all the notebooks he'd found, along with the one he'd been using to write to her, and threw them in the crate. His place looked empty, kind of like the way he felt.

Becca was in the middle of shaping the nose on a face that looked suspiciously like Rich's. There was a knock on the door. She wiped her hands off. "Come on in."
She threw the towel down on the workbench, turned, and her breath caught. "Rich."
God he looked good. He was in jeans and a Henley shirt with a fleece-lined hoodie over it. She didn't notice the anger until she got to his face.
He put the crate down beside the wall. "I guess I was the last one to hear that you and Annabelle bought the place. I packed the rest of your things and brought them over. The piece you've kept under wraps is in there." He motioned to the crate filled with a half dozen notebooks, her favorite notebook, the one he wrote his letters to her in, was thrown on top. Her stomach took a dip. "Where do you want the rest of it?"
"Rich—"
He held up his hands. "Look, Becca. I know this has been over for you for a long time." He ran his hand through his hair. "Maybe I was just lying to myself thinking we were ever really together. I know you have to hit me over the head with a two-by-four sometimes to get through my thick skull, but you buying the gallery did it."
"I didn't—"
He shook his head. "Let me finish. You made a big stink about me not telling you about my promotion when the whole time you were planning this without ever mentioning it to me? What did you do, talk my sister into keeping it quiet, too?"
She didn't know what to say; she hadn't thought about it at the time, but he was right. She didn't mention it to him, and after she left, because she was so concerned with him finding her, not sure she'd be able to resist him, she had asked Annabelle not to mention it. "I'm sorry."
He just nodded. "Yeah, me too." He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at his boots. "Look, I'll just move your stuff into the downstairs storeroom, and I'll be outta your hair and your life. You can figure out what you want to do with it on your own."
She wanted to grab him and not let him go, but when she stepped forward he turned away from her. "Good luck, Becca. Be happy."
He turned and walked out, and instead of taking the elevator, he took the stairs. The echo of his footfalls rang out until the door finally clicked shut.
Becca reached for her notebook looking for the notes he'd written her. They were gone. Oh, God.

Becca sat on the couch, hugging herself, wanting to go stop Rich, but not knowing how. It had been so much easier to see him as the guilty party. She thought she'd cried all the tears she could possibly cry over the man, but when she remembered the look on his face, she realized how wrong she was.
Annabelle walked into the studio and slammed the door behind her. "What did you do to him?"
"I hurt him, and he finally gave up on me. I guess I got what I deserve. Oh, God, Annabelle. I lost him."
"What? You're just figuring this out now?"
"I don't know. I was so mad at him, thinking he'd used me to get the position at the university, and then when he asked me to marry him—I guess I kind of freaked out. I didn't realize that I'd been keeping things from him too. But if I had told him about buying the gallery—"
"He would have known you were rich, and you thought he was only in it for the money. Girlfriend, you really have to work on your self-esteem. Don't you think anyone could just love you for you?"
"No one ever has before."
"I have, you idiot. Even when you're acting like an ass. Like now, for instance."
Annabelle sat down beside her and gave her a sideways hug. "Okay, at least now you see you were both imbeciles. It happens. The question is what the hell are you going to do about it?"
"What can I do? He's so angry, and he looked so, I don't know, shut down."
"Kinda like he did after he asked you to marry him?"
Becca sniffled and brushed the tears from her eyes, probably leaving streaks of mud. God, she was a mess. "Yeah."
"Well, what did you do then?"
"I jumped on him and made him listen to me."
Annabelle rubbed her back. "It worked once. Chances are it will work again. But before you leave, you may want to wash your face and put on prettier clothes, not to mention nicer shoes." She looked down at the mud-splattered Crocs Becca wore. "I can't believe you wear those things on purpose."

Rich stopped on the way home and bought a bottle of Scotch. There was no way he was going to DiNicola's and getting drunk; he'd rather be alone. When he turned the corner, he found Aunt Rose pressing the intercom and talking to him.
"Aunt Rose, I'm here."
"You're late."
"No I'm not. What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk to you. You gonna invite me in?"
"Look, Aunt Rose, this really isn't a good time."
"You tink I don't know? You got someting better to do than talk to me?"
Rich shook his head. He might as well get it over with. There would be no drinking until Aunt Rose left. "Fine, come in."
"I brought you dinner and someting you need."
All Rich needed right now was the bottle of Johnny Walker Black he carried in the crook of his arm wrapped in a brown paper sack. Still, he carried her shopping cart up the front steps of the brownstone and showed her into the apartment.
"Where's all of Becca's art?"
"It's gone. I just dropped it off at the gallery. Becca, Annabelle, and Ben are partners now. The only thing she has left here is the cat, and she'll take him as soon as she moves into her new apartment."
"Ah, I see how it is." She put her pocketbook down on the breakfast bar in the kitchen and rooted through it.
"Really? Then why are you here? Whatever Becca and I had is over, Aunt Rose. Becca never loved me enough to trust me. She thinks I was after her money."
"Oh Richie, it's not you she don't trust, it's her. She don't tink she's worth loving for anyting but her money. But don't worry. That won't last long. Here." She handed him a small, worn black velvet jeweler's box. "This I give to you. You'll need it and a nice dinner."
"What is it?" Rich opened the box expecting a cross or a St. Christopher's medal; instead, he found a honking diamond engagement ring. "Wow. What are you giving me this for? I just told you. Becca and I are through."
Aunt Rose shrugged. "You never know. Me, I know what I know, and I know you need this. Remember what I told you. You want to marry the girl, you ask nice, and you give her a ring. Capisce?"
"Capisce." What was the point in arguing? Aunt Rose obviously got her wires crossed.
"This ring was always meant for you. I just thought I'd be dead before you needed it." She crossed herself. "For once I was wrong." She took the packages into the kitchen. "I'll put your dinner in the oven to heat. I set'a the timer so you don't forget."
"Okay."
"Take'a the flowers and put them on the table, eh? I brought you my good candlesticks too, so you can be romantic."
Rich did as he was told and was thrilled when she kissed him good-bye at the door. He was finally alone. He opened his bottle of Scotch, downed a full glass, and went to take a shower in the hope of drowning something, his sorrow, himself—anything would be an improvement over the way he felt right then.

Becca couldn't believe the getup Annabelle made her change into. You'd think she was going to a costume party dressed as a high-class call girl, not to beg for a second (or was it a third?) chance at love. She pulled down the short, short skirt that had every man on the subway eyeing her. It was almost as bad as the über uncomfortable, thigh-high, f*ck-me boots Annabelle foisted on her. By the time she arrived at Rich's apartment, she had blisters on top of her blisters and cursed herself for not getting her car out of the damn garage and driving. Shit. What if this didn't work out? What was she going to do? Get a ride back from Rich? F*ck. It had to work. She certainly wasn't going to be happy taking public transportation back to the city.
When she entered the apartment, she found an empty glass on the table, Rich's hoodie thrown on the couch, his humongous work boots kicked off under the coffee table, and the shower running. She peeked into the bedroom and found a trail of his clothes. His jeans, boxer briefs, his shirt littered the floor, and the door to the bathroom was ajar. One little push and the door drifted open. Tripod crouched next to the tub, jumped up, hitting the closed shower curtain, and bounced back down, only to repeat the action. Judging by the amount of steam rolling out of the bathroom and Tripod's obvious impatience, Rich had been in there awhile.
"Jesus Christ, Tripod. Keep your pants on. I'm getting out. Don't you dare try to bite me because I'm in no mood to deal with you today, buddy."
The shower curtain zipped open, and one very hairy leg stepped out, followed by an equally hairy, and beautifully naked, Rich.
Becca stared. "Hi."
For a second, she wondered if he was going to slam the door in her face. Instead, he turned around and looked for his towel.
He walked past her. "What do you want, Becca?"
"Your towel is hanging on the bed."
"You came all this way to point that out to me?"
She shook her head. "No. Of course not."
Rich grabbed his towel, taking the time to dry off his hair and his chest and his back before wrapping it around his waist. "What? You might want to check your list so you don't forget any pertinent points. We wouldn't want you to have to come back and finish me off later."
"I didn't make a list. I didn't even think about it. I just came over."
"Dressed like that?"
"Annabelle made me change."
Rich nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared.
"The thing is…"
Rich stood there, not moving a muscle. He was no help at all.
"What's the thing, Bec? I'm aging here."
"So, you're going to be belligerent? I don't know why I'm surprised."
Rich sat on the bed. "Hey, you're the one who just strolled in here. Uninvited, I might add. Say what you came to say and leave. I'm done."
"Fine." She pushed him back down on the bed and straddled him. As Annabelle said, it worked before. She just wished he wasn't wearing the damn towel. "There, that's better." Rich moved his hands to her waist to pick her up and throw her off him, so she hooked her heels under his legs.
"Ouch, watch the spikes, babe."
"If you don't want me to have to hurt you, you'll let me finish."
"I don't see how you could possibly hurt me any more than you already have." Rich blew out a breath, grimaced, and stayed still.
He was really making her work for it, and she had to admit, she probably deserved it. "Would you stop looking at me like that?"
"Like what? Like a crazy woman who just broke my heart, stomped all over it in four-inch heels, and came back to make sure the job was done?"
She lay down on him so they were nose-to-nose. God she'd forgotten how wonderful he felt. "I came back to tell you I love you, and to say I'm sorry, and to ask you…"
"What?"
"Can we just go back to where we were?"
"Where we were an hour and a half ago, or a month ago, before you walked out of my life?"
"How about back to the night you came home from the basketball game?"
She pushed herself back up so she sat on him; it was better to be able to look him in the eye. Rich blew out another frustrated breath, but he didn't say no, so she figured she'd go for it. "You came home right after I figured out I was in love with you. I love you, you know. I've tried to not love you, but I can't."
"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better."
"I should have told you about Ben and Annabelle offering me a partnership, but then you asked me to marry you, and I'm sorry, it completely freaked me out. The thing with the gallery just slipped my mind."
"Right. Don't insult my intelligence, Becca. You didn't tell me about the offer because then I'd know you weren't broke. You treated me as if I was one of your a*shole friends only interested in your dough."
"It wasn't like that."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I just couldn't figure out why you wanted to marry me. No one has ever wanted to marry me before—not because they loved me. The only reason anyone ever wanted to marry me was to get my trust fund, and when I heard the dean, well, I thought history was repeating itself. I jumped to conclusions, and I said some horrible things. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
"Damn straight you were wrong. I don't care about your money. I don't want your money. Hell, all I ever wanted was you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"
"You're the psych professor. Ever hear of conditioned response? But then Annabelle says I have low self esteem." She shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself. "Maybe she's right. I'm sorry I called you those names. I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the partnership offer. I miss you, and I want you back. I want us back. But there's something you need to know first."
"What is it now?"
"It's about my money. You see, I never spent a penny of my trust fund. I wanted to make it on my own."
"Wow, that's a surprise."
Becca barely kept from rolling her eyes. "I invested every cent of the money that came to me through my trust, and I'm good at it. I've done very well. So, in the interest of full disclosure, you should know that I'm extremely wealthy."
"Here's a news flash Bec—I never gave a shit about money, yours or anyone else's. My only concern was that you had enough to support your art. If you needed it, I would have helped."
"I'm sorry."
She moved forward to meet his eyes. Okay, now would be a good time for him to say something or do something. Frankly, she was pretty much all talked out, but he just lay there staring. She couldn't even read his expression. "Rich?"
"Hmm?"
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
"No, I'm kind of enjoying watching you squirm."
She nudged his leg with Annabelle's spiked heel. "You're such an a*shole!"
Rich moved so quickly she screamed, landed flat on her back, and had the air knocked out of her when all two hundred pounds of him landed squarely on top of her. He pinned her down, his hand holding her wrists over her head.
He grinned, and for the first time in over a month, Becca felt whole. "God, I missed you."
Becca tried to free her hands to no avail. "That's it? I spill my guts, and all you have to say is you missed me?"
Rich pulled the towel from between them and slid between her legs, pushing the skirt she wore higher as he kissed the corner of her mouth. Becca's heart pounded, and her breath was so shallow and rapid, she wondered if she would hyperventilate. She tried to get her mind back on the topic at hand and away from the way he pressed against her panties.
"I love you."
Still not what she was going for. "Is there anything you want to ask me?"
"Just one thing. Could you leave the boots on?"
"What? Did you just ask me to leave my boots on?"
Rich raked his teeth over her neck. "Yeah, they're really hot boots."
"That's it? That's the only question you want to ask me?"
"No, but I can't very well ask you to marry me again until I put my pants back on, get down on one knee, and you know, try to do it right this time. Aunt Rose will come back and smack me upside the head, and frankly, that would be a bit embarrassing considering our relative position. So, what do you say?"
This time Becca wasn't making a mental list. Rich supposed that was a good thing. She shot him a beautiful watery smile before nodding, and then she said the one word he wanted most to hear. "Yes."
"Thank God." He released her hands. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Nothing before had prepared him for the cataclysm of emotion that shot through him with one kiss. It was a mixture of hope, love, and energy mixed with excitement, passion, and a whole lot of need—the need to belong, the need to love, and be loved. He let all the feelings he'd held back for the past month flow out of him.
With one flick of the wrist, Becca's panties were history. He swallowed her groan as he joined his body with hers. He reeled from the heat, the intensity, and the emotion. When he opened his eyes and saw their reflection in hers, it sent them both spiraling out of control. It was a melding of souls but with the power of the big bang. She wrapped her legs around him, her boots digging into his back, urging him faster, harder, deeper. He pushed her top up and sucked her breast deep into his mouth as she came apart. The combination was all it took to send them both over the edge of sanity straight into heaven.

"Rich, the kitchen timer is going off."
He cracked one eye open, which was about all the movement he was capable of. Becca was stuck under him, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to move again.
"Rich?"
He grunted. That used the rest of the energy he possessed.
She flexed her inner muscles and had him blowing his breath through his teeth. "What's the matter?"
"Just recovering from a near death experience—give me a minute, okay?"
"Sure." She patted his shoulder, planted a boot on the bed, arched her back, and slid out from beneath him. "I'll go take care of whatever it is you have in the oven."
He may have grunted again, and he could swear she kissed his neck before he floated back into a blissful sleep. When he awoke, he was alone. Panic ripped though him. "Becca?" He vaulted out of bed, grabbed his jeans, and was jumping up and down pulling them on when she came in.
"What's the matter?"
Rich ran his hands through his hair. "You were gone, and… Christ Bec, I thought you'd left."
Becca came to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was dressed in a pair of her old ratty sweats she'd forgotten in the laundry when she left. He never thought he'd see the day when he was happy to see her dressed like Becca again. She held him tight and nuzzled his neck. "I was just putting dinner on the table. It looks as if Aunt Rose spent all day cooking for us. We really shouldn't let it go to waste. Besides, I'm starving."
Rich ran his hands down her back and pulled her closer. "Okay, let's go eat." He stepped back, went to his closet, grabbed his lucky shirt, and slid it on. "We need to talk about a few things." He grabbed her hand and led her out of the bedroom, not wanting to let her go.
Becca sat and looked at him. There was a worry line between her eyes. "What kind of things?"
Rich poured the wine that Aunt Rose had left to breathe. "Don't look so worried. I just need to make sure we're going about this the right way. I don't think I can take another screw up. I swear I think I've aged ten years in the last month."
Becca took a gulp of her wine. "Okay, I agree. So shoot."
"I'm thinking of leaving Columbia ."
"What? Why would you do that?"
"I don't want you to ever resent the fact that I'm there, and your family is well known at Columbia . I didn't get where I am because of you and your family. I know that. I hope you do too. But if we're together, we're going to be expected to play an active role in the university. If that's a problem for you, it would be better if I don't renew my contract."
"You'd do that?"
"Babe, I've been a professor without you. It's a job. It's not my life. You are. There are plenty of things I could do for a living that won't put a wedge between us."
"But what about your students, your research? You're a great teacher."
"I can teach anywhere. I can be a high school counselor. I can start a private practice. There are a lot of things I can do."
"But what about kids like Brad?"
Rich shrugged and cut into his chicken. "There's no shortage of professors."
"No, there's just a shortage of good, caring professors." She got out of her chair and went to kneel beside his. She took his hands in hers and swallowed hard. "Rich, I've learned a few things over the month we've been apart too. I've spent so much of my life running away from who I am, I almost lost myself in the process. No matter what, I'm always going to be Dr. Christopher Larsen and Bitsy Larsen's daughter, but that doesn't define me. My life and what I do with it does. If you want to change your career, do it. If you're happy at Columbia , stay. I'm going to be fine with it either way."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. So, is that it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is that what you wanted to be sure of so we don't screw this up?"
He knew he was looking at her strangely, but heck, what did she expect? "Yeah, that about covers it."
"Okay. Good." She put both hands behind her neck and unlatched a necklace she wore, dropping it into the palm of her hand. "Rich." She took a deep breath and blew it out.
"Becca, what are you doing?"
"I love you, and the last month we've been apart has been awful. I saw my life without you in it, and it's not the life I want to lead."
"Bec—"
"Please don't interrupt. I've been practicing, not with the cat, of course, because he's been here with you. But I did practice what I would say in my head on the subway on the way here. It's not like I could kneel down in the getup your sister made me wear so just let me finish."
Rich slid off his chair and pushed it away so he was kneeling in front of her. "Okay."
"I want to be with you forever. I want to share my life, my love, everything I am, and everything I'll ever be, with you and only you. You told me once that you'd never ask me to marry you again. You said if I wanted to marry you, I'd have to do the asking. So I'm asking you. Rich, will you marry me? I made this puzzle ring years ago at school. I thought that someday I'd give it to the other part of me. I want you to be a part of me. It's two pieces that fit perfectly together—just like us." She slid the two pieces of the ring together for him. "And then it makes the eternity symbol, because I want to be with you forever and a day."
"Becca, I was going to ask you to marry me. Only this time, I was going to try to do it right. Look." He dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out the ring Aunt Rose had given him. He shrugged. "I didn't make you the ring. Hell, I didn't even pick it out. Aunt Rose gave it to me because she wanted you to have it."
"You were going to propose to me? But you said—"
"Since when do you listen to what I say?"
Becca smiled and sniffled at the same time. "I always listen. I just rarely do what you tell me to do."
"Becca, will you marry me?"
She laughed. "Oh, no you don't. I asked first."
"Technically, I asked first. You asked second."
Becca rolled her eyes. "Are you going to answer my question, or are we going to fight about this?"
"If we fight, then we get to make up again."
"Rich, I have a feeling we're going to be making up for the rest of our lives."
He kissed her as he slid his ring on her finger. "God I hope so."

The End



Acknowledgments

Even though writing is a solitary endeavor, publishing isn't. I'd like to thank the people who have helped me.
First and foremost my husband, Stephen, who is the most loving, supportive man I've ever known and is a true Domestic God.
My children, Tony, Anna, and Isabelle, who don't complain when Mom is on deadline and they're eating sandwiches for dinner.
April Line, who read countless scenes and answered the all-important question: Does this suck?
All my friends at the Carlisle Crossing Starbucks who kept me in coffee and laughter.
My agent, Kevan Lyon.
The whole Sourcebooks team, especially my friend and editor Deb Werksman, publicist Danielle Jackson, and my publisher Dominique Raccah.



About the Author

Robin Kaye was born in Brooklyn , New York , and grew up in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge next door to her Sicilian grandparents. Living with an extended family that's a cross between Gilligan's Island and The Sopranos, minus the desert isle and illegal activities, explains both her comedic timing and the cast of quirky characters in her books.
She's lived in half a dozen states, from Idaho to Florida , but the romance of Brooklyn has never left her heart. She currently resides in Maryland with her husband, three children, two dogs, and a three-legged cat with attitude.
Robin loves to hear from readers. Please visit her website at www.RobinKayeWrites.com.