“Hmm.” Matt moved to the stool near his, bringing the ignored takeout bag. Pulling out two containers of food, he sent a pointed look at the other stool until Jon returned to it. Then he slid one container over to him, tossing a set of metal utensils next to it. At Jon’s look, Matt grinned. “Rosalie always tells me to bring them back for the next takeout order. She knows how I hate to eat with plastic.”
Jon shook his head. “Savannah should worry about the relationship you have with that woman. I’m going to tell her you have a culinary affair going on with a seventy-two-year-old Italian grandmother.”
“Savannah has no problem as long as it keeps me from demanding that she cook for me. Not that I’d ever be that brave.” Matt flashed his teeth. “My stomach is not iron-clad.”
“And pissed-off women who commit murder prefer poison as the weapon of choice.” Jon gave a half chuckle, but then he sobered. The food smelled good, and knowing Rachel was safe, that Savannah was with her, did help. Matt would have known that. He knew how to bring out the best in his people, give them the right environment to do their best work, or in this case, their best thinking. As always, Jon wondered if Matt was a reincarnated Machiavelli—with a kinder heart and a Texas drawl.
“Out of all three women,” Jon said thoughtfully, “Savannah has the most of what Rachel has, doesn’t she? That pain so well contained, it’s like a bomb. The night you detonated it for Savannah, you went for a completely controlled environment. I should have done that. She just always wanted to experience a place like Surreal. But I wasn’t expecting her ex to show up and set off the charge like that.”
“As you said, you can’t run from Fate. Plus, you tend to excel at handling the unpredictable. You handled it the right way, even though you don’t feel like that now, because she outmaneuvered you at her apartment. Expect some shit from Ben on that, by the way.”
“I’m sure. Remind me to pull out my underused ego and gloat like a damn peacock when his heart finally takes a fall.”
“I’d like to see that,” Matt said, his dark eyes serious. “Ben needs that in his life. The last thing I’d ever accuse Ben of is being maudlin. He’s as practical and live-in-the-moment as they come. But…”
When he shrugged, Jon finished it. “He’s starting to feel lonely, watching all of us find our other half. It’s like he’s a foster kid again, watching all the other kids with parents who love them.”
“Yeah.”
Jon knew when it happened for Ben, he wouldn’t gloat. None of them would. They’d do exactly what they were doing for Jon now. They’d give Ben everything they had to make sure he found that inner peace that came when a man found the answer to all of it in one woman’s eyes. Everything he was or wanted to be became about her, for her. She was a comfort zone, where everything was possible.
He stopped, a breadstick halfway to his mouth. He’d been focusing on pulling her out of her comfort zone. He’d put her into an environment she craved yet was an entirely new world, outside her vivid yet passive fantasy life. He hadn’t thought about handling her in her comfort zone, opening her mind and letting her see what was possible from that perspective.
The stool rocking stopped. “I got it,” he said. “That’s it.”
Matt’s firm lips curved, and he flicked opened Jon’s steaming pasta primavera, gesturing to his fork. “Good. Eat, so I can tell Cass I fed you.”
“She’s such a mom.”
“Well, raising five siblings will do that to you. Tell me how you need us.”
“I think this will be just the two of us.” But as Jon took up his fork, he gave Matt a look. “Still, thanks for all of it. Thanks for being here when I needed it. As usual.”
“I will not be hugged,” Matt said sternly.
Jon considered the food. “You’re awfully nurturing for someone who doesn’t hug.”
“Eat it and shut up, or you’re fired.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rachel hung her sweater up on the hook on the back of the studio door and considered the tranquil space, the stray beams of sunlight coming through the rice shades. The adjacent fitness club was quiet this early Sunday morning. It was good that the first thing she was doing in the “real world” since the Club Surreal fiasco was this private with Mrs. Hannenburg. She was in her eighties, and did beginner yoga to keep her joints flexible. Because of how slowly she moved, she preferred a private, and any conversation she offered were easy, automatic response topics, like the current weather or whether her grandchildren would visit soon. Calming, more aligned with Rachel’s reality. So different from last Sunday, her private session with Jon.
Savannah had been calming, though in a different way. In the morning, she’d embarrassed and yet comforted Rachel by making her a simple breakfast of organic scrambled eggs and fruit. She’d asked her about her schedule for the next day or so, but said nothing about what had happened in the parking lot or anything about Jon. Rachel couldn’t talk about Jon yet. Just thinking about him set her body to yearning, remembering every single, explosive second they’d shared at the club, and the way he’d taken her down in the limo. She’d never anticipated such sexual ruthlessness from Jon, but she’d welcomed it, embraced it, even as it had drained and destroyed her at once.
She needed him desperately, enough that when she’d taken a shower this morning she’d felt the shakiness of it in her lower belly, in the empty clutch of her hands. But she was too afraid. That was her whole problem, wasn’t it? Jon thought she had courage, but he was wrong.
She closed her eyes, her throat aching. Savannah had left her this morning with a warm hug, a long look and the press of her elegant hand. It was odd how the woman had probably said less than twenty words to her, yet Rachel felt as if Savannah had understood all of it. But she still didn’t know how to interpret the woman’s parting long look. Simple compassion? Or like Savannah was looking into a mirror of her past, wishing she could tell that image something that it wasn’t ready to hear?
Well, she’d have plenty of time to think about it alone, wouldn’t she? She’d walked into this eyes open, knowing this would happen. She wouldn’t lean on anyone to help, particularly Jon, because it wouldn’t be fair to drag someone like him down into that. He deserved so much more than a woman who was already past the best moments of her life, who was mired in a history she didn’t have the strength to overcome.
She went to a full lotus position on her mat, stared at the emptiness around her. When she couldn’t bear that anymore, she closed her eyes, began her breathing, hoped for Mrs. Hannenburg to get here soon.
In one nostril, out the other, clearing the sinuses. Back straight…she remembered how Jon required her to keep her back straight as she sat by his chair. The cool touch of the studio air slid over her breasts and she recalled his touch there, the way his hand slid between her legs, parted for his pleasure…
She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly. See? Just sex. The spurts of arousal were a virus, a malady she’d contracted. Jon had given it to her. His absence was the cure. In time, her libido would shut back down, with all its unattainable desires.
But it was more than her libido. She remembered how he’d curved his body protectively behind hers here, sharing the same mat. How he’d talked to her at the coffee shop. The way he’d draped his arm loosely over her shoulders, holding her close as they strolled past the shops. The crease in his brow and his intent absorption among all his workshop dust and tools as he created a new marvel that drove a woman insane.