She folded her arms across her chest. “Your ride is here to take you back to your real life.”
“I can still distract them in the back while you get in the limo, then I’ll join you with no one the wiser. Come with me. Mia, please. Please.”
Saying nothing was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Her heart shattered painfully into tiny pieces as he picked up his luggage, grabbed Clancy’s leash, and opened the door.
“You misunderstood,” he said before closing the door behind him.
No. She had not misunderstood. He had misunderstood. He’d underestimated her. He thought he could get away with doing what everyone else had done, only to the billionth power. He was wrong. She would not allow him get away with it.
Before he’d made it half way down the sidewalk, she opened the door and shouted his name. His full name, just to be sure there was no confusion. It had the precise effect she was going for. He changed his focus from her to the photographers running from behind the house.
She closed the gap between them quickly. His panic shone clear in his wide eyes and tight lips.
“Even Michael Anderson can’t control everything,” she said, only loud enough for him to hear. And then, as much for herself as for revenge, she grabbed his face and kissed him, the shutters from the photographic firing squad snapping like gunfire aimed straight at her heart. When she pulled away, she could swear he was on the verge of tears.
“Oh, Mia,” he said, “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I bet you do.”
Chapter Nineteen
Michael left work late again. It was the eighth day in a row he’d stayed past midnight. He’d actually run out of things to do at the office over the last two weeks, but that was okay. Better over-prepared than under.
A café owner pushed his trash to the curb on the other side of the street and tipped his cap. Michael liked the city that time of night. He and Clancy had even walked all the way home a few times.
When they rounded the corner of his apartment building, Clancy picked up the pace. He still looked for her. So did Michael.
Every time he put his key in the lock, as he did then, he held his breath and wished. But that night, just like every night the past two weeks, his wishes weren’t answered. The door swung open to the same thing: an empty apartment with dead flowers on the table.
He placed his keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and went to the bar to pour a scotch. Then he went to his bedroom and took off his clothes in the exact same order he had done his entire adult life, putting everything in its proper place.
Perfect organization. Perfect order. Prepared. Controlled. Miserable.
He tipped the glass and drained its contents, then went for a refill. As he rounded the bar for a fresh bottle, he froze. She’d forgotten a paintbrush in the sink—a piece of her. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the soft bristles and the familiar smell of oil paint met his nose. Mia.
She’d cleared her things out that first Monday after the wedding, while he’d been at work. He knew she would come and had asked the security guard to let him know that she had made it in and out with no problem. She probably thought she’d snuck in and out undetected. He ran the slick bristles over his bottom lip and closed his eyes. In retrospect, he should have waited for her.
He set the brush down and opened the new bottle. He’d also had Jim check to be sure she’d made it to her new housesitting job and was doing okay. He should have done that himself as well. Should have told her he was thinking about her. That he missed her.
But as always, he delegated. He told himself it was because he wanted to give her privacy. That wasn’t the real reason, though.
He added two cubes of ice and poured.
The real reason he didn’t reach out to her was fear. He was scared. Of her reaction. Of his response. Of losing control.
Picking up the glass, he swirled it and was reminded of her eyes at the beach. Cinnamon colored most of the time, they were almost amber in the sunlight.
Scotch in one hand and paintbrush in the other, he wandered to the mantle and placed the brush next to the other objects she’d left behind: a hair band and some lipstick. They were centered between the glamour shot of Clancy and the selfie she’d taken of them in the park. As he studied the photo carefully, he had to laugh. It was perfect. Her smile was genuine and full of life and happiness. His was completely and absolutely fake. He’d plastered it on for the purpose of the photo.
“Fuck,” he said, placing his forehead on the cool marble of the mantle. He’d thought himself so put together. She saw right through it. “Is that who you really are?” she’d asked of his public persona. “It’s who I need to be,” he’d answered.
“Fuck!” he said again.
Clancy bumped his leg and whined, then went to the door. He did this often. He didn’t need to go out. He wanted to go scratch on her door.