“What the hell is the matter with you?”
She didn’t feel much like laughing, but forced a chuckle to keep her voice light. “You want the whole list, or the Reader’s Digest version?”
Elliott blinked. Ran a hand through his hair. Then across his mouth. “I’m sorry I pushed you. Are you okay?”
Simone rubbed her elbow, which was still tingling. “It’s fine. I’m sorry you were so upset by what I said.”
They stared at each other for long, silent moments that she wasn’t going to break. He could tell her to get the hell out. He could pull her into his arms and crush his mouth to hers. Either way, she was going to leave it up to him.
Elliott frowned. “Do you always just say what you think?”
“Mostly.”
He looked at the spread of food she’d brought—she knew his preference for lemon scones, hummus and chips, because that’s what she’d seen him bring in for breakfast or lunch. She’d known he’d be hungry, because she’d watched him all day, and he hadn’t eaten. She’d known, too, that he’d need that extra napkin.
She knew so much about him, Simone thought, and he had no idea who she was.
“Look,” she said suddenly. “I came here because I wanted you to know something. About me. I wanted you to know me a little, Elliott. I mean, we were pretty intimate already, and I know you don’t really see women more than once or twice—”
“Who said that?” He looked surprised, but not affronted.
It had been a guess, based on the parade of women he’d been bringing to his office for the past year and a half, since the first time she’d stayed late and noticed she could see him from her window. He wasn’t denying it. Simone shrugged.
Elliott frowned. He did that a lot, but she’d seen his smile, and it was worth waiting for. He rubbed at his mouth again. Not smiling.
“I don’t want to be your girlfriend, just so you know,” Simone told him. “I don’t think fucking equals love. I want you to know that, too. And I’ll never, ever be that girl who shows up on your doorstep with mascara streaming down her cheeks, asking you why you don’t love me.”
It was working. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little. Not quite a smile, but the promise of one.
“I like sex. A certain kind of sex, to be honest,” she said bluntly. “The rough kind. The kind that leaves marks. It’s not that I can’t get off on the soft, romantic, vanilla-flavored fucking, because I can. But I like the pain.”
Elliott coughed.
Simone didn’t back off. “I like teeth on my throat and having my nipples pinched, having my hair pulled and my clit slapped.”
Elliott coughed again, harder this time.
“I don’t like being tied up. Or spanked as discipline.” The tone of her voice had gone from light to slightly harsh, but she didn’t work too hard to change it. “I will never, ever wear a collar. I won’t call any man Master.”
He smiled then, finally, and though it was far from that brilliant one she’d had the luck to catch the night they’d been together, it was better than the frown. “No. I don’t imagine you ever would.”
She smiled, too. “I like you, Elliott Anderson. You’re smart. You have a good job. You’re sexy as hell—”
He snorted soft laughter at that and shook his head.
“And you like to hurt women when you fuck them.”
That stopped his laughter as fast as it had begun. The frown was back, this time accompanied by furrowed brows. He didn’t deny it, but obviously he didn’t want to admit it, either.
“You like it,” she repeated softly. “And I like it. So where’s the harm in liking it together?”
He shook his head again. Harder, this time. “You have no idea.”
“About what? What I like?” It was Simone’s turn to frown. “Because I can guarantee you, I’ve had enough time to figure it out. I mean, this wouldn’t be the first time a dude’s tried to tell me what I like or not—”
“No. Not about what you like. About what I like. I don’t. Like … that,” Elliott said.
He was lying to himself. She knew it, but wasn’t going to call him on it. Taking a chance, Simone sidled a little closer. “All I’m saying is, maybe we could give it a try.”
“What? Fucking? You said it yourself. I don’t see women more than once or twice. I’ve already seen you more than that.” His lip still curled in a sneer, but his gaze wouldn’t meet hers.
Simone’s chin went up. “Fine. Listen, I don’t beg. I don’t chase. I don’t need to.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” It was a compliment that sounded vaguely like an insult, and it stung her unexpectedly.
She pushed away from the desk. “Enjoy the scones.”
He reached to snag her sleeve as she passed. “Wait a minute.”
She waited without looking at him. Elliott let her wait, but he didn’t say anything. Finally, she turned. “What?”
“You don’t know me,” he said.
She gave a pointed look at the scones. The coffee. The napkins. Then at him. She raised a brow.
“No?”
His mouth thinned. “No, Simone. You don’t.”
“Fine,” she said again.
“I know you think I’m a dick.”
She laughed then. “Oh. Yeah. Definitely.”
“I’m sorry,” Elliott said.
“No, you’re not,” Simone told him as she took up his phone from where he’d left it on the desk. She programmed something into it quickly and put it back. “But when you are, I guess you know where to find me.”
When she’d gone, he thumbed the screen to check what she’d done. It was easy to see, since she hadn’t closed the address book. She’d left him her phone number.
* * *
“You’re early.” Molly gave him a questioning smile. Propped up in the bed, her silver hair brushed out around the shoulders of the quilted pink dressing gown he’d bought her, she looked easily ten years younger than she was.
For the first time in months, her gaze was bright and clear. Her hands shook when she held them up to take the bouquet of wildflowers he’d brought her, but her smile was firm. She breathed in the scent, then handed them to Elliott to put in the vase he always kept filled on her dresser.
He wasn’t early; he was actually a little late because of the conversation with Simone. Still, he didn’t correct her. “How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, fine.” She frowned and lowered her voice. “That nurse, though. The one with the outrageous hair. She says I’m not supposed to get out of bed without ringing for her first. How ridiculous.”
“She doesn’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.” Elliott pulled out the wilting flowers from the vase and dumped them in the trash, then poured the old water down the sink in the bathroom.
“Hurt? How would I get hurt?” Molly said, gesturing to tell him exactly where to put it. “To the left, so I can see them.”
“You could fall.” Elliott stepped back, waiting to see if she had other instructions. When she didn’t, he pulled the chair up to the side of the bed.
“And I could win the lottery.” Molly snorted. “Or the Miss America pageant.”
“Falling and breaking your hip is a lot more likely to happen than either of those.”
She scowled. “You act like I’m an old, decrepit lady.”
She wasn’t that old. She wasn’t decrepit, either. But the brain trauma that had started her slide into early onset dementia had also left her with balance and coordination issues. The same trauma made her forget them.
“I’m not,” she added, but wistfully, as though she needed him to convince her.
Elliott took her hand. “No. You’re not.”
She looked down at her fingers twisted in his. “You’re early.”
“I couldn’t wait to see you, that’s all.”
Her smile was worth it. “Charmer. Just like your dad.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d compared him to the old man, and
would likely not be the last, but this time as all the others, Elliott grimaced. He shared his father’s dark hair and blue eyes. The same height and build. In pictures of his father at the same age, the resemblance was eerie. But he wasn’t his father in any other way than the physical, no matter what Molly might say. He refused to be.
She gave him a sudden bright and penetrating stare. “What’s going on with you? Something is. I see it all over your face.”
“Nothing.” But, like the kid who’d been caught sneaking cigarettes from her purse, Elliott knew his face was giving him away.
Molly sat back against her pillows, shaking her head. Her hand slipped from his. “Nope. No. Something’s put a frown on your face.”
“That’s just my face. It always looks that way.”
She shook a finger at him. “Sourpuss. It will freeze looking like that, and then what’ll you do?”
“Would be an improvement,” Elliott said with a grin.
She laughed. “Very funny. I guess nobody could ever say you’re vain or arrogant.”
Plenty of people had said just that and worse. Elliott had no illusions about the sort of man he was seen to be. Or the man he was, for that matter.
“What’s her name?”
“Huh?”
“It’s a girl, I guess. It usually is when you get that look. Like you’re tasting something sour but you can’t stop yourself from going back for a second bite.” Molly gave him a satisfied look. “You think I don’t know?”
There’d been many, many days when she didn’t know anything, but today she was spot on. It was such a difference, such a relief, that it didn’t even matter that she was right. He’d been thinking about Simone for the past four days, since she’d brought him scones and a challenge. He couldn’t stop.
“Who is it? That cute little blonde? No.” She snapped her fingers. “The redhead. Yes? The one who liked to write poems.”
He wasn’t sure if Simone had ever written a poem, but he bet if she did, it wouldn’t be the sort that rhymed. He laughed, even though the women Molly was describing hadn’t been in his life since college. That had been right around the time he’d stopped bringing them around. Right around the time everything bad had started.
“No. No. No.” Molly shook her head, her gaze going a little unfocused. “I bet she’s a brunette this time. A dancer?”
Elliott laughed uncomfortably at how close she was to the truth. She’d always had that way about her. Molly had said it was because she’d been born with a caul, that it gave her a sixth sense. Not psychic, she’d always said. Just intuitive. But there’d been times when he’d have said she could read his mind, usually the things he didn’t want anyone to know.
“You know you’re the only woman in my life.”
“For more than a minute,” Molly said with a laugh that sounded so much like her old self it made Elliott want to punch something. “But you can’t tell me there isn’t someone. I can see it in your eyes. You’re far away today.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”
“Oh, shhh, Elliott. You don’t have to apologize to me. You know that.” Her eyes fluttered and she drew a slow, hitching breath. “Just tell me what the trouble is. Don’t fight me on it. You know I’ll work it out of you eventually.”
Eventually, she’d forget all about it. Within the hour, probably, even though this was a good day. He shrugged.
“There’s nothing to tell.” He paused.
Molly looked at him.
“Her name is Simone,” Elliott said. “She works in my building.”
“Doing what?”
This stopped him. “I … don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“But you met at work?”
“On the elevator.”
“And you made her laugh with some witty remark, yes? Just like your father.” Molly’s head fell back against the pillows as she closed her eyes, words slurring a little.
No. Not like his father. “I should let you nap.”
“I’ll have all the time in the world to sleep when I’m dead.”
“Molly,” Elliott said sharply. “Don’t talk like that.”
She opened her eyes, pinning him with a sharp, birdlike gaze. “No woman likes to be lied to by a man, Elliott.”
It was something she’d said to him in the past, but did she remember that? Or was she simply speaking from the heart, forgetting her past lectures the way she sometimes forgot who he was. Or where she was. Or what had happened to her in the first place that had led her on this twisting path.
“But she’ll put up with it for a man she loves,” Elliott said, voice stone cold, without emotion.
He’d only been repeating what she’d said to him more than once, but at the words, Molly sat upright. Pointing. Face in furious lines.
“No. No woman should put up with a man who lies to her. Especially not when she loves him!”
It was the first time she’d ever said that, and it moved him enough to lean across the bed to hug her. Tightly, but careful not to crunch her bones. She felt so much more fragile now.
“He lied to me, over and over. To your mother. Probably to every other woman he ever was with,” Molly whispered harshly into his ear. She clutched at his back, fingers scrabbling loosely before she let him go. “Don’t you be that man, Elliott.”
“I don’t want to be.” He clung to her for a moment longer, then let her go.
“Then don’t.” She nodded firmly, as though that solved the matter. Maybe to her it did. “And if you did, go to her right now and apologize.”
“I didn’t lie to her.” Elliott sat back. “I don’t even really know her.”
“But you like her.” He said nothing at first, and Molly shook her finger at him again. “Is that what you lied to her about?”
When he didn’t answer her, Molly gave him another of those vivid, piercing looks. “Or maybe it was yourself you lied to, honey. Yes?”
Yes, Elliott thought, but didn’t say it out loud. He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. He sat with her until her eyes closed and she fell asleep.
Then he sat there for a little while longer.
* * *
Only Aidan would call her so fucking early, and only he would keep calling until she answered. Simone had been dumb enough to leave her phone off the charging dock, which meant that the calls came through instead of being kept on silent. Muttering a string of curses, she pressed her pillow to her head, but even though it muffled the sound at least a little, there was no more sleep for her.
“What?” She barked into the phone at last.
“Simone?”
Shit. Not Aidan. Elliott? She sat up in bed, the blankets twisted around her tight enough to keep her from being able to prop herself up all the way. She fought against them, finally untangling herself from the blankets enough to sit cross-legged, the phone tucked against her ear.
“You’re an early riser,” she said.
“Simone. It’s ten-thirty.”
“On a Sunday,” she told him. “What kind of person gets up at ten-thirty on a freaking Sunday?”
“I’ve been up since six-thirty,” Elliott said.
“Ugh.” Simone fell back onto the pillows. “Why?”
Another pause. “Because I always do.”
“Well. You should get out of that habit. It’s disgusting.” She grinned, snuggling deeper into the covers.
“I like getting up early. Gives me so much more time to do stuff.”
“On a Sunday. Like what. Go to church?”
“I don’t go to church. Do you?” He asked.
Simone laughed. “Do I impress you as the sort of girl who goes to church?”
“You impress me as the sort of girl who does whatever she wants.”
“Well, anyway, I’m Jewish,” she told him. “Bet you didn’t guess that.”
“No.”
There came a soft huff, maybe laughter. Maybe a sigh. Simone listened carefully and couldn’t figure out which. It
didn’t really matter.
“Does that matter?” She asked him. Sometimes, it did.
Another sound, this time sounding surprised. “No! Does it matter to you?”
“Nope.”
Silence, though it wasn’t awkward. At least not too much. Simone listened to the sound of Elliott’s breathing and waited for him to say whatever it was that had been so important that he’d needed to call her before noon on a Sunday.
“So … Simone,” he said finally.
“Yessss?” She drew out the word, letting it linger. Dropping her voice.
“Listen,” Elliott said, but then didn’t speak for another whole minute.
She watched the numbers turn on the clock, so she knew exactly how long it was.
“About what happened,” he said. Then nothing else.
“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be such a wheeler dealer, you certainly aren’t a very smooth talker.”
He laughed. That was good. She pictured him scrubbing at his face. Mussing his hair. No, he wouldn’t do that. Even if he were still in bed, she’d bet he’d have perfect hair.
“I can talk.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can spin a tale when you have to. But this casual conversation stuff, man. You kind of suck.”
“I’m trying to tell you something, if you’d just listen!”
“I’m listening,” Simone said quietly. “I’m listening, Elliott.”
“What you said in my office. About me liking to hurt the women I fuck. It’s not true.”
She didn’t contradict him. She waited. He breathed.
“I like to make you feel good.”
“You did, honey.” The endearment slipped out of her. “Really good. I told you, I like…”
“I know what you said.”
“Elliott. Do you think I’m the sort of girl who’d tell you I like something when I don’t?”
“No. I guess not.”
“You’re not used to women who tell you the truth, huh?”
He paused. “It’s not that. I don’t usually ask, that’s all. I don’t see them more than once or twice, remember?”
So he did have a sense of humor. Dry and self-deprecating, but there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, she liked it. A lot.
“I like you,” she told him suddenly. She wanted to tell him she’d liked him for awhile, but as with the scones and everything else, that would mean she’d have to own up to her Peeping Tina tendencies. She waited, but he didn’t say anything. Simone sighed. “Now would be the perfect time to tell me that you like me, too.”