“I’m wearing a dress because of the same reason I’m still considering pouring sugar into Miss L’s gas tank. For the same reason I offered to bring you a lunch in the first place, and the reason I haven’t forged your signature on those divorce papers like I threatened a week ago. For the same reason I’m sitting here now, when I should have slapped you and marched out of here five minutes ago.”
Canaan’s hands ran down his legs, his throat clearing. “What reason?”
I didn’t pause to answer. “Because I’m confused about how I feel about you. Because I don’t know if I hate you or love you. If I want you or despise you.”
I couldn’t look at him, so I watched his hands curl into fists and relax, again and again.
“Maggie—”
“You asked for a stupid answer. There it is.”
There was a moment of silence that passed between us, nothing but the hum of the air-conditioner filling the air.
“Then can I suggest a stupid solution?”
No, my head answered.
“Yes,” my heart said instead.
Canaan reached for me, his hands slipping around my arms to guide me up. He didn’t say anything as he guided me around the chair, walking me backward until my body touched the wall. His eyes found mine and didn’t let them go. His gold eyes darkened in a familiar way, making everything south of my neck collapse. He was there to keep me from falling, his arms around me to hold me in place, his hips pressing into mine, pinning them to the wall.
I didn’t know my leg was wrapping around him until the other had tied around him as well. A deep rumble sounded in Canaan’s chest when my legs encircled him, and his arms swept down my back to form a brace below my backside.
Throughout it all, his eyes never left mine. Somehow, mine stayed trained on his too. One side of his mouth curved up, probably from whatever look he saw on my face, then he rocked his hips into mine.
He was hard, and the thin layer of my dress did not provide much buffer. The sound that came from me surprised me. It didn’t seem to surprise him at all. The second time he pressed into me, my head fell back against the wall, the same sound traveling up my throat, louder this time.
He looked like he was almost gloating now, his eyes still trained on mine as he rubbed himself against me in just the right damn spot. His name echoed from my lips as I felt things in places I hadn’t felt anything in in way too damn long. It was like Canaan’s body was made for fucking. Even though we were both fully clothed and had only just started, I could feel my body begging to release what he was clearly expecting to pull from me.
One of his hands pulled at my dress, fisting it up over my hips. When his hips joined back with mine, his erection straining against the thin layer of my underwear, I felt my orgasm coming.
Canaan moved himself against me at an even, unhurried pace, his eyes growing wilder with every gasp he drew from me.
God, what was I doing? Why was I doing it? The book of Canaan and me had closed forever ago. Why was I reopening it? Why was I letting him back in when I needed to keep him out if I was to have any hope of one day getting on with my life?
The answer was forming right as my mind went numb from the charge that shot through my body. He must have known I was coming, because he took my face and angled it down so I was looking at him straight on. His hand still braced below me dug into my backside as he pressed himself against me harder. I whimpered as he forced what he wanted from me, watching with fascination as I fell apart in his arms, fully clothed and barely touched.
As the last surge of my orgasm dispersed through me, I slumped against him, exhausted in body and mind. His arms wound around me again, his body still fitted to mine as our heads tucked around each other’s.
His lips touched my neck, causing a tremble to spill down my body. “How was that for stupid?”
My mouth lifted as I let myself relax against him. “World record setting.”
So things had taken an interesting turn in the “divorcing my ex” category. If you consider him getting me off by dry-humping me against his office wall “interesting.” I could think of a hundred other ways to describe that scenario. Catastrophic ranking right up there with earth-shattering.
That had been yesterday afternoon and Canaan had stayed away from the house later that night when he’d gotten home from the shop. Not that I’d been checking the window or anything to notice his truck roll up the driveway at 9:38 p.m. Nor did I watch him climb the steps up to that garage apartment while I held my breath he’d jog back down them, push past the front door, and give me a repeat of earlier, sans clothing. At the same time, I was crossing my fingers he’d stay locked up in that dark apartment for the rest of the night so I could attempt to figure out where my feelings landed concerning Canaan.
In the end, the crossed fingers came out the victor.
Which felt like more of a defeat for some reason.
Trying to put aside all thoughts of a Canaan-nature—hoping that with a solid break, I’d find some clarity when I came back to them—I spent most of the day in Grandma’s room, managing to begin the process of going through her things. Sorting through her items was easier than I’d expected. She was more than the memories and a million times more than her possessions.
I was midway through her closet when my phone rang. For a moment, I froze; the last call I’d had had come from Reed. For some reason, I was worried it was him, calling to apologize and attempting to patch things up between us. How would that conversation go? With me confessing I’d let my husband-by-law hold me against a wall and make me come?
Not that I cared what Reed did or didn’t think about anything after what had gone down. Two years of sharing my life with someone had boiled down to one phone conversation ending it all. It was so strange how some of the biggest things in life could end in a few short moments.
It almost made me question everything I thought I knew.
My lungs relaxed when I recognized the number on the screen.
“Hey,” I answered, trying to sound natural and like I hadn’t just been dry-fucked by the man on the other end and had the best orgasm I’d had in half a decade. Because that wasn’t pitiful or anything.
“Maggie, I’ve got a big favor to ask you. Huge. I’m sorry to even have to ask—”
“Canaan, chill. What is it?” I asked, not used to him sounding unsure.
“My dad’s caretaker just found out her mom’s been hospitalized and she has to leave to be with her. I’m in Kansas City picking up parts and the soonest I can make it back is three hours.”
I was already jogging down the stairs. “I’ll head over there right now. Won’t take me ten minutes.”
On the other end, he exhaled. “Thank you.”
It sounded like he was relieved, maybe a touch surprised, but I didn’t need to think twice about it.
“I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
Grabbing my purse, I left the house and moved toward my car. “We’ll be fine. I’ll make him tell me all of your most embarrassing childhood stories. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Canaan chuckled. “He’s already told you them all. Half a dozen times each.”
“All the embarrassing stories since I left then.”
“Deal.” He paused as I started down the street. “You’re pretty much the best person on the planet, you know that, right?”
My snort was his answer.
“I owe you one,” he said. “And don’t worry, I won’t leave you waiting to pay you back.”
When the line went dead, I was already envisioning all the ways Canaan could pay me back. Which I should definitely not have been thinking about. So much for the confusion thinning regarding all things of a Canaan nature. My feelings only felt more convoluted.
Thirty days, I reminded myself. As of thirty-six-ish hours ago, I was a single woman free to do whatever I wanted with whomever I wanted. Why couldn’t I just enjoy the next twenty-odd days with Canaan in whatever physical capacity his or my wanton
mind led us to explore? Why the hell not? Even if we wound up with nothing more than a finalized divorce, at least I could enjoy myself. Canaan might not have been husband material, but god, he knew what to do with his body when it came to fucking mine. He wanted to, so why shouldn’t I let him? With the hope that time might help clarify a muddy situation?
It wasn’t exactly sex with no strings, but it wasn’t the worst situation for a single woman to find herself in either.
When I rolled up into the Fords’ driveway, still having inappropriate thoughts about the oldest child of the family, I pushed pause on that trail of thought. Not that Canaan and I hadn’t done it in his room five hundred million times back when we’d been kids, but still . . . wrong.
The Fords’ place looked the same as it had when Canaan, Asher, and I had been running through sprinklers as kids. The lawn was mowed and the flower beds were tended to. I didn’t need to ask how or who was responsible for keeping the yard in shape—I already had an answer. The Saint of Farmington. Who would have figured Canaan Ford would wind up with that kind of title?
The woman I presumed was John’s nurse met me at the front door, her bags already in hand, a worried look knitting together her expression.
“Sweetie, you’re an angel.” She gave my arm a squeeze as we exchanged places.
I gave her a wink. “Don’t go spreading that around this household. I need Canaan thinking I’m the opposite.”
The woman chuckled, already shuffling toward her car. “Please. You could grow horns and a tail and that boy would still believe you could do no wrong.”
I snorted from the image of that, waving as she climbed in her car. “I hope your mom is okay.”
As she backed out of the driveway, I turned to head inside. The house was lit up with warm afternoon sun, and smelled like fresh baked bread. I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I saw John, and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel either. John had always been this big, strong character—it was hard to conceive of him unable to do such everyday things like make a sandwich or take a shower.
“John?”
I heard a grunt’ish, grumble response come from the living room and followed the sound in there. When I saw John Ford, propped up in his favorite old chair, his right side slumping noticeably more than his left, I smiled. He looked the same. He looked different. He was John.
“Sorry you got stuck with me, but I promise I’ll try not to burn the house down. This time,” I added, remembering the first and last time Canaan and I had tried making grilled cheese sandwiches after school when we’d been six. All I could say was thank god for fire extinguishers and quick-moving dads.
John made another sound, what I guessed was a laugh. Then he reached for a cane settled against the arm of his chair and started to rise.
“Please, it’s okay. I’ll come to you.”
Another grunt, but I knew John well enough to translate what he was getting at. Not happening.
He hobbled forward a few steps while I tried my best to choke down the sob rising. His solid frame had sunken and his dark hair had silvered, but he was the same man who’d been as close to a surrogate father to me as one could get.
Moving toward him, I didn’t have to force my smile. It was good to see him. I’d never imagined seeing him, or any of this piece of my past, again.
John stopped a few feet in front of me. His face was unable to hold an expression for long, but his eyes were easy to read. He was happy to see me. His mouth moved, a couple of choppy sounds following. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded almost like About time.
Ringing my arms around him, I gave him a hug and tried to keep my emotions from surging too close to the surface. Being in this house again, reliving the good memories, remembering the bad, imagining the John from before and comparing him to the one barely able to hold himself upright of today.
It wasn’t Canaan I’d run away from that night—I’d fled from my whole life.
“You still like playing rummy?” I asked a minute later as I stepped back.
John looked as close to tears as I’d been. His head bobbed in what I took was a nod.
“Good. Because I haven’t found anyone who can play rummy worth a damn in Chicago. I’ve been dying for a little competition.”
John made a sound of acknowledgment as he made his way back to his chair. I waited until he’d gotten settled before I went in search of the cards and a tray table. Passing through the hall toward John’s office, I couldn’t stop myself from lingering in front of the pictures lining the walls.
Most of them were familiar, the same ones I’d grown up with. The ones with Asher were hardest to look at. I guessed that was the same for anyone. The kid had a smile that could have cheered the biggest grump for at least a few moments, and he had the look of something innocent. Something that needed to be protected. Canaan looked the total opposite—something dangerous resided behind those gold eyes, and he was the type who provided protection for others.
I think that was why he took Asher’s death so hard. He’d always looked after his little brother, but that February morning, he wasn’t able to save Asher from the frozen lake he’d wandered onto. The reporters’ faces as they told the “tragic” story rushed back into my mind: the dramatic headlines, the “specialists’” speculations on how long that eleven-year-old boy was alive under that sheet of ice before dying . . .
I kept moving until I was collecting what I needed from John’s office. The return trip down the hall, I avoided glancing at the photos. It made me wonder if John or Canaan ever had to do the same.
John already had a small notebook and pencil on his lap when I returned.
“Are you sure you want to keep score?” I asked as I set up the tray table. “You want the physical evidence that I dominated the so-called rummy shark of Farmington?”
John answered that by underlining our names on the sheet. His handwriting was nearly illegible, not that it had ever been particularly neat before. Clucking my tongue, I slid out the deck of cards and started to shuffle. I hadn’t played a game of rummy since leaving here, but the game came right back to me, almost like it had been with me the whole time.
A few games and a couple hours later, I was getting my butt kicked. Just because I couldn’t quite make out all of the numbers John had scratched down at the end of each hand didn’t mean I didn’t know the score—I’d lost about ten hands ago. However, John seemed in no hurry to be done playing and neither was I.
We were both so consumed by the game, neither of us heard the key turn in the lock or the footsteps that followed. John had laid down a trio of aces, which was followed with a rather long string of words unfitting for a former Miss Wheat Princess, when a chuckle sounded behind me.
“Dad doesn’t like cursing under his roof.”
John and I exchanged a look. Then he opened his mouth and the first word that sounded clear as a bell came out.
After choking on a laugh, I glanced over my shoulder at Canaan. “What was that you were just saying about no cursing?”
Canaan looked physically exhausted but seemed to relax a little more each second. “Fuck that shit. That’s what I said about it.”
John and I laughed as Canaan moved into the living room until he was stationed behind me.
“Ouch. That’s a bad hand,” he said, checking my cards before I could fold them into my lap. “You should probably just give up now. Have the good grace to admit you’re beat.” His eyes were flashing as he grinned at me, a hidden message behind his words.
I twisted around in my chair a bit more. “Giving up isn’t in my nature.”
“It isn’t in mine either.”
The look he gave me made staying in my chair a chore. Especially with what had transpired in his office yesterday. “Where does that leave us then?”
“At a head.” His thick arms folded over his chest. “Our horns locked in some infinite battle.”
“You sound pleased by that.”
“I am. Because if your horns are locked
with mine, you can’t go anywhere.” His smile stretched.
John made a sound then. I didn’t catch the words, but it had a disgruntled gist.
“Sorry, Dad. You’re right.” Canaan tipped his chin at his dad. “None of this has anything to do with a game of rummy. It’s a different game Maggie and I are talking about.”
“I’m not talking about a game,” I muttered.
Canaan didn’t say anything for a moment, studying my face like he was in search of a weak spot. “Word of advice. Stick to rummy. Your poker face sucks.”
“Yeah, I’m good with that. I don’t place a high priority of being skilled in the art of deceit.”
Canaan shook his head, all exasperation, then held out his hand. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
After setting down my lousy hand, I said goodbye to John, promising to come back for a rematch before heading back to Chicago. I didn’t miss the shadow that spread across Canaan’s face when I mentioned leaving. I didn’t miss the shadow that passed over me when I thought about it.
Placing my hand in his, I followed Canaan to the front door.
“I can stay longer if you need to get any work done at the shop,” I said.
“You’ve done more than enough as it is.” Canaan held the door open for me, closing it when he came out onto the porch with me.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” I shifted my weight, hinting at what I thought should be obvious. Stroke or not, John still went to bed at night. I’d hung around plenty of nights for what followed—Canaan and I tiptoeing to his bedroom as fast as we could before my grandma called to tell me to get my butt home already.
Canaan’s head tipped like he was trying to figure out if I was getting at what I was. “Dad needs someone to be in or close to his bedroom at night. In case he wakes up and needs anything.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
“But maybe tomorrow night,” he said, stepping in front of me. “You could stay with me.” His words were the slightest bit hesitant, but his hands were not. One braided through one of mine, and the other slid around my waist, drawing me to him.