“One month. That’s nothing in the scope of a person’s life.” He slid a bit closer.
“One month is everything when it comes to opening myself back up to you.”
He didn’t argue that. He let silence speak for him instead.
“What exactly are you expecting during this one month?” I might have winced when I heard myself say those words.
He rubbed his mouth, trying to hide whatever was trying to form. “For you to give me another chance. For you to be my wife.”
The term made me nauseated. “Your wife? As in your indentured servant? No way.”
It was a smile he was trying to hide. Not very successfully. It made me thankful I’d slipped into these old boots so I could give him a solid kick in the ass if necessary.
“Like be willing to spend time with me. That’s it. That’s all,” he added when he correctly interpreted the question in my eyes. The question.
“What will we be doing during that time we’re spending together?” I pulled at the chest of my dress when I noticed the way his gaze had lingered there a moment too long.
His shoulder rose. “Got any ideas?” There was an unmistakable glint in his eyes.
“No,” I answered instantly.
“You used to have plenty of ideas for filling the time.” He took a swig of his Coke.
“And then I learned how to use my brain.”
He studied my fake smile, almost like he was contemplating what it would feel like against his mouth. “Dinners. Dates. Simple stuff like that.”
I held my best poker face, considering his offer. I didn’t want to stay married to him. If one more month was what it took to be free of Canaan Ford, I could suck it up. I’d already made it five years. “No expectations of anything of a physical nature?”
“If I remember right”—his eyes narrowed as he rubbed the back of his head—“it was generally you who instigated all of that back then.”
I shoved his chest. Bad idea. Solid. Firm. Home.
My jaw ground as I worked to erase that word from my conscious where he was concerned. “And you were just the perfect gentleman.”
Canaan snatched my hand before I could pull it away. Holding onto it, he dragged me closer. Not so close that our bodies touched, but close enough the separation was painful.
“Exactly,” he said in that low voice of his. The one he’d whispered my name in so many times as he moved inside me. “A gentleman gives his woman exactly what she needs. As many times as she need it. Just doing my part.”
“How noble.”
“That’s right. So if you want to make any changes to this one month agreement, consider me your humble servant.” When his hand dropped to my waist, his touch hesitant at the same time it was insistent, I didn’t flinch out of instinct the way I should have.
Instead, I had to remind myself to pull away from him; to flinch at his touch. “I have a boyfriend, Canaan.” Even to my ears, it sounded like a weak protest.
His hand didn’t fall away when I stepped back. “You’re a married woman, Maggie.”
“My husband forfeited his rights years ago.” My eyes found his, expecting them to shoot away once mine made contact.
They didn’t. His gold eyes held to mine. “He’s here to reclaim them.”
The next morning I woke up with a hangover. Not from alcohol, but from Canaan. The most painful hangover of all. It took me a few minutes to remember what had happened and how I’d somehow agreed to give him the one month he’d been vying for.
What was that one month, in terms of days and dates? Like, from last night, at whatever minute I agreed, to that same date and time next month? Did it start today and end in what, thirty days? Thirty-one days? Dare I hope twenty-eight days like the shortest month of the year?
Forget the timeframe for a second. What about the rules that came with this arrangement? I mean, sure, we’d talked about dinners and dates and I’d laid down the law on the physical stuff. Which he’d kind of skirted around . . .
My hair took the brunt of my frustration as I shampooed it in the shower, continuing to curse myself for that moment in time when I’d decided Canaan Ford was more than just friend material. If I could have gone back to my fifteen-year-old self and lock her away until her eighteenth birthday Rapunzel style, I would have. No hesitations about it.
I’d no more climbed out of the shower when I heard my phone ring back in the bedroom. I was expecting a call from my assistant to go over a gallery opening next month so I hustled to get there.
It wasn’t my assistant, but this was the first time in the past few days I’d been semi-available to answer his call.
“Reed,” I answered, hoping my voice sounded more excited to him than it did to me.
“So you do remember your boyfriend’s name. Contrary to what the last few days of unanswered calls have suggested.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, dabbing my towel at the ends of my hair. “I’m not the only one who’s been missing calls, Doctor McAllister.”
“It’s a funny thing. The hospital frowns upon doctors calling a five-minute break to chat with their girlfriends when they’re in the middle of open-heart surgery. They’re a bunch of damn tyrants.”
Hearing his voice should have relaxed me. It shouldn’t have done the opposite. I knew my reaction didn’t have anything to do with him, but it had everything to do with the mess I was in down here. I felt like I couldn’t handle one more thing on my checklist, even when that “thing” was my boyfriend.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“At the moment?” He didn’t pause long. “Wondering what color panties you have on so I can imagine slipping them off of you while I imagine a few more things whenever I finally make it to bed tonight.”
He must have been at work, because he had to lower his voice when he said that. Reed was a resident at one of the biggest hospitals in Chicago. He was a good man, but a great doctor. His career came first, from the time he’d decided to go into pre-med, to the time he retired. He’d been upfront about that from the beginning of our relationship, and there had been something refreshing about it. Romantic, not so much.
“Well?” he pressed.
“Actually . . .” My eyes dropped. “I’m not wearing any.”
A muffled whistle came from the other end. “How’s a man supposed to concentrate on a quadruple bypass after hearing that?”
“Skill?”
He chuckled as I heard the buzz of the hospital in the background. “About the date of your grandma’s funeral . . .” He didn’t have to say anything else. I already knew. “I’m scheduled to work that day, and it’s too last minute to get anyone to cover it.”
I’d shot him an email two nights ago with the information about Grandma’s funeral. He’d only met her a couple of times, even with all of the visits she’d made to Chicago, mainly because he worked twelve-to-sixteen hour shifts most days. Still, for me, I’d hoped he’d make an effort to make it.
“It’s almost two weeks away. That isn’t enough time?”
“This isn’t a Starbucks. This is a cardiac unit.” There was no degree of condescension in his voice, which almost made it worse. “I can’t just get a shift covered because something comes up.”
“Something comes up like your girlfriend’s grandma dying?” There was a sharpness to my words as I shifted on the bed.
“You know what I mean.” He sighed, sounding a rare tired. “There have been plenty of times you’ve had to work non-stop to finish projects for a gallery show. Times when I’ve had to go without you to functions I’ve wanted you at.”
My tongue worked into my cheek. Those functions had been work-related benefits or lectures or something along those lines. That was different than asking me to attend the funeral of the person who’d raised him.
“I know. I understand,” I said at last, rising from the bed to pick out an outfit for the day. “I’ll let you go. I can tell you’re busy.”
“Maybe later tonight I can ca
tch you?” There was an uptick in his voice. “We can imagine things together?”
“That sounds nice, but I’ve got plans tonight.”
“What plans?”
The first date with my ex in his quest to win me back?
Yeah, better not go with that much honesty.
“I’m hanging out with an old friend.” When I realized I was sorting through the underwear I’d packed and looking for just the right ones, I went with the old cotton pair with tiny faded flowers on them. Then I gave myself an internal chastising.
“Well, have a nice night with your friend. I’ve got to go.”
I heard the loudspeaker in the back page him, which meant the line would be dead in three, two, one . . .
“Thanks. Nice of you to say. I’ll have a nice night with my friend.” I was talking to a dead line, sliding into my proverbial granny panties. “Which just so happens to be, surprise, the guy I married five years ago and, second surprise, am still married to.”
With a groan, I threw my phone on the bed and stepped in front of the full-length mirror still hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I had my underwear picked out for the day. Progress. Now to figure out what to put on over the thin cotton ensemble.
I agonized over my choices for way too long, deciding on one thing only to toss it over my shoulder and move on to the next. What in the hell did a girl wear on a date with the husband she was trying to get a divorce out of? Yeah, where are you on that life crisis, Cosmo? I thought with a sideways look at my stack of old magazines from high school.
In the end, I decided on a light summer dress, one with a built-in bra because the fewer layers, the better. Another perk of a dress—built in ventilation.
Most of the morning and afternoon I spent packing up what was left of Grandma’s valuables, which I was hoping to have moved into a storage unit in a few days. I’d torn through the packing so quickly, I started to consider packing up what was left but had to force myself to resist. I’d still need plates and cookware, not to mention furniture, during the next month I’d agreed to stay here.
However, without the distraction of packing, emotions I wasn’t ready to give clearance to starting seeping in. Emotions I wasn’t sure I ever would be ready to let have their moment.
After locking up the house, I decided to head out for a walk. Something to keep my mind and body busy. I could have picked a better time for a walk though. The four o’clock in the afternoon sun pummeled everything, leaving me a sweaty, wilted mess by the time I detoured into Cal’s Groceries. If not for a few supplies, a few minutes of air-conditioning.
As soon as I stepped inside, one of those groan-sigh hybrids slipped from my mouth, the air-conditioning was that good. I didn’t care that I garnered a few looks from the customers waiting in the check-out lines. I didn’t even care when I noticed the reverend and his family were there, watching me like I was either something to pray for or retreat from.
After shooting them a peace sign and a smile, I wandered farther into the store. The reverend was a good guy, and he and his family lived the whole “practice what you preach” mentality. They’d been inviting Grandma over to their house for dinner every Sunday night for years, and the whole family volunteered at the soup kitchen weekly.
I wandered the frozen food section first, for further cooling purposes, finding a blank when I tried to remember what groceries I was in need of. The past few days had been a blur, and I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten for breakfast, let alone if the milk was running low. As I continued to scour my mind, my phone pinged.
There wasn’t a name attached to the number, but I recognized it instantly. He hadn’t changed his number. He’d kept the same one he’d had since he was fourteen and his dad finally caved and bought him a phone.
His text wasted no words.
What kind of pasta sauce sounds good for tonight?
A moment later, another text came in.
It’s Canaan. In case you didn’t recognize the number.
He’d spelled out every word instead of shortening the usual suspects of you and for. I paused as I considered my reply. I’d agreed to dinner tonight as part of our month-long deal, but when I felt the nervous-excited twist in my stomach from anticipation, I started to doubt I’d made the right decision by agreeing to something like this. There had to be another way to divorce a man who wouldn’t sign the paperwork after five years. This couldn’t be the only way.
Finally, I punched in my response:
How about pesto?
I read my response a few times, like I was double-checking for a hidden message lurking between the words, and hit Send. It wasn’t thirty seconds later before I heard a familiar-sounding sigh from an aisle over.
“Excuse me?” The voice was just as familiar. “Pesto sauce?”
My eyes rounded as I tucked into the edge of the aisle, like I was trying to find a hiding spot while the employee helped Canaan locate a jar of pesto sauce. When I realized my heart was beating out of control as my eyes scanned for the quickest escape route, I gave myself a talking to for acting like a head case. Then I forced myself to make my way into the next aisle over to prove to him, and maybe myself, that I wasn’t scared to be around him.
He noticed me from the corner of his eye the moment I rounded the end cap. Angling my way, he was already smiling like I was in on some secret joke.
“Now this is an answer.” He motioned at me as I moved closer.
“To what?” I asked, stopping when I was still a few feet away. “Your pasta sauce question?”
One corner of his mouth ticked higher. “You’re the answer to every question, Maggie.”
My throat felt funny from what he’d just said—and the way his eyes had taken me in as he said it—so I distracted myself by surveying the selection of pestos.
“Which one would you like? And thanks for saving me the text by just showing on up down here at the grocery store to help.” Canaan pointed between the whole two options Cal’s had for pesto sauces.
“I was already here.” I spun the two jars around and scanned the back labels.
“Convenient excuse. You’re a fan of those, aren’t you?”
The tenor of amusement in his voice was so extreme, I barely caught myself before elbowing him in the gut. “You’re confusing excuses for truths. Might want to hone that important life skill before you get any older and people start accusing you of being an asshole.” I made my pick, maybe hitting his chest with the jar a bit harder than I’d intended.
“Too late for that. I get addressed by that name more than my given one most days.” His hand settled below mine clutching the jar, not making it easy for me to let go.
“So not everything’s changed.” I wiggled my hand out from his, but it took some effort.
His shoulders lifting confirmed my statement.
“So what’s so much better about this one than the other?” Canaan looked between the pesto in his hand and the other brand I’d left on the shelf.
“This one has more garlic.”
He scanned the ingredients list, where garlic was way up there at the beginning. Then he huffed. “You think a little garlic’s going to scare me away? I’m not a vampire, sugar.”
My back went stiff when he called me that again. “Are you sure? Because you really have a knack for sucking the life out of people.”
He barely seemed to register my jab. “I think you’re only thinking about garlic because you’re hoping it will give you or me such nasty breath we can’t stand being in the same room with each other.” He set the jar in his handbasket, which was already full with other items.
“Always good to have a Plan B when dealing with you.”
“Yeah, but if you’ve got garlic breath, and I’ve got garlic breath, we won’t even notice when we lean in for a good-night kiss.”
I didn’t give him the reaction I could tell he was hoping for. Instead I stayed calm and worked up a pleasant smile. “You want to make a bet on that good-night kiss hap
pening tonight?”
“Sure.” He stepped closer. “I’m not afraid to put my money where my mouth is.”
“I was more thinking along the lines of making that bet based on those divorce papers.”
His brow carved into his forehead. “One month, Maggie. Even when you do kiss me tonight, it’s not going to be enough to convince you that we’re meant to be together.”
He’d found that way under my skin again. How did he do it? Why couldn’t I keep him out? The lack of answers to those questions spilled more fuel into my veins.
“You convinced me of that once. I’m not falling for it twice.” My eyes dropped from his, and I noticed the streaks of grease coating his hands and forearms. The kind that looked so permanent, no amount of washing could remove them.
“Okay, so a salad, bread, and pasta with pesto. That sound like an okay dinner?” he asked after a minute, sorting through the things in his basket.
“You don’t want a woman who prefers pesto over basic marinara.” I leaned in like I was about to tell him a secret. “Too much work.”
In response to that, he took another jar of pesto and dropped it in his basket. “If I love the woman, I don’t mind the work.”
“New philosophy?”
“Not new, just a better understanding of how to show it.”
His stare, again, was too intense. I went back to focusing on the dark streaks staining his skin and even, in places, his clothes.
“So you’re actually planning on cooking dinner? Yourself? As in real food, not the kind you throw in a microwave or pick up from a drive-through window?” I shook my head when I saw the amount of produce he’d procured. In all the years I’d known him, the most advanced cooking I could recall him doing was adding a jar of jalapenos to a frozen pizza before throwing it in the oven.
“Don’t worry. I’ve been practicing.” Now he was the one leaning in like he was letting me in on a secret. “Last week I managed to make bean with bacon soup. It was a miracle.”