The pain in my throat swells outward, lodging hard in my chest. I stalk around the couple and blindly race for the TSA line.
But it’s no use. I can’t stop my thoughts. Or the pain.
Like a zombie, I wait at the gate. Like a zombie, I board the plane, find my seat. It isn’t until yet another couple settles into the row in front of me—the guy helping his girl put her bag in the overhead before giving her cheek a kiss—that I break.
Biting back a sob, I fumble for my bag and search for my phone.
I call up the wrong number twice, my finger shakes so badly. Stupid. I was so stupid. The thought that I’ve ruined everything has my entire chest clenching tight. Around me passengers are finding their seats, a toddler is whining for Cheerios.
And the phone keeps ringing. Dex’s gruff message starts up. I have to blink hard. Just hearing his voice gets to me. But is it a bad sign that I’ve gone straight to voice mail? Is he avoiding my call? I wouldn’t blame him.
I hate leaving a message. But part of me is relieved that I can say what I have to say and then hang up, without the threat of him telling me he’s done.
Please don’t be done with me
“Hey, it’s me. Fi. Shit, that rhymes. I hate it when I inadvertently rhyme. I mean, if you’re going to do a rhyme, own it, right?” Shut up, Fi. I take a breath, my palm slipping on the case of my phone. “I…ah…There was this couple kissing. By the ticket counter. I don’t know if they were leaving each other or reconnecting. But they were so into each other, you know? And it hit me. I’ll never kiss you again. Never feel your arms holding me close. And…”
Shit, I’m about to blubber. My hand wipes so hard at my eyes it hurts. I swallow hard. “It hurt, Ethan. Too much. How can that be? How can it be that you already feel like a part of me? But I guess you are because the idea of never being with you again… Fuck. I’m babbling. Again. But Ethan—”
The loudspeaker blares, announcing that it’s time to cut off all electronics.
I hunch over, turning my body toward the window. “Ethan, forget what I said, okay? I’m sorry. I was being a coward. I want you. Just you. I don’t care about the rest. Please say it isn’t too late. That I didn’t fuck us up before we really began.”
“Miss?” The flight attendant is hovering. “You have to turn off your phone now.”
I glance at her, tears in my eyes, holding up a hand. “I’ve got to go,” I say into the phone. “I’ll be in New York tonight. I…just… I’m sorry, okay? Call me?” I lick my dry lips. “Okay, then. Bye.”
Ending the call, I sit back and stare out the small window. And hope he still wants me too.
Chapter Seventeen
Dex
I don’t see the message waiting for me until I’m out of the shower and scrubbing a towel over my dripping hair. I don’t know how long I stand there, phone in my hand, deliberating over whether I want to hear what Fiona has to say now or later.
The room is cool, prickling my bare skin. I should get dressed, go down to dinner with Ivy and Gray. I’d rather not talk to them or anyone. Just go back to my empty-ass town house in NOLA and paint until my eyes blur.
But Fi called. Which means I’m going to listen; I’ll never ignore her.
My heart thuds hard against my ribs as I hit the play button and put the phone to my ear. Her slightly husky, lilting voice is a kick in the guts. God, I miss her.
Then I listen, really listen. And slowly sink to the floor. My lips wobble on a grin as I lean my head back against the edge of the bed.
I listen to her rambling, breathy message again and again. I want her so badly my muscles tighten with the need to move. A low laugh leaves me. I can’t help it. I’m happy. Truly happy. I still have no idea how to make this work. But I know one thing: I have a chance with Fiona Mackenzie. Protecting that has now become my number-one priority.
* * *
Fiona
“Hey. I got your message.” Even though it’s through the phone, Dex’s voice sinks into my heart and warms it all up.
“Yeah?” It’s all I can think to say, I’m so nervous. Me. Nervous over a guy. Over a football player. Next thing you know, I’ll be buying his jersey. Although, really, I probably should show a little Dexter support.
“Yeah,” he says back to me softly.
I lean my head against the stinky cab seat and just smile. “So…we’re good?”
“Cherry, let me lay this down for you. I’m all in. I want you. I always have.” That voice of his goes deeper. “You going to let me have you?”
Jesus. I cross my legs tightly, heat pulsing through me. “You’ve already had me.”
“That was only a taste.” It’s a rumble in my ear, all his need and impatience a driving force that leaves me breathless and thrumming. “I want more.”
“Ethan. You’re killing me.”
He curses under his breath, and I hear him sigh. “I’m killing myself. I know this isn’t ideal. Just…” He’s clearly struggling to give me some word of comfort. “Can you place your trust in me? That I’ll find a way for us to be together?”
My hand cradles the phone to my cheek, a weak substitute for touching him. But it’s all I have. “I can do that.”
Again he sighs. This time it sounds relieved. “Thank you. Look, I’m going to go. I…” He stalls out. It’s like I can actually hear his mind switching gears, so the sudden lightness in his voice isn’t even a surprise, though his words are. “Found your panties balled up at the bottom of my bed, Cherry.”
I choke out a laugh. “God. Give them to Ivy and she’ll mail them back to me.”
He makes a noise of disbelief. “You want me to give your underwear to your sister? Hell no.”
“Dex! Those are Myla.”
They’d been a very expensive birthday present from Ivy, who knew I always shopped at their boutique when I went to London to visit our mom.
“I have no idea what Myla is, darlin’, but they’re soon to be wrapped around my cock. If I can’t have you, I’m fucking the panties.”
With that, the big bastard hangs up. And I just know he did it with a smile on his face.
* * *
FearTheBeard: I suppose you think sending me this pic of you wearing the top half of your lingerie set and nothing else is some sort of payback. You’re right. My hand is tired, but your beloved Myla and I are well acquainted now.
CherryBomb: I don’t know if I should be disturbed or turned on. I’m going with a little of both.
FearTheBeard: No more pics, Cherry. I’m in enough danger of developing tendonitis of the elbow as it is.
CherryBomb: Remember RICE: rest, ice, compress, elevate.
FearTheBeard: You’re kind of evil, you know that?
CherryBomb: I am sweetness personified. And seems only fair that I get a sexy man pic in return.
FearTheBeard: Yeah, no.
CherryBomb: ETHAN!
CherryBomb: GIMME, GIMME, GIMME!
CherryBomb: A picture of you glaring is NOT what I had in mind.
FearTheBeard: Payback’s a bitch, sweetheart.
CherryBomb: I’ll keep that in mind as I go without underwear until I see you again.
FearTheBeard: Fuck.
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona
Returning to work sucks. The realization slaps me across the face hard enough to make me come to a halt. I actively hate walking into this office. I shouldn’t. It’s a beautiful space—a light and airy loft, all brilliant white. White to relax the eye and let us show sample colors in their purest state.
There’s an energy here, as if each person is so grateful to be part of this place that they exude anticipation. Every person but me, apparently. My steps shuffle with clear reluctance, a pit of ugly feeling lodged low in my belly.
No one seems particularly surprised to see me. I get a few sympathetic nods in my direction as I head to my desk.
“Brilliant,” I mutter under my breath. I can handle a lot, but being pitied burns me.
r /> My desk sits in front of a massive Palladian window that starts at the floor and rises over ten feet above me. Outside, traffic is a flowing river, people darting to and fro. I want to be out there with them.
I’m just turning my computer on when Elena appears. Honestly, for someone who’s caused me so much grief, she ought to look the part. I don’t know, maybe have black-and-white hair and long, red nails or something. It would feel so much better if she was also in hot pursuit of a Dalmatian puppy coat.
But she looks…normal. Dark blond hair, snub features, medium height. She looks like the girl who’ll be your best pal—the happy, if not slightly ditzy, sidekick.
It’s a good disguise.
I’m tempted to ask her if she’s Kaiser Soze. But I doubt she’d get the reference. Elena once told a group of us that the only time she was willing to watch a movie was if a date took her to one, and then she’d be moving on—because no way was she going to see a man who thought a movie date was acceptable.
Then again, not a week later, when Felix had mentioned his deep lust for all things Loki, Elena had waxed on about The Avengers and who was the hottest.
I lost points for picking The Hulk. They can look at me as though I’m crazy all they want; when Bruce Banner loses control and fucking roars? My nipples go tight.
For some reason this makes me think of Dex. And I do not want to think about him when Elena is perched on my desk. He’s my happy place. She is not.
“What can I do for you, Elena?”
It doesn’t escape me that she’s tilting her head to catch a glimpse of my computer screen. I don’t know what she expects to find there since I do most of my work on sketch pads.
She gives me a bright smile. The same easy, friendly smile that messes with my head and has me wondering if I’m making more of her than I should.
“Just getting in?”
Considering my bag is on my desk and I’m carrying a takeout coffee cup? “Yep. Just getting in.” I also don’t miss the implication that she’s been here for a while. I still can’t decide if she plays dumb or really is. It’s hard to tell.
“Look, Fiona…” She places her warm, slightly moist hand on top of mine. “I know things have been strained between us lately. And I’m really sorry for it.”
Some of the stiffness eases out of my shoulders. But she keeps talking.
“I know it’s hard for you when we have such similar tastes, yet Felix keeps choosing me. I’d be upset too.”
Right. There’s the Elena I know. My eyes narrow as she leans closer.
“Maybe we can work together.”
I stand abruptly. “We already do.”
“You know what I mean, silly. Maybe we can collaborate on a project.”
My smile actually hurts, I’m pressing my lips together so hard. When I manage to talk, it’s through my teeth. “If we collaborate any further, we’re going to have to share a brain.”
She frowns as she follows me to the conference room for our morning meeting.
Tom, Alice, and Nathan are already sitting around the spotless glass table. I don’t know how it manages to escape basic handprints and smudges, but it does, as if it dare not defy the exacting expectations of our boss.
Felix glides in a moment later, tiny espresso cup in his hand, gold Prada sunglasses perched on his nose. “Someone please tell me whose idea it was to paint this entire office white. It’s fucking blinding.”
“It was your idea,” Nathan deadpans. “Hangover, oh fearless leader?”
Lucky for Nathan, he’s one of Felix’s best designers. And he knows it. Felix glares but does not reply.
With exaggerated care, Felix sets down his cup and sits back in his chair, folding one thin leg over the other. Dressed like an Italian film star from the 1950s, his ink black hair immaculately combed and glossy, he could be from another era. Through the gray tint of his glasses, his dark gaze finds mine. “Well, hello, Fiona. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Oh, you know, San Francisco can’t compare with New York City.” Lame. So fucking lame.
His expression says much the same, and I fight not to cringe. Thankfully, he moves on. “Now then, where are we with the Meyer project?”
Nathan sits back, looking bored. “Ms. Meyer decided she wanted her bedroom candy apple red. The entire room.”
“Then let her haul her ass down to Home Depot and paint it herself.” Felix sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What did you tell her?”
“That a glossy red powder room would have more impact, and all her friends would be able to see it.”
A sniff tells us Felix is pleased. His head turns my way. Or Elena’s. I can’t be sure because she’s hovering at my side as usual. “Mrs. Peyton has decided that the cerulean blue silk drapes remind her of her first husband, Clyde. As she divorced him after finding him riding his hot little PA, Jonathan, that ‘simply won’t do’.”
“Go, Clyde,” Nathan murmurs with a cheeky click of his tongue.
Felix’s nose wrinkles. “Having seen Clyde, my sympathies go to Jonathan. Elena, what would you suggest?”
“About Clyde and Jonathan?” she squeaks.
I manage to hold in a wince. Felix simply sniffs, this one annoyed. “About the drapery.”
A test. Felix loves to pop these little questions on us. Elena’s mouth opens, her gaze darting around the table as if one of us will mime the answer and save her.
As tests go, it isn’t a difficult one. The rest of Mrs. Peyton’s living room color scheme is set: deep, glossy mink-colored walls, low-slung ebony furniture covered in gold mohair, and dusky blue satin.
The silence stretches as Elena starts sputtering. “Um, well…”
Felix sighs and turns to me. “Fiona? Thoughts?”
My mind turns as I tap my pen on my sketch pad. This is my chance to gain ground and remind Felix what I can do. “I’m thinking of that Jonathan Alder chain-link print you fell in love with. The gold and cream—”
“Cream one,” Elena cuts in. She has her phone out and is frantically tapping on it as she beams at Felix. “Fiona and I were talking about it this morning, if you can believe it. I was saying how timeless that pattern was.”
My mouth is stuck open. Frozen in shock. Inside my head, I scream at myself to snap out of it, say something. She’s already holding up her phone. “If you like that idea, I’ve got a supplier on thirty-first who has it in stock.”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I turn back to Felix, who is smiling.
“I do love that fabric,” he says, swiveling his chair back and forth. “And it would work well…” He sits up. “Great work, Elena.”
Across from me, Alice lifts a brow, her gaze hard. Because I’m still sitting here like a boob. Only, what am I supposed to say? This is real life. Shouting, “You lying hag!” will only result in me looking like a bitter nut.
My back teeth meet as I turn my chair and stare at Elena. She doesn’t flinch and gives me a big smile. Mine grows as well, so hard my cheeks hurt. “You know, it occurs to me that the master is also cerulean blue. Surely Mrs. Peyton will object to the color in her bedroom too.”
“Chances are,” Felix agrees from the head of the table.
I keep my stare on Little Miss Steal It. “What do you suggest for that, Elena? Or have I forgotten one of the many conversations we had this morning?”
She flushes. “Well…I…we could...” She nibbles on her bottom lip.
“That’s all right,” Felix says. “I’m sure you can work it out with Fiona. Bring me a color scheme after lunch.” And as if he hadn’t just metaphorically punched me in the gut, he stands. “Now I’m going to lie down. Unless the office is on fire, I do not want to be disturbed.”
At my desk, I allow myself a moment to slump over, press my forehead against the cold glass surface. So coming back to work early was a bust. But I’ve got time. Or I could just walk out. I picture it, how good it would feel. And then… What? What would I do?
; Thankfully, my cell ringing distracts me. My voice is muffled when I answer because I don’t pick up my head. “Hello?”
“Fi, darling girl, how are you?”
My mother. Her cultured, crisp English voice is both soothing and annoying. Soothing because it’s mom, the woman who held me when I cried, tucked me into bed every night until I was fourteen. Annoying because she is never frazzled. She is perfect. Oh, I know she has her failings, but to me, she’ll always be stunning and cool, not a blond hair ever out of place.
“Hey, mum. I’m fine.”
“You sound like you’re face down in bed.”
Close enough. I sit up and smooth my hair back from my face. “Bad connection. I’m at work.”
“Lovely. I’ve been meaning to tell you how proud I am of you for landing that position. I couldn’t be happier, Fiona.”
Right. A ragged breath gets caught in my chest. “Thanks.”
“And you know, if you keep at it, soon you’ll have your own design firm.”
She’s being encouraging. But I know her enough to hear the slightly desperate tone under it all: Please, Fiona, keep at it. Don’t quit this time.
I heard the same tone every time I changed my major. Every time I asked to learn an instrument or join a dance class. I can’t even blame her, because I quit all of those classes and camps, usually just a few days into them.
Grimacing, I turn my chair away from the open office space and face the window.
My mom keeps chattering. “And how were Ivy and Gray? And my little poppet?”
“All fine and well. Leo is getting bigger.” And louder.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Mom had been there for the birth and instantly became a doting grandmum—as she insists on being called. “I tell you, he has my eyes.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Mom, his eyes are blue.”
Hers are green like mine.
“All babies’ eyes are blue. His will turn. And they look like mine.”