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“Yeah, I think we could both use a full night’s sleep, don’t you think?” Why did it feel as if he was making an excuse? Why was I reading so much into his innocent suggestion?
“You don’t have to act as if you’re doing it for me. If you don't want to see me tonight, just say so. It won’t hurt my feelings,” I grumbled, trying not to stomp down the steps.
“I’m not trying to save your feelings, Ducate, chill out. But you look like hell—”
“Wow, you sure know how to make me feel good about myself,” I bit out. This conversation was going downhill fast. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and braced myself against the frigid early December air. The sky was flat white and looked like snow. Normally the prospect of winter weather made me giddy, but I was too busy feeling insecure.
“Stop biting my head off because I’m trying to be a nice guy,” Jeremy replied sharply, following me to my car. I noticed his car wasn’t in the parking lot. Then I remembered how drunk he had been when he showed up in the early hours. He had probably gotten a cab over. I should ask if he needed a ride, but he was pissing me off.
“Don’t try to be something you’re not, Jeremy,” I spit out. I was being nasty, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was like an alien had taken over my body and using my mouth to spew hateful bullshit. I was feeling overly emotional and I could only attribute it to my lack of sleep.
“Damn, Ducate, that almost hurt.” He bared his teeth in a fierce smile that was anything but amused.
“So, if you’re not coming over here, where are you going?” Sheesh, I sounded like an accusing wife. The layered suspicion was sickening. I opened the driver’s side door and turned back to him. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his wool pea coat. His thick, dark hair had dried into messy spikes that lay across his forehead. He looked positively delectable.
“What are you implying, Marlena?” His voice was as cold as the air.
I got in my car and slammed the door. He stood there watching me, a mixture of frustration and hurt on his face. I rolled down my window and leaned out. “Tell Sheila, or Greta, or whoever, I said hi.” It was petty and immature, but I couldn’t help it because no matter how many times we had sex or how often we saw each other, it didn’t change who he was and what this thing was between us.
Jeremy opened his mouth—probably to tell me to go to hell—but I drove away before I could hear what he had to say.
I felt horrible.
Worse than horrible.
And completely irrational.
What was wrong with me?
**
“There’s our girl.” My mother stood up from the table so she could envelop me in a warm, vanilla-scented hug. There was something about my mom’s hugs that made me feel like a little girl all over again.
“Hi, Mom.” I buried my face in her hair, wanting to cry. I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t. I was a jangled torrent of emotions and they had everything to do with the gorgeous man I had left on my sidewalk. Why was I getting so worked up because he said it looked as if I needed a good night’s sleep? He was right. So why did it hurt so much that he didn’t want to see me?
I wasn’t even thinking rationally. I had to get a grip. This wasn’t like me at all.
I broke away from my mother’s arms and turned to my dad who had come around the table for his own hug. My dad was a big bear of a man and he always hugged like he was trying to crack a rib or two, but he was the gentlest person I knew.
“Darling, you look horrible,” Mom gasped once we were seated. She poured me a glass of orange juice and I ordered a black coffee.
“I’m just tired, Mom.” I waved away her fussy hands.
“Doesn’t she look awful, Tom?” Marion Ducate turned to her husband for validation and of course, he’d give it. He’d give her anything she asked for.
“You do look worn out, pumpkin,” Dad commented, sipping on his coffee.
“Is Adam overworking you? He shouldn’t be doing that. You’re his sister,” Mom exclaimed with indignation.
“Mom, he’s my boss. He can’t treat me with any special consideration. He’s treating me the way he’d treat any other junior associate. Don’t go telling him off.” I wagged my finger at her. “Promise.”
She threw her hands up. “Fine. But I don’t think it’s right. You’re only a young girl—”
“Who is more than capable of taking care of herself,” I cut in, but softened my tone so as to not upset her. “But thank you for looking out for me.”
