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Every Cinderella night had an expiry date, and I’d hit mine.
The white-faced alarm clock on the dresser said that it was 7 a.m., and if I didn’t go now, he’d be awake and we’d make love again. Or worse, we’d talk, and he’d already pushed me to all my crumbling, unsafe edges.
In the living room, my dress was a scarlet puddle in the middle of the shiny mahogany floors and I shimmied into it, looking for my underwear. Under my bare feet it felt as though the wood carried the remnants of the heat between us, as if scorch marks might mar the surface.
The need to leave became urgent. I felt shaky, barely in control. I’d leave my underwear; the glitter of a barrette under the couch barely distracted me.
I scooped up my shoes and purse, and after a moment’s consideration, I grabbed Carter’s dress shirt and threw it on over my dress.
I felt so naked, so ridiculous in an evening gown on a Sunday morning.
Talk about a walk of shame.
My hand just touched the solid brass knob when a knock thundered against the door.
“Uncle Carter!” A girl’s voice screamed from the hallway.
Uncle Carter?
“Open up!” The girl’s voice accompanied another barrage of knocks.
This is bad.
I backed away from the door until I ran into something warm. Hard.
Carter.
Shit.
13
“Shit,” I whispered and winced, unable to turn around. He had to know what I was doing, sneaking out with the dawn. Like a coward.
“Are you okay?” his dark voice rumbled. His breath rustled my hair and my skin nearly purred.
I nodded, my throat closed tight against the thousand things I wanted to say.
He was quiet, his chest rising and falling behind me, and finally I worked up the nerve to face him. It was Carter all right, but changed somehow. The control that had crumbled last night was back in place, but slightly different. Weak in places.
And I could see all too clearly, that my attempt at sneaking off hurt him.
“I’m sorry, Carter,” I breathed in a quick rush. “I…just need to go home. This…last night…”
“Of course,” he agreed, without really agreeing. Such a politician, I thought.
He picked up his underwear and pants from the floor and tugged them on, each motion succinct and restrained. He didn’t say a word but I could feel the disappointment rolling off him.
“I can’t care about you, Carter,” I whispered, and his motions stilled for the barest moment, a hesitation so quick I would have missed it if I hadn’t been staring at him so hard.
I willed him to understand how fragile my heart was, how complicated my life would become.
“Carter!” the little girl yelled again. “Open the door!”
“My niece,” he said with a smile that nearly broke my heart. “I’d tell you to leave out the back door, but I don’t have one.” He put his hand to the door. “You’ll just have to tough this out.”
“Carter!” I squealed. “Don’t—”
But then the door was open and a nine-year-old girl, a cyclone, her long red hair in stiff braids down her back, was hurling herself against Carter’s legs, and he was laughing, stroking her head and trying to keep his balance.
He picked her up, gave her a funny shake.
It was Carter as I’d never seen him. Never guessed he could be.
My baby kicked, hard, and I took it as a warning. If I stayed, I’d be in trouble—my little boat, barely afloat on the sea of things I could feel for this man, would capsize and I’d drown in unwanted emotion.
I turned, ready to make my escape before having to explain what I was doing in Uncle Carter’s house, in his shirt and no underwear.
And I nearly ran right into a blond woman who looked so much like Carter and so much like the woman he’d said was his mother that she could only be one person.
“Hi!” the woman said, her twinkling, knowing eyes missing no detail about my barely zipped dress and Carter’s bare chest. “I’m Savannah,” she said, holding out her hand. “That’s my daughter, Katie.”
“Zoe,” I managed to stammer past the huge boulder of embarrassment lodged in my throat. Savannah wore a clingy blue top that revealed the very small swell of a pregnant belly. Or too big a lunch, it was hard to say. “Madison.”
“Are you a friend of Uncle Carter’s?” The red-headed cyclone asked, wedged against Carter’s side. “Because we brought Thanksgiving.” She looked up at her uncle with hero worship pouring from her eyes. “Mom said you’d never remember that Thanksgiving’s on Thursday so we needed to bring you some food so you wouldn’t starve because all the restaurants will be closed and you’re far too important to come home for the holiday.”
“She said all that, did she?” Carter grumbled.
“Please, stay,” Savannah said to me. “We’ve got plenty of food.”
“Zoe was leaving,” Carter said, his voice so cold it blew frost across my skin, but Savannah shot him an acidic look.
