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The door hasn’t been opened since Maria and Javier disappeared from my life. What remains behind two inches of wood is a reminder of the charade perpetrated by a woman who used her own son . . . my goddamn son to hustle me.
“Is something wrong?” Peyton asks with genuine concern in her sweet voice.
“Demons,” I say quietly, opening the door.
Peyton steps into the room, but I remain at the doorway afraid if I follow her inside the walls will cave with memories of a time when I was actually happy. Her eyes dart around before she turns to face me. I keep my eyes on her as the ache in my chest intensifies. If I see any of Javier’s things, I’ll lose my false composure, and Peyton will see what a fraud I am.
“This room is fantastic. I assume your son’s outgrown it.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat does nothing to relieve the pressure of my surging emotions. My eyes burn with the onset of impending tears as I remember my precious son. The memories shadowed behind Peyton hit with debilitating force. The intensity threatens to turn me into a pussy in front of a woman I barely know and would prefer to be fucking rather than sharing my painful past. With a firm jaw, I spin and leave Javier’s room, striding with quick steps to the bar in the front room.
Peyton’s heels click into the hardwood as she follows behind me. A drink. I need a fucking drink to alleviate the sadness, to make me forget love wasn’t my only loss. That cunt also took my son and robbed me of fatherhood.
Scotch dulls the pain as I chug straight from the bottle. It’s not enough to completely erase the memories of Javier’s smile when he opened the door to his room for the first time, or the giggle I’d grown so accustomed to hearing every morning.
“Should I come back another time?”
As I set the bottle down, the ripples in the scotch hold my attention. I watch until they settle to a flat line. The amber liquid seeking its own level in seconds amuses me. I’ve spent years failing to find such a calm balance, to even out my life and be the man I’m expected to be. I let out a strangled laugh as I lift the bottle and shake it violently.
Peyton clears her throat, interrupting the kick I was getting out of watching the alcohol bubble and swirl chaotically, unable to escape the glass confinement.
“He’s gone,” I say with my back to her, setting the bottle down.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child.”
She assumes Javier died, but I don’t correct her. Javier might as well be dead because I’ll never see him again. I mourn everyday as though he’s dead.
Anger surges through my veins and heat crawls up my neck as I turn to face Peyton. “I need that room transformed into a guest room as soon as possible.”
“Any particular color scheme?”
“I don’t give a shit. And I want the rest of the loft redone as well. I expect a completely different home by the time I return from a business trip next week.”
The frown she sends me sparks my anger. Fuck! I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. I want he
r to do her part in making me forget a family used to live here.
“Of course. I’ll make it happen, but . . .”
“Don’t! Remember this is a professional relationship.”
She presses her lips together and they form a flat line as she nods. “Right. I’ll get started tomorrow.”
“Good. My housekeeper will be stopping in while I’m gone. You’ll have twenty-four-hour access and if anything comes up you’re unsure of, you have my number.”
I lift my head, meeting her worried gaze. Her eyes are mixture of green and blue, like a tropical oasis of warm inviting pleasure. They also belong to a woman who’s not about to be sweet-talked into getting naked and pleasing me. However in her stare, I see a glint of desire for more if I were only willing to put some time in to make it happen.
I’m not.
Not now . . . Not ever.
My private jet lands in Monterrey at dusk. I check my phone and see Peyton texted me several times.
P: Blues or browns?
P: Hello?
P: You answering might help speed this along.
