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Frankie rolled her eyes and slid off the bed again, scooping her jeans off the floor to yank them up her legs. “Yeah, Clive, since I was eighteen. And I didn’t think you would ever give me the time of day, but I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. I’m pretty sure I’ve given it more thought than you ever did. And I would have loved to just—I don’t know, erase you from my feelings after you embarrassed me in the park the last time we were together, but that’s not how it works. I’m still ass-backwards for you, whether I like it or not.” Her nostrils flared as she huffed a deep, angry breath. “I liked those feelings a lot last night, but right now? I don’t think I do.”
I scooted toward the edge of the bed and swung my feet to the floor as I stood and scanned the room for my discarded boxer shorts, finally spotting them in a heap on the floor by the foot of the bed. Frankie was just stuffing her discarded bra into her purse as I hopped into my shorts and strode over to her. I looped an arm around her waist, pulling her stiff, angry body close to mine.
“I can’t tell you how to feel,” I said carefully, putting my fingers beneath her chin and tipping her head back so that she was looking into my eyes. “And you can’t tell me how to feel, either. I think about you all the time, but I’m also not sure that it’s a good idea to be together this way. I don’t want you to one day wake up and decide that you made a mistake with me. I couldn’t…”
I shook my head, my voice trailing off as I struggled to get the difficult words out while I was able. “I’ve already been married. I’ve had a family and my daughter is grown, and you have so much life ahead of you. You deserve to have and experience those things, too. I’m just not sure I can give you that, and it would be selfish to pull you into a commitment with me when I’m not sure it can work between us in the long run.”
Her expression softened from anger into something infinitely harder to look at. Hurt. Sadness. And still, she didn’t respond, but her fingers crept up to scratch gently along the bare skin of my chest, until they came to rest lightly against the tattoo of Marcie’s name and birthday over my heart.
“I want to take some time to think. I want you to think before we make decisions that will affect not only you and I, but both of our relationships with Marcie,” I finished. “Can we at least do that?”
Frankie’s lush lips thinned into a grim line. “You’ve really hurt me again, Clive. I wish we could have had this conversation before we slept together.” With a little push, she took a step away and turned to slip her feet into her shoes. “Fine. You win. I’ll go think about it.”
She headed for the door, but a few steps away she spun back around to face me again. “Last night you said that you’ve always seen me. And I need you to know that I’ve always seen you, too. And right now, I might see you more clearly than you see yourself.”
She moved in closer to me—close enough to touch, even though I fisted my hands resolutely against my sides. I knew that if I reached out and pulled her into my arms, I wouldn’t be able to let her go again. Not for a while, anyway.
For a long moment, we just studied each other, the air thick with all the things still left unsaid.
“Goodbye, Clive,” she finally said. “I’m around, if you decide that you’re ready to handle a relationship with me.”
If.The subtle dig wasn’t lost on me, and I knew that I richly deserved it.
The door slammed shut, and Frankie was gone.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I dragged my fingers through my sex-mussed hair. There was no good way through this—if I asked her to stay, to be with me, I ran the risk of pulling Frankie into a situation that could really hurt both of us in the long run. And if I let her go, then it would break her heart.
And mine.
Of courseI always saw Frankie. I saw her the moment I walked into my daughter’s dorm room, when the door swung open to reveal a beautiful, vibrant girl with an infectious laugh, a sassy, bold attitude, and a head full of wild, dark curls. And every time I saw her—when I visited Seattle or when Marcie brought Frankie home to Minneapolis with her—I saw her even more, and I liked it. Every stubborn, gorgeous, brilliant piece.
When my daughter opened her boutique in Seattle, Frankie and their friend Kresley both worked insane hours right along with her, because it was their dream, too. And they surpassed everyone’s expectations, even their own, to build a business that looked like it had huge potential—the kind of long-term staying power that entrepreneurs with decades of experience would kill to create. And the day it opened, I stood off to the side and couldn’t take my eyes off of Frankie as she celebrated their success, throwing off happiness and humor like sparks from a roaring fire. I saw her so damn clearly that when I closed my eyes at night, I pictured her beautiful face as I fell asleep.
I only wanted the best for Frankie. For all three of them and the successful life they all worked so hard to create for themselves.
I wasn’t sure what I would do—not yet, anyway, but if the best meant breaking my own heart in the process?
I would do that, too.
