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But she couldn’t pass by without asking about his shirt. “Why are you wet?”
He glanced down, then shrugged his shoulders, not meeting her eye. “It’s nothing.”
There was more to the story, she knew it, but it wasn’t her business. “Hope you had fun,” she said, keeping her chin up as she waited for him to get out of the way. “I’m going to—”not bed, she couldn’t say bed to him“—my room now.”
He didn’t move out of the way. “Aren’t you going to ask where I was? What I was doing?” He leaned closer, until his chest brushed against hers, so close that her pajamas began to soak up the moisture from his wet shirt. She would never admit it, but being so close to him, feeling his heat and his warmth, his breath and his intense stare, and she began to get wet elsewhere. She cleared her throat. “It’s none of my business.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to know if I was out with another woman?”
God, almighty, if he was, she’d find Louise Flanagan’s gun and shoot him herself.
“Nope. No concern of mine.”
He laughed, a low, wicked laugh. That was when she noticed the slight glassiness in his eyes and the tiny wobble in his legs. “You’re drunk.” Even as she said it, she could hardly believe it. She’d never known Mick to drink more than a couple of beers, and never once seen him inebriated.
“Nah.” The denial was accompanied by a stronger whiff of beer.
“Yes, you are—I can tell.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why? You never drink this much.”
“Maybe I needed to get my mind off a few things,” he replied, his voice tight and measured, suddenly very controlled. So maybe he wasn’t completely drunk, after all. But he wasn’t completely sober, either.
“Yeah, well…uh…ditto,” she replied. The stupid little quiver in her voice needed to be ripped out of her throat and put in front of the firing squad right next to Mick.
She pushed him out of the way, ignoring the heat, the steam, the chemistry that always exploded between them when they were together. Chemistry wasn’t enough. They’d proved that more than enough for one lifetime.
But before she could walk away, Mick grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. He stared searchingly into her eyes, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to reconsider.
“What?” she prompted, her heart picking up its pace, knowing whatever Mick had on his mind, it was important to him. To them.
He shook his head and let go of her arm. She began to walk away with a disappointed sigh, but as she reached the hall, she heard him ask one question. Very soft. Whispered. Obviously meant for his own ears, not hers.
“Why did you walk out on me?”
She knew he didn’t mean anything that had happened recently. He referred to what happened between them long ago.
He confirmed it. “You knew—youhadto have known—I wasn’t cheating on you.”
She didn’t have to think about it. No, she hadn’treallybelieved he had betrayed her.
Caro paused at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the banister. Used to be she thought she knew the answer to that question. But suddenly the reasons she’d used over the past eight years to convince herself didn’t seem enough anymore.
She nearly turned back, nearly opened the dialogue that would clear the air for both of them once and for all. Before she could do that, however, she realized something. Untilsheknew the answer to his question, she couldn’t even try to explain it to him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE WEEK HAD been rough for Caro. Professionally taxing, personally draining. She couldn’t say she went home and felt better, so her days had stretched longer and longer as the week had progressed.
“Maybe that’s because it’s not your home,” she reminded herself, not for the first time, as she drove to work Friday morning.
Right. This was a temporary situation. In just over two weeks, she’d be going back to California. To her real life. Which meant, once again, leaving Mick behind. After last night’s brief conversation, his softly whispered question—which she wasn’t ready to answer—she should probably be feeling better about that.
Even aside from her confusion about that question, after what had happened Monday, she should have been delighted about going back to California. It would at least end the heartache of seeing him every day. It was torturous to try to maintain their roommates-only relationship. She was sleeping in his house, separated from him by only one flimsy wall and an ocean of confusion. Their all too brief encounters had been thin on conversation, but oh so heavy on awareness. And now, all this knowledge was there, too. This sensual memory of the amazing things they’d done together Sunday night. The way he’d made her feel again, like she was alive and a woman for the first time in eight years.
“Dammit, why?” she asked aloud, slamming her hand on the steering wheel of her car.
Why was itonlyMick?
Because he was her lover. Mick was right about that. She’d had sex with other men over the years, but Mick was the only one she’d ever considered her lover. He was the only man who’d touched her in some intangible place deep inside, where fingers, lips or other body parts couldn’t reach.
