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She followed him through the entry to the front door, which he opened himself. He didn’t look back as he started down the walk toward his car parked at the curb.
She closed the door and pressed her forehead against the wood, taking in gulps of air in an effort not to weep. She’d made the correct decision, but God, it hurt.
She trusted in Calder’s integrity. She didn’t believe that he would purposely leave her with another serrated wound to her heart. What she mistrusted was the male mind-set that sex was a cure-all. She feared that, to him, it would represent the last link in their connection, that he would regard it as a reckoning with her and closure with Charlie’s death.
Once she slept with him and he’d gotten her out of his system, then what? She wouldn’t deceive herself into thinking, hoping, that there was a future for them. How could there be?
She was worlds apart from what he was accustomed to. She wasn’t a Shauna Calloway type. What did he really see in Elle Portman except that she was the mother of the child for whose death he felt responsible?
As she stood there anguishing, the doorknob she’d been clutching turned in her hand.
She flinched, let go of it, and backed away. The door was pushed open, and Calder stepped inside.
He didn’t say anything. He only looked at her, knowingly and hungrily, as he slowly pushed the door shut. They remained in that tableau, their breathing accelerating, then simultaneously surged toward each other.
Growling her name, he fisted a handful of her hair and used it to tilt her head back for his kiss.
Chapter 18
There’s mortification, and then there’s mortification.
The former would apply to an everyday-variety embarrassment.
The latter to having heedless, reckless, hottest-ever sex with a man who then fled with the speed of light. A slam-bam without even a thank you, ma’am.
Forehead resting on the heel of her hand, Elle groaned.
“Knock knock?”
The sudden voice was loud and unexpected, causing Elle to jump and almost topple off her drawing table stool. Hot coffee sloshed from her cup onto the leg of her pajamas. She recognized Glenda’s voice.
Glenda is here? Now?Elle barely contained the burble of hysteria that threatened.
“Elle? Okay to come in?”
No, not okay. She positively, absolutely could not see anyone right now. Certainly not her perceptive best friend. Should she tell her she had a stomach virus, Covid, Ebola? But then Glenda would want to nurse her, hover, coddle, insist that she see a doctor. Make matters worse.
All this went through Elle’s sluggish mind with relative speed, and she concluded that she would just have to brazen it out. “I’m in the office. Come on back.”
Hastily, she took inventory of herself and realized what a shambles she must look. Calder couldn’t keep his hands out of her hair and had left it a tangled mess. Clumsily, she gathered it at her nape and twisted it into an unsecured knot.
She ran her hand over her chest as though to ensure that her T-shirt was still there and would conceal the whisker burns on her breasts. Memories of Calder’s fervent mouth washed over and through her and she whispered, “Oh God, oh God.”
She dabbed at her lips. They still felt swollen. Did she have a mark on her neck? How mortifying would that be? She hadn’t noticed one when she’d taken a guilty glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror, but she might have missed it.
Her eyes were red from crying, but if Glenda commented on that, she was ready with a valid excuse.
“Good morning, you.”
Putting on a brave face, Elle swiveled her stool around and faced her friend with feigned gladness. “Good morning. You’re out early.”
Glenda tilted her head quizzically. “It’s after ten.”
“No. Really?” Elle gestured toward her drawing board. “I was working on some sketches. Lost track, I guess.”
Glenda looked her over. Naturally, she homed in on the coffee spill.
Elle forced a dry laugh. “You startled me with your knock knock.”
