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“I’d rather hear about you liking me so much better,” he said.
“I’ll bet. I’m going to tell you anyway, though. He had an affair with somebody seventeen years younger who worked in a ski shop, and he married her. They have a baby. It’s probably good for me to put that out there, because it might have made me a little insecure. I’m just glad I didn’t marry him, not that he asked me. Or that I didn’t move into his extremely modern house. The triumph of sterility. And, yes, that’s me trashing my ex.”
“If he cheated,” Beckett said, “you get to trash him.”
“She was six months pregnant by the time he told me,” she admitted. “I felt pretty stupid.”
“Now, you see,” he said, “that’s where men do it better. We don’t feel stupid. We just feel filthy.”
“Filthy? It wasn’t filthy. That was his wholepoint.That I wasn’t the kind of woman …” She had to take a breath. “The kind of woman who’d been created for a man to love. Or to drive him crazy. Which, again, isn’t a surprise, not if I’m honest. I know I’m not. I’m too … I’m organized. I’m efficient. I’m very good at my job. But I’m not—”
* * *
He kissed her.It seemed like the right response. Then he kissed her again, a little better this time, got his hand on her face, and said, “I dunno. You’re driving me a bit crazy just now. And ‘filthy’ means narked. Angry,” he added when she still looked confused. “Furious.”
“Oh,” she said, and took an uneven breath. “Well, I was that, too. He did it at thegolfclub. So I wouldn’t make a scene. I made a scene anyway.”
“Well, yeah. Too right. Wanker. Do you want to know how you make me feel?”
“Yes. No.” She buried her face in his shoulder, and he cradled the back of her head in his hand as she said, “Maybe. Go ahead.”
He said, “I don’t know the right way to say things. I was thinking that with Janey today. Maybe there isn’t a right way. I’m just going to go ahead and try.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “OK. But I’m not going to look for a minute.”
He smiled. “You’re unexpected, I guess. You have all this competence right there to see on the surface. You get more done than any two people, and if I somehow missed that, there are those gold medals you’ve won. You could do my job, that’s sure, and I have no trouble believing you’re brilliant at yours. But …”
“But inside,” she said, “I’m what? A hot mess? I’m really not. I’m aware that I may not have been presenting myself as well as I might have been, these past weeks, but—”
“You could stop,” he said, “since I’m still talking.”
“Oh.” She sat up and put up a hand to smooth her hair. “Right. Continue.”
He had to smile again. “I think it’s that you’re so surprised when a man wants to take any of that off your plate, because you expect nothing. Not even for him to hold you. Needy you are not. And that you’re so bloodysmart,and so quick, and you suffer no fools.Not to mention the way you fell off your paddleboard, out with that dentist. Guts, I’d call that. Ticker.”
“Ticker? I’m trying to focus here, because having somebody tell me how great I am isn’t exactly in my—”
“Heart,” he said. “You’ve got heart. And making love with you is …”
“Right,” she said. “Here we go. I know I’m not that great at it. But go ahead. Self-improvement matters.” And put her shoulders back like she was bracing herself to hear his critique.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She jerked back, and he kept his hand around hers and asked, “In what universe aren’t you great at it? Did you notice that I grabbed you last night? Couldn’t even wait to get you downstairs, not to mention take a shower. I did you on a dropcloth. Not exactly smooth.”
“I was wearing Fruit of the Loom underwear,” she said.
He laughed again and kissed her. “I don’t think I noticed the underwear. All I wanted was to get it off you. You’re honest, is what you are. Right to the bone. In bed? Oh, yeah. You’re right there, letting me know what you’re feeling. Letting me know what you want. The only thing that drives me mad is when you hide from me. Like you did with the waffles.”
“I told you,” she said, “if you don’t like waffles—”
“Who, me? I bloody love waffles. I don’t love it when you won’t talk to me. Or when you won’t let me help you. When your reaction to me putting up your drywall is to tell me you could do it yourself.”
“I could,” she said. “But probably not very well. I’m not very patient.”
“Fortunately,” he said, “I have a bit of that. I’m going to paint it, too. That OK with you?”
She sighed. “If you have to.”
“We could put in a floor up there, too,” he said. “You can help. Floor works better with help. What kind do you want?”
