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“I want to.” He shook his head as she opened her mouth to say something else. “I want to.”
Picking up the glass, he moved back from the counter and paced over to the window. She had a view of the small park on the opposite side of the road and he could just make out a swing moving drunkenly in the wind.
It was dark and wet, which meant the park was empty. It flitted through his mind that it looked sad and neglected, like a child left alone in the dark. Shaking the disturbing image away, he turned to face her.
“She was determined to make a good impression and she did. I used to stand at the top of the stairs watching as she made her rounds. She’d be wearing this beautiful designer gown, with her hair perfectly styled. Her jewelry had to be more expensive than the rest of the women in the room.” He wandered over to pour himself some more wine.
“I’d hear her barking at the maids to do this or do that and would go back to my suite so I didn’t get in her way.”
“Brady.” Macayla rose.
“I’m fine.” He told her with a faint smile. “I need to get this out.”
“Not if it’s so painful. Look, I don’t need to know your life story- “
“Oh, just shut the hell up!”
Her eyes widened and then narrowed as temper came swiftly. “Oh no you didn’t.”
“Do you think this is just casual for me?” His emerald eyes glittered. “You’re supposed to be a writer, supposed to be adept at reading people and yet you never noticed that I have feelings for you. Christ! How stupid can you get?”
The rest of the insults flew right over her head as she stared at him in shock. “Define feelings.”
“Figure it out, you’re the goddamn writer.”
“I’m not going to allow you to talk to me that way.”
“What are you going to do about it?” He asked her mockingly. “Throw me out?”
“Don’t think I can’t.”
They stood there glaring at each other before she relented. “I don’t want to hear about your feelings.”
“What are you going to do about it?” He repeated.
“Not a thing.” Sitting back down, she pretended an interest in the meal even though her appetite had fled.
“Want me to take it back?”
“I don’t care.” Pushing the plate away, she rose again, this time to pace in a tight circle. “We were talking about parenthood.”
“And I was telling the distasteful story of Eleanor Randall.”
She stopped and turned to look at him. “You can always stop.”
“But it’s such a fun story to tell.” He gave a facsimile of a smile as he went to take his seat.
“Brady.”
“I want to.” He told her soberly. “I’ve done therapy years ago, and it worked to an extent.”
She came back and sat across from him. “But not enough.”
“Enough for me to not take it personal.”
She frowned at him. “How can you not take it personal? It is personal.”
He smiled at her, enjoying the way she looked as if wanted to fight his emotional battle. “You grew up in a loving environment.”
