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Above flaring nostrils, those dark blue eyes seared her but when he spoke again, he was as calm as the stultifying air in the room.
“I know you won’t beg. You’ve never begged for anything in your life. You’re the strongest person I know and you’ll get over me. They always do.”
She had hit a wall. There was only so much she could do and she had already debased herself too many times with too many guys. She deserved to be fought over, to be wooed, to be the center of a man’s world. And until Tad learned to love himself, he wouldn’t be able to give her the all-consuming love she merited.
Convincing herself there was a smidgen of truth running through her brave speech was the only thing that kept her from crumpling to the floor. This fountain of love inside her couldn’t be all for naught. She wasn’t supposed to waste it on undeserving men.
You talk a good game,Bad Girl Jules said wryly.
She sure does,Good Girl Jules concurred.
It would stun her senseless for a while but she would get over him eventually. Seeing him at every family gathering would help to wean her off that bone-melting smile.
Familiarity would breed indifference.
On her way out, she tried to think of some witty comment to see her through, but none was forthcoming. In the hallway, she took a moment to do what was needed, then closed the front door behind her quietly.
Thirty-Six
He crawled into the shower and scrubbed his skin until it felt as raw as he felt on the inside. A little hurt now—okay, a lot of hurt—was the only way to help her move forward.
With every story about his conquests, he had warned her what he was capable of, but she hadn’t listened. Hell,hehadn’t even listened. He was bad to the bone. An out-and-out asshole.
He fisted his hands against the tile and let the hot water strip away his sins. A vivid image of Jules writhing on top of him took over his mind and he jerked that thought aside, only to replace it with Jules writhing beneath him. This was okay. This was just a return to how it was before. Fantasizing about Jules. Running his hands all over his body and pumping his dick to the image of her sweet lips, that pink flash of tongue, her breasts straining at the buttons of her blouse.
But now a raft of other images joined the mix. Jules laughing while he made love to her, that wicked smart mouth when she wanted to put him in his place, how soft her face got when he told her she could do anything. How she kissed away his pain and told him she loved him, every declaration ripping the walls to stony fragments. How crazy in love he was with her and how making a family with her and Evan—not just existing on the fringes—but a real family, was something he craved more than anything.
Shit, and now she would do that with someone else. He had broken her heart but she would recover. She had already started her rebound as she swaggered out the door. He wasn’t worth the tears and she would find a doctor or fireman or rug salesman who could keep her safe. New guy would never love her as much as Tad did but it would be a safe love, a lasting love.
Pity he felt heartsick about it.
Ten minutes later, he headed downstairs to eat leftover pizza and something caught his eye. No, it…it couldn’t be.
Vivi’s cookbook lay on the hallway table, looking as weathered as his heart. The string holding it together was frayed, the pages dog-eared and yellowing. The last time he had seen it in Jules’s kitchen, its presence had buoyed him into thinking he had a chance with her. Look how that turned out.
He took it in his hand and contemplated the ceiling, waiting to be struck down for his audacity.
“I’ve fucked up big time, Vivi.”
Nothing, just a small electric fizz through his blood. He sniffed the pages…vanilla and cloves and Mom. His knees were close to buckling, so he lowered his body to the bottom rung of the stair and stared at it a while. Turned it over. Stared some more.
A piece of paper fell out, folded over to make a card. On the front, a child’s drawing captured Mommy, Daddy, and Baby makes three.
The oh-so-fertile Simon St. James.
With trembling fingers, he pulled apart the paper’s edges. Inside was a note.
He read it and broke into laughter, a long cathartic burst that loosened something in his chest. His black, iced-over heart perhaps. This woman of his had done a number on him all right.
Don’t mess with your best friend. The words should be tattooed on his forehead because messing with her had messed them both up good. After a moment, he turned his attention back to the cookbook and began to read.
* * *
Gilt-edged sconces hung beneath old-world imitation moldings in the lobby of the Peninsula hotel on Michigan Avenue. Jules had been here once before for high tea after a brutal shopping slog with the girls. They’d made fun of Cara’s pretensions while poor Cara rolled her eyes patiently and commented that they didn’t deserve nice things.
Simon sat at the bar, and she took a moment to watch him covertly, checking her body for signs of treachery. None surfaced but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, waiting to strike.
He turned as she approached. “Hullo, Jules. You look well. In all the craziness of the other day, I never got a chance to say that.”
