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The sunshine that had been promised that morning had been replaced by black clouds that threatened to spill a deluge of rain at any moment. The icy wind had picked up and was gusting around her legs and under the skirt of her tight dress. She had left her coat behind, and the cold cut through her like a knife; the short sleeves that had seemed appropriate for the weather this morning were now working against her. She was shivering violently, and she folded her arms over her chest and bent her head to protect her face from the frigid wind as she walked toward her car.
She didn’t remember much of the short drive at all and blinked in surprise when she looked up and realized that she was home.
She stumbled out of her car and into the house and methodically removed her clothing, one item at a time, from the front door to her bedroom. Shoes, dress, bra, stockings, panties . . . she shed them all and reveled in the brutal cold against her vulnerable naked flesh.
She crawled into her unmade bed and lay curled up—holding herself tightly—while she shivered beneath the comforter. And once there, naked and alone, she allowed herself to unravel completely.
The noise that emerged from the dark, deep, ruined part of herself was raw and agonizing and shattering.
Tina was broken. She had been for a very long time, and she was beyond repair.
Harris was taking a leisurely drive home after finally having his—pretty damned delicious—lunch at MJ’s. The food was good, the atmosphere was great, and the prices were reasonable. There was really no reason—beyond the Riversend citizens’ irrational stubbornness—for the restaurant not to succeed. Tina just needed some good PR and marketing, and the place would take off.
Their exchange in the ladies’ restroom had been disturbing, and he definitely wanted to continue that discussion. He hated that she still resented him for his behavior ten years ago and should have known better than to press her on it. In all honesty, expecting his half-assed apology to be enough had been a bit optimistic, to say the least. But he wasn’t sure what else to say or do. He genuinely regretted his stupidity but had no idea how to make her believe that.
He wasn’t even sure he should push it. Perhaps it would be best to leave it alone. They could continue on as they had been doing for the last ten years.
Only . . . he didn’t want that.
He wanted her to forgive him, and yes, he wanted to “get into her pants” again, as she had so crudely put it. It was self-serving and selfish . . . but he wanted to fucking rock her world like he had failed to do ten years ago. Maybe part of it was ego—he had been drunk and doped and had put up a pretty dismal performance that first time—but a larger part of it was a fascination with Tina that he had never really gotten over.
He drove his car through the gates leading up to the house and frowned when he saw Tina’s Lexus parked out front. He was surprised to see it there. He hadn’t seen her leave MJ’s. The restaurant was only halfway through lunch service, and while business was slow, it had picked up a bit while he had been there.
He got out of his car and stared at hers for a while, seriously contemplating knocking on her front door to continue their discussion. He was taking a step in that direction when the front door of his flat swung open, and Greyson stepped out onto the patio looking . . . well, his brother looked fucking rough.
Shit. Greyson had gone a little off the rails after Libby had left, and, while the man had tried to keep it hidden, Harris knew his brother had been hitting the bottle hard for a few weeks.
Harris had been on the verge of intervening when Greyson had stopped cold, coming in to the office early every day and leaving late, working himself to the bone, and not touching a drop of alcohol (as far as Harris knew) from then till now. He had never let on that he was aware of Greyson’s concerning behavior, but he had kept a close eye on matters, going so far as to have his brother’s equally worried household staff report any potential problems to Harris and Harris alone. Fortunately, the other man had managed to cling to his icy self-control, and the lapse—so uncharacteristic for Greyson—had been a mere blip on the radar.
But now, seeing his usually impeccably groomed brother sporting stubble and disheveled hair, dressed in . . . what the hell was that? Sweats? Jesus . . . he hadn’t even known Greyson owned sweats. His brother worked out in shorts and T-shirts. And even then, Mr. Cold as Ice barely broke a sweat. Seeing Greyson like this, Harris worried that the man may have dipped into the bottle of cheap wine Harris had spotted in one of the kitchen cabinets.
