He’s angry and I have to be very careful not to snap back at him, which is so, so tempting. I’ve never seen him like this—not in control. Is this what he looks like when he’s out of it? I throw the words he said to me on the plane back at him.
“I know what this anger is masking. And so do you.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps when he welds his jaw together at the hinges.
“It’s okay to be afraid for her, Nate. You love her.”
“Yeah, well, she hates me.”
“She doesn’t. She’s sick. You said so yourself.” Unable to keep from it, I lay a hand on his chest. His big, strong heart thuds against my palm. “You’re not failing her because she won’t listen. Addicts have to hit rock bottom before they ask for help.”
“And what if they never ask?” His voice cracks.
I consider his father. My mother. They didn’t ask for help and their addictions cost them their lives. I don’t have any encouraging words to say so I don’t say anything.
“I have to visit the site today,” he says. “Do you need anything else before I go?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
I bristle. I was invited yesterday, but not today. I don’t know if he’s embarrassed for showing his vulnerability or if he needs to process without me around. I respect his need to be alone, even if I am disappointed.
“Will you be okay here?” Concern leaks into his expression. He’s always caring for everyone else, which doesn’t leave much room for caring for himself. He’s done so much for me. I can’t help but want to return the favor.
“I’ll be good here.” I force a smile. To alleviate his concern, I say, “I can always go shopping.”
He reaches for his wallet and I shove his arm. “Don’t you dare.”
“Your addiction, Vivian”—he pulls out cash and leaves it on the desk—“I’m happy to feed.”
He drops a fast kiss onto my lips. I hold on as long as he allows. He tastes good. He feels good. I want to heal his hurts, and I know what he likes. We spent last night twisting up the sheets and burying mine.
“Call you later,” he promises. And then he’s gone.
With a sigh, I look at the hundred dollar bills on the desk and consider how unfairly his mother treated him. Hasn’t she broken his heart enough for one lifetime? He deserves better. He deserves to be lavished.
A slow smile curls the corners of my mouth.
I tuck the bills into my pocket. Looks like I’m going shopping after all.
Nate
Seeing my mother was a mistake.
All the work I’ve done over the years to become whole, or as close to whole as I’ll ever be, was washed away like a mudslide this morning. Similar to the mud puddling under my feet at the construction site from an earlier light summer rain.
Light.
That’s how I felt when I arrived in Chicago with Vivian. So much for my preaching about how I know she’s afraid to claim what she wants. And that stunt I pulled in the bar to prove no one is out to get her… Who do I think I am?
This morning I rode those good feelings and the high from the sex last night to what I thought was a brilliant idea. I’d visit my mother. What could possibly go wrong?
Stupid, stupid. Stupid.
What possessed me to do it?
Concern, sure, but a part of me was acting selfishly. I was trying to force the final puzzle piece to slide into place. To finally be whole. Not so I can reach a state of enlightenment, which, face it, I’m not sure is attainable, but for Vivian.
For the first time, I have a strong connection with a woman. I don’t want to be less than she deserves, and she’s a woman who deserves far better than me.
I was happier without these thoughts.
“Sign here, Mr. Owen.” The inspector, Bill, hands over a clipboard. I jot my name on the line. “I’ll email a copy to your foreman.”
“Actually, I need you to email it to me before you leave.”
He’s taken aback by my request but recovers quickly. “I can do that.”
I give him my private email and check my phone to ensure it arrives before he leaves. I don’t want to deal with lost paperwork. I can’t take the stress, or afford the time setback if I have to destroy another wall. Though I doubt a smart-mouthed, dark-haired woman in high heels is going to strut onto my site to set me straight again. Lightning usually only strikes once.
An hour later I’m in a filthy cab, stuck in traffic, my good mood from yesterday a far-off memory. I’m looking forward to two things. Dinner, since I skipped lunch, and a glass of whiskey. Okay, three things. I want to see Vivian, bury my nose in her hair and breathe in her vanilla scent.
I owe her an apology. I should’ve treated her better this morning.
I’m used to control. Having it. Wielding it. When it’s taken from me, it fucking pisses me off. Lack of control makes me feel unstable. Like I’m free-falling. My parents favored that feeling, but I never did. I only wanted to hold everything together.
Viv was right. I was afraid. When my mother wouldn’t accept my help, I feared for her life. For her future. I don’t know which I hate more, being unable to help my mom or Vivian witnessing me at my weakest.
When I enter our hotel room, I’m momentarily disoriented. Candles flicker from practically every surface in the room. Low flames wink from votive holders on the dresser, the nightstands and the desk. A trail of rose petals leads from the door, to the bed, and off the comforter to the bathroom. I follow the sound of running water to the massive soaking tub in the center of the room. Steam rises, choking the air with mist.
Vivian is perched on the ledge of the tub, her hand testing the temperature of the water.
“Finally,” she says, exasperated. “Do you know how hard it is to keep the water warm when I have no idea when or if you’re coming back?”
“If?” Surely she doesn’t think I’d leave and never come back. “Listen, about this morning—”
“Shh-shh,” she hushes me and then stands and drops the hotel robe.
Beneath it, she’s wearing a black, lacy garment that sends every thought out of my head. Her long hair spills over her shoulders and her breasts are tucked into two cups creating a hell of a lot of cleavage.
“I spent your money,” she informs me with a grin. Her warm caramel-colored eyes sparkle in the candlelight, which also highlights the freckles on the bridge of her nose.
“You spent it well.”
“You deserve to be treated too, Nathaniel Owen. You take care of everyone. Who takes care of you?”
“Odessa,” I answer automatically.
“Wrong. You only let her do so much. You send her home and serve your own dinner.”
“I’m very independent,” I argue as she sashays across the room. I’m given a peek of her ass beneath the short skirt of the slip she’s wearing. A strip of black material separates her ass cheeks and I grind my back teeth together. “A thong.”
She peeks over her shoulder, black lashes fluttering coyly, and then she lifts the back of her nightie to show me the thong in all its glory. “Do you like it?”
“No.” My hands clench and release the air as I cross the room. “I love it.”