"Do I...?" Her voice faltered.
"Love me. Jesus, you can't even look at me, let alone say the word. I’ll take that as a no then. I love you, you know."
Hayley stilled. Then she did meet his gaze. "You love me," she finally repeated flatly. "Yes, so I have heard you say." Her spine stiffened, her posture growing erect. "But, tell me, Jon-Michael, what does that mean, exactly? You said you loved me when I was seventeen, too—but then you broadcast the most private evening of my life to the entire school and left me to face the snickers and sneers all by myself while you skipped town."
She hugged herself to ward off the sudden chill settling in her bones. Given her sudden light-headedness, she deduced her face likely had drained of color, and her shakes increased. "Dad said he loved me, but it sure didn't stop him from taking off. And Dennis?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "Well, good ole Dennis was supposed to love me until death did us part. But his idea of love was screwing around with anyone sufficiently impressed with his newfound fame to have him."
She saw shock cross Jon-Michael's face and hated him in that moment for not allowing her to keep at least that part of her life a secret. "You will just have to excuse me," she said stiffly, "if the word doesn’t mean much to me anymore."
Except...it did. Deep down, it still did. As he had so rudely pointed out this morning, she could not even have an orgasm these days unless he first professed his love. She could only pray he wouldn’t throw that in her face again because she didn’t think she could bear it tonight. Too many emotions had stormed her senses in the past few days.
He didn’t say a word.
Eyeing him warily, she said, "I'm tired. I think I’ll go up now."
"Yeah, okay," he agreed quietly. "I'm going to lock up. I'll be up in a bit."
She could have sworn the earth’s gravity had multiplied a hundredfold as she dragged herself up the stairs to the loft.
Twenty
Hayley was vaguely aware of the alarm going off. Hampered by the black wave of fatigue threatening to pull her under, she kicked toward consciousness. Jon-Michael's arm slid away from the dip of her waist and she felt the loss of his body heat along every inch of the skin he had spooned.
He rolled away and the clock's alarm went silent.
Turning over, she blinked at him through foggy layers of exhaustion. His back was to her as he sat at the side of the bed, his long spine angled over hard, widespread thighs. He scrubbed his hands over his face, the only sound in the dim loft the sandpaper rasp of calloused fingers meeting morning stubble.
She reached to scratch her nails down his back. It took every scrap of energy she possessed and her hand dropped to the mattress in the wake of a single pass, her fingertips barely grazing his naked buttock. It got his attention, however, for he turned to look at her.
"Hey," she murmured in a froggy voice.
"Hey, yourself, baby."
She gave him a drowsy, contented smile and heard him rumble a non-word deep in his throat.
"Ah, damn, Hayley," he whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" Dropping onto his forearm over her, he sifted his long-fingered free hand through her hair. "Just when I’m on the verge of thinking maybe I should give up the damn dream, you go and turn sweet on me."
Too exhausted to make sense of his words, she simply gave him another smile.
Jon-Michael returned a crooked one of his own and traced a fingertip along her lips. "I love the way you wake up. I wish you’d forget to worry more often." Then he kissed her softly and adjusted the blanket over her shoulders. "It's early. Go back to sleep."
"'Kay." Her heavy-lidded eyes slid closed. Deep, drugging fatigue immediately sucked her back into the depths.
The next time she forced her eyes open, he was standing in front of the dresser mirror, his head cocked to one side as he watched his hands' reflection adjust the knot of his tie. His hair, still damp from the shower, looked almost as dark as her own. Even more uncharacteristic, his cheeks and jaw shone with the smooth sheen of a newly applied razor.
The blankets pooled around her hips as she pushed herself upright. Yawning, she knuckled her hair from her eyes, and meeting his gaze in the mirror, felt a grin tug the corners of her mouth. "Who died, Olivet? I haven't seen you shave or voluntarily put on a tie since I came back." He did not respond and the reason for it struck her. "Oh. Duh." She smacked herself on the temple. "Sure I have. Bluey's bow tie on the Fourth, right? Forgot about that."
Still he didn't speak, and her eyebrows furrowed. His dark-eyed gaze in the mirror was steady on her, but why was it so wary and his mouth so unsmiling? Her warm fuzzies dissipated as memories of last night's argument and its tense aftermath suddenly resurfaced. The smile wobbled off her face.
They had been painfully polite to each other when Jon-Michael joined her in bed after securing the apartment. Conversation had been nearly nonexistent and what there was of it had been stilted and carefully polite. Not at all in keeping with their usual verbal skirmishes.
They had also maintained a physical distance between them. Failing to pick up where their lovemaking had left off downstairs, they had eventually fallen asleep, each hugging their own side of the bed. As if they were strangers forced to share the last hotel room in town. The only thing missing was a meridian of pillows down the middle of the mattress.
Awakening to the knowledge he’d gravitated to spoon with her during the night had temporarily stolen the memory.
She cleared her throat. "Um, where are you going so early?" Glancing at the clock on the dresser, she saw it was eleven-thirty, which wasn’t early at all if one kept regular business hours.
"Olivet's." He jerked the knot of his tie into place and smoothed down the points of his collar. "I have a one o'clock presentation to make to the board."
She sat up straighter. "A presentation? You’re going to present your ideas to the board of directors after all?" Hello! Did he not just say so? Her heart commenced pounding with brutal force.
He scrutinized her via the mirror. "Yes. I was going to tell you about it last night but other stuff got in the way."
She should have been happy about it. It was precisely what she had been urging him to do. Instead it scared her.
Her gaze on him faltered.
As if he had anticipated that exact reaction, Jon-Michael nodded. Picking an old-fashioned watch fob off the dresser, he attached it across his vest as he turned to face her. After studying her a moment, he shook his head as if in commiseration. "Poor Hayley. I’m about to eliminate your favorite excuse for holding me at arm's length. Ain't life a bitch?"
Fierce heat scalded her chest and throat, climbed her face to the hairline. Surging up onto her knees, her chin thrust out to a belligerent angle, she once again locked her gaze unflinchingly on his.
"How dare you mock me?" she demanded with low-voiced fury. "You don't have any idea what it's like to live without a vestige of privacy. Until I came back to Gravers Bend I might have been notorious, but at least I had a thought or two I could call my own. Not now, by God. Every time I turn around some ratty new detail of my life is revealed. It never ends. Just when I think there can’t possibly be anything left to publicly humiliate me, something turns up. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked so the world can critique my body." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "Knowing damn well it will be found wanting."