He sat back, the motion rocking the swing, and cleared his throat. “It was what you wanted.”
She laughed shortly. Sadly. And looked at the face of her one-time future. A man depleted of any love he ever felt for her.
“It was?”
“Seemed so at the time. Damn sure does now. You had my dad for ten years. Now you have my house. What more do you want from me?” He tapped his sweating beer bottle against his chest. “Because there’s nothing left for you to take.”
What she wanted, he couldn’t give her. There were no backsies when it came to the law.
“A time machine would be nice if you had one handy,” she murmured, then sipped her chardonnay for the first time tonight.
He didn’t ask what she’d change, given the opportunity. Probably assumed he knew.
He didn’t.
And she wasn’t telling him.
“You wanted to open your own bakery. Why didn’t you?”
She looked at him sharply, surprised. “You remember that?”
“You could outbake any five-star pastry chef in The Hamptons, even at seventeen. No telling how good you’d be if it wasn’t a weekend hobby. Why didn’t you?”
“Life.” In the very real sense.
“Instead, you chose love?”
“Um, love doesn’t really like me,” she said, making a face. “I don’t have a great track record with it, so no. I didn’t choose it.”
“You throw weddings, right? Love and romance and shit?”
She laughed.
The shit part of that trifecta she had personal experience with.
“I plan major life events, and yes, that includes love and romance and shit.” Her grin was sardonic. “My mother always said I had a talent for party planning. Threw my first birthday bash for her when I was fourteen, and it was such a success I now do it annually. Did you know she’s turning twenty-nine again this year? Now, there’s a lady who’d pay handsomely for a time machine. She’d sell off her portfolio if it meant she could be young again.”
He didn’t find her comments amusing.
“Thought Genevieve’s plan for your life included Wall Street?”
“Yeah, well, she had a rude awakening when I was seventeen. We all did. Things were never the same after that.”
“I recall.” His tone was that of a stranger. “Mine neither.”
Odd, considering he got what he wanted.
Out.
“I think that’s enough reminiscing, don’t you?” She checked her watch. “I should probably get to bed. It’s late.”
It was eight o’clock. The time wasn’t late, this conversation was. Ten years too late.
“Do you love him?” His quiet question was the last thing she expected.
“Who?” Had Jonah been talking out of turn? How else would he know?
“The dude from downtown. The one groping you yesterday.”
“Wyatt?” It was such a relief she let out a little laugh. “Things would be a lot easier, wouldn’t they?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” He looked at her, but she couldn’t read his expression. It was carefully masked.
She shrugged, having hashed out this very scenario a thousand times.
“It would be perfect if Wyatt and I were together. It would fill a missing piece of the puzzle.” She rubbed her chest subconsciously. “Right my world, so to speak.”
“So, do you?”
She hesitated, not sure how to answer. “What I feel for him is complicated. There’s a host of other factors. It lies somewhere between a yes or no answer. For reasons I won’t discuss.”
The truth was murky and difficult to explain. Because the answer really was . . . I wish I did. I wish I could. Because then I would.
Because then, I could be with him. Like I should.
“Do you love her?” The question left Chloe’s mouth involuntarily.
His head shot back. “Who?”
She held out her arms, encapsulating the entire country. The entire world. All those muffins he sampled over the years.
“Any woman, ever?”
Because I know you never loved me.
“Yeah,” he finally murmured after taking another long pull of his beer. “I love her. Used to anyway.”
It hurt, but she should have expected it.
Ten years was plenty of time to find another, and military men were prime picking.
With that cryptic non-answer of his own, he stood, hooking an index finger into the handle of his six-pack.
“Sleep terribly, cupcake.”
And with that downright friendly goodbye, he took the steps leading off the porch in one agile jump, heading toward the big house.
“Let the bedbugs bite, Jameson. And thanks for dinner. Feel free to call me a bitch tomorrow. Just make it a double cheeseburger, okay?”
He kept walking, but she heard him laugh.
It lit her up from the inside out.
“Hey? Jameson?” The swing kicked back when she stood abruptly, walking toward the end of the porch but not taking that first step down.
When he turned, her breath caught.
She’d not seen him standing there, a ghost of a smile on a gorgeous face bathed in moonlight, in a decade.
And for the first time in ten years, she let go of her precious vendetta. At least for the next ten seconds.
“He doesn’t make me feel it.”
“Feel what?”
Gun to her head, she couldn’t describe it. It. Best she could do was . . . lust, love, and longing, all rolled into one intense emotion. For life.
“What you did,” she said simply, and he seemed to understand.
What you still do.
A hard stare and a hesitant nod later, he walked away.
Chloe stood there long after he disappeared into the night. Long after she heard the banging of the back door leading into the big house. Long after his words ricocheted a dozen times in her mind.
I love her. Used to anyway.
She stood there, waiting for him to come back to her. Just like she did a decade ago.
And just like then, he didn’t.
It wasn’t until she went inside the carriage house, stripped down to nothing, and crawled into bed that she realized. Jameson had given her a gift—tonight and ten years ago. Not a silly valentine card, but a savory lobster roll. And something else. Something invaluable. Something no one would ever give her again.
She sighed heavily, the sound absorbed by freshly painted oyster white walls, and rolled to her side. Wrapped her arms around her waist, the position sadistically soothing when the bittersweet memories threatened to take her under.
He had given her a heart.
It beat rapidly, and the memory of that echoing whoosh-whoosh was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.
And even though it was impossible, she could still hear that heart beating today.
They looked alike.
And that resemblance was the only thing they had in common.
Oh, and blood type, though Chloe’s was far warmer. O-positive, but of a normal degree for daughter. O-positive, but in the range of glacial for mother.
She got her best qualities from her dad—along with a raging addiction to strawberry-flavored Nesquik—but Graham was Genevieve’s opposite when it came to parenting styles. He didn’t judge, he only loved. And doled out shrewd business advice, whether you asked for it or not.