“Yes, a jogging bra at least.” Skye shoved an appointment in her face. “Gwen, what’s this?”
She snatched the reminder from her sister. “Nothing.”
“Gwendolyn Mallory, this is two months past due.” Skye put her hands on her hips. “Don’t play games with this.”
“Everyone is just being super cautious. Okay. I’m fine.” Gwen refused to believe her mother dying of breast cancer predetermined the path of her own life.
“But you’re at risk,” Skye loved to remind her.
“And so are you.”
“My mammograms don’t come back abnormal, Gwen.”
“ANDREW MORGAN,” HE answered his cell phone, all groggy with sleep.
“That’s very formal for a Saturday.”
“Hi, Ma.” He licked his dry lips and glanced around. He was face down on his bed, still fully clothed. He’d been too exhausted to remove anything except his shoes at four a.m. when he’d made it home. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“I got in late.”
“Were you on a date?” she asked with too much enthusiasm.
Gwen’s face rushed into his mind as soon as his mother said the words and it damn near unsettled him. “No, and please stop posting those inspirational greeting cards to my Facebook page.”
“Have you found the chance to get out and meet anyone, my handsome boy?” His mother had always been ‘damn proud’ of the man he’d become, polite, good-natured, smart, and considerate. And handsome, she liked to boast. That would be more her accomplishment than his.
Last he checked he was a man, and not a boy, but he didn’t mind that she wanted him to move on.
He’d considered telling her about Gwen a year ago, just to give his mother hope he was on the mend and ready to get out there again. Except being with Gwen had only set him back.
“Not really,” he answered after a moment. “I’ve only been back a week and I have a fashion show coming up. I’ll be even busier.” He wandered into his kitchen and cursed at the few scattered grains of coffee at the bottom of the Café Bustelo can.
“What about trying to date someone at work?”
The metal container slipped from his hands and clanged against the ceramic tile floor, spilling what could have been at least one small cup of coffee.
Before Gwen, getting involved with a co-worker had always been on Andrew’s to-don’t list. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ma, Cate passed away—”
“Two years ago.”
“Twenty months.” He considered counting the months a step in the right direction toward letting go. It started with hours, then it was days, and then weeks. Now he counted the months, and soon it would be...years. “I’m still—”
“You’re too good a man to be alone. You gave all you had to that woman.”
“Ma, please don’t start. Okay, you won. You got your wish, Cate is gone.”
“For Pete’s sake, I didn’t want the woman to die! I just never thought she was right for you.”
Andrew hadn’t planned to stay celibate for the rest of his life. Cate had even told him to move on.
‘Drew, you’re a good man. Promise me you’ll find someone when you’re ready. I don’t want to leave this world worrying that you’ll be alone.’
Those words had cut through him like a knife. Even now, the pain still ate at him. Except, he’d gotten there, hadn’t he? He didn’t even realize it.
Wow!
“And that business about her not wanting to have children!” his mother went on, not realizing he’d just had the epiphany she’d been praying for.
“Can you please stop bringing that up,” he said feeling his throat closing.
“Andrew, I’m sorry. But I promise you one day when you’re a father, and you will be a father someday, Mr. Morgan, you will know that one ounce of your child’s heartache will be like a grand
sword slicing through your heart.”
“Ma, stop binge watching Game of Thrones.” He released a small whisper of laughter.
“I’m hooked on Outlander now.”
“Great. I’m getting a kilt for Christmas, I know it.”
He sighed in relief when Sarah changed the subject to the gossip in her Fifth Avenue building.
Half listening, he ambled back to his bedroom to put on workout shorts and a tee-shirt.
Before he got a sock on, his mother interrupted herself and said, “Your father’s calling me from the golf course. Bye, love you!”
“Love you, too.” It struck Andrew how good that felt to say out loud.
He sat on the edge of his bed and took a few breaths. On his nightstand sat the large brown envelope he’d just received from Cate’s sister. Apparently, his wife had tucked away some racy honeymoon photos in several of the books he let Julia take. All the photos from that trip to Paris were postcards from happy ever after. All Andrew had now was...after.
He kept a hat box with other photos from their life and his past on the top shelf of his closet. He slipped those in the box and thumbed through the junk mail inside the package until he got to his GQ
magazine. No matter how many emails he’d sent, it still got delivered to Julia. The subscription had been a gift from Cate their last Christmas together. Tucked inside the mag was something he hadn’t expected Julia would send to him.
“What the hell?” Andrew gripped the Victoria Secret catalog.
The cover model—a striking brunette, caught his eye. And stopped his heart. Her long wavy sable hair called out to him like a mountain begging to be climbed and conquered. He pawed through the thick glossy catalog. He found the model again and again, but one image stuck in his mind. She wore a thong and covered her bare breasts with her hands while flashing a sneaky smile.
It reminded him so much of Gwen when he’d had her down to a thong and nothing else. The memory grabbed him by the throat. He stirred from the swelling in his groin that seemed to grow hard and painful whenever he dared to think about Gwen or remember what she’d felt like.
Andrew blew out a harsh frustrated breath. I’m a dead man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
n envelope taped to Gwen’s office door on Monday morning, caught her attention. She shifted Aher workbag, her purse, and a small lunch cooler to one arm. Balancing the pile, she tore the envelope down and lifted the flap. A jingling sound intrigued her. Inside, were two sparkling silver keys on a thin, round wire fastener.
All her bags tipped to the side and began to fall. She caught the laptop case by the strap, but the rest went flying. “Son of a—”
“Ciao, bella. ” Salvatore greeted her with a rocky accent and scooped up her spilled belongings.
“Oh, hi.” The keys felt cool in her hand as she slid one into the lock.
With a slight turn of the handle, the door swung open. She froze for a moment. “What the heck?”
On Friday, she’d left an office that looked like a tornado had struck. There were still two desks, but now hers didn’t look like a dinghy floating behind a crowded yacht. Behind her desk were two bookcases, and to the right, along the wall before the window, sat a file cabinet.