Crushed (32 page)

He swallows. “Have you?” His arms move, as though he means to unfold them and reach for me, but instead he tucks his hands more firmly into the crooks of his elbows. Like he’s holding himself back.

No. Like he’s holding himself together.

“Have I what?” I whisper.

“Moved on?”

My eyes flit away from his. “It’s only been a couple weeks. Believe it or not, I haven’t yet found a new guy to drag to the altar.”

His eyes seem to burn a little bit brighter. Hopeful.

My heart begins to pound, only not with dread. Or maybe with dread. Oh, hell, I don’t know. It’s dread and anticipation and want all muddled into one big mess.

Very slowly, his arms uncross, his hands dangling at his sides. Then he takes a step closer, his dark eyes blazing. “You also said that you’d move on. True?”

I gasp out a little laugh of pain and look away. “This is your idea of groveling? You’re making me do all the work.”

His finger hooks under my chin, gently bringing my face back to his. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

I swipe at the tears on my cheek. I was never a crier until I met this guy.

“Did you move on?”

I keep my eyes on his Adam’s apple. No way am I answering that. No way am I making this easy for him.

I don’t even know what this is.

“I have to tell you something,” he says, holding my face still so I have to meet his eyes. “That girl who was here. That was Olivia.”

“Yeah. I got that. And I have to tell you, it was super-great being in the same room as the woman who you’re in love with, but if we’re done with this torture—”

“I don’t love her.”

That shuts me up.

His fingers release my chin so his palm can slide along my cheek. “I think I let go of her long ago. And I wish I could say I knew it long ago, but the truth is, I didn’t realize it until that night in the parking lot.”

He eases closer. “I thought losing Olivia was my dark moment. But, Chloe . . . that moment when you walked away. Telling me that you’d move on, knowing that you’d stop loving me . . .
That
was my dark moment.”

“But you let me go,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says, his other hand coming up to my face.

A tear runs down my nose, and he catches it with his finger, his expression tormented. “Don’t cry.”

I let out a gross, sobby laugh. “You hurt me.” My hands come up between us, forming fists that beat usefully on his chest. “You hurt me!”

He lets me hit him, his hands staying on my face as he closes his eyes. When they open again, they’re full of regret.

But it’s not enough.

“Let me go,” I manage, realizing the futility of it.

“Nope. Did that once.”

“And I meant what I said—I’m going to get over you, you big, scared jerk—”

His mouth stamps over mine, stopping my flow of words. He pulls back just slightly. “Don’t, Chloe. Don’t give up on me.”

His mouth lowers in again, softer this time, his lips melding with mine in soft, pleading kisses.

And I feel what he’s too afraid to say.

But it’s not enough.

I’m done settling.

My hands go to his shoulders. “Michael.”

He pulls back, looking so lost that I nearly break.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “My type of love is messy. I like public displays of affection, and dopey pet names, and hand holding and dramatic declarations, and all sorts of stuff you can’t give me.”

“Let me try.”

He moves all the way in, so that I’m full against the wall, his chest against mine. He’s taking up all my room, all my air, all my heart.

His fingers slide back into my hair, and I watch as his eyes follow his fingers as they tangle in my curls.

“Have I told you I love your hair like this?”

I swallow, confused at the shift. “Yes.”

His thumbs brush my cheeks. “Have I told you that I love you?”

I freeze, my hands on his shoulders digging in and holding on.

“No?” he asks softly, his lips going to my temple. “Because I do. I love that you make me laugh. I love that you made me talk to you. I love that no matter how many times I tried to kick you out of my life, you kept coming right back. The only one in my life that didn’t quit me. Even now, you shouldn’t be here. But you are.”

“Because I’m a doormat?” I say, my eyes closing as he kisses my eyelids.

He moves quickly, nipping my lip in scolding. “Stop killing the romance. You’re here because that’s how you love, Chloe. Full bore, nothing held back. And I don’t deserve it . . . but I want it. I want another chance, Chloe.”

He starts to kiss me, but pauses, millimeters from my mouth, making me wait. “Tell me I get another chance.”

I lean toward him, but he pulls back. “Tell me.” His voice is more urgent now, and my heart breaks for this guy who has so much love to give, and nobody to give it to.

I want it to be me. Risk and all.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He kisses me on a groan, his tongue sliding between my lips, his hands tilting my head back as he kisses me like a dying man.

“I love you,” he says when he pulls back, kissing my neck. “I love everything about you.”

“I get it,” I say on a little laugh, as his teeth nip me. “You love my hair.”

“And your hips. And your eyes. And your breasts . . . definitely your breasts, and your . . .”

A knock pounds near my head from the other side of the door and I jump forward into his arms. “What the—”

“Michael? It’s Stephanie.” Another quick pound at the door. “You there? Okay, I know you’re there. Anyway, I brought you Kleenex, in case it went badly. And condoms, in case it went well. Which do you want?”

We look at each other.

“Hello?” Stephanie calls. “I know you’re in there.”

Then there are muffled voices, and I hear a guy—must be Ethan—say in an accusing voice, “You said you had to go to the bathroom, Stephanie. And why the hell are you holding Trojans?”

I hear a thump, then a yelp, and I’m not entirely sure Stephanie didn’t just stomp on her boyfriend’s toe.

“I like her,” I whisper to Michael.

“You would,” he mutters back. “Stephanie, it’s Michael.”

“Oh, Mikey! Hi!”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m good on the Kleenex. And the condoms.”

“Oh. Did she leave?”

“I’m here,” I call.

I hear an excited clapping noise.

“What is that?” Ethan asks. “What are you doing? It’s not a spectator sport. Would you come back to the bar?”

There’s silence, then more muffled noise, followed by two more voices.

“How’d it go?”

I recognize Olivia’s voice and slap a hand over my laugh to stifle the giggle when Michael leans forward and gently pounds his head against the door.

Then he opens it, just enough to stick his head out the door. “Guys. Thank you for coming. Let’s all grab dinner or drinks later. But for now—” he breaks off meaningfully.

“Got it,” Ethan says. “Say no more. Stephanie, I swear to God—”

“Fine!” she says. Then a box of condoms comes sailing through the crack in the door over Michael’s head.

“Jesus,” he says, closing the door and leaning against it.

I smile and wind my arms around his waist. “I take it you guys are all friends again? Or something?”

“Or something,” he mutters.

“I’m glad,” I say, kissing his jaw. “As long as they don’t steal you back to New York.”

“I’m staying right here in Texas,” he says, linking his arms around my neck and pulling me in.

“Because you like the tight jeans and boots? Or because that’s where your job is?”

“Because that’s where my girlfriend is,” he says, eyes smiling down into mine.

I wiggle closer. “I like the sound of that.”

“Don’t get too attached,” he says, giving me a melting kiss. “I have every intention of upgrading you some day.”

For one perfect moment, I don’t think I can get any happier.

And then Michael takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom, and proves me wrong.

Duckling . . . swan . . . who cares.

With the right guy, it’s
all
happily ever after.

Epilogue

Nine Months Later

The knock at the bathroom door is impatient. “Chloe. Would you hurry up? What’s the point of going on a beach vacation if you don’t come out of the bathroom until after the sun sets?”

I roll my eyes at Michael’s melodrama, still smearing sunscreen on my face as I open the door.

“You know,” I say, “Had I known you were such a cranky traveler, I would have nixed this Cabo San Lucas vacation in the bud.”

He has both hands braced on the doorframe of the bathroom. “Really? You would have?”

I purse my lips and nod. “Definitely.”

Michael lifts an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. So you’re not enjoying this oceanfront suite with its king-size bed and room service? Not digging the daily champagne? Because by all means, we can head back to the real world. . . .”

“Okay, okay, I
suppose
I can tolerate it for another day or two,” I say in a mock-martyred tone.

Although, as amazingly wonderful as our spontaneous getaway has been, the truth is: Our real life isn’t so bad, either.

Correction: Our real life is
amazing.

Two weeks ago I graduated from Davis. Summa Cum Laude, natch. And my boyfriend, yes,
boyfriend,
had planned this as a congratulatory vacation before I start my first “real job” as a data analyst at a Dallas bio-tech company. I know, I know. It doesn’t
sound
sexy, but trust me. It’s my dream job.

Michael still works for Tim Patterson, and just recently got promoted to Manager of Something-Something-I-Never-Remember, but he’s happy, and that’s all I care about.

Did I mention we’re living together?

My parents weren’t exactly thrilled about their baby girl living in sin, but they have bigger things to worry about. Say, like the fact that Kristin is four months pregnant with the child of a thirtysomething banker from Toledo who has a slight paunch, a receding hairline, and an absolute freaking heart of gold.

I know. Right? But here’s the funny thing. Kristin’s happy.
Super
happy. So’s Doug. They’re getting married next month, and Kristin says I get to be maid of honor so long as I make sure Daddy doesn’t
actually
bring a shotgun to the wedding. Her expectations are high, but I like to think I’m up to the challenge.

In other news, Devon, Michael, and I somehow survived the mother of all awkward Thanksgivings, when Dev came home from law school last year and we all passed mashed potatoes around the table and pretended that the situation wasn’t super weird. But for the most part, things are okay between me and Dev, and the two guys have quickly mastered the bickering part of being brothers, if not exactly the loving/supportive part.

Beefcake went back to New York for Christmas. He made amends with his parents, although his parents have
so
not made amends with each other. Their divorce is a messy one, which kind of pisses me off, because, really, they did enough damage to their son when they were together, the least they could do is break up peacefully. But, whatever. He seems okay with things. He still gets a little hung up on having a biological dad, the dad who raised him, a biological mom, and then a really awesome sorta stepmom.

It’s complicated, but he’s working on it.

I start to step back toward the mirror to make sure I’ve rubbed all the SPF 30 into my face (preventive skincare, yo), when Michael grabs a fistful of my cover-up and pulls me toward him until our chests bump.

I glance up and see The Look.

“Really?” I say, lifting my eyebrows. “Weren’t you just bitching about wasting daylight, or whatever?”

His hands are sliding down my sides, his fingers finding the hem of the knit cover-up and slowly sliding upward. “I thought I made myself quite clear about the no-cover-up policy I have for girlfriends in bikinis.”

“I thought that was just on Fourth of July,” I say, lifting my arms so he can pull the flimsy garment up and off. What can I say—I’m easy.

“Nope, it’s always,” he says, tossing the garment aside so I’m standing in front of him in only a tiny blue bikini.

I put my hands on my hips and glare at his T-shirt. He grins and pulls that off in one easy motion, his six-pack on display. So is the
O
tattoo on his arm, but it’s less obvious. He’s about halfway through the laser treatments to have it removed. His idea, but one I’m in favor of. Olivia’s a nice girl, but I so do not want her mark on my man.

He reaches out, cups my chin.

“You know I love you, right?” he asks.

I smile. “I know.”

“No matter what you look like.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very deep for appreciating a woman’s personality even while she’s wearing an itty bitty bathing suit,” I say, my hands finding his waist just above the band of his swim trunks.

He grins. “Actually, right about now, I’m having a hard time thinking about anything other than the fact that you’re very close to naked.”

His hand moves behind my neck, finding and untying the string there. His eyes meet mine. “Oops. Now one step closer to naked.”

His hands move toward the bikini bottoms, and I grab his wrists warningly. “If you do that, we’ll miss all the good chaise longues and get stuck by the kiddie pool again.”

“Worth it,” he says, his lips nibbling my neck. “This is worth it.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” I say, tilting my head to give him access.

He pulls back and looks at me. “The only thing I’m sure about is you,” he says, rubbing a thumb over my cheekbone. “You saved me.”

I go up on my tiptoes and kiss him. “Get it right, Beefcake. We saved each other.”

For Nicole Resciniti and Sue Grimshaw. Ever my champions.

Acknowledgments

As ever, a book’s transition from idea to rough draft to the story you’ve just completed is never a one-person show. Sure, Lauren Layne is the name on the cover, but the cover itself was all Lynn Andreozzi, a ridiculously talented designer. And everything after the cover? A little bit of me and a whole lot of Sue Grimshaw, my editor, who has an uncanny sense of knowing when to say “no, no, not that,” and “yes, yes, more of
that.
” Also, all bow to the mighty production editor, Janet Wygal, who catches stuff you wouldn’t even believe.