Dreams of Her Own (18 page)

Chapter 23

The next evening, Ian knocked, then unlocked the door to Ruby’s apartment. “Ruby?”

“Ian? Come on in. I have a visitor.”

Wondering who else could be visiting, he walked into the living room to see Millie seated in a kitchen chair next to the hospital bed Hospice had delivered a few days before, a book in her lap.

Ruby’s frail form sunk into the pillow and blankets, her oxygen canister by the bed—another new addition to the medical paraphernalia surrounding her. The cashmere throw covered her feet.

“Millie’s reading to me.
The Letters of Abelard and Heloise
.” Ruby’s soft smile soothed the ache in Ian’s chest.

“Hi,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. A blush tinged her cheeks, and he thought of Gloria’s interruption yesterday. Millie had been nowhere to be found when he’d left Darcy’s. He’d wanted to see if she was okay and tell her goodbye.

“Hi, yourself.” He approached Ruby and kissed her gaunt face, before adjusting the nasal cannula that supplied her cancer-ridden body with oxygen, helping to alleviate some of her breathlessness. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh. I, uh, I was about to take a little break. Here.” She held the book out to Ian. “Why don’t you pick up where I left off?”

Ian froze, unsure what to do.

“That’s all right, dear. I’m a little tired anyway,” Ruby supplied.

Millie nodded and laid the book on the chair before heading in the direction of the bathroom.

As soon as he heard the squeaky door close—he really needed to oil those hinges—Ruby pounced. “You haven’t told her?”

“No. I can’t.” He closed his eyes, swamped by the same feelings from his youth. Fear. Self-loathing. Inadequacy. “Besides, what point would it serve? We both know I could be leaving by spring.”

“She’d understand. That girl is enamored of you.”

“No.” He didn’t know if he was saying no to telling Millie, or no to Millie being enamored of him. Probably both.

His terse response brought a frown to Ruby’s brow. “Is it so hard to believe that someone could care about you? Love you, even, if they knew?”

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“It’s a reading disability, not leprosy! You really need to get over yourself.” Her voice gentled, and she lifted a frail, shaky hand to his face. “Ian. We both know I’m not going to be around much longer.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his cheek into her hand, unable to face that reality. Her hand slid from his face as if the force of gravity were too much.

“Listen to me, no matter what’s happening, you have to go to England. You understand?”

Ian’s heart sank. He knew exactly what she meant. Even if she was still alive, she wanted him to go . . . even if it meant never seeing her alive again.

He nodded and made to rise.

She took a shallow, raspy breath, “I’m not done.” She gazed into his eyes, hers fogged from the pain medicine she now took around the clock. “I don’t want to think of you alone after I go. Tell her. Give that girl a chance. She deserves it. You deserve it.”

Silence followed except for the sound of Ruby’s labored breathing, every breath a struggle.

“If you can’t give her a chance, then do her a favor. Leave her alone. It’s clear she’s well on her way to falling in love with you.”

Ian shook his head. That couldn’t be true. Millie was far too smart for that. Far too levelheaded to fall for a guy like him. But what did he expect? He was her first. Girls, or in this case women, tended to fall for their first. Thinking of Gloria’s words yesterday, and Ruby’s today, he knew he had to put a stop to it. ASAP.

“What do I do?”

“It depends on whether you decide to follow your heart or your head. But either way, be honest. With her. With yourself.” Ruby’s eyes drifted shut as she released a gravelly sigh.

Ian watched the tortured rise and fall of her chest. Be honest with himself. That meant recognizing Ruby would be lucky to make it to spring. And he just couldn’t face that stark reality. Not yet.

But, she’d been right about one thing. If he couldn’t give Millie what she deserved, it would be better to let her go. And since he couldn’t give her that, his choice was made.

After a particularly shitastic day, Ian
brushed off the snowflakes as he entered the loft, Caleb behind him grumbling about the cold and wet.

Ruby had been moved to an inpatient Hospice facility after the Hospice nurse who checked on her daily found her lying on the floor by her bed, and Ian had spent much of the day seeing her settled in. Up until that point, Ian had relied on his dyslexia not to read the handwriting on the wall. Now, it had become crystal clear. Ruby was dying and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Caleb wandered into the kitchen, where Ian could hear him mumbling about not having any beer. He came out with a bottle of water in his hands instead.

Thumbing through the stack of mail, he saw a letter from the owners of the Yardley Mansion. He stared at it as if it might be filled with Anthrax. That he’d received a letter rather than a phone call left him with a sinking feeling in his already basement-level gut.

Inhaling, he slid his finger beneath the tab and pulled the letter out. “Fuck.” He didn’t need to make sense of all the letters to know the outcome. Thanks, but no thanks.

“What is it?”

Ian handed the letter to Caleb, who read it out loud.

Dear Mr. Brand,

Thank you for your interest in the Request for Proposal for the Yardley Mansion renovation project. We received many excellent responses. Unfortunately, the selection committee felt that your company, Brand Construction and Historical Renovations, LLC, lacks the robust infrastructure and qualifications necessary to complete a job of this magnitude.

We wish you much success in your future endeavors.

“Well, hell.” He tossed the letter onto Ian’s desk, then paced away. “Lacks the infrastructure and qualifications? That’s bullshit. You’ve handled bigger jobs than this. We should appeal,” he said, his voice tense.

Ian didn’t want to have this conversation. He’d had a rough day and the letter was just insult to injury. But if he was honest with himself like Ruby instructed, he wasn’t surprised.

“Let me see the RFI.” Caleb stood, one hand on his hip, the other holding the bottle of water.

Ian
really
didn’t want to go there. “I’m not really sure where it is . . .”

Caleb strode over to Ian’s desk. “Maybe in this file marked ‘Yardley RFI?’” he asked, his expression dubious.

Damn, he’d forgotten that Robin, his bookkeeper, had come in today and worked, so his desk was as neat as a pin.

Memories of standing at his teacher’s desk while she read his book report engulfed him, and he knew he couldn’t let Caleb see the RFI. But before he could snatch the folder from his hand, Caleb turned his back and opened the folder.

“Dude. What is this? The draft? Where’s the final?”

His stepfather stood over him, his report card in his hand, as he berated him for being stupid.
“You really are a dumb fuck, aren’t you?”

“That
is
the final,” Ian said around a tightening in his throat.

“Come on, man. Stop fucking with me. Jillie’s five-year-old nephew could have done a better job.”

“Yeah, well next time get her nephew to do it.” Ian scrubbed his hands through his hair. Anger. Frustration. Fear. Deflection. “Ruby is ill, dying. I’ve been juggling too many jobs . . .”
I need to break it off with Millie and I don’t know how.
Not only that, he didn’t want to.

“Still.” Caleb waved the documents in Ian’s face. “What are you? Dyslexic or something?”

Ian froze, his eyes on Caleb’s. No. Fucking. Way.

Realization lit Caleb’s eyes. “Oh shit. You are.” He paced away from Ian, then pivoted to face him. “You’re dyslexic. That explains so much,” he said, almost to himself. “Using voice to text for everything. All those audiobooks. Ordering without looking at a menu.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “How did you prepare for the contractor’s exam? Ruby,” he said, answering his own question.

Ian couldn’t take the pity that filled Caleb’s eyes. But that pity quickly changed to anger.

“And you never thought to tell me? Your best friend? Your colleague?” He shook his head. “Dammit, Ian. I could have helped. Hell, I could have done the paperwork
for
you. For us.” Then anger turned to hurt. “I thought you trusted me. I’ve always had your back, and you couldn’t even ask me for help. Couldn’t even tell me you had dyslexia.”

Before Ian could find his tongue, Caleb slapped the piss-poor excuse for an RFI against Ian’s chest, then let go, the pages fluttering to the floor.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Okay. That was too close to the bone. Too close to Hank. And Ian clammed up. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was his business and if he lost out on a job, then so be it. It was the reason he went into business for himself. No one to tell him what to do. No one to take orders from. And he sure as shit wasn’t going to start now.

Game over.

At his continued silence, Caleb released a heavy sigh. “You’ve got some soul-searching to do, my friend. You’d better start letting people in, or you’re gonna find yourself all alone someday.” Caleb strode to the door without looking back. And Ian just let him go.

Stepping
way
outside her comfort zone—like halfway around the world outside her
comfort zone—Millie reached Ian’s loft, a pint of Rocky Road in her gloved hand. If things went as planned, she’d check off the newest item on her list.

With no apparent doorbell or buzzer she was unsure how to announce herself. So she fisted her hand and banged on the metal door.

A few moments later, it flew open. “What the hell do you want now?”

She drew back in surprise.

“Millie!” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. What are you doing here?”

Rethinking her impulsiveness, she swallowed. “I, uh, I brought some Rocky Road.” She displayed the pint of ice cream.

His only response was a frown.

“Maybe this is a bad time,” she muttered. “I should go.”

“Yes. No.” He heaved a sigh. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

He preceded her to the living area and began picking up papers scattered across the floor. Slapping them on the desk, then he turned to her. “I’m not pleasant company tonight.”

“Oh?” She glanced over at the desk. “Bad news?” She gasped. “Not . . . not Ruby?” she whispered.

“No.”

She sagged with relief. “Then what? Maybe I can help.”

He huffed out a mirthless laugh. “A little late for that,” he muttered.

She sat the ice cream on the desk. “Ian. What is it?”

He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to her.

Reading it, her heart sank. “Oh, Ian.” Why couldn’t he admit that he had dyslexia? Why was he being so stubborn? Why wouldn’t he confide in her?

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.” His eyes glittered with frustration, as the tension poured off him in waves.

Setting the letter on the desk, she stepped into him and reached out to touch his chest. “I would have helped you, just like with the Hawkins Hall RFP.”

His mouth hardened, and a muscle twitched in his cheek, and before she could make contact, he grabbed her wrists, stopping her. “Don’t. Don’t touch me,” he said through tight lips.

Rejection, searing and bitter, eviscerated her. He released her, and she retreated as if slapped.

Ian wouldn’t look at her, but the tick in his clenched jaw told her everything she needed to know. He didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. He’d finally come to his senses.

She turned to go, but his voice stopped her. “Millie!”

“What, Ian? What is it?” she demanded, finding herself mad, a rare emotion for her.

He ran his hands down his face, then looked at her. “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other . . . for a while.”

“A while? As in never again.” Her legs went numb, as her heart thudded heavily in her chest.

“We never should have started this.” His hands fisted at his sides. “I never should have let it get this far.” He stared at a spot above her head. “It was wrong and I knew it.”

Wrong?
He thought it was
wrong
. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand. She wouldn’t cry. Through all the rejection and ridicule she’d faced in her life she’d saved her tears for seclusion. Something she could take a little pride in. No one had ever seen her cry. And it wouldn’t start now. She had to get out. Now.

“Goodbye, Ian,” she managed past the suffocating tightness in her throat. She pivoted on her heel and walked to the door. The closer she got to the exit, the faster her pace, until she finally ran.

“Millie! Dammit! Millie!”

With tears streaking her cheeks, she kept running out into the freezing, wet night.