Drop Dead Gorgeous (23 page)

I didn't want to talk to him yet. The four remaining issues I hadn't considered were so big I couldn't quite face them. What I was most afraid of was that Wyatt would convince me to put this fight behind us and move on,
then
later these big issues would bite us in the ass. He
could
convince me, because I loved him. And he'd want to convince me because he loved me, too.

That was what worried me. For the first time since realizing Wyatt loved me—I'd known for quite a while that I loved him, the jackass—I had real doubts that we could make a marriage work.

Love by itself isn't enough; it's never enough. There had to be other things, such as liking and respect, or love would get worn away by the realities of everyday life. I loved Wyatt. I adored him, even the things that got me most up in arms, such as that aggressive drive to win that had made him such a good football player and extended to every facet of his character. Wyatt was strong enough that I didn't have to rein in my own alpha tendencies; he could take anything I threw at him.

One of the issues I hadn't tackled yet was suddenly staring me in the face: Wyatt might not
want
to take everything I threw at him.

Two years ago he'd walked away after just three dates because he'd decided I was too high-maintenance—that is, not worth the trouble. When Nicole Goodwin was murdered two months ago in my parking lot and for a little while he thought I was the victim, that had forced him to admit that what we'd had going on between us was damn special, like lightning in a jar. So he'd come back and convinced me that he loved me, and we hadn't been apart since, but—and this is a big "but,"
Hottentot
big—for two years he'd been perfectly content not to be with me. That had always irritated me, like a rash, and now I realized why.

I hadn't changed. I was just as high maintenance as I'd always been.

He hadn't changed, either. We had compromised in some things, we'd adapted in other ways, but essentially we were still the same people we'd been two years before, when I hadn't been worth the trouble to him. These past couple of months, what I had seen as a deliciously fun jostling for position, maybe he'd just been enduring.

There was evidently a lot about me that he either didn't know, or didn't like. And facing that was breaking my heart.

Chapter Sixteen

"The security company called to set up an installation appointment," Lynn said when I got to Great
Bods
, handing me a list of calls. "And I've worked up an ad for the newspaper for the assistant assistant-manager, since I figured you'd be too busy to take care of it with the wedding so soon. It's on your desk."

"Thanks," I said.
"Any complaints today?"

"No, everything's cool. What about you?" She gave me a shrewd look.
"Anyone following you today?"

"Not that I've seen."
Which was damn annoying, when you think about it.
After following me for two days in a row, you'd think whoever was driving that damn white Malibu would show up the day after I had a big argument with Wyatt over whether or not it was really following me, right? I could then get Lynn to verify it was there, get a tag number, things like that. But no, there's no such thing as an
accom-modating
weirdo.

After Lynn left, I forced myself to concentrate on the job. Being angry at Wyatt was good, so I focused on that feeling instead of the brokenhearted one, because anger is so much more productive. Angry people get things done. Brokenhearted people just sit around being brokenhearted, which I guess is okay if you want people to feel sorry for you.

I'd rather be angry. I blew through the rest of the day, mowing down responsibilities and chores. For whatever reason, the clientele was on the sparse side that afternoon and night, giving me time to catch up on stuff, plus some real free time.

For the first time since almost getting mowed down myself, I worked out; nothing jarring, no gymnastics or jogging, because I didn't want to make friends with the headache from Hell again. I did an intensive yoga routine, working up a sweat, then I lifted some light weights, then I swam. I was sort of afraid I'd work off my temper, but not to worry; it was still nice and healthy when I finished.

I wasn't in a hurry to close up and go home that night. Not that I deliberately dawdled, you understand; I just didn't
hurry
. If there was something that legitimately needed doing, I did it, and felt virtuous because I was so conscientious.

I had never before felt uneasy about leaving the gym by myself at night, but that night I opened the door and looked around, making certain no one was lurking nearby, before I stepped out. Thank you, weirdo stalker, for making me afraid at my own place of business. "Afraid" is not a natural state for me, and I don't do it well. It pisses me off.

My car was alone under the parking awning, the way it had been a thousand other nights—I'm guessing here; I worry about people who sit and count things like how many nights they've worked—but tonight I was jumpy, and deeply grateful those bright lights illuminated every inch of the parking lot. After locking the door I hurried to my car,
then
locked the car doors as soon as I got in. The doors automatically lock when I put the car in gear, but that leaves, what, maybe five seconds when you're vulnerable just sitting there? A lot can happen in five seconds, especially when you're dealing with
weirdos
. As a group, they're very fast. I guess it's because they're not weighed down with consciences.

I didn't take my usual route home, either. Instead of turning right when I left the parking lot, to hit the main drag in front of the gym, I turned left and wound my way into a residential area, where I'd instantly spot any car behind me, then took a circuitous route home.
Nada, no one behind me, at least not in a white Chevrolet.

When I reached my neighborhood, Beacon Hills Condominiums, I did notice a few white cars parked in front of the various buildings, but as Wyatt had pointed out white cars weren't unusual, and, yeah, those white cars were probably always parked there this time of night because no one else was paying any attention to them. There's one lady in the condo next to mine who takes a progressive approach whenever someone unknown parks in her allotted space: she lets the air out of their tires. A guy in one of the other buildings will park his pickup behind the trespasser, so there's no way the offender can leave without hunting him up. As you can see, urban parking is akin to guerrilla warfare. I didn't see any warfare going on, so evidently there weren't any trespassers tonight.

Wyatt's big Avalanche was parked in front of my unit. I live in the third building, first unit on the end. The end units had more windows and extra parking, with covered porticos, so the end units cost more. I thought the cost was worth it. Having an end unit also meant I had neighbors on only one side, which can be a blessing, especially if we were going to have another argument that involved yelling.

I went up the steps and let myself in the side door. I could hear the television in the living room. Wyatt hadn't re-set the alarm, knowing I'd be coming home, and though I locked the door I didn't re-set the alarm, either—because he'd be leaving. I knew in my bones he hadn't come here tonight intending to spend the night. He would say what he wanted to say,
then
leave. Nor would I try to stop him, not tonight.

I dropped the bag containing my sweaty gym clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine, then went through the kitchen into the dining room. From there I could see into the living room, where he was sprawled on the couch watching a baseball game. His posture was relaxed and open—his long legs stretched out, his arms draped on each side of him, along the back of the couch. He did that, took com-
mand
of a piece of furniture, a room, a scene, with his physical presence and confidence. At another time I would have gone into the living room and snuggled against his side, reveling in the feel of his arm coming around me and holding me tight, but I stayed where I was, rooted to the floor.

Somehow I couldn't go into my own living room and sit on any of my own furniture, not now, not with him there. I put my purse on the dining room table and stood there, at a safe distance, watching him.

He'd heard me come in, of course, had probably noticed my car lights reflected on the windows as I turned in. He lowered the volume on the television,
then
tossed the remote onto the coffee table before looking at me. "Aren't you going to sit down?"

I shook my head. "No."

His eyes narrowed; he didn't like that. The sexual attraction between us was already thick in the room, despite our current… was "estrangement" too strong a word? He'd been ruthless in using our sexual attraction when he'd been pursuing me, bringing every weapon he had into play to break down my defenses. Touch is a powerful thing, and he was accustomed to touching me—and being touched, because it went both ways—whenever he wanted, however he wanted.

He stood up, his powerful shoulders seeming to block most of the room. He'd been home and changed; he was wearing jeans and a button-up green shirt, with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. "I'm sorry," he said.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I waited for him to finish the sentence, to say "I can't do this, I can't marry you." Mentally I reeled, and I reached out and braced my hand on the table, in case my body imitated my mind.

But he didn't say anything else, just those two words; a few seconds clicked by before I realized he was apologizing.

The wrongness of it slapped me in the face, and I drew back. "Don't you
dare
apologize!
" I flared. "Not when you think you're right and you're just saying it to… to
placate
me!"

His brows lifted in disbelief. "Blair, when have I ever placated you?"

Stopped dead by that question, I had to admit, "Well… never." The realization made me feel better, except for that teeny little diva part of me that would like to be placated every now and then. "Why are you apologizing then?"

"For hurting you the way I did."

Damn him, damn him,
damn
him! I turned away before he could see the sudden tears that burned my eyes. Right from the first he'd had an uncanny knack for slipping under my defenses with the simple truth. I didn't want him to know he'd hurt me, I'd much rather he think I was furious.

He wasn't saying he'd realized he was wrong about all the things he'd said to me last night, just that he was sorry he'd hurt me. Nor had he said those things just to hurt me, to be deliberately spiteful. Wyatt wasn't a spiteful man. He'd said what he said because he believed it to be true—and, yes, that was what hurt so much.