It's Just Love (3 page)

Dropping back into the seat, he stared up at the
construction guy and Geena. The setting sun flared on her hair and made her
pale natural redhead’s skin glow. But he couldn’t spend time thinking about
that because every alarm in his head was blaring. He shoved the ring box deeper
in his slacks pocket. He was reasonably sure he wouldn’t need it.

“Gage, this is John, a friend of mine.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying not to get a good look at the
guy. The less he thought about him the better. The jerk stood close to her,
hovering, almost. Not a casual Starbucks chat-up, then.

But he couldn’t sit while they stood over him. Not while he
waited for the ultimate humiliation. Ten out of ten factors, perfect
compatibility, and she was about to dump him.

He wanted to throw up. Or hit something. He focused on
Geena. “I take it you have something to share with me.”

She reached a hand to him, but he ignored it. “I’m sorry,
Gage.”

“Of course.” His professional persona slammed into place,
concealing the somewhat trusting openness he’d shared with her for the past two
years. “So, I guess that’s it,” he said, the ring box in his pocket feeling
like a lead suitcase. How long did he have to stand here and talk about
something so pointless? She’d made her decision, and he wasn’t going to beg,
although he did consider it. But they weren’t alone. His chest tightened, and
he forced in a breath.

She glanced up at the hulking man at her side.
Oh, crap.
She’d introduced him as a friend, but Gage would have to be blind to miss how
close they stood together, even if they weren’t touching. Were they…could she?
His fists clenched at his sides.

Despite his urge to walk away, the compulsion to punch the
other man in the jaw was becoming a more attractive impulse. He struggled to
contain his rising rage and hurt. Taking such action would damage his career, not
the kind of TV Aaron wanted him to appear on. The nightly news...
yeah, no.
He allowed a quick headline to flash through his mind—
Dr. Gage Middleton
breaks the face of the man who encroached on his woman
—then pushed it away.
The gym; he could punch something there and get his frustrations out without
destroying anything. Anything not already decimated by perfidy, anyway.

“Gage?” Geena’s green eyes sparkled as lovely as ever, her
expression composed. “I hope you understand.”

“Understand?” What could he understand? She hadn’t told him
anything.

“I do care about you. But there’s no spark.” She stepped
closer, so she stood halfway between him and the ape-man she had brought with
her. Probably so Gage wouldn’t make a scene.

His head spun, but she’d made a good move. In public—now he
knew why she’d decided not to meet him at her condo—and with her “friend” at
her side, he couldn’t do a thing but walk away. Still…

“No spark?” All the times they’d made love? It had been
pretty darn good. He had been considerate, hadn’t he? He’d made sure to satisfy
her, never taking his own pleasure and leaving her without hers. What more had
she wanted? They’d even liked to make love at the same time of day. Factor
number five was compatibility in the bedroom…did that require spark?

A shadow of doubt crossed his mind, but his shock and anger
chased it away, nauseating him. He began to plan his escape. To tarry was to
risk a loss of his much-prized control.

“I have truly enjoyed your company. But I want the
fireworks.”

Holy shit.
The woman was talking Fourth of July,
sparks and fireworks. Didn’t she know that stuff didn’t last? “The fireworks.”
Lame. He needed to get away. His cheeks heated and his vision blurred, a red
haze clouding his view of the pair. “So, does John here give you fireworks?”

Geena frowned. “What?” She drew farther from her “friend,”
but more to the side, away from them both. “I’m not seeing him…or anyone.”

“Then, why?” He hated the crack in his voice. “I thought we
were happy.”

“Oh, Gage.” Pity colored her tone, and she reached to lay a
hand on his arm. “We were fine, but I want more.” He jerked back. “You deserve
more. We’re each entitled to find our soul mate.”

When had his practical girlfriend, ex-girlfriend now, decided
she believed in soul mates? She’d always been so grounded, never…never…

“Sorry about that.” John flashed him a small grin from
behind Geena, where she couldn’t see.

Friend, my ass. This bastard has plans, even if she doesn’t
realize it yet.

Leaving became critical. In another moment, he’d sock that
grinning mother back to the barista stand. “No, John, you are not sorry. And
neither is Geena. For God’s sake, at least step aside so I can leave.”
Desperate to escape the situation, he shouldered between them, experiencing a
moment’s pleasure at parting them.

He strode from the patio and uphill two blocks to his car,
parked by Geena’s condo, climbed in, and started the engine to go…where? With
no plan in mind, wanting to get away, he drove straight ahead, down the hill.
Without Geena, the future looked bleak. And the pity in her eyes galled him.
When had she gone from an eager companion to someone who was happier without him?

The street emptied into the parking lot on the north side of
Santa Monica Pier, and for lack of a better idea, he drove in and found an
empty space in the row closest to the sand.

Yanking off his loafers and stuffing his socks in them, he
tossed them onto the passenger side floor and locked the car. The encroaching
fog sent cool eddies through the sun-warmed air, but he couldn’t be bothered
getting a jacket from the trunk. He marched across the bike path and onto the
beach, toward the waterline, and turned right to continue north along the
strand. Salt air filled his lungs and teased at the rage simmering in his mind
and body. He walked faster, damp sand squishing between his toes, thoughts
jumbling through his head.

Incomprehensible. He and Geena were a ten on his list of
factors. A perfect match. They even shared the elusive factor number seven.
Parents from a similar background, acquaintances in common. Surely the
construction worker—if John even had a job—couldn’t share those things with
her. Why would she leave him? Why
had
she left him?

As he paraded along, the fog reached the beach, cold, damp
tendrils brushing his skin like wraiths. Dead souls, lost at sea. He shivered,
such morbidity unlike him. He needed a drink, preferably one strong enough to
help him forget the sudden upheaval of his orderly life.

Glancing back the way he had come, the pier disappeared into
the misty distance. Why hadn’t he dressed warmer? Gage rarely asked himself so
many questions, but then he had never been dumped by his perfect match before.
And that was the biggest conundrum.
How could this happen?
He’d been so
sure.

Facing south again, he considered moving above the high tide
line, but, while less cold on his toes, the dry sand would slow him down. He
focused on getting home and into a hot shower. One step after another, the
image of his Geena—well, his former Geena, anyway—with that guy filled his mind.
Had they made love? He fought the idea of her long, naked limbs spread across a
bed, waiting for someone else, for
John
. It couldn’t be love, could it?
So soon? But she’d said they were friends. She’d never lied to him before, had
she? How long had she been planning to dump him?

Anger sizzled in his veins, and he stopped and stared at the
waves. As if the white mist weighed them down, the waves rolled sluggishly onto
the sand at his feet. Yanking the box out of his pocket, he opened it and took
out the diamond-crusted ring, the one he’d spent an afternoon selecting,
imagining how she’d smile when he gave it to her. He choked—had she been with
him
that day? He’d bought the ring a week ago. How humiliating; he’d been a fool.

He brought his arm back to fling the circlet into the ocean,
and then stopped.
One hell of a statement to make over a woman who left me
for someone else.
Even if it weren’t John, it was for some mysterious soul
mate who could give her fireworks. He tightened his fist over the expensive,
meaningless bauble.

He dropped his leaden arm to his side. Exhaustion
overwhelmed him. He stuffed the box back in his pocket and continued walking.
Beside the pier, he turned away from the ocean and trudged through dry sand toward
his car.

He slid in and cranked the engine, shivering. Never more
thankful for the heated seat in his new Jaguar XJ, he was also chagrined at the
grit settling into the leather interior. Putting the car in gear, he headed for
home.

Next to him on the passenger seat, his phone chirped. He’d
been so distracted, he’d left it in the car. He hit a button and the speaker
system lit up. One message.

“Gage, it’s Aaron. I have you scheduled for the Harry
Montclief show on Monday. His people are very excited to have you and your lady
to illustrate how well the factors work. Call me back and I’ll give you all the
details.”

Monday…it was now Friday afternoon. How the hell was he
going to explain why he couldn’t bring Geena? If he admitted his own
relationship, based on the ten factors, had disintegrated, what did that say
about his system? Most therapists kept their private life just that. He, as the
author of popular self-help books, had been more forthcoming, foolishly
confident in his future with Geena. He regretted that now.

People weren’t going to be anxious to buy a book about how
to have a successful relationship from a relationship failure; his career was
on the line. He strove to think of something to do to pass the time until
Monday morning, but nothing held allure. The idea of taking a sail flitted
through his mind, but he didn’t have the energy to even drive there. It was
going to be a long, depressing weekend. He’d spend it in his office considering
possible disaster scenarios and how to avert them.

Coral waited for five minutes behind some kind of fancy
silver sedan while the driver argued with the security guard at the Burbank
Studios’ gate. The older Hispanic man then slapped a sticker on the windshield
and waved the car inside, grumbling under his breath.

“Good morning,” she said, flashing him a smile, hoping to
undo some of the previous person’s downer on his day. “I’m here for the Harry
Montclief show.”

He consulted a clipboard, not responding to her attempt to
cheer him. “Name, please?” His aura held the dull, reddish-brown of resentment.

“Coral Nixie.” She hated to see anyone looking so unhappy.
“What was that guy’s problem anyway?”

His eyes darted to her face, as if noticing her for the
first time. Maybe people didn’t interact with him much? “He insisted my date
sticker would ruin his fancy car. As if the studio would allow something like
that to happen with the expensive vehicles that come through here.” He lifted a
square and peeled off the backing. “Watch.” He slapped it on her windshield and
pulled it off then smoothed it back on. “See?”

“Oh, maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

The guard’s aura cleared to a sociable yellow-green as he
grinned. “I don’t know why, but when I asked him where his guest was, a Miss
Geena something…he jumped my shit.” He flushed. “I mean, he got more
upset—excuse me for that, Miss Nixie.”

She beamed back, thinking a tiny spell to give him a
cheerful day. “I can’t blame you. You must meet all kinds.”

“I do, and usually they don’t bother me. But for some reason
he got under my skin.” The guard handed her a map and directed her to a parking
lot for “the talent”. She waved and drove away, amused.
Talent
to her
clan meant something different. She hoped she didn’t regret taking her gift
into such a public venue.

Gliding her 1968 Charger into the lot, she looked around in
dismay. Her boat of a car had been built in a time of larger spaces. She
nonetheless refused to give up the gas-guzzler.

With everything she needed already in the neighborhood, she didn’t
drive it more than twice a month, so she didn’t feel as if she harmed Mother
Earth by keeping an already existing car. One fresh from the factory made of all
new materials would be worse. The familiar litany of reasons for holding onto
her muscle car ran through her mind, culminating in the toppers.

She couldn’t sell her inheritance from someone she’d
loved…and it came with a surfboard rack mounted on the roof.

Focusing on the mostly-filled lot, she spotted a pair of
spaces together and nosed the beast into one. As usual, she filled it from line
to line, but at least she didn’t go over.

Finally at her destination, a rabble of butterflies awoke in
the pit of her belly and swarmed, wings battering her insides. The rare drive
through rush hour traffic had distracted her from the nerves that had tortured
her all weekend. She still didn’t understand how Tom had convinced her to do
something so out of character, but before he’d dashed out the door on Friday
afternoon, she’d signed a form agreeing to appear on the Harry Montclief show.
She’d never seen the program, but Tom had assured her she needed to be there,
and the little blue-tipped devil with his impish grin was difficult to refuse.

Anyway, she never broke her word, and she didn’t have any
clients expected for the day—leaving her free to accept the invitation. With
any luck, the whole thing would be relatively painless and she could try to
catch a few waves in the afternoon. A tropical storm off Mexico was generating
world-class swells while she was stuck in landlocked Burbank, about to be
laughed at by an audience who would consider her some kind of freak.

I want to go home!
She sighed and stepped out of the
car, clutching the map the guard had given her like a tiny life raft.

* * * *

Why didn’t they have some kind of a map for guests? Gage
made yet another left turn and found himself in a small lot marked by a
notebook paper-sized placard,
Montclief Guests
. A single empty spot
remained, and he breathed a sigh of relief until he approached to find he would
be hemmed in between a wall and the biggest car he’d seen outside of muscle car
reality shows on
TLC
.