Love Me: The Complete Series (67 page)

Roger had fully intended to let Caroline go before she showed up at his doorstep and asked him to accompany her to the beach. Was it the sunshine, the water, or seeing her enraptured face reposed on a blanket that made his feelings flip-flop? Maybe it was her assurance and bold determination to pursue her dreams. She knew where she was going and what she’d do to get there. People
follow
that kind of determination. Hell, he wanted to be a part.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about your trip to Europe for that internship.” His voice croaked. Every ounce of moisture had left his parched throat as he weighed his words.

Caroline lifted her head and met his gaze with wide-eyed anticipation. “Me too. I Googled the countries best for the research and printed out some maps. I’m so excited.”

It was impossible not to be infected by her excitement, but somewhere inside him a mounting fear half-stepped up a ladder of anxiety. He swallowed. “Is anyone going with you on this trip?”

Silence. The look on her face suggested she’d never even considered bringing company. It shocked him. Many women her age wouldn’t even go to the bathroom alone, but she was so used to being on her own she’d planned to travel the world in solitude. He hated the idea. Caroline took a sip from a tea glass at her side. “What do you mean?”

“Is this a group trip you’re involved with? A journalism club or something?”

She shook her head. “Real journalists don’t exactly travel in groups like on a tour bus. I have to do this alone, to meld with the local culture and weed out a good story. That’s what my dad did—does.”

Roger narrowed his eyes, feeling the raging desire to scoop her into an enormous hug. “Caroline, you know you can’t make him come back into your life simply by following his footsteps.”

She slammed the glass to the counter. A splash of tea erupted and landed near her forearm. “That’s not what I’m doing. Besides he’s in my life—sort of. He sends things to my mother.”

“Like what?”

“News clippings. Copies of research on the project he’s working on. Little notes.”

“That’s enough for you?” He realized the words were combative and cold, but he wanted to know. Was she really okay with such a nonexistent parental relationship? Would he ever get to that point with his own father?

Caroline shut the lid to her laptop with a click and padded barefoot to the couch. She dropped beside him and stretched her legs across his. “No, but it’s all I get.”

Roger’s heart squeezed. “So you chose the same profession and decided to trek around the world in search of him.”

She jutted her chin out and lifted her head in defiance. “That’s not what this is about. This is about doing what I’m meant to do. Fulfilling my purpose in life. My passion. Why are you trying to ruin it?”

God, he wished he knew what that meant. “Caro, gorgeous. I’m not trying to ruin anything; I’m just afraid for you. There’s a lot of bad people in this world who would see a young, beautiful woman in a foreign country as an easy target. Easy prey.”

Her eyes softened a smidge. “Journalists are protected under the Geneva Convention—we have safe passage.”

She really believed in that crap? He stroked a finger over her kneecap. “According to the Geneva Convention,
anyone
who isn’t part of a war is guaranteed safe passage. That means all civilians and travelers. But bad things still happen.”

Caroline frowned. “What do you expect me to do then?”

He leveled his gaze and calculated the impact of his next words. Would she be open to the idea? He’d never considered it until recently, but his thoughts were consumed now. The thought of taking over his family financial burdens lingered like the taste of bitter lemons. It wasn’t
his
responsibility, so why the hell had his dad given him this burden? His entire body ached with a longing to feel what Caroline felt as she anticipated her upcoming adventure. God, he wished for such enthusiasm. A chance to attack the world with vigor and leave the disappointment and ruined dreams behind to find new ones. “Take me with you.”

He heard the faucet drip in the kitchen. Splat. Splat. Splat. Her eyes concentrated on his fingers as they circled the skin on her knee. Water pooled in her lower lids and spilled slowly down one cheek. He’d made her cry? Was that a happy cry? Her head shifted slightly to the right. A pit formed in his gut. Uh-oh. She began to shake, and her head rattled side-to-side as she clutched his hand and squeezed. The pit turned to cement.

“I . . . can’t.”

Six years later

There had never been a time in Caroline’s life when she knew she belonged. Nor had she figured out her purpose—if she had one. She suddenly felt nostalgic as she remembered a time when a friend had suggested this was one of the three essentials of life. A purpose—wasn’t everyone supposed to have one? Hell, she didn’t even have a good handle on a career. She’d roamed the world seeking her
big story
only to return broke and lonely, still an outsider in a world that wasn’t her own. Now, she was partner to her friend Abigail’s dream.

She was fairly used to the unsettled pocket in the pit of her stomach. She glanced around the florist business Abby had enticed her to join. Plants. Flowers. Loads of boxes waiting for her to open and place stock on shelves. Admittedly, the place felt nice, but not completely
right.
At least not for her.

Was it totally nuts to want more?

Abby’s phone rattled to life on the counter where she’d left it, and Caroline couldn’t resist a glance at the screen. A text message. Too funny. The idiot guy who’d started texting Abby in error was now
group texting
her and several others. “You might want to get that, Abs. They’re talking about you.”

The whole thing was drop-dead-roll-on-the-floor hilarious. Out of nowhere, the guy had started texting her by mistake, and Abby was in a tizzy 24–7.

Caroline hadn’t been much help since she’d actually started the whole mistaken-identity crisis. When the guy randomly texted Abby, Caroline thought it would be funny to fire off a response from Abby’s phone. Unfortunately, it prompted a slew of further texting that cast Abby as the alter ego of the man’s friend. Now, the texting had gone on for days, and Abby was completely flustered about what to do. It wasn’t
entirely
Caroline’s fault: Abby had actually responded to one message and agreed to meet the guy—as the friend, of course.

Another text popped on her cell along with the accompanying buzz.

When Abby didn’t respond, Caroline snapped up the phone. “Holy shit!” Caroline’s eyes were glued to the texts. “Did you see these group messages?”

“Some of them. Hey, I thought you said I needed to stop spying and set him straight.”

It was bad enough that the guy had confused her number with a friends’. Now he was adding her to his
group
messages. Caroline lowered her voice to make it mocking and masculine. “There really is a running chick? Yeah, nearly killed her with the neighbor’s dog. You weren’t with the neighbor? No, just helping with the dog. Good. No warts? No, she’s nice. Seeing her again? Already did. Twice. Damn, that was fast.” She read the screen out loud then slapped a hand to the counter and giggled. Apparently the guy had knocked some innocent jogger down with his dog then tried to ask her out. What a dork. Wait—holy crap. The jogger had been Abby! “This is the same guy you met while out running?” Well, the guy was original, if not smooth.

Another text message buzzed, and Caroline read the screen. “You know one of these guys is a real jerk. He said, ‘So the tits
are
real?’”

“What! He did not!” Abby ran to her side and peered over her shoulder. Caroline felt the tenseness in her friend’s body. “I thought you were joking.”

“Nope. It gets worse. Look.” Caroline handed over the phone, and Abby read the others. Her expression darkened to a thunderstorm complete with lightning bolts.

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline was clipping along the sidewalk headed to her first investigative assignment since she’d ditched her contract reporter gig. The idiot guy and his friends were meeting for lunch, and she planned to crash their fun and perhaps uncoil the knot of confusion she’d caused Abby. Or maybe just to ID the asshole and see if he was worth the effort. Besides, no one said smack about her friends and lived to laugh.

Inside the restaurant, she scoured the room and found a table of four guys that fit the general description. She planted herself in the next available booth—which happened to be right beside them. With her back to the group, she emptied her tray onto the table, spread out her food, and took a bite.

I’ll just snap a few pictures with my phone and send them back for her to see who she’s been texting.
Caroline lifted her phone, put her tongue out, and focused.
Snap.

She looked at the photo. Ugh. Worst selfie
ever.
She looked awful. Delete.
One more with little of me and lots of four delicious guys in the background.
Lifting the phone again, she focused, did her best pucker-up look, and—
snap.

Holy crap. Did that guy just photobomb me? No way.
She slammed the phone down and grabbed her fork.
Busted.
She shoved her salad around the plate a couple times and slipped a small scoop of chicken through her lips. Yum. At least they’d picked a good place to eat.

The discussion matter in the booth next to her was typical guy stuff, mostly about baseball—but then the conversation shifted. How do guys do that? They start out talking business or sports then in a nanosecond switch to women. And the woman in question just happened to be her best friend. At least the guy was decent looking and a lot better in person. She had to admire the way he avoided the slew of questions thrown his way about the
runner chick.
Abby would be so pissed if she knew they’d spent three whole minutes talking about her boobs
.

Caroline turned the phone over in her lap and glanced across a shoulder. They couldn’t see what she was doing. She thumbed through her pictures and looked at the last photo. Oh, God. He
had
photobombed her. She zoomed in on the dorky face and felt a sense of familiarity.

Wait.

Was that Roger Freeman? He
looked
like the goofball she’d dated. In an older, more mature way. That was years ago, so who would know?
He’s flaring his nostrils and giving you the crazy eyes, girl.
Obviously
not
mature.

Yeah, had to be him.

This little investigative excursion was officially over. Caroline grabbed her empty drink glass and scooted out of the booth. She’d get a quick refill and hit the road. The uneaten food caused a tiny gurgle of regret for leaving such a great meal. It was a crime to walk away from that chicken. She grabbed a wing and took one last bite. With her napkin and purse in one hand, she carried her drink to the soda fountain.

A flood of memories wafted over her, causing a slight chill. She shivered. All the bad choices and wrong decisions she’d ever made had returned to haunt her. From the corner of her eye, she noted that Roger had climbed out of the booth and was headed her way.

Don’t look. Do. Not. Even. Raise your head.
She slapped a lid on her drink, gathered her things, and turned to leave. Was he staring? Caroline smelled that familiar Polo scent. She wanted to get a quick close-up, but she just couldn’t force herself. Had he recognized her? God, she hoped not.

Just put one foot in front of the other and go. She stepped away and pushed out of the restaurant, disappointed that she’d left a perfectly good plate of food behind. Skipping meals was normal under their new work schedule, but doing so just to avoid a confrontation was sad.

Surely, it wasn’t Roger. He would have said something. It wasn’t possible he’d let an opportunity to blast her failure go without a word. After all, he’d tried to join her. He’d made all sorts of attempts to get her to take him along to help with the photos and brainstorm her ideas.
Two minds were better than one,
he’d said
.
Surely he’d love to know how right he’d been? How fabulously she had failed?

Roger stared after the spiked-haired version of Caroline. Had she recognized him? She’d barely glanced his way. Nope. Wow. Had he really become a forgotten memory?

Of course he had, and why not? They’d only been together a short while, and not once during that time had she ever given him any indication it would last past graduation. She’d fully intended to follow in her nonexistent father’s footsteps and pursue a journalistic career. Which was why Roger had only tried to talk her out of leaving once. Okay, maybe twice, but that was out of desperation—aided by double-shots of Jägermeister. Despite his last-ditch effort, she wouldn’t be swayed.

It was wrong to expect her to give up a dream so big. Thank God she hadn’t allowed him to derail her, though it still burned that she kept him from tagging along. Had it worked out for her?

He went back to the booth and slid in across from his best friend, Carter, who gave him a look. “Take a picture next time, it lasts longer,” Carter said.

Roger slipped the lid from his tea and added a dose of sweetener. “I think I know her.”

“Then you should have said something.”

“I’m not sure,” he lied. “The hair’s different, and she didn’t recognize me.” It was most definitely Caroline—but she had moved on.

Unlike him. He had tanked. Stalled permanently. He had done as his father demanded, dropping several classes and taking on a full-time job to help his mother with bills. As a result, his graduation was derailed for almost a year. Still, the job had helped him get his foot in the door at the legal firm, which he later joined. They even helped him with his remaining education.

Back in his office after lunch, he opened the door of his credenza and pulled out the camera. Her note was underneath a pile of pictures he’d taken. She’d left it on the window of his Land Rover. That was all he’d been worth at the time, a fricking note. He read it for the gazillionth time.