Until Now (10 page)

“Give me your number,” Cody said when we stepped outside into the blessedly cold night.

I rattled it off to him, hoping I’d remembered it correctly. He punched the numbers into his phone and then hugged me good night before disappearing down the sidewalk. I gripped Abby’s arm, steering her toward the curb. I was pretty sure one of us had called a taxi.

“We need to do this again,” she mumbled, her head dipping toward my shoulder. We both swayed, and I knew if I didn’t sit down soon, I’d be doing it involuntarily right there on the dirty sidewalk.

Relief coursed through me when a taxi pulled up and it was ours. As I collapsed into the back seat, yanking Abby in after me, my cell phone chimed with a text. Clumsily, I dug it out of my purse and squinted at the screen.

Next time you feel like being bad, call me.

A twinge of regret forced its way through my muddled brain, and I dropped the phone back into my purse like it was a live grenade.

“Robin? Are you awake?”

The bedroom door creaked open, letting in both the light from the hallway and Taylor’s stepmom, Lynn. I turned over in bed and winced at the thump of pain in my temples. “What time is it?” I asked, the words grating past my throat.

“Eight-fifteen,” Lynn replied. “Don’t you have work today?”

I squinted at her as she stood there in the doorway, dressed in her nurse’s scrubs and watching me carefully. Any fool could’ve seen that I was hungover, and Lynn wasn’t a fool. “Work?” I repeated, my thoughts filtering through the sludge in my brain.
Shit.
I had a nine-to-three shift today and I hadn’t even set my alarm. When I’d arrived back to the Brogans’ house the night before, all I had the energy to do was fall face-first onto the bed.

“Better get a move on then, huh?” Lynn said, giving me a measured look before leaving me to my own devices.

My stomach rolled. Would she tell Taylor about my obvious condition this morning? No, I decided. Lynn didn’t miss a trick, but she
was
discreet. I remembered when Taylor first started dating Michael, and her parents banned her from seeing him because they thought he was too old for her, and Taylor went behind their backs to see him anyway. Lynn figured it out, but didn’t let on. Tactful confidentially was ingrained in her after decades of nursing. Lucky for me.

I staggered to the bathroom wearing the same clothes I’d worn the night before and had a nice, cleansing puke before getting in the shower. Once I was dry and dressed, I headed downstairs, grabbed the biggest mug I could find, and filled it with coffee. It helped a little, but not much. My stomach was a volcano, rumbling, threatening to erupt. I briefly considered calling in sick to work, but I’d just managed to get back on Wade’s good side, so I sucked it up and went.

“You ill, Ms. Calvert?” he said when he saw me. I did look terrible—pale, dark circles, crooked ponytail. I’d never gone to work hungover before. Ever.

“Just a little stomach thing,” I assured him, trying to smile. He raised his bushy eyebrows, unconvinced. Like Lynn, Wade wasn’t a fool.

“Well, try not to look like you’re going to keel over on the desk, okay? You’re scaring the clients.”

This wasn’t true—I could put on a good show when necessary—but I nodded anyway, promising to do my best. Wade shot me a wary look and left me alone.

During lunch, I managed to keep down a dry tea biscuit and some Gatorade, which made me feel a teensy bit better. As my mind cleared, images of last night started piecing together. I remembered White Russians, and lots of dancing, and the handsy guy named Cody who’d offered me a bump. Had I kissed him? I put my fingers to my lips, feeling the dry, chapped skin there. Yes, a public make-out session had definitely occurred. God, I’d acted like I was seventeen again, wild and rebellious and carefree. This was precisely why I’d stopped drinking in the first place. Vodka, for me, was nothing but fuel for bad decisions.

By the time my shift was over, my ass was dragging. The nausea and headache had been replaced with bone-crushing exhaustion, and I knew I needed either a long nap or vast amounts of coffee.

Coffee
, I decided as I climbed into my car. Strong, and lots of it. I started for the closest Starbucks, but then, on a whim, I backtracked and headed north instead, ending up at the little organic bakery next to Margins. Their coffee was delicious, and they made the best muffins too.

This time, like a rule-following good girl, I ate and drank in the bakery itself. And two cups of coffee and a banana chocolate chip muffin later, I felt a million times better. So much better, in fact, that I had the urge to shop for books.

Ryan was stationed behind the cash, reading a novel, when I entered Margins. Again, the store was completely dead, kind of odd for a warm Saturday afternoon.

“Hey,” Ryan said, surprised to see me. He closed his book and dropped it on the counter.

“How does this place stay open?” I asked, glancing around. My voice sounded extra loud in the stillness.

“You missed the big rush I had about an hour ago. It comes in spurts.”

“That’s usually the way it works.”

Ryan made that half-laugh, half-cough sound, like he did when I amused and/or scandalized him. I smiled benevolently and walked over to the cash. “I was in the neighborhood,” I explained, in case he thought I was stalking him.

“Because it’s such a nice neighborhood to visit?”

“Hey, now.” I picked up a stray pen and started fiddling with it. “I happen to like graffiti and homeless people.”

He looked at the pen, which I was tapping against the counter with lightning speed. “Hyper today?”

“Too much coffee.” I leaned over to see what book he was reading and caught sight of something else on the far side of the register. “Ryan Monahan,” I said, and if I’d known his middle name I would’ve thrown that in too. “Is that a
beverage
I see? Do you have a
beverage
in the
bookstore
?”

His eyes flicked toward the half-full bottle and then back to me. “It’s just water.”

“Hmm,” I said, pretending to consider this. The fact that he was so serious and straight-laced made him extra fun to tease. I understood why his family ribbed him so often. “You know, I don’t have a college degree yet, but I’m pretty sure water is a beverage. Which,” I added, casting a significant glance toward the
No Food or Beverages
sign on the door, “is against the rules of this establishment.”

“It’s dry in here,” he said, deadpan. Still, a slight crinkling around his eyes gave away his amusement. “And water isn’t as damaging as, say, coffee and muffins.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Water isn’t damaging to books? Have you ever dropped one in the bathtub? I have, and it didn’t end well. It was a library book too.”

A flicker of interest crossed his face, making me wonder if he was picturing me in the bath. Then his expression returned to its usual bothered state and he said, “Did you come in here just to bust my balls or…”

“No, that was a bonus. I’m here to buy a new book.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me like he doubted I was even literate. “What type of books do you read? Wait, don’t answer that. I want to see if I can guess.”

He moved out from behind the counter and proceeded toward the stacks. I threw the pen down and followed him. Predictably, he went straight for the Romance section and pulled down a paperback featuring a muscular, bare-chested man on the cover. “This?” he asked, holding it up.

I shook my head. He replaced the book and we moved across the aisle to Historical Fiction. Wordlessly, he extracted a thick hardcover I’d never even heard of, let alone read.

“Nope,” I said, tapping my foot.

Ryan narrowed his eyes at me and continued with his guessing game, leading us from genre to genre with the confidence of someone who thought he had me pegged. After the seventh failed guess (cookbooks? Really?), I decided to take pity on him.

“True crime?” he said sceptically when I handed him an Ann Rule paperback. “You read about serial killers? Isn’t that kind of morbid?”

“Um, you were reading a Stephen King book when I came in.”

He returned the book to its designated slot, even though I hadn’t read that one and wanted to buy it. “Yeah, but that’s fiction,” he said.

“So? Truth is stranger than fiction, right? Just because I read true crime and watch
Dateline
doesn’t make me a sociopath.”

I flopped down on the green couch, which was only a few feet from the True Crime section, and peered up at him from under my eyelashes. He looked especially good today in jeans that hugged his frame just right and a fitted gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. I wondered briefly if I still looked like I’d been hit by a bus. I could’ve explained away my haggard appearance as the result of drinking enough vodka to kill a buffalo, but for some strange reason, I didn’t think he’d like that. Not that I cared what he thought of me, but still.

“Okay,” he said, crossing his arms again. He did that a lot, I’d noticed. Like a defense mechanism. “So I had you all wrong. It’s just that most women who come in here are usually looking for something a little more…escapist.”

“Who says serial killers aren’t escapist? I’ve never met one. I don’t think.” I nodded toward the empty spot next to me. “You can sit down, if you want. I’m honestly not a psycho.”

He glanced toward the front of the store, which was still dead quiet. “I should probably do inventory.”

“Inventory will still be there later.” I patted the couch. “Sit.”

He sat. “Are you always this persistent?”

“Yes,” I said, turning sideways on the couch toward him, my left leg bent between us. “I’m not in the same league as your mother or anything, but…”

He laughed. “She’s in a league of her own, for sure.”

“I like her. There aren’t many people in the world who would take a perfect stranger under their wing like she did for me.”

“She’s like that.” He leaned back, stretching out his legs. “Mason is completely attached to her. I’m just glad he has a female influence around that he can count on.”

Huh. An opening? Could I ask questions without disrupting the invisible boundary that seemed to be surrounding the mysterious ex-wife? No, probably not. Too soon.

I rested my head on the back of the couch, my gaze still fixed on him. The store was cozy and warm, and I felt like I could close my eyes and sleep for days right where I sat. Ryan yawned, like the sleepy vibe had infected him too. For a moment, I wondered what would happen if we dozed off here, together, on this soft couch, our bodies mere inches apart—

The door opened then, jolting me out of my stupor. Ryan got up and headed out front while I stayed put. Moments later I heard him talking to a deep-voiced man, something about a book the man had ordered that wasn’t in yet. When he left, Ryan came back to sit beside me again, seeming more comfortable now.

“Do you run this place all by yourself or are there other employees?” I asked, sliding the elastic out of my hair and re-doing my ponytail.

“There’s a girl who works the cash when I’m not here. Ariella. And Nicole helps out when she feels like it. She likes you, by the way. My sister.” He tossed me a smile. “In a platonic way, I mean.”

I laughed. “I like her in a platonic way too. She’s great. Your whole family’s great.”

“I guess that means you’re coming to dinner again tomorrow? I think it’s Japanese night. Mom cooks all these dishes that Kenji’s grandmother used to make for him when he was a kid.”

“Mmm, I love Japanese food.” My appetite stirred, and I realized how little I’d eaten today. I suppose I could’ve left now, gotten something to eat, gone back to the Brogans’ house for a nap, but this couch was too damn comfortable and I liked having company. “Has your family always been like that?” I asked after a pause.

“Like what?”

“Sunday dinners, backyard baseball, everyone in each other’s business…” I shrugged. “You all seem so close.”

“Yeah,” he said, like a happy, functional family wasn’t unusual. Maybe it wasn’t. “Why? What was your childhood like?”

I snorted and flung my ponytail over my shoulder. “Nothing like yours. It was always just me and my mother, and we mostly stayed out of each other’s way. She pretty much let me run wild and raise myself.”

“Is that why you think rules don’t apply to you? Because you never had any growing up?”

I glanced up to see if he was joking around, and he was. The way his mouth twitched, working to suppress a smile, gave him away every time. “I don’t think rules don’t—” I stopped, feeling flustered. “Look, you’re the one who has a contraband bottle of water by the cash register.”

“I also have a couple of Snickers bars,” he said.

“Hypocrite.” My mouth watered at the thought of chocolate and peanuts. “I should probably go now, or else I might start gnawing on this upholstery.”

He told me hang on for a second and got up, disappearing into the stacks. When he came back a few moments later, he had the Ann Rule paperback in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. He sat down and slid both items across the couch cushion toward me. I looked up at him, surprised.

“Turns out I
am
a sucker for a pretty face,” he said.