SWNOVELS Runaway Love: Chapter 21
AT QUARTER to eight Saturday night, I walked up the garage stairs to knock on Veronica’s door.
While I waited for her to answer, I straightened my tie and smoothed my freshly cut hair. The suit might have been overkill, but I couldn’t help wanting to impress her. Every day, she saw me in dirty jeans and sweaty work shirts. Maybe I didn’t have a closet full of bespoke suits, but I wanted to show her I could clean up nice.
She pulled the door open and I lost my breath.
My eyes wandered from the blond hair piled on top of her head to the diamonds twinkling in her ears to the blue strapless dress to the high-heeled shoes. The scent of her perfume hit me, and my knees nearly buckled. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”
She smiled, and my heart skipped a few beats. “Thank you. I bought a new dress.” She twirled around. “Do you like it?”
“I love it. The color matches your eyes.”
“You look very handsome. That suit on you is . . .” She kissed her fingertips like a chef. “Perfection.”
“Thank you.”
“But you didn’t have to come up and get me, silly,” she chided. “You could have just texted. I’d have come down.”
“I didn’t mind. Are you ready?”
“I am.” She pulled the door shut behind her. “Let’s go.”
I took her arm as we went down the steps. “Are those new earrings? I’ve never seen you wear them before.”
She stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at me, her expression worried. “I wasn’t sure if I should wear them. They were a birthday gift from Neil. But I literally have no jewelry that wasn’t from him, and I wanted to look pretty tonight.”
“You don’t need diamonds to be the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Her smile returned. “Thank you. Want me to take them off?”
“No.” What I wanted was to be the one that could give her that kind of gift. I hadn’t even thought to bring her flowers. “It’s okay.”
“You know what? Give me a minute. I want to take them off.”
I shook my head. “You don’t have to do it for me.”
“It’s for me.” She kissed my cheek, then hurried up the stairs and disappeared into the apartment. When she came out of the door again, the earrings were gone. “There. I feel better without them.”
We started down the stairs again. “Is Xander coming with us?” she asked, spying his SUV in the drive.
“No, I just traded the truck for his car tonight—it’s nicer.” I opened the passenger door for her.
“Austin, you didn’t have to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble,” I said, eyeing her legs as she got in the car.
But there was trouble.
As I drove toward the harbor, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I would never have the chance to give her a birthday gift, watch her unwrap something I’d chosen for her, and see her wearing it.
As we walked into the restaurant, I put my hand on the small of her back and realized I’d never take her on another Saturday night date, be seated across from her at a table by the window, watch the light of the setting sun reflect in her hair, in her eyes, on her skin.
I’d never get to see her get ready beforehand, zip up her dress, fasten her necklace, catch the scent of her perfume in a room we shared.
I wouldn’t get to take her home afterward, pay the babysitter, check in on the kids, then unzip that dress and take her to bed, where we’d have to be quiet so the twins didn’t hear us, but we’d whisper and laugh about the times we’d been noisy and wild. I’d keep my voice low as I talked dirty to her. She’d cover her face with a pillow as I made her come with my tongue. I’d try not to be so rough the bed thumped against the bedroom wall.
Just rough enough to leave a mark.
I fucking loved seeing them on her, and when she asked for them, it felt like a gift. But I was about to lose it all.
“Hey. You okay?”
I realized I’d zoned out. “Yes.”
She set her fork down and picked up her wine glass. “You’re a little out of it tonight.”
“Sorry. A client just walked in, and I got distracted thinking about work,” I lied. “We’re really busy next week, and I’m trying to get Xander’s bar top done, and Quentin called again asking about a table for his gallery. I want to say yes, but I need more hours in the day.”
“I wish you’d talk to your dad,” she said.
I picked up my whiskey and took a sip. “I wish a lot of things.”
We spent our final night together in my bedroom, and in some ways, it seemed like the opposite of our first night together in hers. The chemistry was just as hot, the build-up just as intense, the release just as satisfying, but in place of the playful banter, there was silence. Where the mood had been light, it felt heavy. If last weekend there had been a sense that things were just getting started between us, last night had the inescapable weight of an ending.
Afterward, as we lay in each other’s arms, neither of us spoke. Which was normal for me, but Veronica’s uncharacteristic silence was unnerving. I wondered what she was thinking about, but I didn’t ask. I racked my brain, trying to come up with a way this could continue, but I came up empty. I wished I had the words—and the nerve—to tell her how I felt, but I didn’t.
And maybe it would have been a mistake anyway. What good would it do her to hear that I didn’t want to lose her, that this week had been more to me than just sex, that she made me feel things I didn’t want to feel, couldn’t explain, and had no idea what to do about?
I knew exactly what she’d say.
What things, Austin? What do you feel?
So I held her for one more night and stayed silent.
“Daddy!” The twins rushed off the plane and wrapped their arms around me.
“Hey!” My throat closed up as I hugged them back, and my eyes grew a little misty. “I missed you two.”
“We missed you too.” Owen’s tan had grown deeper, and he wore a shirt I’d never seen that said California Dreamin’ with palm trees and a surfboard on it.
“Where’s Veronica?” Adelaide asked. Her hair looked even lighter, bleached by the sun, and freckles were dusted across the bridge of her nose.
“She’s at home making dinner.” She hadn’t offered to come with me this time.
“I hope it’s tacos,” Adelaide said a little warily. “That’s my favorite thing she makes.”
“Actually, while you were gone, she learned how to cook more things. In fact, she found a slow cooker in the basement I forgot I had, and she’s making brown sugar barbecue chicken sandwiches for us.”
“We told her barbecue was your favorite,” Owen said. “That’s probably why she’s making it.”
It probably was, which didn’t help.
I changed the subject. “So you had a good time on your trip?”
“Yes! I took surfing lessons,” said Owen proudly as we headed for luggage claim.
“Me too,” Adelaide chimed in. “And we went hiking, and slept in a tent, and had our fortunes told!”
“You did?”
“Yes. My fortune is very good. I’m going to be rich and famous.”
“She didn’t say that, she just said you were going to be on TV,” argued Owen. “You could be, like, a weather person or something boring like that.”
“And what’d she say to you?” I elbowed my son gently.
“I’m going to travel the world,” he announced. “Maybe as a pilot.”
“That’s fine, you can fly me around in my plane,” said Adelaide.
I grinned. “I’m so glad to have you guys back.”
Maybe with the twins home again, I’d be so distracted with dad stuff, I wouldn’t even have time to miss Veronica.
At least, that’s what I was hoping.
When we got back, she was there in the kitchen, ready with huge smiles and hugs for the kids. “Wow, look at you guys! I’m jealous of your suntans! Wash your hands, then come sit at the table and tell me everything. I hear you showed off your tap dancing while you were there.”
But she barely looked in my direction. It had been like that all day.
This morning, she’d slipped out of bed early, leaving me lonely and disappointed. When I went down to make coffee, she was nowhere to be found, but about twenty minutes later, she jogged up the driveway and began stretching in the yard.
I thought about going out there, making sure we were okay—it wasn’t like her at all to ghost me in bed—but then figured she probably needed her space. I’d ask her how she was doing when she came in for coffee.
But she hadn’t come in. Instead, she’d gone straight up to her apartment.
After returning Xander’s car and getting my truck back, I headed into the garage to work. Eventually she appeared in the garage door, looking so sweet and pretty my arms physically ached to hold her.
“Question,” she said. “I found a slow cooker in the basement. Can I use it to make dinner tonight?”
“Of course. You can use anything you want. What’s mine is yours.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll have dinner all ready by the time you get home from the airport.” She’d smiled at me before walking back to the house, but it seemed oddly impersonal. Like what had happened between us meant nothing to her.
Now I watched her move around in the kitchen, much more confident than she used to be, piling pulled chicken on bakery buns, spooning coleslaw onto plates, laughing and talking with the kids, shining all her light in their direction.
And I was jealous—of my own damn kids!
Angry with myself, I took their suitcases up to their rooms, dumped all their dirty laundry into their hampers, put their shoes in their closets and their toothbrushes back in the bathroom. Then I studied myself in the mirror, dismayed to see those two lines between my beetled brows.
I tried to force my forehead muscles to relax, but those lines refused to go away.
“Dad!” Adelaide called up the stairs. “Dinner!”
“Coming.” But before I went downstairs, I entered my bedroom and hurried over to the bed. Picked up the pillow she’d used. Held it up to my face and inhaled.
She was not, by any means, out of my system.
It went on like that all week.
On Monday, she and the kids were back in their routine—camp, chores, activities, leisure time. I watched them come and go, heard all about their adventures together when I put the kids to bed at night, suffered silently through meals during which the three of them talked and laughed.
We were never alone together. I wasn’t sure if she was avoiding me on purpose or what, but somehow she and I were never in the house when the kids weren’t home. She didn’t pop into the garage to chat. If she passed me on the driveway or in the hall and the kids were out of sight, she didn’t make eye contact, and she certainly didn’t get close enough to brush my sleeve as she went by. I never saw her wear my shirts or my hat again.
She seemed fine without me, and I was losing my mind.
On Friday night, she went out, wearing that fucking red miniskirt. I was like a stupid jealous husband or nervous father all night, watching for her headlights out the front window. When I finally saw them around eleven p.m., I quickly grabbed my beer and ran out to sit by the fire pit, as if I’d been out there relaxing all night.
She walked up the driveway and headed for the garage stairs without seeing me.
“Hey,” I called.
Startled, she looked over at me. “Oh! Oh. Hey. I didn’t see you there.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
“Who were you with?” I asked, knowing it was none of my business.
“Ari.”
Relief washed over me. “Where’d you go?”
“A wine bar called Lush.”
“Never been there.”
“It’s nice. You should go sometime.” She glanced up at her apartment, like she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“Was it just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“See anyone you knew?” Like fucking Daniel? I still hadn’t forgotten the guy she’d danced with at The Broken Spoke.
“A few people. Bubba and Willene Fleck. Your aunt Faye and a friend. And Ari introduced me to some people.”
Men or women? I wanted to ask, but knew I couldn’t. My gaze wandered over her blond waves, those scarlet lips, the long legs beneath that little red skirt. I gripped my beer bottle tight. The need to touch her was nearly unbearable.
Say something, you idiot. Don’t let her leave.
But I couldn’t think of anything, and after a moment of crickets chirping in the dark, she said goodnight and went up to her apartment.
I watched the light come on and saw her come over to the window. She stood there for a moment, looking down at me. I took a long pull on my beer. Then she pulled down the shade, disappearing behind it.
I felt like smashing the bottle on the concrete.
Rising to my feet, I went inside, angry at myself, at her, at the world. I went to bed mad, refusing to even look at her side of the bed. I’d changed the sheets but not her pillowcase, but I didn’t sniff it tonight. I didn’t jerk off either, which I’d done several times this week, the angriest self-serve hand jobs imaginable.
Saturday morning, the first thing I did was shove that pillowcase in the washing machine, as if that would punish her.
I wanted to punish myself for getting close to her.
Why hadn’t I known better?