Then, lying on my stomach while Sade’s smoky voice sings of the safest hiding place, I inhale a long breath and transition into the Cobra position. Legs together, palms next to my rib cage, I press up through my arms, lifting my chest and arching my back. I hold the pose for twenty complete breaths, inhaling and exhaling, and then gradually lower myself to the mat.Dr. Roland suggested Pilates as a way of teaching me to destress and redirect my anxiety, a trigger for overeating. I was skeptical at first, but it actually helps.
I inhale again and repeat the exercise several times before the doorbell rings. My quieted pulse picks up speed. Only one real possibility comes to mind as to who would be on my doorstep at ten o’clock at night.
The rational voice in my head hopes I’m wrong, even as some reckless part of me hopes I’m not.
Another ring of the bell beckons my feet forward, my pulse thudding with each step I take. I look through the peephole and find Mick standing under my porch light, running a hand through his hair. A nervous habit from youth that makes him less Micah Peters, ex–NBA star, and more the boy I once loved with everything I had.
The mere sight of him jars my heart and ignites my desire. No two ways about it—opening the door would not be a good idea.
Not when I’m feeling lonely and vulnerable. Not when my need is hot and achy. Not when I don’t trust him…or myself.
THE SIGHT OF LIGHT SHINING through her windows and her car parked in the driveway tell me Dee’s home. When she doesn’t answer after several seconds, shifting impatiently, I lean on the bell again. Finally, movement stirs on the other side, and I can feel Dee looking through the peephole, debating whether to let me in.
I get it. I wasn’t exactly nice to her on the phone. But hell, she pushed my buttons. As if twenty minutes of worrying about Dwayde’s whereabouts were anything compared with what her taking off had put her family…and me…through. So yeah, I got pissed. But continuing to sling mud at Dee wasn’t going to help Dwayde.
On the drive here, I sorted it all out. Even though she got under my skin, I was going to keep my temper and my libido in check. I would be conciliatory, amicable even.
I knock softly to prove my calm. There’s another moment of silence and then the click of metal as the lock is released and Dee opens the door a crack. Wariness suffuses the visible half of her face.
“Is Dwayde all right?” she asks.
“It’s been a tough day for him. That’s why I’m here. To talk about Dwayde. May I come in?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s late and I’m not dressed for company.”
“Look, Dee…” I exhale a tired breath and nudge the door a little wider. “I know my attitude toward you has been less than stellar. But I’ve done some thinking. For Dwayde’s sake, I’m prepared to leave the past in the past and call a truce.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” she asks skeptically.
No. Yes. Hell, I’m not sure.I comb my fingers through my hair, wishing I had my cap on so Dee wouldn’t see the nervous habit.“Dwayde comes first. And we both have a vested interest in him, so if we make that our only focus, we should be good.”
Her brow pleats, brooding for several moments. But as leery as she might be about my intentions, I doubt she’ll be able to ignore her sense of duty. I counted on that when I asked her to take the case, and I’m counting on it now.
“Fine. A truce for Dwayde’s sake,” she concedes and opens the door to me.
Okay, good.I won that round. But when I step inside the foyer, which is little more than a narrow passageway, and get an up-close look at Dee beneath the hanging light, I know I have a bigger battle to win with myself.
In business attire, Dee’s professional veneer makes her seem almost untouchable. Not so in checkered pajama bottoms and a faded pink T-shirt. Though its bagginess consumes her, the wide neck has slipped off one shoulder, teasing me with smooth, honey-kissed skin. I’m reminded of the many times I traced the rounded curve with my lips. The sweet, addictive taste of her is forever marked in my memory bank. At eighteen, Dee filled my head with thoughts of hotter-than-hell sex and happily-ever-after, because with her—unlike any girl before or any woman since—I didn’t want one without the other.
“We can talk in the kitchen,” Dee says, pivoting on her socked heels.
Appreciating the sway of her curvy hips, I’m tempted to suggest that we head to the bedroom, but that wouldn’t be the way to start our truce. I follow her through an archway into a small galley with spotless white countertops and a table-and-bench set, built along the back window.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks.
“Coke if you have it.” While I shrug out of my jacket and drop it across the bench, I survey more of her place. Curious to see what I can glean about the new life she’s built for herself. What she ran away to. Assemble the pieces of the puzzle that I can’t quite make sense of in my mind.
From the kitchen, I can see into the living room, where jazz is softly playing. The focal point is a red brick fireplace with a bunch of lit candles in front of it. A blue yoga mat lies on the floor, and I wonder if Dee was exercising before I got here. That would explain the messy topknot and her sexy, disheveled appearance.
Images of Dee’s luscious body contorted into all sorts of interesting positions dance through my head. I curse another bout of weakness and try to focus on the rest of the decor.
A cream overstuffed couch, scattered with colorful pillows, takes up most of the room, and abstract art covers her walls. In one corner is a shelf filled with knickknacks and books. In the other, green leafy plants seem to be growing out of the hardwood. The scene is warm and domestic.
“Nice place,” I say, attempting to keep the bitterness from seeping into my tone.
“Thanks. It’s small but it’s home.”
The term conjures up unwanted memories of the plans we’d made, right down to the white picket fence. I bite back the quick retort as a framed photo standing on the ledge that divides the kitchen nook and the living room catches my attention. I step forward for a closer look.
