Somehow, I end up back in my car after walking in a shaky haze across his lawn. The slam of my door has a finality to the noise as images from the evening flash through my mind. Clenched fists, scowls, the tick of his jaw. Last week, when he was at the center, the way he put his head down before he hurried out the door—he’s not the same Chris I knew. Sometime over the last decade, life robbed him of his confidence that used to make me feel like a guest in the presence of greatness. I have a sickening feeling that my rejection may have done more thanjust halt our foreplay and that I won’t be getting a reprieve. The funny thing is that I want one now more than ever. I want to know the Chris who gives his dog kisses, reads random books to learn things, and was sitting at a raggedy little sports bar all by himself on a Friday night.
Dropping my head against my steering wheel, I groan. What happens in a fairy tale where the prince comes in hot and heavy when you aren’t ready for it?
CHAPTER 7
Chris
Unloading the last bag of pea gravel by my garden shed, I stow my hand truck inside the little building for the day and wipe the sweat off my brow with the hem of my shirt. The wind chills the damp skin on my belly, making me shiver now that I’ve stopped moving and the sun has moved behind the clouds. My knee gives a throb as though it’s shouting at the cold to stay away.
If my body and the weather cooperate, I should be able to finish the pathway to the oak tree in the back corner of the yard this week. One last project before a long winter of holing up inside and catering to my arthritis. It doesn’t get as cold here as other parts of the country, but I’d probably move to a less humid location if it weren’t for the amount of college teams in the area. At least my sunporch is insulated and heated, so I can work on my mosaics and watch Gale out the back window when I give her yard time. Three cheers for brooding being an effective motivator.
Locking up the shed, I turn to head toward the gate that opens to my front yard, where I backed my truck up to unload my bounty from the hardware store. One more bag and I’m calling it quits for the afternoon. The ache in my joints from the full day of manual labor is proof that anger can only fuel the stamina required for overzealous distractions for so long.Surveying my house, it looks like a crime scene when I think about what went down in it over the weekend with Remy.
I can’t believe I just assumed he’d be down for a repeat of our college activities. Instinct kicked in, some meatheaded alter ego that used to work for me in college, and I ran with it.
Gale races over, nudging a stick against my hand. Wrangling it from her, I give it a toss deeper into the yard. She zips down one of the paths I set a few years ago and then does a ninety-degree turn to dart into the grass where the stick landed, her usual eccentric flight path. I can read dogs, apparently, but not people.
I thought he looked at me like…
Shaking my head, I sigh and start toward my truck again. I had myself convinced that he was avoiding me and just being polite when I left the center last week, but then I came home and marinated in it. Shallow breathing, wetting his lips, the way he gets all jittery like he can’t even form a sentence—I started thinking that maybe I just got all up in my head. That maybe there was something still there.
When I saw him walk into Mahoney’s with fucking pain-in-the-assPajamiesof all people, the cloud of jealousy and petulance that hit me was an eye opener. I have no claim on him. It’s not like he wasn’t free to be as stupid as he wanted to be and end up with Jamie, even though I didn’t know it wasn’t the case at the time. I swear, when he walked up to the bar, though, he gave methat look. The one he used to give me each time I showed up in his room. It was like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. I haven’t seen that look in fifteen years. Needless to say, it made me go a little savage, instantly determined to pull out all the stops. I needed to know if it was real. When he told me he wasn’t with Jamie, I thought I won the damn lottery. There was no question—Remy was going to be mine for the night. Again. Just like we used to.
He wanted to be too. I was sure of it. Until I wasn’t.
Stopping at the tailgate of my truck, I reach in and grab the bag ofSakreteI bought. Dragging it to the end of the bed, I stare down at it blankly.
‘And then what?’
I asked myself that very question recently, so I couldn’t even feel slighted about it. How can you begrudge a guy for passing on casual sex with an old hookup?
It’s just… Was it because of the way I am now? I want to shout, ‘I object!’
Disabled people are more than their disabilities. I just wish in my case that were true. Ugh. I sound like a damn incel. Poor me and my broken dick and back. Pinching my eyes closed, I curse under my breath, disgusted with myself on a whole new level.
Something black whirs past my periphery. I open my mouth to shout at Gale over whatever she decided to take off after, but then snap it shut at the sight of Remy in my front yard as though my moping summoned him. A burst of hope inside my chest goes off like a firework, taking me aback. He looks so good in the light of day. Good on the eyes, good to see him, and just good in general. There’s something pure and honest about him, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of vibe that’s a breath of fresh air. I’ve spent the last couple of days blaming my obsession on my lack of interaction with people. Breathless and tingling, I know now it’s so much worse than that. I like what I see. I like it a lot, and I have a snowball’s chance in hell of having it. The hesitant look on his face and slow, cautious steps give me the feeling that I’m about to be treated to a pity party.
“Hey,” he calls.
“Hey.”
“I hope it’s okay that I dropped by. Have you got a minute to talk?”
A minute?Yup. Pity visit. Called it.
“I’m surprised you remembered where to find me without your sat nav.”
Hoisting the bag of concrete mix onto my shoulder, I bite back a grunt at the pressure it puts on my spine. It would be nice to look like something he should regret walking away from for this minute. Apparently, my petulance still has teeth.
“No,” he chuffs. “He flew back home yesterday.”
This time, I grunt on purpose because I don’t know how to do whatever small talk this is. Turning on my heel, I start toward the backyard. The urge to hide is strong, but that’s not the impression I want to leave him with either. Glancing back twists my hips the wrong way, though, making me instantly regret it. I wince, sucking in an involuntary breath between my teeth.
Remy hustles a few steps forward. “You’re in pain.”
I’m not in the mood to air my updated biography with him, so I continue on my path without looking back again. If he follows, he follows. It’s not like it’s a requirement that you have to be face-to-face with someone when they come to add another layer to their rejection with a polite explanation.
“What else is new?”
