“I know you don’t, and let’s not stress about it. We can talk when you’re back.”
“Our flight gets in late Sunday, but I could drop by Monday night after Rowan is asleep?”
“I’ll cook a late dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“You know I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me, and I want to cook for you.”
A door bangs in the background, and a hushed conversation ensues. I sip my glass of wine while I wait for Dion to speak. “Sorry, babe. We’re heading to another bar. I gotta go.”
“Have fun. I’ll see you Monday.”
Like the coward I am, I hang up before he can tell me he loves me.
I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Some vital missing piece that has screwed up my internal wiring.
Dion is perfectly sweet and romantic, and the sex is good. He loves me, and he loves Rowan, and I know if I made more of a commitment that a proposal would be forthcoming, yet the very thought makes me break out in hives.
I haven’t told Dion I love him because I don’t have those feelings for him. I don’t know if I ever will. I like his company, and we have fun. Our relationship is nice. Easy-breezy. Comfortable. Borderline boring. But there is a certain predictability with boring that is reassuring.
Yet is that enough reason to continue dating him? Am I settling? Or will every guy I meet always fall short compared to Ben. And how ridiculous is it to still fixate on a man who tossed me so easily to the curb?
Ugh. I take a big slurp of my wine, wishing Dion was enough. I feel like I’m shortchanging him and cheating myself. Now that he is pushing to take things to the next level, I’m feeling like I should probably break things off before they get messy. The last thing I need is things getting complicated with Rowan’s teacher.
Sighing, I pad into the dark living room with my wine in one hand and my cell in the other, planning a night with someFriendsreruns. I’m in desperate need of a little light relief and Joey, Chandler, and crew are the perfect remedy.
I’m moving toward the couch, in the direction of the large freestanding lamp, when a subtle motion in the corner of the room sends my blood pressure skyrocketing. Out of the corner of my eye, I detect a shape hiding in the shadows beside the fireplace.
Holy fuck! Someone is in the house!
Panic powers through my veins, and my heart jumps, pumping frenetically, to the point I fear I’ll have a heart attack if I can’t slow it down. Rooted to the spot, I silently talk myself off the ledge. If someonewasin here, they would have made themselves known by now, and the alarm would have sounded. I’m probably just freaking myself out for no reason. Like in the woods earlier.
With my heart jackhammering against my rib cage, I slowly turn around, ready to confront my torrid imagination, because I have convinced myself I’m just imagining things again.
A blur rushes past me, and I open my mouth to scream when a hand clamps down hard over my lips. My cell phone and my wine slip through my fingers, crashing to the ground. Glass smashes on the hardwood floor, and liquid splashes my bare legs. Blood rushes to my head as my heart tries to beat a path out of my chest. Warm breath fans across my cheek as I’m hauled against a solid body. I can scarcely think over the screaming in my head and the frantic pounding in my chest.
Rowan!
That’s the first thought skating through my mind as the intruder wraps his muscular arm around my waist, lifting my legs and pulling me back from the broken glass and spilled wine on the floor. I don’t fight, even though my instinct is to buck and writhe in his arms, to bury my teeth in his arm until he releases me. But I can’t do it. I won’t struggle because I don’t want to risk Rowan waking and barreling into the middle of this.
I will give this man whatever he wants—my car, money,me—as long as he leaves my son alone.
The man’s lips brush against my earlobe, and every bone in my body locks up tight. “Hello, Firefly,” he says in a sexy voice that continuously torments my dreams.
No freaking way! It’s Ben!
I almost collapse in relief against him until I recall the last time I saw Bennett Mazzone and I remember the truth I have denied him. Ben’s flesh and blood is asleep only a few feet away, and if he’s here now, it meanshe knows.
Somehow, Ben found out I gave birth to his son, and from the way his body radiates angry waves of aggression, I know I’m about to suffer the consequences of my silence.
“You and I need to talk,” he says, his voice dripping with barely controlled rage. It’s more of a threat than a request, and an icy chill slithers up my spine.
Oh fuck. I am royally screwed.
18
BEN
