With an exasperated sigh I slammed the laptop closed and instantly regretted it as a hot wire shot up my spine and into mymolars. For a second, the pain was almost liberating, a physical mirror of the invisible emotional turmoil I was currently experiencing.
Why did it bother me so much? Billie and I weren’t together. We hadn’t even spoken about our hookup. Twenty years ago, I left. She had her own life. It was too late for us. She’d always said she never wanted kids and now I had two. We were never going to be endgame. If she could be with a good guy, I should be happy for her.
So why did I want to puke?
I tried to focus on my breathing. Inhale: the ghost of Billie’s perfume and the persistent odor of a musty, stale hundred-year-old home to get rid of when I had the money to renovate. Exhale: the urge to punch a hole in the wall and throw my phone across the room.
None of it helped. I stood up, hoping the change in elevation would somehow reset my nervous system and take some pressure off my back at the same time. The motion caused the documents Watkins sent over to cascade onto the floor in a gentle waterfall, scattering in all directions. I stared down at them. They might as well have been in Timbuktu. There was no way I could bend down to pick them up.
Billie bought me a grabber, but I had stubbornly “misplaced” it. Having a sling was bad enough. Having a sling and limited mobility was torture. I didn’twantto need it. Now, I hated to admit it, but I did. As I walked around in search of it, the front door opened. Cold air swept in, followed by the rapid click of her heels.
The timing was uncanny—we both rounded the corner into the family room at the same moment, as if we’d rehearsed it for a sitcom cold open. Billie froze, caught in the act of tiptoeing, probably thinking I was asleep on the couch while I stood in my sweats, which had been my uniform for the past week and a half.For a second, neither of us said anything, just blinked at each other like two cats caught on the same windowsill.
I couldn’t help it, she looked incredible. The wind had tousled her hair so that bits of it feathered over her cheekbones, and the flush from outside made her eyes even brighter, a shade of green that, for some reason, reminded me of the exact taste of the apples we used to borrow (steal) from Mrs. Cable’s yard when we were kids. She was in her long, dark coat and a scarf and looked like she should be walking down a runway in Paris. Her lips plump and red and her eyes lined with black. I’d seen her three hours earlier, but it didn’t matter if it had been a minute before, every time I laid eyes on her, my heart attempted a backflip.
She raised her eyebrows, cocked her head, and grinned.
“What?” I tried, aiming for casual, and missed by a mile.
“What are you doing up?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes shot down to the papers and then back to me.
“You weren’t looking for anything?” she asked as she set her purse and keys down on the end table.
Ah, so that’s why she’d been smirking. Because she knew he was looking for the claw. “No.”
Her brow rose. “So you weren’t looking for the claw?”
“Nope.”
“So, you can pick these up no problem then?” She slowly removed her coat and scarf, and I had to actively remind myself this wasn’t a striptease.
“If I wanted to.” I swallowed over a large lump of lust that was clogging my throat. The reveal of her dress was doing more for me than I wanted to admit.
She shrugged, calling my bluff. “Okay, pick them up then.”
“Fine.”
She stared at me, waiting. I walked around her and sat down on the couch. When I started to move forward, she put her hand on my shoulder.
“Enough. Donothurt yourself to prove a point.”
Then she proceeded to bend over and pick the papers up. I appreciated both the gesture and the view. I had to actively suppress a groan of appreciation and divert my eyes. I also had to shift on the couch and readjust myself, so my sweats didn’t reveal just how much I’d enjoyed the view.
Billie straightened and leafed through the legal documents, reading as if searching for hidden codes. “Wait, are these… is this about your dad’s will?” Her voice was careful, deliberate, as if the word “will” might spontaneously combust.
“Yeah,” I said, already tired of the subject, already regretting that she’d gotten a look at the rawest part of my life.
“So it’s real?” She looked up, eyes bright with surprise and—fuck—pity. “Youreallycan’t get the trust and inheritance unless you get married?”
I nodded.
She absorbed that, lips pressed thin. She kept reading. “Have you talked to Genesis?”
I tensed. “Why would I talk to Genesis?”
