Chapter Three

Micki

I hadn’t gotten drunk last night. Not exactly, anyway. I never took a drink while working, but when I’d gotten home to the safe confines of my tidy little cottage after Chloe and Jason’s wedding, a little libation seemed appropriate. I’d dropped my bags on the banquette bench just inside my kitchen and made my way straight over to the small built-in wine rack. Pulling the cork on the first bottle of pinot grigio I came across, I tossed some ice cubes in a glass—my humble apologies to the sommeliers in the world—and promptly drank almost half of the bottle before conking out, facedown, on my bed. Fully clothed, makeup still on, my fingers wrapped around my cell phone. That handy bit of technology I’d spent the last hour on before collapsing on the bed, Googling anything and everything that had Devin’s name attached to it.

The next morning, I woke up to my internal alarm clock, rolling over with a groan and draping an arm across my forehead. I stared at the ceiling for several long minutes until my extremely chatty and loud cat jumped on the bed, demanding his breakfast. There was no ignoring Cosmo when breakfast called. Petting him absentmindedly, I replayed everything that had happened in the last eighteen hours.

“Holy shit,” I said to the white plastered ceiling over my bed. Devin Stockton had reappeared in my life, and my mind battled with ways to absorb it, the battle made more difficult as every ounce of shame and guilt I’d lived with all these years rushed back and permeated every cell of my body.

Pushing Cosmo unceremoniously off my chest, I rolled over toward my nightstand and grabbed Devin’s business card. A quick glance confirmed I’d memorized everything on that card the night before.

He’d made quite the name for himself, if everything on the internet was to be believed. Yet the brick and mortar design firm of Stockton and Miller wasn’t to be denied. Clearly, the Devin of now didn’t resemble the Devin I’d known years ago. Funny thing about hindsight. Perspective always made us scholars on our own history, but it couldn’t change the present. The clarity that we could see what our choices bore, the consequences they brought…and the opportunity for self-recrimination? For guilt and shame? Ahh…those burdens didn’t have a statute of limitations.

That was where the wine came in.

“Ugh.” I squeezed my eyes shut, acknowledging the odd mixture of giddy excitement knowing he was here on Mimosa Key and the fresh deluge of remorse boiling in my stomach. It made me nauseous.

A little while later, showered, dressed, and only slightly more alert, I pulled into the narrow alley behind my studio. Slipping in the back door, I dropped my constant companion—my large, buttery-soft, yellow leather work bag—and keys on the end of one of two work tables. The studio wasn’t open on Sundays and Mondays, and I didn’t normally work on Sundays, but today I needed the distraction of work like no other time. I made my way to the coffeemaker, digging with no real interest through the many flavored coffee cups, all the while fantasizing about a magical breakfast fairy appearing with a giant bagel and half a pound of cream cheese. Carbs and fats. The morning after’s food of choice.

I’d no sooner plopped the chocolate-coconut single serve coffee cup in the machine than the sound of someone knocking on the glass front door echoed into the workroom.

I looked at the large antique clock on the far wall over my desk. It read one minute past ten. The studio hours were clearly marked on the glass beside the front door. Tuesday through Friday, ten a.m. until five-thirty p.m. Saturday from nine a.m. to twelve noon. Closed Sunday and Monday. And today was Sunday!

“Read, people, read,” I grumbled, giving my untouched cup of coffee a mournful look before turning to walk into the front reception area.

Three steps into the room, I looked up and stumbled to a halt.

Oh. God.

Devin smiled through the beveled glass door, looking impossibly fresh and too Goddamned sexy for this time of morning. Okay, make that this time of morning for a less-than-sharp photographer. There was no hiding. No corner to run to. He pointed to the brown paper bag he held in one hand from Pattie’s Patisserie—a new bakery in town.

“Good morning,” he called, his voice muffled through the door. He held the bag up higher. “I didn’t know if you were the healthy kind of eater so I brought a few choices, like—” He opened the top of the bag and peered in. “Doughnuts, breakfast wraps of some kind. Fruit. A couple of bagels—lightly toasted,” he emphasized with a quick smile. “I hope you like cream cheese because butter just didn’t sound right on an asiago cheese bagel. And the coffee smelled a little burnt in the shop, but—” He mushed his face against the crack of the door and inhaled deeply. “Do I smell coffee?”

I bit down on my lower lip to keep from laughing. “Chocolate and coconut,” I called out, still processing the fact that Devin was standing some ten feet from me, holding manna from heaven in one hand and looking at me with those piercing, cerulean blue eyes.

Then the thought struck me. “How’d you know where to find me?”

He shrugged, grinning. “You know. The usual places. Google. The happy little wedding planner at the resort. Gussie was her name, I think?”

Gussie was a darling, but a Chatty Cathy at times. “Yes, she’s a sweetheart.”

“Yes, she is.” He glanced up and down at the door, then tapped on the glass with his finger. “Do you think you could open the door?” He hoisted the bag up once more and pointed to it with a boyish grin.

The man could sell ice cream to an Eskimo. Unlocking the door, I waved him in. “Coffee’s as fresh as you could want.”

He stepped inside and breathed deeply through his nostrils. “Ahhh…now that smells good.”

“You mean to tell me you made it all this way and didn’t have a cup of coffee at the resort?”

“Oh, God, yes, but suddenly I prefer it when the company is just exactly right.”

I lifted a brow. “It’s a little early in the day for schmooze, isn’t it?”

“Depends,” he grinned, unabashedly. “Did it make you smile?”

“Barely.” I turned quickly, hiding the upward curve of my lips. “Come on. I’ve got coffee in the back. You’re welcome to whatever you’d like.”

He followed me to the back room. “Now that’s what I call a nice offer.”

Wisely, I’d like to think, I ignored the bait.

I pointed to the basket of K-cups on the counter. “Help yourself. I’ll grab you a mug.” Reaching into the cabinet at the end of the counter, I realized my fingers were trembling. Squeezing my hand into a fist, I prayed the rest of me appeared more cool and confidant.

“Thanks.” He placed the bag of goodies on the mosaic-tile table we used for meals. Its cozy location next to a window overlooked the pretty garden sandwiched between my building and the bridal boutique next door.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he rummaged through the coffee cups to make his selection.

He appeared focused on finding just the right flavor. “One of these days I’m going to have to make a concerted effort to cut down on the coffee. I drink way too much of it.” He dropped the single-serve cup in the machine and took the mug from my nerveless fingers. Punching the brew button, he turned to face me, leaning casually against the edge of the counter.

Opening another cabinet door, I pulled out paper plates and napkins. “I run on caffeine some days. Oh, and I should thank you for reading my mind. I was in serious need of fattening, carb-y food this morning. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh? How come—rough night?”

“No, not really,” I prevaricated. “Trouble sleeping.”

Yeah, because a gorgeous blast from my past crashed my wedding and ripped my peace of mind to shreds.

When the coffee finished brewing, he took the cup and walked over to the table. “Nothing better than starting the day with an artery-clogging breakfast of champions.” He nodded toward the bag of sinfully delicious smelling food. “The American Heart Association is clutching their collective chests over this. Remind me to send them a little extra donation next time.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll be doing the same, but in the meantime, I don’t believe in waste. Shall we?”

When he didn’t respond right away, I looked up to find an enigmatic expression on his face. His eyes held a curious light in them. “Yes,” he replied simply, but something in the way he said it made my heart skip a beat.

I gave myself a mental kick in the ass. There was nothing to pin any hope on. It was just Devin being Devin. That, and my brain was still too slow to be making those kinds of judgment calls.

“Okay, well, I’m not going to be proud here, I’m digging in.” I rooted through the bag of goodies until I found the bagel and cream cheese. “Ahh,” I purred, pulling it from the confines of the bag. “Come to Momma.” My stomach growled as the warmed scent of cheese and grain filled my nostrils.

“Impressive,” he teased, nodding in the direction of my midsection. “Sounds like it was a good thing I doubled up on everything.”

I concentrated on spreading cream cheese on the bagel and not the burgeoning warmth that was slowly filling my limbs. “You might want to stake your claim on the food now because there’s no telling where this appetite of mine will take me today.”

He took the bag. “You’re welcome to it all, if that would please you.” He unwrapped one of the breakfast wraps. “It’s true, isn’t it? That fresh air makes you hungry?”

Happily munching on a mouthful of bagel, I dabbed the napkin at the corners of my mouth. Nothing like having a cream cheese schmear to impress. “I’d say yes, but in my case, it’s because I kinda forgot to eat last night.”

He stopped chewing for a moment then swallowed. “You forgot to eat? How does a person even do that?”

I smiled. “I’ll call that one rhetorical since I somehow managed to.”

“You do that often?”

Only when you walked back into my life. “No, not really. I just got—busy last night.” What I’d really gotten was my mind so totally blown I couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together after seeing him.

He took a sip of coffee, his eyes on mine over the rim. “Since I’ve already confessed to looking you up online, mind if I ask about your marriage?”

Blindsided, I choked on a piece of bagel. Sputtering, I downed the now thankfully room-temperature coffee until I could cough through it. “Excuse me—”

“Shit, sorry. Too much, too soon? Too…personal?”

“Out of the blue a little, maybe.” My eyes narrowed even as they still watered. “Exactly how much searching on the internet did you do?”

“Well, you know how the internet is. You plunk in a name or topic and the pages appear. But…okay, not nearly enough, hence the question. I simply read everything I could find your name attached to.” He looked none too guilty.

And that, dear Micki, was irony. I’d done the same thing to him.

He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest, looking curiously pleased. “You know…I was thinking last night. Seems we’re two curious people.”

I cleared my throat one more time. “So it would seem. Now, how about you tell me about you? Are you married? Divorced? Dating a supermodel?” Jesus, could I have been any more obvious? Or ridiculously inept?

He reached for his mug and took another slow sip of coffee, his wrap laying untouched where he’d placed it a minute ago. “Not married…ever. So, no to the divorce. Dated a model briefly but, man, that extra ego takes up an awful lot of room. Couldn’t handle that.” He reached for his wrap but paused as he brought it to his mouth. “It sounds unbelievably boring now that I sum it up in ten words or less. I should probably do something about that.”

Somehow I seriously doubted that. “Why do I have this funny feeling it’s been anything but and you’re just giving me the Cliff Notes version?”

“No, really. I’ve worked my ass off, basically since grad school, and the second I got my internship with The Royal Institution of Naval Architects in London…shit. I haven’t looked up since. Working fourteen-, fifteen-, or sixteen-hour days kinda screws with the social life, you know?”

Letting it sink in what kind of grueling pace he kept, little wonder he didn’t have time for anything. “Those are seriously brutal hours, Devin. How’d you manage to sustain that for so long?”

He studied me with an odd look on his face. “Grim determination.”

Before I could speculate on the meaning behind his expression, he volleyed the conversation back in my court. “My turn,” he said abruptly. “Just to be safe, you’re not chewing, are you? Not going to…you know.” He grasped at his throat.

“Huh? Am I—ohhh.” Understanding dawned. “You’re about to broadside me with another question again and you don’t want me to choke, right?”

He cringed and still somehow managed to look playful and sexy at the same time. “Broadside is such a harsh term. I prefer to think of it as stimulating. One that helps me learn more about what your life has been like.”

I decided to play along and go for it. “Hit me.”

“Tell me about your marriage.” Ocean blue eyes bored into mine, his voice turning to gravel. “I’d really like to hear about the stupid fool who would let you go.”

The initial jolt over the topic took the shock factor away and I merely shrugged. “Not much to tell, really.” I settled back in the chair and folded my hands across my stomach. “We got married in July, but by November—maybe December—I knew we had issues. That’s when I realized our priorities didn’t quite match up. I don’t know if I just overlooked that while we were dating, but I don’t think so. If there were signs, they were subtle enough I missed them. Anywho, he was an up-and-coming stockbroker. Already had a decent measure of success. God, he was ambitious. He loved the attention success brought and the people he got to rub elbows with. But don’t get me wrong. Money wasn’t all he chased. He was a big believer in giving back to the community, and he put his money where his mouth was. But pretty soon the pecking order in our marriage became crystal clear.” Lifting my hand, I ticked off a finger as I went on “His career came first, and let me be perfectly clear on this score—first. Non-negotiable. Then,” I ticked off another finger, “came business networking and ascending the social ladder. Those were rock solid in the number two slot. Now came recreational sports—any kind of outdoor activity really. There was the number three spot. And finally, pulling up the rear in the impressive fourth and final position was our marriage.” Long since over the break-up, I felt no tug of emotion recapping the whole misguided, ill-chosen relationship. I’d finished beating that dead horse a long time ago. “So, ta da! There you have it. My matrimonial life in a nutshell.”

He stared at me without saying a word for a full minute, his expression an unreadable mask. It was just about to hit an uncomfortable level when he finally spoke. “I’m so sorry, Micki,” he said gently. So gently, I felt the sting of tears lash the backs of my eyes. “I never would’ve wished that for you. Ever.”

The urge to cry built to a crescendo, and I scrambled to do the only thing that would prevent the waterworks from flowing. I sat up straight and pinned a bright, albeit tight, smile on my face. “Thanks, that’s very kind, but I’m kind of thankful it happened. I learned so much more about myself. It forced me to grow in ways I didn’t know I needed to.”

His gaze remained steady on mine. “For whatever my two cents are worth, it sounds like you dodged a bullet, a bad situation that could have dragged on and on, and I would’ve hated like hell to see you drown in a relationship like that. And, from the sound of it, you never would’ve been his priority.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t too keen on spending the rest of my life like that so I totally agree. Most of my friends felt the same way, too.”

“Christ,” he snorted. “Didn’t all of them?”

I tilted my head back and laughed. It felt good to let out some emotional energy. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

He looked perplexed. “Uh, yeah? Who the hell didn’t agree?”

My fingers drummed a staccato beat on the tile table top as an all too familiar pang of frustration, anger, and sadness bubbled to the surface. “My mother, for one.”

A look of utter shock came over him. His mouth dropped open. “Your mother?”

I nodded.

He blew out a long, harsh breath. “That’s—wow, okay—that’s just totally weird. Why the hell would a mother want her daughter to stay in a marriage where she wasn’t his top priority?”

“Ah, that would be elementary, my dear Watson. As it stood, she felt I’d made a good match. You know, all the antiquated requirements a woman should have when she’s looking for a husband. Career, drive, ambition. A steady rise in society and the trappings of the good life.” I shrugged once more, relieved I could discuss my mother’s principles without throwing up.

Once upon a time, the cost of following her beliefs would make me nauseous over what it had cost me. “What can I say? Things that he’d provide me with were all the things she’d drilled into me as important. He had social standing. His family was a pillar in the community where they lived. He had expensive taste and she liked the way I could live if I stayed.”

“Jesus,” he breathed. “A little antediluvian, or is it just me?” His eyes narrowed just a bit. “Or was that something that was important to you?”

God, I hated admitting this, but it was the truth. “I’d been the good daughter and bought into what she’d drilled into me, but it was antediluvian, like you said. Can’t disagree with you there. Naturally, my mother thought I was crazy for divorcing him. My ex wasn’t too keen on it since it messed with his master plan for his life. Ahh.” I cracked out a sardonic laugh. “And then there was his mother, Sandra.” I shook my head at the memory of a woman so fully enmeshed in living a public persona, she couldn’t knit two of her own opinions together if she had a blueprint. “You see, it didn’t look good for my husband’s family. The firstborn prodigal son. You know how it is…I mean, my God, no one got divorced in their ultra-conservative, ultra-traditional world. They just made do, as my mother-in-law informed me umpteen times.” I leaned over the table and whispered loudly. “Wives, she would remind me over her third glass of bourbon, wives were to support, show up, and look good. Oh, and jeans weren’t allowed, either. You dressed for life in their world.” I chuckled as another edict came to mind. “And no ponytails. Gotta love that one and, honest to God, I’m not kidding about that one.”

Several emotions rolled over his handsome face. Skepticism. Surprise. Incredulity. Finally, he shook his head in disbelief. “Holy shit.” His eyes lit with a mischievous glint. “So, let me picture this. It’s five-thirty in the afternoon. You’ve spent your day mopping, dusting, polishing the silver, and picking the freshly grown rosemary from your immaculately cared for garden to spice your perfectly browning roast. Then, as you look at the clock, you hear the garage door open, whereupon your husband, in his jacket and tie, will park his car in the spotless garage. He’ll walk through the door whereupon you greet him with a fresh coat of lipstick and a martini. Your heart is filled with joy to see your husband after his long day at the office. He barely glances at your teased hair, perfectly sprayed into submission. Or your freshly ironed dress. Or the flesh-colored stockings and high heels.”

Laughter exploded from my throat. The absurdity of the 1950’s-era housewife was too much. “My God! How’d you know?” I teased.

He gave me a you’ve got to be kidding look.

“Oh,” I assured him. “Saint Sandra would’ve approved, believe me.”

All traces of humor vanished from his face and he spoke with complete seriousness. “I cannot imagine you being happy on any level in that relationship.”

When I considered his eyes, a strong feeling of connection swept over me. I found myself getting lost in his gaze, wishing I could let go of the protective cloak I held over my heart. For a split second, I wanted to let myself be open to the possibility of…

A heavy surge of vulnerability hit me. I eased back in my seat, putting invisible distance between us. “You are so right. It wasn’t for me at all.” With a bright smile, I moved to stand. “More coffee?”