“This is it?” Simon didn’t seem impressed with the house Gail wanted.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
He waited until Kathy was out of earshot. She’d gotten a call and was heading to her car for an address. “It’s a two-bedroom, one bath that was built in 1880.”
“So?”
“It’s functionally obsolete.”
“No, it’s not.”
“The only bathroom is in the hall, Gail. And it has a claw-foot bathtub. There isn’t even a shower.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s a shower head above the tub and a curtain you can pull around.”
Obviously he’d seen the makeshift shower. He just didn’t think it was an acceptable arrangement. “I don’t want to have to stand in one place and turn in a tight circle. The entire bathroom is half the size of a normal closet!”
“By L.A. standards, maybe. But we’re not in L.A. anymore.”
He gave her a pained look. “I think I’m clear on that.”
“We’re not going to be here long,” she said, trying to convince him. “We can get by with this place, can’t we?”
After glancing into both bedrooms and the bathroom again, he sighed. “There has to be something else. This is barely...what did she say? Eight hundred square feet?”
“Eight hundred and seventy-five.” She shoved the flyer at him, but he didn’t take it.
Crossing his arms, he leaned dejectedly against the wall. “It’s the size of my bedroom back home.”
“But you heard Kathy. This is our last option. There are no rentals, and we saw the only other houses on the market. Neither of them were as nice.”
“That first one was bigger,” he grumbled. “We could fix it up.”
“It was right in town. We don’t want neighbors, do we? Certainly not nosy neighbors, and there isn’t any other kind in Whiskey Creek. Here, we’d have some privacy. Better yet, we’d each have our own bedroom.”
He turned to face her. “Being told I’ll be sleeping alone? That’s supposed to convince me?”
She grinned. “Convinces me.”
He lowered his voice. “Only because you’re scared.”
“Of what?” she scoffed, but immediately regretted it when he cocked his head as if he had no intention of backing down.
“Of me. Of how much you might enjoy my hands on your body. Of what it might feel like to lose control.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m not scared,” she lied. “I’m just...not stupid enough to...” To what? To get too comfortable in a marriage that wasn’t going to last?
He shot her a sullen glance. “To get involved with me?”
“I’m already involved with you. That’s not what I was about to say.”
“There’s another way of looking at it, you know.”
“Which is...”
“My way.”
“Let me guess. You think I should let you use me until you’re ready to move on.”
“I’m offering you two years of endless orgasms. Why reject that out of hand?” He poked her. “You need an orgasm more than any woman I’ve ever known.”
She stepped out of reach. “Quit treating me like I’m frigid!”
He lifted his hands. “Whoa, no need to get defensive. I wasn’t implying that.”
“But you think it.”
“I think you’re too uptight. But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you.”
He thought she was denying them both for no good reason. But he didn’t understand what was at stake. How could he? Maybe sex meant nothing more than a fun time to him, but she wasn’t built that way. “I might be uptight but I’m not shortsighted.”
“Typically not,” he said. “So why are you renting a house with only one bathroom?”
Arguing about sex and the number of bathrooms in their first rental made her feel more married than she’d felt before. “We’ll have to share it but...otherwise, this house is perfect.”
Hands on his lean hips, he turned in a circle.
“Okay, it’s quaint, but quaint is good enough.” She drew him back to the living room, with its high ceiling, crown molding and hardwood floors. “Look at this place. Look at the fireplace mantel. It has so much character.”
“I like the porch,” he admitted, gazing through the gigantic front windows with the diamond-shaped cut-glass inserts above them.
“I love the porch,” she said. “It’s almost as big as the living room. Imagine sitting out there with a glass of iced tea as the sun goes down. Summers in Whiskey Creek are so gorgeous. And the kitchen’s got potential,” she added.
He followed her around the corner. “If someone were to gut it and completely redo it, maybe.” He eyed the lime-green cupboards. “These cabinets are hideous.”
“It wouldn’t be that hard to renovate,” she said. “Maybe we should remodel instead of build.”
The screen door slammed as Kathy came back in. “So? What do you think?” she asked when she found them, but she had eyes only for Simon. What Gail thought didn’t matter.
Simon stared at Gail for several seconds, during which she silently pleaded with him. Then he shifted his attention to Kathy. “We’ll take it.”
“You want to make an offer?”
“Give them their asking price,” he said. “It’s not much.”
Gail had begun to figure out that Simon was a pushover when it came to money and possessions. She was pretty sure she could get just about anything out of him. His willingness to buy her a half-million-dollar diamond was proof. So she wasn’t surprised that he’d let her have the house even though he didn’t want it and that he’d agreed to the original price. She was surprised, however, when he leaned over and brushed a kiss across her lips. It was a loving gesture manufactured for Kathy’s benefit, of course. They’d been holding hands for most of the day; it was beginning to feel natural. But that kiss. It was nothing, a split second of contact, and yet it stole Gail’s breath.
She glanced up to see if he was laughing at her, if he realized how much she’d liked it, but he turned away before she could ascertain what he might be thinking.
“When can we move in?” he asked.
* * *
That night Gail made a Caesar salad, pasta and garlic bread. The cream sauce for the pasta had onions and peas and bacon. Simon liked it. But sitting at the table with Martin and Joe DeMarco, who were home from work for the evening, was a silent and awkward affair.
Gail must’ve said something to them about how they’d treated him so far, because they were on their best behavior. Martin no longer shook his head in disgust whenever he glanced at Simon, and Joe didn’t seem so hostile, either. Both men bent their heads over their plates and shoveled in their food as if they were sitting at the table alone.
“Would you like some more garlic bread?” Gail asked Simon.
He looked up from his own plate. “No, thanks.”
This polite exchange aside, Simon thought they’d go the whole meal without any conversation. Which was fine with him. He didn’t have a lot to say to her family, anyway.
But then Martin wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin on the table and spoke. To him.
“What do you think of Whiskey Creek?” he asked.
There was a bottle of Napa Valley wine sitting on the counter. Simon had been given a glass of soda. Gail had poured herself a soda, too. But he could smell the wine from where he sat. “I like it.”
“Great place to raise a family.”
Was he referring to his having raised a family here? Or was he fishing to see if Simon and Gail planned to have children?
Simon supposed it was natural that the old man might hope for another grandchild. But even if they hadn’t already made provisions for their divorce, even if he could get Gail to sleep with him, Simon would insist on using some form of birth control. Never again would he hand a woman a weapon as powerful as a child. Love was far too fickle.
“I’d like to bring my son here sometime.” He’d sidestepped what he suspected might be the real issue, but he couldn’t be faulted for what he’d said.
Joe nodded. “I was wondering if we’d get to meet him. My daughters come every other weekend.”
Simon twirled another forkful of pasta but didn’t bring it to his mouth. “Where do they live the rest of the time?”
If Joe recalled Simon’s earlier words about his divorce, he seemed willing to let bygones by bygones. “In Sacramento. Their mother’s a nurse at UC Davis.”
“How old are they?”
People with children loved to talk about them, and Joe was no different. He took a couple of pictures out of his wallet. “This is Summer. She’s ten.” His face split into the proudest of grins. “And this little devil’s Josephine. She’s only seven, but she’s a spitfire.”
“Like her mother,” Martin added dryly.
Joe clicked his tongue. “Yeah, her mother’s something else.”
Simon got the impression that wasn’t a compliment.
He looked at the pictures long enough to seem interested, even though he didn’t want to become embroiled in the family dynamic. “They’re pretty girls. You’re going to have your hands full when they get older.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Joe said.
“You planning to do another movie soon?” This question came from Martin.
“I’m thinking of accepting another romantic thriller in March, one called Last Train to Georgia.”
“A thriller, huh? Sort of like Shiver?” Joe asked.
Simon couldn’t help glancing at Gail. She was definitely familiar with his work in that movie. She turned red every time someone mentioned it, which made him want to laugh. If only she knew how hard he’d worked to get that love scene right. Tomica, the actress he’d been paired with, had worn the same perfume as his mother, which made it revolting for him to kiss her. He was proud of his performance simply because no one seemed to be aware of his repugnance. He’d considered demanding they hold off and shoot another day, but it would’ve cost the production company a shitload of money. “More or less.”
“Who else is in the new one?” Joe asked.
“An actress by the name of Viola Hilliard-Paul.”
Joe washed his food down with a sip of his wine. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s new. But she’s got talent.” And she didn’t remind him of his mother. He had slept with Vi a number of times—although he couldn’t remember whether he’d enjoyed it. He’d been drunk more often than not and had broken it off the minute she began taking it seriously.
Joe looked at Gail. “How are you going to feel about your husband doing love scenes, baby sister?”
She got up to put some more bread on the table. “He’s an actor. That comes with the territory.”
“You won’t be jealous?”
“Why would I? It’s not real.”
Martin lifted his glass. “Better not be,” he muttered.
Gail promptly changed the subject. “We found a place to live today.”
“Where at?” Joe signaled for more wine, and since Gail had just filled Martin’s glass, she came around to pour it.
“You know that little Victorian where the Widow Nelson used to live?”
“The white one? All by itself at the end of Autumn Lane?”
“That’s it.”
A nostalgic smile curved Joe’s lips. “How could I forget? She used to give out caramel apples at Halloween.”
“Yeah, her place was always our first stop,” Gail said.
Apparently in this area they didn’t have to worry about someone putting razor blades in the apples. That was definitely an upside to such a small community. Another upside. Simon was finding quite a few of them.
Martin pushed back his chair. “I thought you wanted to rent. That house is up for sale.”
“We’ve decided to buy,” Gail informed him as she put the wine back on the counter.
“How much are they asking?”
Simon tried not to let his eyes latch on to the bottle. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“That’s not bad,” Martin told him, “considering the land.”
“The house needs some work,” Gail said.
Joe carried his plate to the sink. “You could have Riley fix it up before you move in.”
Gail motioned in Simon’s direction. “Actually, Simon is planning to do the renovations once he gets his stitches out. He’s very good with his hands.” She cleared her throat when she realized how that had sounded. “With wood,” she clarified.
Joe turned off the faucet and set his plate on the counter. “Holler if you need any help with that,” he said to Simon. “I’m not so bad with my hands, either.” He grinned at Gail but seemed serious about the offer of help.
“Will do.” Simon relaxed despite the relentless pull of the alcohol. There was something about Whiskey Creek and its people. Even with a wife who wouldn’t let him touch her and the doubt Gail’s father and brother had to be feeling about their marriage, Simon was beginning to feel comfortable. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t felt this good, this whole, in months.
Maybe he was through the worst of it, he thought.
But then he got another text from Bella.
* * *
Gail could tell this night wasn’t going to go as well as the last one. Simon had been fine for most of the day. Better than she’d ever seen him. There’d been times when they’d talked and laughed as if he was just an average person and not a celebrity desperate to recover his son.
But now he was restless, fidgety. He couldn’t seem to shut down and sleep. After tossing and turning for a while, he seemed to doze off. But when she woke sometime during the night, she found him standing at the window, gazing pensively out into the yard.
“Is anything wrong?” she mumbled.
He glanced over his shoulder. He was still wearing the pajama bottoms he’d had on earlier but not his T-shirt. Gail had no idea where that had gone.
“No. You can go back to sleep,” he said.
Unwilling to leave him up alone, she slid over to his side of the bed. Getting closer to him meant she could keep her voice down. “We could talk, if you like.”
He shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
The moon outlined his profile in silver. Gail stared at his bare back, his broad shoulders, hunched just enough to show he was brooding even if he pretended otherwise. His hair stood up as though he’d run his fingers through it several times. Obviously he wasn’t okay.
Could she get him to tell her what was troubling him? Or...somehow...help him stop worrying? She didn’t want him to backslide. He’d made so much progress in the two weeks since they’d reached their agreement.
“Come here,” she said.
Suddenly wary, as if he didn’t trust what she might be offering, he glanced at her again. “What for?”
“I’ll give you a massage. It might help you sleep.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Under normal circumstances, he would’ve had a flip answer for her, or some sort of sexual innuendo; the fact that he didn’t told her he was hurting too badly to accept help. Maybe he thought accepting help would be revealing he needed it, and heaven forbid he need anyone, especially a woman.
“Come on,” she coaxed. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d been looking for an excuse to touch him ever since he’d kissed her earlier. No, before that. From the beginning. He’d just never shown any interest in her—not when he was a client, so she’d never allowed herself to seriously entertain the thought.
“There’s no reason for you to be up all night,” she said with a little more authority.
Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed, and she got up to fetch the lotion from the bathroom across the hall. But when she returned and put a hand on his shoulder to urge him to lie down, he resisted.
“What is it?” she asked.
He gave her such an intense look she knew he wanted something other than a massage. “Kiss me instead.”
Gail swallowed hard. Today, every one of his smiles, every touch of their fingers or accidental brush of their arms, had sent her nerves into a jangling riot of desire that reminded her of those few minutes when he’d cupped her breasts. It didn’t help that she was beginning to really care about him, that seeing him healthy and happy was becoming more important to her every day.
She was in a very precarious position, had no reason to even consider his request. But she wanted to ease his discomfort. And she wanted to kiss him.
“You’d just like to check out of reality for a while,” she said, forcing them both to face the truth. “And I’m convenient. But...whatever you’re feeling...it’ll pass by morning.”
“Damn it, don’t say that like I’m trying to use you,” he snapped. “I’m tired of being psychoanalyzed, tired of being found lacking. I know more about what’s wrong with me than anyone else does. I don’t need you to tell me what I want or what I’ll do.”
He was impatient, irritable, probably unsure how to end the pain. He wasn’t even in familiar surroundings. Gail feared that might weaken his determination, cause him to turn back to alcohol.
But if she gave in and had sex with him tonight, where would she be in the morning?
She’d be no better off than the other women who’d come before her.
“Relax,” she said gently. “And lie down.”
“One kiss,” he pressed. “Show me you trust me enough to give me one kiss.”
“You kissed me at the house today.”
“That doesn’t count. I want you to kiss me back, here in private, where we’re not putting on a show. I won’t take advantage if you do. I’m not as big a bastard as you seem to think I am.”
“I know you’re not a bastard.”
“Then prove it.”
“Fine.” Planning to allow him a quick peck, nothing more, she leaned forward, already braced to pull away. But he was as good as his word. He didn’t attempt to draw her up against him. With his left hand lightly touching her cheek, he kissed her so tenderly she wasn’t sure he was looking for a sexual escape so much as he wanted human contact, someone to hang on to.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, surprising her by breaking off the kiss before she was even tempted to pull away.
His gentleness and honesty shattered her resistance. As she stared into his face, she nearly slid her arms around his neck to kiss him again. More. That was all she could think about. “Not at all.”
“You liked it.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He raised his hands. “See? And you’re no worse for wear. You’re not contaminated or anything.”
“I never said you’d...contaminate me.” She had accused him of carrying disease, but that was back when they’d been fighting. He’d told her he was clean and had the test results to prove it.
“You believe I’m morally beneath you, that I don’t care about anything except myself.”
Because she needed to think that. It was her only defense against the onslaught of desire she had to battle on a daily basis. She tried to conjure up an appropriate response, one that explained without giving too much away. But he didn’t allow her the chance.
“Now I’m ready for my massage,” he said, and flopped down on his stomach.