Chapter 16
Daniel
The first thought that creeps into my sluggish brain the next morning is, I really hope it's Saturday. I really hope it's Saturday.
There's a dull throb pulsating throughout my entire body, intensifying behind my eyes. My head weighs a thousand pounds. My first attempt to move my arms is futile, causing me to wonder momentarily if I’m encased in cement. Sure feels like it.
With much effort, I shove my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone to check the date.
Oh, thank God. It’s Saturday...
Wait...
Holy fuck – it's Saturday!
I have to get to the office. I'm meeting with Prescott at 9:30 to strategize for the Shinewell appeal. Plus I have to work out some final details in this human trafficking case that I’m assisting the FBI with. My secretary is probably already at her desk typing up the notes I dictated yesterday.
I try to swing my legs over the side of the couch but they feel like they aren't even connected to my own body. I slow down and give my body a few seconds to catch up with my brain.
And that's when it hits me...I'm in my house. On my couch. Staring up at pictures of my family over the fireplace.
I think back to last night. I had been pretty drunk when I showed up here. When I recall the dumb shit that I said to Grace, I just drop my head and chuckle. I'm an imbecile when I drink.
Damn. I pray to god she sees the humor in it instead of considering my midnight visit as confirmation that she was right to kick me out of her life. That idea causes panic to shoot through my chest.
I just remember how badly I’d missed her and how sharply I’d wanted her last night. Having Brittany Delaney breathing down my neck at the bar only intensified how much I wanted to be home with my wife. I couldn’t stand the idea of being with someone else. So then I came here. And I probably made things worse.
Shit!
I stand up from the couch and pad quietly down the hall into the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water to relieve my parched throat. When I step through the doorway, Grace is at the stove, laying thick slices of bacon into a pan.
"Hi..." I say shoving my fingers through my mussed up hair.
A quick, tentative smile flashes across her face. "Hi..." She licks her lips apprehensively.
She's wearing a pretty, little dress. It's pink with yellow flowers. It used to be one of my favorites but she hasn't worn it since she had Sebastian and I can't help but wonder if today she's wearing it just for me.
Score one for the bumbling estranged husband?…Maybe?
"I didn't wake you up, did I? I was trying to be quiet." She sucks in a breath and runs her hand over her belly. I know that tic. That’s what she does when she’s trying to fend off her nerves.
She’s nervous…
Definitely score two for the bumbling estranged husband!
I shake my head, trying not to grin like an idiot. "No, you didn't wake me up. If anything, it was the coffee calling my name that pulled me out of dreamland."
She smiles and her pretty eyes shine. She's still gorgeous but she's tired. And sad. This divorce is taking a toll on her. I want to take it away.
She chuckles softly now. "Yeah, I found a package of that fancy Italian espresso stuff that you like. It's been sitting at the back of the pantry since..."
...Since I left. Since I walked out that door, leaving my family behind.
Why the fuck did I do that?
She doesn’t pick up where her words trailed off. Instead, she hands me my favorite mug filled with my favorite coffee and the nostalgia is almost too much. I bring the cup to my lips to keep from saying something that I shouldn't.
I still want you...
You're the only woman I've ever loved...
I need you so bad it hurts...
Because everything changed when she signed those goddamned papers. Smothering her with a barrage of thespian declarations isn’t the way to fix this.
Wordlessly, I pull out a chair and sit at the kitchen table. And wordlessly, she sets a plate of bacon, toast and eggs in front of me. God, it smells good. And it tastes even better.
She sits across from me with her coffee and a single slice of unbuttered brown toast. She’s always on some dumb diet. I wish she’d believe me when I tell her how wild I am for her curves. It’s crazy that she’d starve herself to try and change her figure while I’m starving for every luscious inch of her body just the way it is.
But you can’t exactly say that to someone who served you with divorce papers. At least not when you’re sober.
So, I veer the conversation to neutral territory. "Sebastian still sleeping?"
She nods. "It's a damn miracle. He never sleeps this well."
Is my son sleeping better because he telepathically knows that I spent the night here or am I just reading too much into this?
My shriveled-up brain is going to explode from overthinking every little thing this morning. When I reach up and massage my throbbing temple, Grace gazes at me with worried eyes. "You feeling okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. Had way too much to drink last night."
She bites the corner of her lip before her eyes dart away. I can tell that she's holding back. There's something she isn't saying. I have a pretty good idea what it is.
I push out a breath. "Just say it, Grace…"
"You drove over here drunk..." Her voice cracks and her brown irises swim in tears despite her scolding stare. "Don't you ever do that again."
My fingers rake through my roots. "I'm fucking stressed. With everything going on in my–"
"Daniel." Her tone is hard and firm. "Don't do it again."
I sigh heavily. She's right. That was irresponsible of me. I know better. I'm a lawyer, for god’s sake. "I'm sorry I showed up here...in that state...I shouldn't have done that."
Words tumble quickly out of her mouth. "I'm just glad you came here instead of going home with someone else." As soon as she says that, she looks like she wishes she could take it back.
She just showed her cards. I take a bite of my toast to hide my smile.
Score three hundred and twenty-six for the bumbling estranged husband. But who’s counting?
A heavy silence hangs over us as we eat. When I'm finished, I pick up my dishes and bring them to the sink. I push back the sleeves of my crumpled shirt to wash them, but Grace stops me. "Don't worry about it," she says softly. "I've got it."
Our eyes hold for a moment. I feel fire in my belly, a scorching lust that sears my insides. Her eyes sparkle in a way that tells me that she still wants me. Despite everything, my wife still wants me. What would happen if I reached out and kissed her? Would she let me?
Right now, I’m too chicken shit to find out…Also, I probably smell like sour milk and sewer gas after last night.
"Mind if I take a quick shower?” I ask. “I've gotta go in to the office."
The trance is broken at my mention of work. A cold veil pulls over her eyes, masking the desire and vulnerability she's been wearing this whole time.
She shrugs. "Sure. You know where everything is. Clean towels. Soap bars. Spare toothbrushes."
I nod and make my way up the stairs. The scent of that potpourri she uses greets me when I step through the door. None of my things are sitting on the bathroom counter. My razor. My toothbrush. My aftershave. I hits me like a sucker punch.
I climb into the shower and try to wash away the idea that if I don’t get my shit together, one day some other man's grooming kit will be sitting on the counter. Some other man's shit will be sitting in my toilet. This is my house, dammit!
Am I really going to stand by and let that happen? Am I going to let my pride get in the way? Or am I going to beg, plead, negotiate, cajole, coerce, seduce, do everything in my power to get this woman back?
I push open the shower curtain, knowing that only I get to choose whether I fight for my marriage or let it fade to nothing.
Stepping out of the bath wearing only a towel around my waist, I find Grace hanging a fresh shirt on the back of the door. Her eyes travel down my body, taking me in one inch at a time.
Her stare is so intense, so wanting, I can almost feel it, like her little hands sweeping down my chest. And, fuck it – I stand taller because her lust makes me feel like a man. Her man. Her husband. My cock grows heavy and I remember why I showed up here last night in the first place.
I want that pussy. I want it bad.
She licks her lips. "I, uh. I figured you could use a clean shirt..."
"Thanks."
She nods. "If you need anything else, your clothes are in the suitcase in the guest bedroom." She turns and ambles down the stairs.
Reality. Fucking. Check.
Your clothes are in the suitcase in the guest bedroom. She's still divorcing your ass, motherfucker.
Frustrated, I get myself together and get dressed. Then I go downstairs where I find her sorting a pile of laundry on the kitchen floor.
"Thanks for breakfast, Grace. And for everything."
She nods.
“And I'm really sorry about last night. I lost control. That isn't like me."
Her shoulders heave and she nods again. "I know.”
Her eyes stay on me as I take a few steps backward to the front door. Fuck, I don't want to leave. This is my house, my wife. My son is upstairs, sleeping in his crib. This is where I belong.
I ignore the urgency in my veins, the little voice in my head screaming at me to take his woman and throw her on the bed and kiss her until she forgets why she’s so damn mad at me. Instead I reach for the door handle. "Will you lock up?" I ask as I head out.
"Yeah. Sure." She follows after me, the disappointment clear as day on her face.
She's leaning against the foyer wall with those glistening brown eyes and the full lips I love to suck. She watches me walk out the door.
As I make my way down the front steps, every bone in my body is screaming at me. Kiss her, you fool! Go back and kiss her!
But I just keep walking and I don’t look back.