Chapter 7
Colm Cleary was a man of his word.
The second time around, he made her come and come so hard she almost screamed. Almost, but not quite. The guy really was an expert at dishing out the most exquisite kind of torment. He was talented, but not too cocky about his prowess. Strong, but secure enough to surrender the lead. And giving. So, so giving.
Monica couldn’t remember the last time she slept with a man so utterly selfless about getting her off. Oh, he liked to get his, no mistake. But she had a feeling he got as much of a charge out of pushing her limits as he did in ringing his own bell. She’d had one lover who’d made a point of keeping tabs on how many times he got her across the finish line. Not because he demanded quid pro quo, but as a matter of pride. He’d wanted bragging rights to her orgasms, and Monica wasn’t sure she wanted to give him full marks. After all, there was more than a little effort on her part involved.
She could understand a man wanting tit for tinglers, too. She had a competitive nature and wouldn’t allow the scales to tip too far out of balance in order to satisfy her own sense of fair play. But Colm’s generosity sprung from something more. Something fueled by passion, not ego.
He liked getting her there. She’d actually felt him get harder when the grips of her climax coincided with her grip on him. And his passion…his dedication to achieving excellence in fucking. Well, she was on the verge of ordering him a plaque.
She jerked when Colm’s fingers stopped their lazy slide through her hair, caught up by a snarl. He managed to work them free with a minimum of fuss and no loss of follicle. Something she considered a minor miracle. In her experience, most guys tugged, yanked, pushed, or shoved at obstacles. Not Colm. He was the type to work through every roadblock he encountered thoughtfully. Methodically. And most arousing—logically.
He didn’t get worked up or give in. Whether he was facing babysitting logistics, parking hurdles, or the fact her hair turned into a friggin’ bird’s nest during sex, he remained unfazed. His brand of patience must come with the parental territory, because she sure didn’t have a supply of her own.
He didn’t hurry. Sure, they went at each other fast and furious a couple times, but they weren’t rushing to glory. Their frenzies were more along the lines of not being able to hold their horses. Either way, he never skimped on the kissing, licking, stroking, or squeezing. His diligence alone showed a level of appreciation that put him a notch above many of the men she’d known. Nothing worse than a man who claimed to be a connoisseur but tried to skip courses. She was a firm believer in people living up to their full potential. And, so far, Colm had exceeded her expectations in most every way.
Maybe she should order a plaque after all. Or maybe a trophy. A nice dick-shaped trophy with a little engraved plate lauding him for knowing what to do with his.
“You okay?”
Oh, yes. The pillow talk. Colm had mastered basking in the afterglow without smothering. He asked simple questions. The kind she could answer with a yes, a no, or something more expository if her mood allowed. Monica appreciated his flexibility. He also had a gruff, grumbly thing going as they basked in the wreckage. Like he’d swallowed a bag of rocks and had to work each and every word out from cracks between them. Sexy as hell.
“I’m perfect,” she replied, punctuating the sentiment with a feline stretch. “You?”
“I think you’re perfect, too.”
She chuckled and rubbed her nose in the patch of curling hair surrounding one flat nipple. “Someone’s going for a triple-header tonight.” She pressed a chaste kiss to the circlet of pale brown flesh. “I love a man with ambition.”
No sound came out when he laughed, but his chest shook. “Ambition and limited free time.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a contender.” Shooting him a flirty look, she kissed her way down his ribcage.
He pushed his hand into her hair and urged her head up. “I’m highly motivated, but I have to confess, I think I need a little down time.”
She grinned and planted a lingering kiss on his hip bone. “Something cold to drink?”
“Please.” He sighed as she disentangled herself from him. “Maybe a snack?”
Monica answered with a short laugh. “Unless you’re into yogurt, I’m not going to have much to offer.”
“That’s right, you don’t cook.” He made the statement in a matter of fact tone. No judgement. Maybe even a hint of envy in there.
She watched as he ran his hand over his stomach, lazily roughing the line of hair she found so tempting. “No, I love to cook. I don’t grocery shop, remember?”
“Ah, yes.” He flashed a half-smile. “You got eggs?”
“Possibly.” She shrugged as she tried to recall the last time she actually inspected the contents of her fridge. “I think I have crackers.”
He snorted, turned over, and practically flung himself over the side of the bed. “Come on, let me see what’s lurking in your cabinets.”
“Has to be the weirdest proposition I’ve ever heard.”
But, she followed. When a man with an ass so fine walks by completely naked, a woman would have to be a fool not to. She wasn’t as comfortable with running around in the buff as she wanted to believe she was. Snagging his shirt and boxer briefs from the tangle of clothes, she followed him out the bedroom door.
He strode into her kitchen like he owned the place and started pawing through her cabinets. A hot flush of embarrassment prickled her skin as he opened door after door only to find a whole housewares department worth of plates, glasses and utensils, but very little to put on or in them.
To cover his discomfiture, she slipped her arms into his shirt and buttoned a single button in the middle. He turned and she dangled his underwear from the tips of her fingers. “Want these?”
He shrugged as if he weren’t the least bit worried about strutting around with his dangly bits hanging out, but took the briefs and stepped into them.
Heading for the refrigerator, Monica yanked on the handle. A quick scan of the barren shelves told her she couldn’t even offer the man the aforementioned yogurt. She stood there for a moment, letting the chilled air rush over her hot cheeks. Food. Making a mental note to remember to pick up at least some basics, Monica zoomed in on what she did have. Water. Bottles and bottles of water. And a few assorted odds and ends. Nothing any reasonable person would consider a decent snack, much less a meal.
“Can I offer you water, or water?”
Stepping in close behind her, he huffed as he took in the empty shelves. “Um, I think I’ll have water, please.” He accepted a bottle with a little laugh of exasperation, but promptly uncapped it and drained half in two gulps.
“Thirsty work,” she commented, enjoying the methodical bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Not an easy customer to keep up with,” he tossed over his shoulder as he nudged her aside and returned to the hunt. From the depths of the fridge, he extracted a package of bread she’d worked nearly down to the heels and a bag of shredded cheese she had no recollection of purchasing.
Placing a pan atop the stove, Colm went to the fridge and frowned as he scanned the contents of the door. “Butter?”
She shook her head. “I usually use olive oil on bread.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously? And Emma eats that?”
Monica froze for a moment. She’d forgotten the kid factor. Any person with a kid would have food in the house. Not bottled water and shredded cheese “I’m, uh, leaving on a business trip,” she stammered. Uncertain where to go from there, she deflected. “Was Aiden’s mom a good cook?”
Colm tensed, but quickly recovered. “I didn’t think we were talking about kid stuff.”
“I’m not clear on what’s covered under the ‘no kid talk’ rule.” She eyed him challengingly, though her heart hammered. “Do you want to?”
“Let’s not.”
“Okay.”
A strange mixture of annoyance and relief swirled in her belly as she hauled herself up onto the counter. The sharp bite of cold granite on warm skin made her suck in air. He shot her a disapproving glance.
“Can’t be sanitary,” he said, pointing a spatula at the spot where she perched.
“Don’t tip off the health inspector. He might shut down this kitchen.”
He smiled indulgently. “Where is this alleged olive oil kept?”
She countered his tone with exaggerated patience. “Above the stove, of course.” The view as he reached for the bottle was nothing short of spectacular. She traced every line with her eyes, smiling when he made a show of curling his bicep on the way down. “Very impressive.”
“I aim to please.”
“And you do,” she purred. Leaning her head against a cabinet, she felt her eyelids grow heavy as she watched him drizzle oil into the pan, then toss a slice of bread in.
“You hungry?” he asked as he topped the bread with an even layer of shredded cheese.
She gave her head a lazy shake. “I’ll have a bite of yours.”
“You don’t even have ketchup. Or macaroni and cheese,” he mused, topping the cheese with the heel from the loaf.
“Don’t like ketchup, prefer my mac and cheese with truffle oil.”
“Right, but Em—” He caught himself and turned his full attention to flattening the sandwich with the spatula. “I’d say no wonder you’re so thin, but I’ve seen you put some food away.”
“Love eating, don’t see the point in making a mess.”
He tapped the corner of the spatula against the edge of the pan. An outward sign of nerves. His fidgeting made her insides feel squishy. Colm was nervous. She liked making him twitchy. Knowing that, she didn’t have to feel weird that he could make her unspool so easily once they were between the sheets.
“How do you not like ketchup?”
The question came out in a grumble. She smiled and shrugged. “You mean ‘cover-up juice’? I put ketchup in the same category as steak sauce.”
Colm’s brow furrowed. He pressed on the sandwich again, then flipped the bread with an expert flick of his wrist. “What’s wrong with steak sauce?”
She swallowed the urge to smile, carefully keeping her features appropriately somber as she replied. “If you have a good cut of meat cooked correctly, smothering it in steak sauce would be an insult.”
His snort spoke volumes. “I guess I’ve never met a piece of beef that couldn’t use a little extra something.”
Giving up the pretense, she grinned and gave his bicep an enthusiastic squeeze. “I think you’re perfect just as you are.”
He shook his head as he opened the cabinet to the right of the stove and pulled down a salad plate. Monica tried not to make too much out of his unerring ability to sense where she stored her plates. Most likely some fluke of unwritten kitchen arrangement code. Instead, she focused on the sandwich he was bisecting with the tip of the spatula. Each move he made was quick, efficient, and decisive. She liked watching him. This was a man who knew what he was doing. At least, as far as women and grilled cheese sandwiches were concerned.
He offered her the plate, and she eyed his creation with the narrowed squint of a cooking contest judge. The bread, though squashed and misshapen, was cooked to a delectable golden brown. The edges were nicely crisped, and the shallows glistened with golden olive oil. The cheese was perfectly melted and pooled slightly between the toasted bread. Her mouth watered with anticipation. She met Colm’s steady gaze and he nodded encouragement.
“Ladies first.”
She slid her fingers under the triangular wedge. Strings of melted cheese clung to the plate and to Colm’s half. She wound the wayward strands around her finger and snapped them off. Colm swooped in and captured the digit.
His mouth was hot. His tongue velvet soft but nonetheless commanding. Scraping the edge of his teeth from first knuckle to the tip, he drew the swirls of the cheese from her skin, his piercing eyes never straying from hers.
“You’re a…dangerous man,” she said, a trifle breathless.
He flashed a crooked smile and withdrew, taking the plate and any extra spoils with him until he bumped against the opposite counter. “I think the word you’re looking for is talented.” Cocking an eyebrow at her, he turned his attention to his half of the sandwich. A self-satisfied smile tugged at his lips as he pried the cheesy bread from the plate. “Multi-talented,” he amended, taking a bite.
The other brow rose as he chewed. She liked the way he owned the things he did and did well. No false modesty, no playing things down as if she needed his assistance to catch up with his accomplishments.
“I make a mean grilled cheese,” he boasted, taking another huge bite. “If you don’t want—” He let the offer-slash-insinuation dangle between them.
She took a bite to rival his. “No, I need the fuel.”
Colm pushed away from the counter and stepped right up to her. She opened her knees a little to give him room. He shifted his hips to take even more space. Gripping her ass, he dragged her to the edge of the counter, steadily polishing off his half of the sandwich the whole time. Monica smiled. She loved to win when in business, but when it came to these playful power struggles, there was nothing she enjoyed more than the battles where they both won.
Her heart rate sped up when he gave each of his fingers an appreciative lick. His gaze slid to the bit of grilled cheese in her hand, and she popped the rest into her mouth. His lips kicked up in a half-smile, he brought her hand to his mouth as she chewed.
Monica gulped, afraid she wouldn’t be able to get the food down if she didn’t hurry. He sucked her index finger into his mouth, and she gasped.
“You’re a bad man.”
“We’ve only got a few hours of freedom left,” he murmured, straightening her middle finger and grazing the tip with his lips. “I want to make ’em all count.” He released her hand in favor of filling his. The pads of his fingers pressed into her thighs. He nuzzled the base of her throat. “I could eat you in three big bites.”
She ran her hands through his thick hair, over his shoulders and the bunched muscles of his upper back. She loved the contrasts of his skin—rough here, soft there, the crisp rasp of hair, the patches so silky smooth she wanted to lap him up like soft serve ice cream. But there was nothing soft about Colm’s body. Only his spirit. And she needed to be careful. So careful. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt this beautiful man.
Swallowing the thought, she tried to make her voice light and airy as she asked, “Still hungry, huh?” But she came off sounding like a horny Minnie Mouse desperately in need of a hit of pure oxygen.
“Always.” He murmured the word into the side of her neck. His kisses were wet, his breath hot. She shivered when he worked the collar of his shirt entirely off one shoulder. “I like the way you wear this.”
Giving herself up to the sensation of his lips gliding over her skin, she let her head loll to the side. “Well, I’d never have thought to go with one-shouldered tops, but if this works for you—”
“It does,” he whispered directly into her ear.
“—works for me.”
Monica closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to the pulse thrumming in her neck. She loved the way he absorbed each sensation. His kisses were never hurried, no matter how hot he was. He didn’t simply taste her, he savored. Like he was taking the time to appreciate her texture as well as the flavor. As if they had all the time in the world, rather than a few stolen hours here and there.
Planting one hand behind her, she arched, allowing him better access as he kissed his way down the gaping front of his shirt. The single button she’d fastened sprang open. She heard the plastic disc ping along the ceramic tile. Monica let loose with a husky chuckle.
“What?”
She gave her head a shake. The ends of her hair tickled her neck and shoulders. She reveled in the shivers racing down her spine. “Nothing. Just…poor button didn’t stand a chance.”
He smiled as he tilted his head to press his mouth to the hollow of her throat. “How are your sewing skills?”
“Not as good as my cooking,” she replied, panting softly as he worked his way lower.
“Alleged cooking.” He nudged the shirt open wide and affixed his mouth to one beaded nipple. “Cleaning?” he asked on a gasp as he released her.
She inhaled sharply when he pinched the taut, damp point between his thumb and forefinger and twisted a little. “I have a service, remember?”
“You have to have some other skills.” He nuzzled, kissed and licked his way from one breast to the other. “Can you do my taxes? Balance a checkbook?”
She grinned. “I can make it so you don’t have to worry about balancing your checkbook ever again.”
“Because you spent all my money?”
This time, she laughed out loud. “Exactly.” She pressed at soft kiss to his smooth shoulder. “I can make it so you don’t have to worry about money.”
He looked up at her, pure devilry lighting his eyes. “So, you’re more the decorative type?”
“About as useful around the house as a blow-up doll,” she said with an unapologetic shrug. “But without the plastic-y smell.”
“You do smell incredible.”
Without warning, he yanked her off the counter and up against his chest. Monica wrapped her arms and legs around him instinctively. “Where are we going?”
“Back to bed. I want to show you how handy a good blow-up doll can be.”
* * * *
Monica stared at the window, waiting for the inky black sky to lighten to the grays and pinks of dawn. She needed the new day to come. She needed the man beside her to leave. Soon. She gave in and snuggled deeper into the warmth of his big body.
His heavy hand on her hip was making her crazy. She liked the way he rubbed his foot against hers, stroking her even as he slept. Liked it too much. Because she liked him too much.
Turning her head, she took full advantage of his unguarded state. Good gracious, he was handsome. But he wasn’t handsome in the polished, superficial sort of way as most of the men she dated. Colm was the kind of handsome that ran bone-deep. His looks were more than the sharp angle of his jaw or those striking pale green eyes. No, this man’s appeal lay in his slightly crooked nose and the wave in his hair he couldn’t quite tame. And highlighted by the clumsy moments he didn’t try to gloss over and set in stone every time he took complete and total possession of her body.
He snorted in his sleep but sank deeper into the pillow with his next exhale. He looked so calm in his sleep. Serene. Not at all boyish, though she could clearly see Aiden in him, but more…like a warrior with his weapons down. Rolling her eyes at her own fanciful observations, she balled her hand into a fist to keep from plowing her fingers into his hair. This night, and their first night, were blips. He wasn’t hers. She’d lied to him from the start. She couldn’t keep him even if he could forgive her. And for some reason, she didn’t think he would. Colm was a man of integrity and not a little pride. He wouldn’t take being fooled well.
“What time is it?”
The question jolted her from her scrutiny. Cheeks burning, she turned toward her nightstand. The display on the docking station read 5:36. On a weekday, she’d be sipping her first cup of coffee by now, but on the weekend she usually managed to sleep in to six-thirty or seven. “A little after five-thirty,” she whispered, settling on her pillow.
He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. Satisfied he had her where he wanted her, he slid his hand up to cover one of her breasts. She tried so hard not to go gooey inside when he hummed his approval into her ear. He nestled his crotch against her ass. He was fully erect, and not the least bit shy about letting her know he was up for another round. His breath stirred her hair, but the gravel in his voice gave her the shivers.
“I want you, Monica.”
“We have to stop.” Ignited by his touch and fueled by panic, the words shot out of her mouth like a missile. He pushed against her, tempting, teasing, and tormenting her with what she could have—his body—and what she couldn’t. Him. “I won’t be able to walk.”
He pinched her nipple, and she squeaked. Squeaked. Like she was some kind of toy for him to play with. But she had a hard time feeling indignant when the man was covering her shoulder in kisses so sweet and tender they complemented the sharp tug of his fingers to perfection.
“I can’t stop. There’s something about you,” he whispered into her ear. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when I’m with you.”
The confession set alarm bells ringing in her head, but wasn’t what brought her to her senses. It was his raw honesty. She believed him. Believed he couldn’t get her out of his mind any easier than she’d be able to eradicate him.
“This is bad,” she whispered aloud. Pressing her leg back, she bowed her body away from his, startling him into releasing her. In a move worthy of a ninja, Monica flipped off the side of bed and landed on her feet. She pushed her tangled hair from her face and tried to ignore the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything but his beard burn as she tapped into the reserve of cool calculation she used when she needed an extra boost to make a risky trade. “We can’t keep doing this halfway thing, and I don’t think either of us is ready to go all in.”
“I don’t know, I really…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I like you more than I want to.”
“Well, there’s a rousing endorsement.” Drawing a deep breath, she let her gaze travel over the gorgeous man tangled up in her sex-decimated sheets without allowing herself to linger on any part she might find too enticing to resist. She settled on a patch of skin in front of his right ear, and brushed her lips over the prickly stubble poking through. “Colm, we both agreed. Keep things simple. No strings.”
No need to come clean, she clarified mentally.
He propped himself on his elbow, but she didn’t dare anything more than a quick glance at his face. She knew if she let herself look down, the incredulity she saw in his eyes would be well-justified. She had to be a crazy woman for not taking him for at least one more tumble. But she couldn’t. He’d spent the previous night giving her everything a woman could want in terms of filling a carnal need, but the last time—that sweet, sleepy coupling where they were both too spent to do much more than rock together, but too crazed to resist—she knew this was more than a tumble. She was about to take a fall, and her gut said it would be a hard one.
He ran his hand over his face. “My marriage wasn’t exactly what I thought it was.”
“We don’t have to do this,” she interjected in a rush. “We can leave well enough alone.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Do you think this is well enough?”
Panic welled up inside her. “I think maybe this is all it needs to be.”
Impatience flashed across his face. “Come back to bed.”
He held out a hand, gesturing for her to rejoin him, but she couldn’t. Curling up against him was too risky.
“Let’s talk about this.”
In an instant, the impatience was gone. Something hard and bitter lodged in her throat. This wasn’t fair. He wasn’t playing fair. There was nothing worse than someone trying to change the rules in the middle of the game. Crossing her arms over her chest, Monica hated herself for ever getting drawn in to this whole mess. She should never have gone there. He could have stayed nothing more than a hot guy in a world full of hot guys. She should have taken her niece to the park and delivered her straight home. She should not have passed Go, flirted with a handsome stranger, and walked away letting him think she was something she wasn’t. “I don’t think we need to talk.”
A look of stunned hurt flashed across his face. A deep red flush of fury quickly followed. “I do.”
She needed to end this. Their affair would only get messier. She was ashamed to have let things go this far. She might’ve had a sharply honed killer instinct in business, but she’d never been deceitful. Until she met him, she went straight after what she wanted, no bullshit, no games.
“Listen, we’ve had a good time, but let’s not make more out of this than a fling.” Cold? Maybe, but effective.
“A fling?” he repeated slowly.
“I had a really great time, but neither of us want the complications—”
His jaw locked and suddenly his handsome face looked to be carved out of granite by someone using a jackhammer. “Fine.” Kicking away the sheet, he growled at the wad of hapless cotton when the fabric dared to cling to his foot. “You’re right. Who needs the complications?”
But the edge in his tone said he wasn’t entirely opposed to having complications with her, and the knowledge cut deep because she wouldn’t have minded sharing a few with him.
If only they’d started out on the right foot.
But she couldn’t tell him. Certainly not when he was already pissed off. Hoping to end things on a better note, she grabbed a short robe from her closet and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Knotting the sash at her waist, she turned in time to see him extricating his boxer briefs from the leg of his pants. A wave of nostalgia hit her hard. She’d watched him do the same thing last week. She should have come clean with him. By perpetuating the myth to have one more night, she’d managed to mess up any possibility they might have had for more. She knew she was on thin ice when she’d agreed to meet up with him again, but was more than happy to hide behind the ridiculous terms she’d agreed to without giving him the benefit of full disclosure. The least she could do was make certain he left on better terms than this.
“Colm, wait—”
He shook his head, the very picture of wounded male pride. “No, you’re right. I need to get going. I always pick Aiden up early, anyway, so it’s no big deal.”
“But I’ll go get us coffee.” She opened her hands, hopeful he’d accept this small peace offering. When he shoved one leg into his jeans without bothering to reply, she sweetened the deal. “And I owe you pancakes.”
He visibly tensed. He looked over his shoulder at her, disbelief etched into the lines of his face. “Pancakes? You don’t even have flour. I can’t believe Emma hasn’t wasted away to nothing.”
“I could…We can go out.”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Colm, I…” She trailed off, her hands fluttering in helpless futility. “I like you. I do. Probably too much. I don’t want you to leave here thinking this was just…”
“What? Sex?” He stood, pulling his jeans up onto his hips, not bothering to fasten. “But it was. I get it.” He bent to snatch his shirt from the floor and strode from the room.
“Colm, wait,” she called as he flew down the stairs.
“Really. We’re cool.” He checked his pockets for everything he never had time to unload. “I enjoyed it, too. The sex. Thanks.”
But his choppy assertions made his discomfort crystal clear. He wasn’t cool. There was nothing she could do to make things right. They had to end this sooner or later. Might as well be sooner, because if saying goodbye hurt this much now, she didn’t want to even consider later. She tucked her hands into the pockets of the robe as he fiddled with the locks.
“See ya,” he said as he yanked the door open. “Take care.”
A cool blast of early morning air ruffled his hair as he stepped outside. She grabbed the edge of the door and held on, watching his fine ass as he walked away. “I’ll, um…I’ll call you,” she said, desperate to salvage something from the situation.
“Yeah.” He tossed an angry glance over his shoulder and hooked a sharp right on the sidewalk.
If she wasn’t mistaken, Monica thought she heard him say something along the lines of “I’ll hold my breath” as she closed the door.
Monica didn’t bother working up a response. What was the point? He was right. She wasn’t going to call. The very thought of placing the call and having him reject her loomed too large. Trudging up the steps, she realized she’d made a mistake. A big one. She went and let herself develop feelings for a man. She wasn’t scared, she was terrified.
She liked him. Truly liked him as a person, not a plaything. Given half a chance, she might more than like him, but there was no point in going down the path of what-ifs. She’d blown any chance they had from the get-go. There’d be no salvaging anything.
Stepping into her bedroom, the truth of what she was facing struck her full-force. A few short weeks ago, she would have described her bedroom as her sanctuary. Memories of Colm permeated every corner now. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air. She flung herself onto the well-rumpled bed and grabbed the pillow he’d used. Clutching it to her chest like a lovesick girl, she inhaled deeply. His scent surrounded her. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t bother wiping them away.
Too much work.
She’d think about moving on and all that entailed later. She’d have to strip the bed at the very least. Would clean sheets do the trick? She could delete his contact info from her phone. Might keep her from making an even bigger fool of herself. Oh, God. She’d better. What if she had one too many margaritas one night and ended up drunk dialing him? How mortifying would that be? And what would she say if she did? I miss you? Come back? My bed smells like you?
Pathetic.
Panic seized her, making her chest tighten and forcing a sob to rise up into her throat. But she couldn’t let loose. A few tears were one thing, but she couldn’t let go entirely. She didn’t deserve a big, sloppy cry. There was no one to blame but herself for her predicament.
A single simple sentence uttered at the start. “I’m her aunt,” she whispered to the ceiling. Or maybe two sentences. “Oh, Emma is my sister’s kid. We’re having one of our days at the park.” But playing like she took Emma out regularly would have been kind of a lie, too. It made her sound like a doting aunt, rather than the crappy one she’d been so far. At least she had a chance at fixing that bit.
How easily those little lies and bits of spin popped into her head these days. She’d never been one to care overmuch about what other people thought of her. But she cared about what Colm thought. How could she not? Here was a man who’d stepped up and shouldered responsibility. And she, apparently, had become a woman who wallowed around in her sexed-up bed cooking up more lies to feed him.
He deserved better. Aside from the fact that she wasn’t at all what he thought she was, this wasn’t the woman she chose to be. She wanted her pre-Colm life again. The one she knew and understood. Where she was the old Monica. The woman who set goals and charged straight at them. Not this weepy, wussy fool who’d gone and done the unthinkable—fallen in love with a man she’d been lying to from the start.