IAN
Aimee keeps her gaze averted, staring out her side of the front window as I drive back to Los Gatos. She’s quiet and feels farther away than the cup holders that separate us. I bet I could touch the wall she’s erected were I to reach for her.
That wall’s been there since James showed up last June.
I want to bulldoze it down.
I need to know what bombshell the guy smuggled into California.
If the death grip on the purse Aimee holds in her lap tells me anything, she’s still processing. Thinking about this afternoon.
Thinking about him.
I force out a harsh breath and promise myself I won’t push. She started opening up at Nadia’s. She’ll talk in due time.
Hopefully sooner rather than later. With the deadline National Geographic gave me, I leave for Spain soon. And I’m leaving knowing James is in town.
Swearing under my breath, I rake my hair and shift in the seat, angling my torso so that I’m somewhat facing Aimee. The temptation to hold her hand has me fisting my own. I bite my tongue so I don’t blurt out my news to lighten the mood. To say anything that would get her to look at me as though I’m the most important person in her life. I want to be that man for her.
An idea coalesces. I want her to come to Spain with me, and not just because of James. She’ll love the wild horses. We could use the time away to get ourselves in sync again. No thanks to James, our marital rhythm has been out of tune since I returned from the Rapa.
Aimee clutches her hands. I give in and cross the barrier. Threading my fingers in hers, I bring our joined hands to my lips. I kiss her wrist. I love the feel of her skin. Soft and luxurious, like the lotion-bottle label says. Aimee worships the lotion bottle in our bathroom and I’m the lucky bastard who gets to feel her velvety skin glide against mine.
I rub my cheek against her hand and when she doesn’t pull away, a fraction of the tension tightening my shoulder blades diminishes. She’s looking at me. I can feel the weight of her gaze and my body tingles with anticipation. My pulse accelerates. I’m going to take her straight to our bedroom when we get home. This gorgeous woman is mine and I want my hands all over her. I want to feel close to her, seek out that connection that seems to be missing lately. And damn it, I want to make sure she’s mine.
I take my eyes off the freeway and look at her. “I love you.”
She blinks. The whites of her eyes glow from the headlamps of oncoming cars. Her mouth—those delectable lips I have an overwhelming urge to kiss, and would kiss were I not driving—part to speak.
My breath catches. I know that look. This is it. She’s ready to talk. My heart races like a sprinter coming around the last corner before the finish. Maybe we’ll work through her reaction after meeting with James before we get home. I hate that she’s hating herself. Maybe going out to dinner will make her feel better, get her mind off him. Perhaps La Fondue is still an option. It’s only seven-fifty. We have forty minutes until our reservation.
“Do you think we married too soon?”
Boom! The bombshell detonates.
My foot spasms on the accelerator, causing the car to lurch.
That’s not what I expected her to say.
Hell no! I waited thirteen months to tell her I loved her.
OK, yeah, so what if the thought of losing her to James when I accompanied her to Mexico to find him was the proverbial kick in the ass I needed to tell her how I feel. I could also care less that I proposed only three months after we returned. We loved each other. We wanted to spend our lives together.
There’s only one person who could get her asking such a question five years into our marriage. A question that comes way beyond left field. More like Hawaii.
“What did James say to you?”
“This has nothing to do with James.” Aimee slips her hand from mine. I feel the emptiness immediately, a punch to my gut.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I squeeze the steering wheel. “The guy shows up. You go see him. You ignore my calls and texts. I can’t reach you for hours—”
“It wasn’t hours.”
“—only to find you at Nadia’s bawling. Then you tell me to go home. What am I supposed to think?”
“When you put it that way—”
“What other way is there?” I snap.
Aimee tenses. She stares at me, her eyes big and round, waiting.
For what? I’m clueless. I stare back.
She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve got nothing.
Wait. Hold that thought, I’ve got one thing.
I briefly close my eyes and swallow the anger. “I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is argue.”
We watch each other for as long as I can safely keep my eyes off the road. She chews her lower lip and a horn blares. I swing my head around, switch lanes, and Aimee quietly says my name. “I’m sorry, too. I should have called you.”
“You should have come home,” I say gently. “You should have trusted me to be there for you.”
“I know. It’s just I still feel bad about last summer. Underneath all my anger, I was embarrassed.” She looks at her hands in her lap.
“Look, I get how the situation between you and James is weird. It was a long relationship with an intense, fucked-up ending that wasn’t your fault.”
“It was in a way. He clocked the neighborhood jerk when we were kids and I hero-worshiped him for years. I think . . . no. I know, to some degree, I still idolized him even after our relationship changed and we became more than friends. I should have known—”
“No, no, no,” I interrupt. “How old were you when you started going out? Thirteen? Don’t go blaming yourself. You were a kid.” I look askance at her. I’ve asked the question before, but at the risk of making her more upset, I’ve got to ask it again. “Are you still in love with him?”
I still cringe at myself once the words are out.
Damn, Collins. What’s with the insecurity?
Then I remember how every woman I’d loved has ditched me. The fear Aimee will do the same has got its claws on me.
Aimee fires an exasperated look in my direction. “You know I’m not. But he’s part of my past. He helped shape me into who I am today. How do I make you understand?” She thinks for a moment, weighing things in her mind. “How about this? I don’t love you less because of James. I just love him differently, and because of my experience with James, I believe I love you more than I would have had James and I never been together. I guess the best comparison is that I feel for James the way you feel for Reese.”
“Oh no.” I laugh the words, shaking my finger. “Our situations are nothing alike.”
“I know you were once in love with her. She’s your history, and you’ve barely told me anything about her.”
“Don’t turn this back on me. This isn’t about me. It’s about you and—”
“I’m always sharing my feelings. I always talk with you about James and what I’m thinking. We agreed to be open about our past relationships, girlfriends and mothers.”
“What has my mom got to do with this?”
“You’ve hardly told me anything about Reese, not like how you’ve shared with me your relationship with your mom,” she adds, when my cheek flexes from clenching my jaw too hard.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say quietly. About either of them. It took years of therapy for me to be able to discuss my mom without feeling that burning sensation of anger well up like a Yellowstone geyser. Now I just feel guilt and regret, a whole lot of it, too. I know I could have done more for her. But I also could have done as my dad repeatedly asked of me and let her be. She was not my responsibility, but I felt otherwise.
Aimee knows everything about my childhood, the way my dad practically abandoned me week after week, leaving me alone with my mom, giving me no choice but to look after her. I was a kid, for God’s sake. I can’t imagine doing the same to Caty.
I stomp down the hurt of past memories and focus on driving. The road ahead is straight but our discussion is an old one, spinning doughnuts between us.
I glance at Aimee. She looks stonily at me. She taps the purse in her lap. Annoying little thumps that tighten my back. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, flip the turn signal, and exit the freeway, easing to a stop at a red light.
“James is in love,” Aimee says as the car idles.
She makes a noise of impatience. “No, not with me. Natalya. Remember that woman we met with him when Carlos visited my parents’ house? Her,” she says. “James has been living with her in Hawaii. He asked if I thought him falling for someone he’d technically just met last June was too soon. It got me to thinking about us.”
Maybe Aimee and I need to rethink our open-book policy on sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings. She’s gutting me.
“I love you, Aimee. I love you so much. You and Caty are my world.”
“I love you, too, Ian.” She leans over and kisses me below the ear, letting her lips linger. I briefly close my eyes. I needed her touch. I needed to hear and feel her love for me.
Aimee yawns and presses a hand to her stomach. “The martinis aren’t settling well. You mentioned something about dinner plans.” I frown and she clarifies. “Back at Nadia’s.”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. We’ll get Caty and grab some takeout.”
She nods and her gaze turns inward.
“What are you thinking?” I ask as we approach our neighborhood.
“Ah.” She rubs her temple. “James asked if I wanted to file charges against Phil.”
I cringe, immediately feeling like a cad. “That’s why you were upset earlier.”
She closes her eyes and nods. “It brought back James’s proposal, the assault, and the ensuing fallout.”
Before we married, Aimee had told me about Phil’s sexual assault. She buried the incident, programming herself to ignore the hurt, at James’s request. Out of love for James, which baffled me. The situation sounded as disturbing as the Donato family. How could she have agreed to such a request? But my own mom had made many outrageous requests of me. Except for one, I followed them all.
While pregnant with Sarah Catherine, Aimee met with a therapist to work through the trauma of James’s disappearance, Thomas’s machinations, and Phil’s assault. I dropped her off at her appointments, even attended a few, and was there to hold her when her hour concluded.
“Where is Phil now? Do we need to worry about him?”
Aimee shakes her head. “I’m of no value to him anymore. He used me to hurt James.”
Thank God, Phil’s out of the picture. I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers. She leans into my hand. “Do you want to file charges?”
“No, I don’t. The last thing I want is to be dealing with any of the Donatos.”
“Think about it, I’ll support whatever you decide.”
“That’s what James said. He offered himself up as a witness if I wanted to file charges against Phil. He even offered to turn himself in since he asked me not to file charges initially. I think he’s trying to come to terms with his mistakes.”
“Is that why he’s back in California?” I ask, parking curbside in front of the Tierneys’, Aimee’s parents’ house.
“It’s one of the reasons.”
Morbid curiosity has me asking, “And the other?”
Aimee’s expression turns odd. “He wants to meet with you.”
Me?
“What in the world does James want with me?”
My gaze moves beyond Aimee and I lift a finger. “Hold that thought.”
Caty must have seen our car from the front window. She bursts out the door, princess skirt flowing and wand sparkling as she waves the glitter stick over her head. She might have my coloring, amber eyes and sandy-brown hair, but her half-moon smile and wild curls are all Aimee.
I leave the car and scoop up Caty before she reaches the sidewalk. “Caty-cakes!” I smack a kiss on her cheek. She smells of peaches and ice cream.
She squeals. “Daddy! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be celebrating. Hello, Mommy.”
Aimee joins us. She kisses Caty, then frowns up at me. “What are we celebrating?”
“Umm . . .”
“Does this have to do with the dinner plans that suddenly aren’t important?”
I inhale through my nose. “Maybe.”
“Tell us, Daddy. Tell us.” Caty wraps her arms around my neck and tugs.
I grunt and look at my family. We didn’t get off to a great start, but maybe Aimee and I can salvage the evening. “I got a call from National Geographic. They’re sending me on assignment.”
Aimee falls back a step. Her mouth falls open. “Ian, that’s huge!”
I beam. “It’s pretty damn cool.”
“Yay, Daddy!”
“I’m so happy for you.”
Aimee’s reaction sends a thrill through me. “Yeah, this is a big deal for me.”
“For all of us. And you were going to just drive us home and not mention it?”
“Well . . .” I let a squirming Caty slide down my leg. She skips circles around us, waving her wand. Someone’s on a sugar high and her dealer stands in the doorway, illuminated by the lit entryway behind her.
“Why are you here? Have you two been arguing?” Catherine boldly asks us, making her way down the porch. “Play nicely and go to dinner.”
I waggle my brows at Aimee. “Wanna go play nicely?” Her cheeks flame.
“Really, Ian.” Catherine shakes her head.
I dip my chin, hiding my grin. I don’t mind Catherine’s interference. We’re fortunate Aimee’s parents care. I wish I could say the same about mine.
Aimee hugs her mom. “We were just leaving.”
“Good. Enjoy your evening. I’m keeping Caty for the night.” Catherine reaches for her granddaughter’s hand.
“Where’s dinner?” Aimee asks me.
“La Fondue.”
Her gaze smolders, traveling down me, lingering on my abs and other manly parts. Maybe she’s changing her mind about playing.
My face instantly warms. I clear my throat, reining in my thoughts.
“That’s why you’re dressed up,” Aimee observes.
I nod. I’d forgone my uniform of faded jeans and V-neck Ts for something nicer. More suave and sexy. I even styled my hair, although one unruly lock keeps landing back on my forehead. I comb my fingers through my hair.
“Our reservation’s in twenty minutes.”
“Then why are we standing here?” Aimee walks back to her open car door.
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Catherine waves good-bye. Caty blows kisses and they go back inside the house.
I join Aimee at the car. “Let’s grab some grub.”
Once we’re outside the restaurant, I turn to her. Hooking my hands low around her back, I peer down into her face. She touched up her makeup on the drive over. Nobody can tell that James—the jerk—had made her cry. I sure can’t. I gently kiss her tinted lips, careful not to mess the painted line.
“Are you sure you want to eat out? We can order takeout and have a quiet night in.” Her mind has been tossed back to one of the most horrific days of her life. The last thing I want is to force her to put on a smile and be in public if she’d rather curl up on the couch with a box of Kleenex and a pint of Chunky Monkey. Of course, that would only make me want to track down James and shatter his nose.
Aimee blinks a couple of times but smiles. She fiddles with a button on my shirt, her eyes locked on my chest. She lightly scratches her fingernails on the material. Pinpricks shoot outward, rippling across my skin. I cover her hand with mine, holding it against my heart.
“Aimee?” I prompt.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she says to my chest.
She might be, but I’m not. I tuck a finger under her chin and raise my brows.
“I’m sure,” she says with more conviction, even adds a smile. “Let’s eat. We can talk about my day and the James stuff later. I want to hear everything about your assignment.” She cradles my jaw and plants a firm kiss on my mouth. She then rubs her upper lip as if wiping off the kiss.
I chuckle and Aimee laughs, apologetic. “I guess that’s my cue to shave.” I scratch below my chin. I need to trim. My five-day rugged shadow feels more like a short beard, making my face itch.
I think of what Aimee was about to tell me in the car. What could James possibly want with me? I want to ask her, but I don’t want to invite him to our table. Tonight is for us, a celebration of our achievements.
Wrapping her hand in mine, I lead the way into the restaurant. We don’t eat here often, only on special occasions, like getting THE CALL from National Geographic occasions.
Throughout the three-course meal of breads dipped in raclette cheese, venison seared in seasoned oil, and strawberries dipped in chocolate fudge, I tell her about the assignment.
“Al Foster, he’s the photo editor Erik referred me to. He loved my shots from the Rapa. He says the ones with the horses in the hills are great, but there’s too much happening around them. There’re too many people. He wants me to photograph the horses when they’re not being wrangled, so he’s sending me back to Spain.”
Aimee’s mouth angles downward. “I still haven’t seen your photos from the last trip.”
I roll my fondue fork in the melted cheese. “You’ve been busy,” I say, somewhat glum. And we had to confront other, more pressing issues.
She shreds a piece of bread. “Caty talks about them all the time.”
“I’ll show you tomorrow.”
“I’d like that. Early, though, if you don’t mind. I have a meeting with the bank first thing and I need to prep.” Aimee bites into the bread. “Are you writing the piece, too?”
I shake my head. “Not this time. I’m just captioning photos if they want me to. The magazine’s assigning a writer, but I don’t know who yet. He’ll meet me there so he can hike the hills with me. The editor wants my photos to align with the angle the writer’s taking on the article.” I lean across the table and brush my thumb across Aimee’s chin. “Cheese.”
She wipes her chin where I flicked her skin. “It’s good cheese.” She jabs a fork into another chunk of bread and swirls it in the pot. “I should add a cheese fondue to my menu, maybe for a late-afternoon or early-evening crowd.”
I frown. “Great idea, but do you want to serve food that late? You’ll have to stay open later.” She already spends plenty of hours managing the Los Gatos shop. The two additional storefronts she plans to open will take up more of her time, even without staying open longer hours.
“The Starbucks around the corner added wine and tapas to their menu.”
“You’re better than Starbucks.”
“I know, but . . .”
I cover her hand. “Focus on what makes the café different. Let the other coffee shops chase you, not the other way around.”
“You’re right.” She sips her chardonnay. “You’re absolutely right. Sometimes these ideas I get”—she twirls her index finger by her temple—“sidetrack me. I need to stay focused. I’ve got a lot to do to get the new locations opened.” She pushes out a long, steady breath. “So . . . Spain?”
I drink my wine and set down the glass. “Come with me.”
Her expression is hesitant. I can see it in the way her gaze flickers over our meal. I try not to feel disappointed.
“When do you leave?” she asks.
“In about a week or two. I have to check the weather reports. It’s the beginning of their rainy season.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Five days, a week, tops.”
She bites into her bottom lip. “I don’t know. That’s such short notice.”
I look at my empty plate.
“Well . . . maybe if I . . . no . . . that won’t work. I—”
I squeeze her hand. “Just think about it.”
“I will.” She nods and I’m fine with that. We can discuss the details later. For now, the evening is going well, and considering I didn’t bring James’s name up once since we sat down, I would say our date has been damn near perfect.
I must admit, though, James isn’t far from my mind.
What does he want with me? I’ve never met the guy. I did run into Carlos a couple of times, once in Mexico, and again when he and Natalya had lunch with us at the Tierneys’. That was weird.
I consider asking Aimee. She had been about to tell me in the car before Caty saw us. But she drinks her wine and gives me the look over the rim of her glass. All thoughts of “that other guy” go up in smoke.
I’ll bring it up in the morning. Tonight’s for us.
We return home after dinner, sans kid. Strange walking into a quiet house without having to pay a babysitter or take Caty through her bedtime routine. Thank God, Aimee and I are on the same channel. She turns to me the second I flip the dead bolt, her gaze locking on mine, her hands on my belt. She smiles wickedly and yanks the leather strap from the loops of my jeans. The belt snaps the air and she drops it on the floor.
Damn, I love it when she’s hot for me.
Laughing, kissing, and stumbling, we make our way to the bedroom, leaving our clothes scattered, a trail of undergarments and shoes. Lips locked, I lift Aimee in my arms. She wraps her legs around my hips and I walk us to the bed where we tumble onto the duvet. I don’t bother yanking aside the cover. That involves too much time with my hands not on her.
I inhale the subtle scent of the perfume I gifted her last Christmas and it sends a rush to my center. I bury my face into the crook of her neck and gently scrape my teeth along the curve. She bucks beneath me, her kisses frenzied, her hands frantic. They’re making me insane. It’s as though she’s trying to erase the day, those hours before I found her at Nadia’s. I nudge aside a long, sleek leg and sink inside her, exactly where I’ve wanted to be all freaking day.
And what a day.
Is it still on her mind? With her head turned to the side and her eyes closed, harsh gasps rising from her lungs with each one of my thrusts, what is she thinking? Who is she thinking about?
She better be thinking about me, her husband.
I move faster, determined to possess every thought of hers, every sensation. I wrap an arm under her shoulders, holding her close. I thread my fingers into her hair and grip hard.
She likes it rough.
She loves it when I lose control and go crazy for her.
“Look at me.”
She does. Her blues, a swirling midnight in the dim ribbon of light from the hallway, hook into mine. Her hands grasp my hips, her fingernails dig into my flesh. I increase our pace, moving forcibly above her, in her, until all thoughts of the day leave my head and nothing exists but us.
Until nothing exists but Aimee.
My wife.