Dinner was awkward, at best, and John knew Augusta could sense it, too. The bouncy, bubbly pixie he picked up had slowly morphed into a somber, empty-laughing woman on a bad date.
John wanted with his whole heart to fix it but couldn’t seem to figure out how. It was a mess he created all on his own, and now he had to figure out how to clean it up.
As much as he tried to deny it, he had known for a long time that Augusta had feelings for him. Not just the family type feelings he shared with all the Reid clan and their patchwork family—which he was now firmly a part of too—but deeper feelings. Deep, as in foundations, the kind which built futures and 401ks. Over the last year and a half or so, he had done nothing to discourage it, although he should have; he did not feel the same way about her.
The moment that thought formed, his heart rejected it. He was attracted to her; she was a beautiful young woman after all, but, deep feelings? John hadn’t had deep feelings for a woman in a long time, and at this point in life, he didn’t think he was even capable of such. He had boarded up that well years ago. A profound sadness engulfed him because he believed that well to have run dry.
John’s gaze drifted up from his plate of pasta, across the checkered table cloth, and landed on the face that made him question that ability, and not for the first time.
It’s physical, nothing more. It’s not love. I can’t possibly be falling in love. It seemed like he doubted himself more and more each and every time he looked deep into her arresting green eyes, flecked in gold and ringed in amber—a unique hazel worthy of the woman who bore them.
Hmm, I guess I do know their color, after all. John failed to notice how his staring made her even more uncomfortable until she started spouting the merits of the pasta yet again. John let her ramble, not because he enjoyed her being on edge, but because she was adorable in her flustered impromptu lesson on what affects the acidity of the tomatoes, making choosing those grown in the right condition as much of a culinary art as preparing them.
“Dang it!” Augusta suddenly stopped chewing, rested her fork on her plate with a clank, and wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she glanced down her front. John tracked every movement with interest, curious what prompted her outburst. When she looked from side to side as if to see who noticed, his curiosity piqued.
At his raised eyebrow, Augusta blushed and whispered, “It seems with pregnancy comes many increased hungers no one tells you about.” Still at a loss, John remained silent but raised his other eyebrow in question as well.
“You know, the girls?” Nothing. “Apparently, they like to eat as much as the front of my shirt does.”
“I don—” was all he got out before understanding smacked him in the face when Augusta did another cursory glance around the dimly lit dining room, then thrust her hand between her breasts and retrieved a strand of linguini. She began chuckling as she used her napkin, wetted from her water glass, to remove the sauce left in its wake.
John thought he groaned aloud. Of course, if he did, Augusta made no indication she heard him, so maybe it was all in his head after all. Thank God, because any encouragement would cause her disappointment in the long run. Even so, his eyes were riveted to the slight bounce of her breasts while she wiped the valley between.
She had tilted forward in an effort to shield herself from the other diners’ view, but it gave him a front row ticket and drew his attention to the increased size of her perfect bust line. Yeah, right, that’s why you noticed, you perv. She is young and pregnant, so stop ogling her. It’s bad enough you sniffed the shirt she returned to you and thinks it smells like her. He had inhaled it as soon as he pulled out of her driveway. It smelled fresh and clean, like laundry, but also held a hint of cucumber and kiwi, just like Augusta herself. It was reminiscent of innocence…something I haven’t had in a long time. Fresh and clean…and not for the likes of me.
As hard as he tried to discourage himself, his eyes returned again and again. While Augusta’s laughter increased, John’s stress level decreased. A nice, balanced couple. Wait, what? No, not what I meant at all. He simply loved that she found amusement in things that would frustrate most people. Wait, not love, poor word choice. He appreciated it. Better.
“Well, they won’t need to eat for another six to eight hours, so we’re good,” she joked.
John stared.
Augusta resumed her meal with enthusiasm, and John continued to stare.
“You know,” she said, pointing her fork at him. “I should have just left it for a snack later. It would save me the midnight raid of the pantry.” Augusta chuckled low and to herself. John…stared.
Once their dinner was a distant memory, Augusta was having an after-dinner mineral water to John’s typical Lagavulin. The momentary ease to the previous awkwardness had lifted, and the uncomfortable, blind-online-disaster-date feel returned with a vengeance.
John needed to man-up and say what needed to be said, for her sake and for his. Drawing this out wasn’t helping any more than him being in her daily life. He had convinced himself he was only being active until Marco and Andy got settled closer, but he recognized it for the half-truth it was.
If it’s the right thing, then why does it feel like the exact opposite? Augusta pushed herself from the table just a bit, bringing her belly into view, causing John’s imagination to take a flight of fancy, but the past grounded it before it soared too high.
Hardening his visage and his heart, he spoke, “Augusta, I think we need to talk.” The pause was for him to collect himself, but it torpedoed his resolve instead. Her face fell, and he was overtaken by a palpable pain. He hadn’t even spoken the words, yet she knew what he was about to say. She always seemed so in tune with him.
The sigh that broke the silence held so much information and an almost physical weight. When it left her bow-shaped lips, it settled on his heart like an anchor, dragging it back down to a dark place where it had resided for far too long.
Augusta stood, tossing him a defeated and disappointed look. “Can this wait until you get me home? If I know you, and I think I kinda do, this is not going to be a pleasant revelation for me, and I prefer not to break down in public.” John rose from the table the minute she did and berated himself for not seeing her intention and getting her chair. He could at least do some of the gentlemanly things his mother insisted he learn.
He retrieved her small Coach bag from the back of her chair, handed it to her, and gestured toward the door. Instead of walking ahead, she slung her purse over the opposite shoulder and looped her arms through his left arm intimately before her head dropped gently to his bicep. “Besides,” she breathed low, “just let me pretend for a few more minutes,” her voice dropped to a barely there whisper, “that you could love me as I am.” She had spoken so impossibly low, John convinced himself he’d heard her wrong.
And the blender just kept whirring and whirring, grinding and chewing away at his heart.
For a day that started out with so much promise, it had sure ended with the absence of even a sliver. Gus could read the writing on the wall; John was pulling back even further, but that’s not all she saw.
Gus had also noticed the way he stared into her eyes as if he could see beyond her pregnancy. She heard his breath hitch when he saw her in the low-cut vintage Chanel. None of her friends here had seen her dressed like that before. Once she moved to Florida and had no one harping on her to dress for success even if she was just buying groceries, Gus had refused to even wear a dress…until now. John was worth dressing up for.
John’s appreciation and affection didn’t stop there. More than once, she’d caught that glimpse of what she thought could be love, at least what she wanted to be the possibility of love. If not that, the seeds of a deep affection that could be cultivated into love, just like with her. That is, if she could have found a way to keep John from digging them up the minute he realized they were there, struggling to grow.
It was witnessing that which was the real rub. Catching glimpses of the possibility only hurt that much more. It wasn’t that he was blissfully unaware of it, which was the belief she had been operating under for the last six months. That she could deal with. She had schoolgirl fantasies of leading him down the path of discovery and watching when he became aware of his feelings.
But this, this was impossible. John was well aware of the affection he had for her, and hers for him, and he was choosing to let it go—to throw it away and pretend it was never even there.
For whatever reason, and she had a pretty good idea what it was, John was making a conscience choice. As much as it hurt her to her core, she had to respect that. That didn’t mean she didn’t deserve answers, or at the very least, John didn't deserve the closure of admitting it and moving on.
However, she was going to enjoy the illusion for as long as she could without having to call her behavior creepy. She breathed his scent in deeply one last time before she let go. It was time. Gus had clung to him like a baby koala climbing a tree all the way from the table to the car.
Reluctantly, she let go so he could close the door. The center console kept her hands, and any other wayward parts, to herself on the drive home. But when John came around to open her door, as he always did, she reached for him with more desperation than a drowning man grasps for a rope. Oh God, pathetic much, Gus?
Less than half of a football field was all she had—the distance from the car to her entry-way where John would make his polite excuses and bail.
Fifty yards was all she had to relish the heat of his bicep through the thin cotton barrier.
Now forty yards left to appreciate the security of his quiet strength and reassuring touch.
Thirty yards to enjoy the slight rasp of his work-roughened hand absently stroking one of her forearms as it wrapped around his arm and clung on for dear life.
Twenty…memorizing the close-up of his once clean-shaven face, that was now the host of the salt and pepper beard he was growing.
Just ten more before John’s scent of spice, Scotch, and coffee was no longer invading her. It was a smell she had become addicted to. Funny, the coffee scent John held was the only time since becoming pregnant she could stand the smell. Erika swore when she was pregnant with Willow, she would brew pot after pot, only to bury her nose in it before tossing it out. Gus found that hard to believe, but each woman’s experience was unique. Duh.
Zero. They had reached the metaphorical end zone of the entry-way to Gus’ house. With a great deal of effort, and resignation, Gus released her grip on John’s arm. She had expected a physical reaction, but none like what she experienced.
Gut-churning, nauseating, headache-inducing, room-spinning dread slammed into her as if her soul knew what her mind had yet to accept—this was it, the ending of something that was never given the chance to even begin. The pain she was feeling was almost physical. She winced at what she decided was her soul making an effort to rip itself free from her body and heart before it would become a husk of what it once was. With all the sick feelings assaulting her, there was some anger, too. Anger that he had never given them a chance. Intense anger directed at that stubborn butt, lily livered…stupid head…who she loved silly. So, who’s the real stupid-head in all this?
Turning to John, she did the polite thing first; a Thorne never skipped social niceties. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, I appreciate your time and thoughtfulness. It is truly a night I won’t soon forget. It may not have been as magical for you, but it was that and more for me.” When she caught a flash of what she could only identify as anger zip across John’s face, Gus turned and placed her purse on the table. She started removing her slingbacks when she over-tipped and had to catch herself on the wall. Of course, Gentleman John was there to catch her before she fell.
She would miss his cat-like reflexes and protective nature. It was that nature that saved Skynyrd before he could limp off into the woods bloodied and injured. Sadly, Gus wasn’t feeling very appreciative of John right now. Maybe because he would do the same for anyone, not just her, and that realization not only hurt, it made her question her own feelings. Could she have fallen for John because of misreading his actions? Did he really not feel anything more for her than anyone else?
“I’m fine, I don’t need your help.” John dropped his hands and stiffened at her back so fast, she had to wonder if he had super powers. She was snippy, but she wasn’t going to feel bad about it. Well, she wasn’t until she heard the pain in his pleading voice.
“Augusta…”
“I’m sorry John, I’m just a little tired and hormonal. I didn’t mean to be a witch. You were just trying to help, and I thank you.” She couldn’t bring herself to turn and look at him. Her heart would shatter if she did; she was sure of it.
For some reason, her apology didn’t help, it only seemed to hurt him more. She could practically feel it in the air, his pain. And because it was John, she seemed to be out of her depth. Gus cursed herself, how is it I can help my friends but not the man I…
Unable to finish the thought, and at a loss as to what to do, she decided to just end it for now. They could work it out tomorrow, get the closure they both needed on a new day. This one was already headed to Hades and nothing seemed to be coming from it that was productive. What the heck is the point of pain if it doesn’t produce squat?
“Look,” Gus started to turn, but John reached up and halted her rotation.
“Please, just stay like you are and continue.” John’s emotion-roughened voice pleaded, as hands lingered on her biceps, and she felt his body move into her personal space.
“Okay, look. I understand there is something we need to discuss.” Gus’ speech faltered as his chest encountered her back. His touch, his body heat scorched her very bones. When John’s inhale whispered along the nape of her neck and his shuddering exhale kissed the pebbling skin there, she experienced a glimpse of her own personal Heaven.
Trying to focus on her thoughts was about as effective as carrying sand in a sifter, as Francis would say. That peek into bliss cemented her need to postpone this conversation until later. A centering breath or two and she was ready to speak.
“Like I was saying, I know there is a discussion that needs to happen, but if you would indulge me this one last time…” Work-roughened hands skimmed down her arms to rest on her hips and robbed her voice once again. John’s exploration didn’t stop there, it continued as his hands made their way to the front of her hips.
The next kiss she experienced wasn’t an exhale, but the barely there grazing of lips softer than she expected, but exactly as she’d dreamed. It was so gentle and fleeting, she had to convince herself it actually happened. Before she knew it, the kiss-not-kiss was in the past, and John had laid his cheek against the crown of her head, while his hand slowly came around her belly and back to her hips, repeatedly. Gus focused her senses on another feeling, one of his growing erection against her back. His rather large…holy mother of God. She needed to not be focused on that. If she couldn’t drag her brain out of his pants, she might never speak again. Wouldn’t that be fabulous, rendered mute by a man’s cock.
“But I—”
John interrupted her. But this time, the emotions she heard were laced with arousal and tempered with defeat. “This sounds like a goodbye, Augusta. And if it is, at least let me touch you once. Allow me to bring you pleasure instead of pain.”