Chapter Nineteen
“I’m doing this for my family,” Jared paused to suck in air, “to give them a better life.” He dialed down the treadmill next to Zander’s and dropped to a walk. “Why can’t Kayla see that?”
Did the “agony” in agony aunt refer to the listener or the complainer, Zander wondered, his own breathing perfectly attuned to the pace he’d set himself.
He was tired of the inevitability of Jared and Kayla’s problems. Dammit, he was happy and he wanted to relish this rare and precious peace. The tour was going brilliantly, his love life was stellar and everyone should just get along.
“Bullshit,” he gasped.
“What?”
“I said bullshit.” He stopped the machine and counted his pulse. One fifty-seven. Mission accomplished. Reset to a warm-down pace. “You’re doing this because it’s fucking awesome to be a rock star,” he said when his breathing eased. “Be honest with yourself and own it. Sure, you’ll be able to buy more for your family, but your kids fit around the tour schedule and your wife has to watch other women hitting on you. You get the public glory, Kayla’s invisible.”
“I’m always proud to introduce her as my wife.”
“I see that. And kudos for doing way better than I expected, juggling family life with being a sex object.”
Jared missed the nuances of the compliment. “Tell Kayla that,” he said. “If she just—”
“Adored you, like the fans and groupies do, yeah I know. Life’s a bitch.”
“Jesus, Zee, I thought you’d understand.”
“No, you thought I’d take your side. You and Kayla need to stop drawing battle lines with good guys and bad guys.”
“Forget it; I don’t expect you to understand.” Jaw set, Jared dialed the pace up again, his feet pounding out his frustration.
The trouble was, he did understand. Zander stepped off his treadmill. The good thing about historic London hotels was that gyms were afterthoughts, discreetly tucked away. At three p.m. it was near empty, only a staunch old gent on an exercycle reading the Financial Times.
He gave him a friendly nod as he removed two bottles of Evian from the guest fridge.
“You didn’t see Kayla when she got all dressed up and rushed out to join you last weekend,” he said in a low voice when he returned. “All hopeful and excited.”
Jared scowled. “No, I saw her three hours later after she’d been stoking her mad with liquor and bitching about men with Stormy and Dimity.”
Zander shuddered.
“Yeah,” Jared said gloomily. Stopping the treadmill, he accepted a water and raked a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know how to make her happy anymore.”
“We have another free day in Edinburgh next week. Take her for a romantic lunch or something. Hell, it always works in the movies.”
Yesterday, he and Elizabeth had stolen ninety minutes from Zander’s schedule and visited Benjamin Franklin House—a museum he hadn’t known existed. The founding father of the United States had lived in London for nearly sixteen years. A roll in history followed by a roll between the sheets.
“We’d planned on taking the kids to Edinburgh Castle, then I’m meeting Simone at noon—”
He stopped because Zander was shaking his head.
“Fuck,” he said bitterly, viciously rescrewing the lid on the water bottle. “Kayla’s got into your ear about that too?”
“Of course not.” Elizabeth had. At which point Zander had reminded her of the space-time continuum. So why he was having this talk was beyond him.
“Simone’s a professional and a friend,” Jared said. “No different from you and Elizabeth.”
Not really the best example. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking Simone’s not trying to get into your pants,” Zander warned. “She’s just employing different tactics. Has she made flattering comparisons to John Entwistle and Flea yet?”
Jared stepped off his treadmill. “I would never cheat on Kayla.”
“Then tell Frenchie that,” Zander said bluntly. “Your wife’s a smart woman. If Kayla sees Simone as a threat to your marriage, then you should too.”
As expected, Jared told him to butt out, so Zander said, “Fair enough,” and did. He wasn’t surprised that his bassist wasn’t ready to hear advice. The first hit of fame was insidious. You’re good at one thing—in Jared’s case, playing a mean bass—and suddenly everyone’s desperate to hear what you think about politics, lactose intolerance, and the color purple. It was impossible not to have your ego inflated.
Zander stopped off at his biographer’s floor before returning to his suite. If Elizabeth was working she’d boot him out, but if she wasn’t, he might convince her to share his shower. In the four days since he’d seduced her at the Manchester concert, she’d rigorously enforced a hands-off policy during their interviews, which only added spice to their lovemaking when they were off the clock.
And sneaking around was fun.
At first when he opened her door, he thought she was with someone, because she was softly singing Happy Birthday. But she sat alone in front of her laptop.
She yelped as he swooped to nuzzle her neck, one hand cupping a breast. “My birthday, I hope,” he said.
Her fingers grabbed his. “Company,” she gasped.
Zander stopped kissing her neck and glanced down to meet the amused gaze of an old man with eyes as blue as his own on the laptop screen. “Oops.”
“And who is this, muirnin?” he said in a lilting accent.
Cheeks aflame, Elizabeth folded her arms. “My…Zander.”
“Your Zander, I can see that.”
“I don’t mean mine, I mean Zander. Zander Freedman. And this is Pat.”
“Muirnin?” said Zander.
“Sweetheart, darling, dear.” Doc’s cheeks were as red as her hair. “It’s a Gaelic endearment.”
“Bend down again so I can get a good look at you,” Pat ordered.
Dropping a reassuring hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, Zander crouched by her chair and presented himself for inspection.
“You’re the singer fella. Are you any good?” The old guy wasn’t asking about Zander’s voice.
“Elizabeth keeps me in line.”
“We’ve been keeping our aff—” Elizabeth coughed, “relationship a secret to avoid publicity.”
Pat’s caterpillar brows lowered. “And whose idea was that?” he demanded of Zander.
“Hers.”
“Huh. Well, you’re pretty enough to turn heads, I suppose. What else do you have going for you?”
Zander flashed his white smile. “My own teeth.”
Elizabeth kicked his foot, but the old man chuckled. “Ah, you don’t like being called pretty then. Elizabeth tells me you’re the best singer she’s ever heard.”
“Does she now?” Surprised and touched, he looked at her.
“You know you’re that good,” she muttered.
“Yeah, but you’re not a hard-core rock fan.”
“Zander, your voice transcends genre. You could sing anything.”
“Is that right?” Pat said skeptically. “D’ya know ‘Danny Boy’?”
“I’ve heard it once or twice.” Mostly in Irish-American bars.
“’Twas a great favorite of my late wife’s.” Wincing, he touched his heart.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Zander said. Curious about the neighbor Elizabeth was so fond of, he stayed a few more minutes and left with a couple of insights. Elizabeth had a soft spot for rascals.
And she had a surrogate father who’d kick Zander’s ass with one creaky foot if he hurt his muirnin. There was something moving about an old man’s protectiveness of a woman eminently capable of wielding her own foot. And he felt a sense of male solidarity with the old man as well. Elizabeth could be frustratingly independent.
Since becoming her lover, he’d noticed she wouldn’t accept anything without feeling obligated to return the favor. Even in bed, it couldn’t be all about her and if it was, then it had to be his turn next time. Not that it wasn’t appreciated, but…
Zander thought of a way to bypass her resistance—by giving to the people she cared about—and glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until he left for the stadium. After grabbing a quick shower, he powered up his laptop and printed the lyrics of “Danny Boy.”
And if there was a spin-off benefit in getting on the old guy’s good side… Hey, he couldn’t help being a multitasker.
* * *
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Pat said. “He’s good-looking sure, but too good-looking. An’ I read something on the Interweb—”
“Internet.”
“Whatever it’s called.” He played with the four-leaf clover lapel pin she’d sent from Dublin. “Has he got you onto drugs, is that it?”
Elizabeth started to laugh. “No, Pat, I like him.”
“He has a sense of humor, I’ll give him that, but sweetheart, is there more to him than what I read on the Interweb?”
“Internet. And why would you read up on him?”
“Because I care about you. You gave me a computer, I might as well learn how to use it. I’ve been going to SeniorNet where they teach us oldies how to use the bally things. Tell me, is it serious?”
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s for fun.”
Butterball jumped into his lap, and he stroked the cat until she purred. “And is he really so famous you’d be in the papers for being his girlfriend?’
“Yes.”
“Hmph, sounds like an excuse to me.”
“Zander doesn’t care about going public, I do.”
“I was talking about you,” he said. Even on the other side of the world, his gaze was piercing. “Are you ashamed of being involved with him?”
“What?” She blinked. “No, but it’s complicated mixing business with pleas…personal. And I like my privacy, so don’t tell my family.”
“I can keep secrets.” He touched his heart.
“No need to swear a pledge,” she joked, then saw he was rubbing his chest. “Are you feeling okay?”
“A few aches and pains.” He grimaced. “Old age.”
“When did you last see a—”
“Doc?” Zander tapped on the door.
“Oh Lordy,” she said, “Is it time to leave for the stadium already?” She was nowhere near ready.
“Not yet. I downloaded the song for Pat.” He waved a sheet of music.
“Did you now,” Pat said with a chuckle.
“The tune is the ‘Londonderry Air’ and the words were written in 1910 by an Englishman.” Elizabeth hid a smile when her Irishman frowned. “It’s traditional to Irish immigrants and their descendants,” Zander continued. “Northern Ireland plays it as an anthem for gold medalists in the Olympic and Commonwealth Games.”
“And you researched all this why?” Pat asked.
“A song’s history helps you to sing it.”
Pat settled into his armchair and stroked Butterball. “Go on, then. Let’s see if you can do it justice.”
Zander pulled up a chair and looked at the lyrics. His smile faded, replaced by the meditative focus Elizabeth had come to recognize before he went onstage.
It made something inside her ache, so she watched Pat instead—his skepticism fading away with the first note, his dawning awe. When the tears started rolling down his cheeks, she closed her eyes and let the song take her. She’d heard it sung many times—as Pat had said, it was one of his favorites—and initially it evoked their friendship, a shared whiskey at dusk in his garden, the scent of turned earth and gardenias, and his longing for his homeland on the other side of the world.
And then Zander’s voice sucked her into the lyrics and released an upwelling of emotion, the bittersweet pain of loving someone she must lose. How could he do it? she thought, suffer like this? Because only by baring his soul could he strike such deep chords in his listeners. The last note faded, leaving her with tears prickling; she opened her eyes and looked at Pat mopping his face unashamedly. Impulsively she hugged Zander. “Thank you.”
Silly to feel he might need comfort, but his arms closed around her as tightly and he took a moment to answer. “Gotta go—but you stay. Your other boyfriend needs you.”
It didn’t occur to Elizabeth until he’d left, waving aside Pat’s effusive thanks, that he’d called himself her boyfriend.
And she hadn’t corrected him.
“You might have to keep him,” Pat said, blowing his nose. “Sweet Jesus, it makes me want to go to one of his concerts. Where can I buy a record?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Trust me, you won’t like his music, one or two of the ballads maybe.”
She got the giggles imagining him listening to some of Rage’s raunchy lyrics, and infected Pat with her mirth. The cat, disgruntled by the levity, jumped off his lap, which only made them laugh harder. Mid-chuckle, Pat stopped, clawed at his chest and toppled off his chair.
Elizabeth wiped her eyes. “Very funny, Irish. Quit fooling around.”
Nothing happened. She stared at the empty chair and the wall behind it. “Pat?”
At the edge of the screen, Butterball disappeared at a trot through the door. “Pat!” Elizabeth half-stood, knocking her chair over. “Pat, can you hear me?”
No response. Heart in her throat she pounced on her cell and phoned her home number, praying for her sister to pick up. It went to answer phone.
“Pat, hang on. I’m getting help.”
How did you dial emergency from the other side of the world? Her mind blanked with panic. Country code…city code… Shit. Trembling she phoned her brother, giving a sob of relief when he picked up. “Luke, call emergency and get an ambulance to Pat’s house. I think he’s had a heart attack.” She barely waited for an acknowledgment before cutting the connection.
“Pat, hang on. Help’s coming. You hear me? Hang on.”
For fifteen agonizing minutes she talked herself hoarse—comforting, cajoling, pleading until the ambulance guys broke in. One dropped out of sight to attend to Pat, the other listened to her garbled explanation of what happened.
She stared at the picture on the wall—racing greyhounds—as they worked on him and brought in a gurney. As they wheeled him out of the house she glimpsed his profile under an oxygen mask, one gnarled hand resting on the blanket. “I love you, Pat.” And then he was gone, and there was only the scream of the ambulance’s siren fading away to silence.
All the adrenaline drained from Elizabeth’s body, and she started to shake. “Pat,” she whispered. “Please don’t die.” Whimpering, she slid off her chair and curled up on the floor. The carpet itched her cheek and soaked up her tears. She’d never felt so helpless.
And so useless.
* * *
Zander grabbed his cell to phone Elizabeth as soon as the band was in the van returning to the hotel. It had been strange not having her around preshow, he’d missed her.
It hadn’t helped that his voice was off tonight in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. He’d hit every note cleanly but… He paused as he scrolled through his contact list.
“You guys notice any difference in our performance?”
“Yeah.” Jared knew not to bring his ill humor to work. “Inserting that ballad in the last quarter of the show calmed the crowd too much.” He glanced at Seth for a verifying nod. The bassist and drummer were the band’s beat meisters. “We had to work harder building to the finale.”
Zander had changed the set list to give his voice recovery time between the power numbers. “You’re right,” he said, relieved. Not my voice failing. His post-show hoarseness was persisting longer, but voice fatigue was inevitable at this stage of the tour. It might be worth booking another master class with the Italian vocal coach when the band was in Milan. “We’ll switch back next concert.”
Why hadn’t he factored in pace when he was reviewing the set list? Too busy daydreaming about your biographer. He looked at his contacts—Doc—and reluctantly switched off his cell.
He needed to recalibrate his work/play balance to its normal ratio of eighty/twenty. Elizabeth would understand. She’d been talking about slashing their time together anyway as she tackled the first draft.
It tickled Zander that his lover’s work ethic was as strong as his.
Still, it required some self-control as he stood in the elevator, to let her floor flash by. See, I can give her up any time I want to. She was becoming important to him and he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about that.
The message light was flashing on his room phone, but Zander took a shower and changed into sweats before listening. “Zee, it’s Stormy. I thought you should know Elizabeth’s really upset. Her old friend at home had a heart attack while she was Skyping him. If you get this message, maybe—”
He didn’t wait to hear the rest, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator and using the key card she’d given him. “Elizabeth?”
Stormy lay on top of the biographer’s bed, half asleep. “She’s in the bathroom.” Sitting up yawning, she looked at the key card in his hand. “I figured she’d want you here.”
Zander wasn’t sure what to say. A denial would be stupid. An apology redundant; he and Stormy weren’t together. And yet he had the urge to make one. But now wasn’t the time. “Thanks for letting me know. When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I came by at seven to see if she wanted to go to dinner and found her in a mess. Apparently he collapsed right in front of her.” Stormy shuddered.
“How bad is it?”
She bit her lip. “She’s waiting to hear if he’s going to make it.”
“Jesus.” He struggled to process that the lively old Irishman he’d met a few hours earlier lay at death’s door.
Climbing off the bed, Stormy lifted the cover off a tray, revealing a plate of congealing chicken casserole. “I couldn’t get her to eat anything, but talked her into a shower. She took her cell with her and the bottle.”
“Bottle?”
“I suggested a whiskey might help with the shock and she suddenly got all weird and asked for a bottle of Jameson’s. But she hasn’t uncapped—”
The bathroom door clicked open and Elizabeth emerged, one of the sorriest sights Zander had ever seen. Her red hair hung in wet tendrils around a blotchy face and her brown eyes were puffy from crying. She wore the hotel’s robe, a white waffle-weave that was a couple of sizes too big for her, and clutched a gleaming green bottle of whiskey against her chest.
She saw him and her face crumpled. He strode forward two steps and gathered her into his arms. “Oh darlin’, I’m so sorry… No news?”
“Not yet.” Her voice sounded rusted with grief. “I’ve been waiting for hours and Stormy”—she stiffened and pushed free of his embrace—“has been sitting with me. She’s been so kind.” She glanced over to Stormy with a trembling smile.
“You were kind to me,” Stormy said. “Listen, Zander’s waiting with you for news. I’ve got the kids early, so I should get some sleep.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth passed him the whiskey bottle and hugged the other woman fiercely. “Thank you. I would have gone crazy alone.”
“I’ll phone first thing.”
“Let’s hope it’s good news.” Elizabeth blinked hard and fumbled in her robe for a tissue.
“I’ll walk you out,” Zander said to Stormy. He stepped into the hotel corridor, partially closing the door behind him.
“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “I’ll keep your secret.”
“What gave us away?”
“You’re nicer,” she said. “I’m not sure how much is giving up partying and how much is Elizabeth’s influence, but I’ve noticed you trying to please her and well…” She shrugged.
“I never tried to please you.”
“Not outside of the bedroom, no.”
“I was an asshole when we were together,” he said.
“Not all the time.”
“It took a lot of guts to tell me how you felt and I couldn’t have handled it worse if I tried. I’m so sorry…Irene.”
“Truth is, I loved you, but I didn’t like you much.” She smiled. “I like you a lot better now.” And love you a lot less. She didn’t say it; she didn’t need to. “And while I appreciate you remembering my real name, I’d appreciate it even more if you forgot it again.”
“Done,” he said softly.
“Go inside, Elizabeth needs you.” She gave him a gentle push. “And Zee, don’t fuck it up. Whatever you feel, do the opposite. If you want to leave, stay. If you want to stay, leave. Tonight, you put her first.”
With a nod, he returned inside. Way to scare the crap out of me. I’m useless at this kind of thing. But when he saw Elizabeth, curled up on the bed, clutching the bottle of whiskey, nothing mattered but easing her pain.
Climbing beside her, Zander gathered her in his arms. With a sigh, she nestled against his chest. The bottle poked his ribs and he shifted slightly to accommodate it. “Tell me about the whiskey.”
“Pat and I used to have a tipple on Friday nights,” she said in a shaky voice. “Whiskey is how I got invited into his house. He’d rejected scones, he’d rejected firewood, but I showed up with a bottle one day and he let me in. He was in a bad way at the time; his wife had died six weeks earlier.”
“No other family?”
“He has a son who lives a half-day drive away but they’re not close.” She rubbed her face against his shirt and he realized she was weeping.
Zander tightened his hold. “You want to open it?”
“Not yet. I’ll have a drink,” she gasped, “when I hear something.” Choking back a sob, she rolled away from him and sat up, fists clenched. “I shouldn’t have taken this job. If I’d stayed home I might have noticed Pat wasn’t well. He’s probably been eating fast food every night because no one’s keeping a proper eye on him.”
Zander said nothing. Better she vent her guilt before it festered and became something toxic and permanent. Only when Elizabeth started repeating herself, did he interrupt.
“Didn’t Pat support you taking this job?”
“Yes, but I knew he’d really miss me and—”
“So you can put his interests first, but he can’t reciprocate?”
“N…no.”
He cupped her chin between his hands and made her look at him. “Guilt is an immobilizer,” he said. “You get stuck in that and you’re no good to anybody. You should eat something too.”
“I can’t eat.”
Zander caressed her pale face. “How about some of that hot tea you like?”
Laying her hand over his, she managed a wan smile. “I’d love a cup of tea.”
While he phoned room service, she dug in the pocket of her robe and checked that her cell was working. She needed distraction. When the tea tray arrived, he said casually, “Remind me how you make this again?”
“Milk last… No, don’t pour yet. You wait for it to draw… Here, let me do it.”
He talked her into eating half the sandwich he’d ordered with the tea.
“I never asked,” she said between bites. “How was the concert tonight?”
“Great,” he replied, because his concerns were trivial beside hers.
“You must be exhausted. If you need to sleep, use my bed.”
There wasn’t a question in her mind that he’d stay for her; that was the part that constricted Zander’s chest. Her trust in him. Don’t. Sooner or later, I’ll let you down.
And yet nothing could have stopped him putting his arms around her and resting his chin on her hair. “I can stay awake for a while yet. Whatever happens, you’ll want to fly home, so why don’t I check flight availability while you pack?”
“I’m desperate to go, but we’re already working to the wire on delivering a draft to the publisher.”
“So I’ll demand an extension. I’m a rock star, they must be expecting delays. You and I can interview via Skype.”
“Thank you.” Giving him a swift, fierce kiss, she dragged her suitcase from under the bed and started packing.
He found a flight leaving the following afternoon and booked Business Class, using Elizabeth’s credit card. Normally Dimity did all this stuff and he knew his PA wouldn’t mind being woken, but he felt the need to care for Doc himself. Tomorrow he’d get Dimity to reimburse her account.
Elizabeth’s cell trilled from her robe’s pocket, and she seized it with trembling hands. “Hello? Luke. What news? Uh-huh.” She looked at Zander, her eyes filling with tears.
Heartsick, he rose slowly to his feet, trying to remember his therapist’s strategies for dealing with grief.
“Thank God!” Her tears brimmed over, rolled down her cheeks and caught in the corners of her smile. “Listen, I’m coming home tomorrow to see him. I’ll text my flight details for a pickup. Phone if there’s any change. Love you too.” She replaced the cell in her pocket. “My brother, Luke. They think Pat will be okay, but they’ll do an angioplasty and—” Her face crumbled.
“Come here,” he said gently.
She sobbed out her relief on his shoulder, while he rubbed soothing circles on her back. “I think we should open your bottle.”
“Yes. God, yes!”
He splashed whiskey into teacups and they toasted Pat’s health. While Elizabeth gulped hers, Zander settled for a single sip. She held out the cup again. “Another.”
“You sure? It’s no fun flying with a hangover.”
“I have to drink one for Pat too.”
“Fair enough.” He refilled her cup and she sipped it while packing. As the alcohol hit her system, she trailed haphazardly between the wardrobe, bureau and her suitcase like a drunken ant, with occasional forays into the bathroom to collect toiletries. Sometimes she returned with an item for her suitcase, others she returned empty-handed to talk.
And talk.
Sprawled on the bed, Zander waited patiently for her to wind down enough to sleep. She had to be exhausted—so was he—but these were their final hours together for at least a week.
And he found her frank disclosures hugely enjoyable—from the confession that she hadn’t wholly forgiven Pat’s tabby for killing the old man’s budgie to esoteric philosophizing on peering into people’s souls.
“Sometimes I think how cool it would be if all the superficial stuff, how we look, speak, our culture, our education is stripped away.” Shampoo tucked under one arm, whiskey in hand, she blinked owlishly from the end of the bed. “And we’re all jus’ orbs of light…like the one balancing on ET’s finger. An’ you can see immediately what a person truly is by how bright or dimly their light shines.”
Zander grinned. “Can you change the bulb or are you born a certain watt?”
“Oh, you can change it,” she said sagely. The shampoo dropped into the open suitcase with a thud. “The bulb dims or brightens all the time depending on what you do.”
“Or don’t do.” Some of his amusement faded. “All those people who stepped over the guy lying in the road before the Good Samaritan got there… They can’t go back, can they?”
“No, but they can pick up the next person.” She tipped her head back to catch the last drop of whiskey in the cup. “There’ll always be someone lying on the road. I read this saying once, ‘a good life is the result of a thousand small choices and so is a bad one.’” She dumped the empty cup in her suitcase.
“Are you always this deep when you drink?”
“Oh,” she waved airily. “This stuff swills around in my brain all the time, it jus’ comes out when I’m tipsy.” She flung herself down beside him, all wild red hair and puffy eyes. “Don’t you find it fascinating?”
He tucked a corkscrew curl behind her ear. “I find you fascinating. You’re unguarded when you’re tanked. So, Doc, how do you feel about me?”
“Na-ah!” She waved a finger lopsidedly. “I’m not falling for that one. Who confesses first loses.”
“Confesses first?”
With her finger she drew a heart on his chest. “Love stuff.”
Zander swallowed. “Why?”
“Because it’s kinda like who loves who the most and the other person can use it against them or something.” She rolled on her back, getting tangled in her oversized robe. “Can’ remember. It was in a book or something my sister gave me. Gives the other person control.” She licked her lips and said drowsily, “So thirsty.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
When he returned, she was out cold, snoring lightly. Zander put the glass on the bedside table, loosened the robe and maneuvered her under the sheets. “You’re a lump when you’re asleep,” he said, covering her with the duvet and resetting the air-con. He found some Advil in the bathroom cupboard and placed it beside the water, then repacked her suitcase—removing the teacup—and adding everything she’d forgotten. Zipping her interview notes into the laptop bag, he paused. All those files on him, truths, selected truths and half-truths. But if he told her everything he was, she’d despise him. And what Elizabeth thought of him mattered.
Oh. Shit.
By the time he’d finished packing, dawn was creeping through the crack in the drapes and he had to leave. Her rules. And another secret.
Zander sat on the bed and gently laid a hand on Elizabeth’s bright hair. “Doc, we’re on the road this morning, I have to go.”
With a grumpy mutter, she rolled away from his touch and hunched a shoulder under the blanket.
Leaning forward he kissed the pulse at her smooth temple, tasted the salt of dried tears and breathed in whiskey and warmth.
He recalled Stormy once talking about falling in love. There’s a point I guess where you can pull back, but you choose not to. She could have been speaking Swahili at the time, but—finally—Zander got it.
Professionally, he’d never backed away from a challenge; personally, he kept his heart permanently locked in a panic room. It beat against his ribs now, in a hard staccato beat. Dontsayit! Dontsayit! Dontsayit!
He took a deep breath. “I love you.”
And got another grumble. He stood and looked down on his lover’s sleeping form. Smiled. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you that when you’re awake.”
The irony of his situation struck him on the way out.
He was a guy with a master plan for world domination. But when it came to making Elizabeth love him, Zander had no fucking clue what to do next.