Chapter Nine
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Earlier that afternoon, Liz blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus on the numbers in front of her on the computer screen. Her lab results showed undetectable quantities in her blood of human chorionic gonadotropin—indisputable evidence that she was not pregnant. She bit down on her lip hard enough that she tasted the metallic, bitter taste of blood.
What on earth had possessed her, checking in the middle of the workday? She’d been so excited. So positive and hopeful that she couldn’t wait another second to find out.
Except…the disappointing, crushing result had thrown her off her game.
“Deep breaths, deep breaths,” she whispered, trying to pull herself together. Trying to tell herself it didn’t matter…that things were better this way, really. Her feelings for Grant were already so complicated, certainly the fact that she was not having his baby should be a huge relief.
Except it wasn’t, for reasons she didn’t fully understand. She told herself this wasn’t about him, not at all, but rather about the fact that her window to be a mother was closing fast, the sand pitching rapidly through the hourglass. She ached to hold a baby in her arms.
Brett burst through her office door and took a good hard look at her face. “Dammit, Liz, why couldn’t you have waited until I called you? You’re a terrible patient.”
She had nothing to say to that. He was right. She had no words, because her throat suddenly clogged up as if there was a giant wad of Kleenex stuck there. All she managed was a shrug.
Brett immediately walked over and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, never so grateful for his presence. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I guess I—I was too excited to wait. I felt so certain it would be good news.”
Liz gave him an anemic smile. “I did everything,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I took the drugs. We did everything right.” With her science background, she understood the odds. But she’d been so hopeful.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Brett said, rubbing her back. “Really sorry.”
His compassion skewered her. She hated pity, but she was so glad he was here for her. She could only afford a moment of his comfort, though, because duty was calling. It was midafternoon, and the waiting room was packed with patients.
“I should’ve waited,” she said, swiping at her eyes, trying to stand up straight and get it together. “I just felt so sure…”
He walked over to her and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, looked solidly into her eyes. “Go home,” he said firmly. “It’s three o’clock. I’ll cover you. We’ll tell the patients you’re sick.”
“I can’t do that to you.” Unlike Paula, she didn’t dump her responsibilities on people. Trouble was, tears were leaking out of her eyes, down her cheeks. And she couldn’t seem to stop crying.
“I know you haven’t missed a day of work since we began residency six years ago. But I don’t think you should be seeing patients now. Go home. If not for you, for your patients.”
She looked at Brett, contemplating that carefully. She’d never missed a day of work or school since medical school when she’d gotten some kind of gastrointestinal flu and literally could not work. But Brett was right. She wasn’t thinking straight. She’d be a disaster to her patients right now.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Brett offered to call her sisters, her mother, which she flatly refused. He told her he’d pick her up some dinner. She said no. He said he’d do it anyway.
“Are you okay getting home?” he asked.
“Brett, I can walk home from here. I’m sure I’ll be okay.” She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him again and told him thank you. Then he literally pushed her out the back door.
Home was the last place she wanted to be, but where else could she go? She’d told no one, not her sisters, not her mother. Only Grant. Ironic that the one man she’d confided in was the one who shied away from all relationships.
He’d been there for her in so many ways. Supporting her. Agreeing to this whole crazy thing in the first place without asking for anything in return. Charming her family and bolstering her confidence when all the talk was about babies. And he’d texted her several times today, wondering about her results.
Ten minutes later, she sat on her front steps staring at her little gravel driveway for a long time, rubbing her temples, trying to make sense of her life. Even Gizmo, ever happy to see her, seemed more subdued than usual, running out in the yard to do his business then coming back to settle by her side. When he realized she wasn’t up for throwing the tennis ball he’d found, he dropped it, letting it roll down the steps and not even chasing after it. Then he rested his head on her thigh, looking up at her with big sad eyes.
“Sorry, buddy,” she said, guilty that she might be making her dog feel sad, too. His life had been hard enough. She scratched behind his ears and told him she loved him until he snorted with pure doggie pleasure.
If Grant were here, he’d make her laugh. Or make her a drink. Or do something ridiculous to distract her. But she had no business wanting his comfort. Soon he’d be gone for good.
Liz pulled out her phone. A missed call from him and another text. His concern touched her inexplicably, but she had no idea how to respond, not knowing what to say or how to say it.
She tried to come up with something glib or funny, but she just couldn’t. Finally, she settled on straightforward. I’m not pregnant. A little later she added, But it’s okay. TTYL.
The truth, or close to it. She might not be okay right at the moment, but she would be.
She was tough. That had been her personal mantra her entire life. As a middle child, fighting to be noticed. Making the grades to get into med school—all that sacrifice. Fighting for a surgery spot in her OB program. Thinking on her feet in pressure-cooker circumstances, even though at times it was really scary. Dealing with her crappy ex.
She was not going to let this defeat her. This news made her realize something. Her life had to change.
She’d pushed so much of her life aside to succeed at her job. When her marriage failed, it had become even more important to her to succeed at something else. Not only that, but she’d hid behind her job—used work as an excuse to not think about her divorce, her loneliness, and to avoid being around her sisters.
When Liz finally walked into her house, the silence and the emptiness seemed epic. For once, she saw it exactly as it was: a dead, empty shell. Not a home. She hadn’t put any time or effort into making it one. Just like she’d created a shell around herself, not sharing this with anyone. Doing it on her own. Embarrassed of the failure of her marriage, of her inability to conceive, she’d kept everything to herself.
Well, that was going to change. Starting with the house. She ran to Dottie’s to gather up all the cleaning supplies she didn’t own—a mop, a bucket, a bottle of Mr. Clean. Swiffer dusters. While she was there she remembered to pour some water on Dottie’s petunias, which were hanging on by a thread.
When she reached into a cupboard for a bottle of vinegar for her wood floors, the lid came off and the bottle spilled, splashing across her shirt. The acidic smell singed her nostrils and made her wince. She pulled off her shirt, using the dry part to wipe off her skin.
She was about to go find one of Grant’s shirts to put on for the trek back to her house when she happened to look around Dottie’s kitchen. It was very tidy, a solitary coffee cup in the sink. The local morning paper and a New York Times and a Wall Street Journal were stacked neatly on the table, along with Grant’s iPad, and a navy-blue robe was draped across a kitchen chair. She hesitated. A robe seemed like a too-intimate thing of someone’s to wear. Yet she couldn’t resist picking it up.
Grant. It smelled of soap, shaving cream, and an essence that was just…him. Well, she had to put on something so as not to give the neighbors a show on her trip back home. She slipped it on, gathered up her supplies, and left. And damn if that robe didn’t make her feel just a little better. She decided to keep it on for just a little while. No one would know, and she’d wash and return it by the time Grant got back.
As she passed the garden, she noticed a lot of weeds shooting up. She thought about starting her tidying up odyssey there, but the sprouting seeds were just another sign of fertility that she couldn’t handle. She was also low on food and drink. To properly wallow, she should’ve really stopped at the grocery store first. All she had was a half-empty bottle of red wine that had been open for a few weeks and probably shouldn’t be in the fridge anyway and a quart of vanilla ice cream. Boring vanilla! And no chocolate to be found anywhere.
She looked around her little house as if for the first time. It was pathetic! Not a home at all. Even Gizmo seemed confused, unable to relax into his bed with her armed and ready for war.
For the next few hours, she scrubbed everything. Her wood floors. The kitchen cabinets. Her closet. She boxed old clothes for Goodwill, color-coordinated her shirts and socks. Sorted all her neglected mail. When there was nothing left to do, she showered, put on the robe again, and tossed as much of her massive laundry pileup as she could into the washer.
She drank the old wine, scraped off the old, freezer-burned crust of the gross ice cream and ate the rest. Then she fell asleep sitting on the floor leaning against her La-Z-Boy chair, watching the sky outside her pretty windows fade from blue to deeper and deeper shades of gray.
A pounding noise roused her. The room was pitch-dark, except for an eerie glow from the streetlight outside. She jumped up, startled, her heart thudding from fright. The room spun a little, her body’s rebellion against ice cream, crying, and too much bad wine. The pounding continued, loud and insistent, and she realized someone was knocking on her door. Clutching her spinning head, she ran and peeked out the sidelights.
Grant stood there, hair ruffled, tie askew, clutching a bouquet of wilted flowers.
He was frowning deeply, his dark brows knit down, looking a little angry. Or worried, she couldn’t tell. Either way, he was here, and just seeing him outside her door caused a floodgate of relief to course through her.
She flipped the deadbolt, trying to smooth down her hair, straighten her robe—oh no, his robe! But it was too late, she’d already cracked open the door and he was pushing against it, letting himself in. “I’ve been calling you for hours,” he said, making his way past her into the house.
He perused the bare countertops, the kitchen devoid of dirty dishes or mail. The wood floor of the nearly empty living room practically sparkling from cleanliness. Then he turned to her, his gaze sliding downward.
Oh God, her boobs. Not exactly hanging out, but one step away. Instantly, she clutched the sides of the robe and tugged them together. Made an attempt to tidy her hair, but she could tell from running her fingers through it that it was probably—no, absolutely—a rat’s nest. Then she gave up. She was a mess. If the man ran away screaming, so be it. There was no help for it now.
“I put my phone on silent and fell asleep. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“Worried me?” His voice was an octave too high. He tossed the flowers on the counter, flicked on lights.
“Are those for me?” she asked, nodding toward the flowers.
“Yes. By the way, why does it smell like lemon cleaner in here?”
“I was…cleaning.”
He discovered the empty ice cream container and the bottle of wine, picked both up and dumped them into the trash. He eyeballed her critically. “Vanilla? That’s the worst you could do?”
“It was all I had.” He was making her uncomfortable, staring at her so intensely his gaze was practically drilling a hole through her. She crossed her arms, wishing she wasn’t standing there in a bathrobe and bare feet. His bathrobe, which he apparently hadn’t noticed…yet.
He walked up to her, standing inches away. Loomed, basically. Up close, she could see his shirt and his suit coat were wrinkled, and he had circles under his eyes, like maybe it had been a long day for him, too. And that rumpled hair, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it in frustration. She suddenly wanted to comb it down, feel the silky weight of the dark strands between her fingers. Bury herself in his clean scent, feel the comfort of his body around her, and forget all about the rest of this very shit day.
“I was worried about you.”
“Wait a minute. How did you get here so quickly?”
“Helicopter.”
“What?”
“One of the pilots I know from Tanzania was free.”
Tanzania? Pilot? She was processing that when he looked at her, and oh, that look. The worry and compassion in his eyes shattered her and suddenly, her vision blurred with tears. She blinked them furiously away. Took a step back to get some space between them, but he grabbed her by the arms and stepped even closer.
Before she could gain her balance, he wrapped his arms around her and tugged her against him. That action caused a landslide of emotion to tumble through her—the simple act of being held tightly, securely. Those strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close. The smell of his spicy cologne and him, so delicious and comforting. In desperation, she wrapped her hands around his hard, lean waist and buried her face in his shirt.
He smoothed her hair, gently ran his big hands up and down her back. His voice was deep and low and soothed her soul. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ll try again. Anything you want. Don’t cry.” His words made her cry more, because they were so gentle, so kind, his sudden display of affection both shocking and humbling her.
He was rubbing her arms, up and down, a gesture of comfort she found was having a too-comforting effect. His touch wrung all the tension from her muscles. The heat from his big body melted her. Her fingers itched to untuck his shirt and run her hands all over his bare chest.
“I have one question,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked. Her body felt boneless, her throat suddenly dry, blood whooshing in her ears. Either she was having a heart attack or she was very, very turned on. Or both.
“Why are you wearing my bathrobe?”
Oh, dammit. Busted. At least the embarrassment made her thoughts veer back into safer territory. “I—spilled vinegar on my shirt and it was hanging on your kitchen chair.” That was the truth. She omitted the fact that she’d inhaled it repeatedly and probably would have slept in it if he hadn’t shown up.
His full, beautiful lips curved up in a smile. “It looks better on you anyway.”
His hands stopped moving on her arms. He stood there looking at her, his grin slowly fading.
There went that whoosh-whooshing of her blood pounding through her temples, her pulse points, the heat from his gaze spreading through her, settling in her core.
“It might look even better off,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Oh God. Did she say that?
His brows shot up in surprise. The smile returned, this time predatory. A gleam flashed in his eyes. Then he bent his head and kissed her. Just a graze of her lips, soft and featherlight, but it made her lose her breath, her balance. Her sense.
He steadied her. Pulled back, holding her by the shoulders and tracing her cheek with his thumb. “I need you to tell me what you want. Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”
She couldn’t let him leave. She wanted him more than air, needed him too badly. But to say that?
His thumb slipped down and traced her lower lip. “Let me make you feel better. I know how.”
Of course he did, and every cell in her body knew it.
His other hand wrapped around her neck, tangled in her hair. Slowly, he drew her in to him. Tugged on her lower lip, tasted it. Teased it. She gasped. The surprising tenderness of his touch, the slow, careful moves, had her trembling beneath his touch.
“Is this what you want?”
Oh, of course it was. Emotions collided inside her, some attached to warnings, but her absolute need for him pushed all her doubts away.
“Say the word and I’ll leave. But say it now.”
His voice was soft, tender, yet demanding at the same time.
“Yes.”
One word was all it took for him to seal her lips with his. He possessed her mouth with relentless kisses and thorough strokes of his clever tongue, making the slow steady simmer building within her go up in flames.
Suddenly their bodies were flush, and she could feel the raw, uncontrolled heat of him searing her through his thin robe. His hard thickness pressed against her belly, against the throbbing pulse between her legs. His mouth was on her, oh God, his wonderful, soft lips kissing her, possessing her mouth, his tongue tangling with hers.
She forgot everything—her sadness, her disappointment, her name. All were smoke and ashes scorched by the absolute hunger between them.
He slid his hand down her back and cupped her ass, positioning her over his raging erection. She ground her hips against him until he emitted a deep, low growl, which pleased her greatly. She felt his smile against her lips as he scooped her up and carried her into her bedroom.
“Make love to me,” she whispered.
“I will,” he said, tossing her lightly onto the bed and shrugging off his suit jacket. “But only if you give me back my robe. I’m quite possessive of my clothing.”