Clay fell into step beside her. “Yes. Actually, there is.”
Clay wasn’t sure why he’d gone to the observation room. Maybe out of a sense of nostalgia or morbid curiosity. Or it could be that after his mother told him about Gloria’s death from melanoma, something inside him had needed to tell her he was sorry. Despite all of the ugly stuff that had happened between them at the end of their relationship, he’d never wanted anything bad to happen to her or her family.
Why hadn’t his mom said anything earlier? Probably because he’d cut her off anytime she’d mentioned Tessa’s name. His parents had never known how angry he’d been that she’d thrown his graduation gift back in his face—because he’d never told them. Still, they’d quickly learned she was a touchy subject, one best avoided altogether. The only reason they’d found out that Tessa was at West Manhattan Saints was because of Molly—who’d mentioned the pretty lady that had sat with them at breakfast.
They’d been all ears, probably thinking he was dating again.
Hardly. He was done with marriage, with dating… with women in general.
Then Tessa’s name had come up. And the news of Gloria’s death had been the first thing out of his mother’s mouth.
Regret for all he’d said and done streamed through him. It had grown until the weight of needing to offer his condolences had gotten too heavy. Which was why he was here.
Except as soon as he’d gotten the words out of his mouth he’d felt the need to counter them with a flip comeback seconds later. Why? And why was it only Tessa who brought out that side of him? He didn’t do the back-and-forth banter stuff with Lizza—he never had. In fact, he avoided speaking with her as much as possible nowadays.
Tessa was waiting for him to tell her what that other subject he wanted to discuss was. “Remember I asked you about the studio?”
“Studio?” The way she said it, with studied indifference, told him she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Your capoeira studio. I’ve been thinking about it, and I think Molly might really like to watch one of the training sessions. And if they’re practicing for an exhibition, it’s the perfect opportunity.”
She turned to glance at him, her puzzlement obvious. “You know where it is. It hasn’t moved. So why ask me?”
“I wanted to see if you knew when they were practicing. Marcos—if he’s still there—probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
And that was the only reason you wanted to see her, right?
“He’ll remember you.”
Something about the way she said it made him slow down just a bit. Tessa, probably not even realizing she was doing it, slowed her pace, as well.
It had been over four years. Surely the studio had had lots of people come and go in that period of time.
“How do you know he will?”
Her glance skittered away. “He may have mentioned you once or twice.”
Ah, yes. Clay could see how that might have been awkward for her: explaining why they’d broken off their relationship and why he would no longer be training at the studio.
He could have kept going—he liked the sport. But he’d been so angry at Tessa back then, he hadn’t wanted any reminders. Besides, he’d been intent on making a clean break. Seeing her every week at the studio wasn’t exactly the best way to do that.
“And I’m sure you gave him nothing but glowing reports.”
This time, Tessa stopped completely, an odd look coming over her face. “I never said anything bad about you, Clay.” She seemed to hesitate, then continued. “Why don’t you let me call him, and I’ll get back in touch about a time.”
Okay, so she’d just gone from basically telling him to get in contact with them himself to offering to do it for him. What gives?
He decided to press a little harder. “Any particular reason you want to do it?”
She shrugged. “I speak the language. It might be easier for me to explain things.”
Somehow he doubted that was it at all. She just wanted to be in control of how much information the school’s owner had. It certainly wasn’t because of Marcos’s English skills, since he spoke it perfectly, although he still had a Brazilian accent. As did Tessa. Just a smidgen… when she got angry or emotional. Clay could still remember some pretty heady times as they’d made love. In the heat of the moment, when she’d been squirming with need, she’d gritted out something in Portuguese. And, man, had it done a number on his control, breaking it into tiny pieces.
The accent had also been there when she’d cut things off between them, the anger and pain in her eyes unmistakable, although he still had no idea what he’d done that had been so terrible. It had only been a bracelet. Lizza would have taken it and run. Except that had all changed after their divorce.
Women.
But now wasn’t the time to go into any of that. And going to the studio was probably a bad idea. A really bad idea judging from Tessa’s wary expression. But he admired the athleticism of capoeira and wanted Molly to experience what he had the first time he’d seen it. Especially since she was going through a phase where she was giving karate chops to everything in sight, including him. He wanted her to see what a real martial art looked like. And to understand that it wasn’t about “chopping” people or breaking boards, but about discipline and self-control.
Maybe his daughter could even take lessons, although he had no idea what ages they accepted.
And maybe Clay could even start training again himself. He could use something to help him stay in shape. He could go when Tessa wasn’t there. They could still keep their lives completely separate—he’d learned a thing or two from Lizza’s insistence on maintaining a his and hers division of households.
His and Tessa’s circles never needed to intersect.
Okay, then. He’d done what he’d come to do. Offer his condolences. Now it was time to get the hell out.
He took his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call when you know something.”
Tessa hesitated, and for a moment Clay wondered if she was going to refuse to take it. Then she reached out and plucked it from his fingers, careful not to touch him. At least that’s the way Clay perceived it. So he did something about it. He caught her hand, the card trapped between them. He felt her muscles jerk and then relax. “Give my best to your dad, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.” Then she tugged free and spun away from him, striding after her patient, who was now long gone. Leaving Clay wondering what the hell he’d been thinking for going after her… for touching her. Because she wasn’t the only one who’d reacted. His hand had wanted to linger, his fingers itching to stroke over her palm the way he used to when they were together.
He knew far too well why he’d done it. It had irked him to see her attending standing so close to her while she’d been doing that surgery. And how, when the man had touched her sleeve, she hadn’t flinched away from him, as she did with him.
He hadn’t liked the way it made him feel. Had felt the need to see if she still responded to his touch the way he remembered. She’d responded, all right. He just couldn’t tell if she’d been repelled by the warm slide of flesh against flesh or if she’d been bothered in a completely different way.
He could only hope her reaction had been no less disturbing than his had been—a kind of knee-jerk muscle memory that happened without conscious thought. He’d been stunned the first time it happened. And the