After the hell of yesterday, there was something so intensely intimate and good about this moment. The kitchen was fresh and pink with dawn light. The coffee gave the rain-freshened air a homey flavor. The warm infant in her arms smelled like baby powder, soap and everything simple and sweet.
“Thank you, Crimson,” Grant said, his voice quietly solemn. He rarely used her real name, which he knew she didn’t like. But it sounded oddly feminine and lovely now. “Thank you for being here. For being willing to help.”
Crimson started to protest automatically—it was nothing, she was glad to do it, she adored Molly, she’d do anything for Grant...
But as she gazed into his eyes, she felt a strange shift, as if she’d momentarily lost her balance. When she centered herself again, she felt different. The whole room felt different.
He blinked and frowned slightly, as if the same tremor had just run through him, too. His beautiful brown eyes, flecked with gold, were just as shadowed and tired as ever, but they suddenly held a new gleam. When he gazed down at her, it was as if he could see beyond the surface, beneath the skin, down to something very private. Something no one else could see.
She’d do anything for Grant...
Heat shot to her cheeks as a jolt of electricity moved through her midsection. Confused and deeply embarrassed, she fought the feeling. This was ridiculous. She must be imagining it. She and Grant...they weren’t like this. They weren’t lovers. They hadn’t ever even considered it. They didn’t even flirt.
They were just friends.
And yet, she didn’t seem to be able to pull her gaze from his, and she was tingling all over...
“It’s nothing,” she said, desperately clutching at the pat phrases. “Really. I’m glad to help. It’s nothing.”
She backed off a clumsy step or two, ignoring the way her robe slid open again, exposing her bare legs and the outline of her breast. If he dropped his gaze, he would see what these invisible shivers had done to her...
But he didn’t look down. The minute she began to move, he turned away.
“Better get some sleep while you can,” he said briskly. “I’m trying to line up more help. I’ll let you know what I can get.”
And then, as if the electricity that arced between them had never happened, as if she had imagined it, he turned back to the counter where the coffee was brewing. He was pouring himself another cup when his cell phone rang.
“Get some sleep, Red,” he said again. He smiled casually at her over his shoulder as he answered his phone. “Olson...thank God. Did you catch up with Barley? I’m going to be useless for weeks. Can he be here by ten?”
* * *
THESE DAYS, WHEN the alarm on Rory’s cell phone went off at 6:00 a.m., Becky pretended to sleep through it. She used to get up with him, eager to be supportive and “wifely.” But she’d quickly learned he wasn’t a morning person. He didn’t eat breakfast, hated to make small talk before the coffee kicked in and was always running late, anyway.
Besides, their apartment was too small, and no matter how careful she was, she always seemed to be standing right where he needed to be. If she asked him questions like “When do you think you’ll be home?” he’d get that cold, contemptuous look. He’d sigh and repeat very slowly, “What did I tell you the last ten times you asked?”
I don’t know when I’ll be home, Becky. Remember? It depended on how many cars there were to fix, and how hard the problems were to diagnose, how long the supplier took to deliver the parts, how obnoxious the customers acted or how lazy the other mechanics were when it came time to clean up the bays.
Of course she remembered all that. She was just making conversation. It felt weird to watch him shave and gargle, drag on his underwear, guzzle milk from the carton and pee with the bathroom door open...all without saying a word.
It hadn’t always been like this. When she’d first moved in, he’d usually been horny in the mornings. When his alarm went off, he’d hit the snooze button, and then he’d reach over and shove her nightgown up around her waist with a quick jerk that was supposed to be a joke. She slept on her side, so he’d angle her hips and take her in a spoon position, sometimes before she was even fully awake.
He’d always be finished long before the alarm went off again.
Funny. She could remember when she’d found that kind of primitive dominance weirdly thrilling. It had seemed manly. Simple, earthy and real. Maybe it wasn’t technically satisfying, in that she never...well, it never made her...
But it had turned her on, even so. It made her feel female and desirable. It had made her feel alive, as she had never felt alive in the mansion on Callahan Circle.
But Rory hadn’t touched her in the morning for weeks. They still had sex, of course, but mostly at night, after he got home from work. He’d shower first, naturally. He hated the stink of the shop. All through dinner, he’d bitch about the customers and the other mechanics, and Joe, the owner. He’d keep up a running monologue as he wolfed the food down, even when she’d made something really complicated and special for him as a treat.
And when he was finished eating and complaining, he’d want to have sex. Lately, she’d stopped even thinking of it as “making love.” It was just sex. Just a way to let off steam, like eating or complaining.
She knew what this change in him meant. It meant he was terribly, terribly unhappy. He hated his job. He hated his poverty, this apartment, the fact that her father had disowned her for moving in with a blue-collar loser like him.
What she didn’t know was what to do about it. She didn’t know how to make him happy again.
She listened to him moving around the small apartment now, mentally following the routine, gauging how long till he would be gone. She had to pee, too, but she didn’t want to risk tying up the bathroom at the very moment he needed it.
He was in a superbad mood today, she could tell. His steps were heavy on the uncarpeted floors, and he made a big to-do of trying to find a clean spoon for his coffee in the silverware drawer. She wondered whether, at least subconsciously, he wanted to wake her, specifically so they could have a fight.
He resented that she only had a part-time job at Fanny Bronson’s bookshop and didn’t have to get up as early as he did. He was always telling her she needed to look harder for something full-time, or at least another part-time gig.
He was running late. She could tell by how rushed his movements were. Too rushed. Suddenly she heard his coffee mug hit the kitchen floor. The ceramic splintered on the wood like a china bomb.
He cussed loudly, using the F word, which he once had kept off-limits, around her, anyhow.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” she heard him say. She did not hear the sound of the broom closet opening, or the swish of bristles across the floor or the clink of broken pieces collecting in the dustpan.
She merely heard the cabinet open, the trickle of coffee filling a new mug, and then Rory slamming the pot back on the stove with undisguised hostility. As if she, not he, had broken the first mug.
Becky wondered whether she could get away with feigning sleep any longer—even the dead couldn’t sleep through all this—but she didn’t have the courage to open her eyes.
She heard him stomp to the bedroom door. He stood there a minute, and she knew he was staring at her. She tried to breathe regularly, but her lungs felt like iron. And she wasn’t sure what her real-sleep breathing sounded like. Was it fast? Slow? Noisy? Did she snore? She ought to record herself sometime, she thought numbly, so she could imitate it more accurately.
After what seemed an eternity, he cursed again, smacked the door frame with the palm of his hand and left the apartment. Even then, she didn’t get up. She waited until she heard his truck rumble to life in the parking