No Weddings (13 page)

“Curious much?” Amused, I folded my arms and leaned a shoulder against the closed door.

She paused while she pulled a drawer open and arched a brow. “You did say every drawer, every cabinet.”

I chuckled. “That I did. Along with fair warning of my free-for-all pass at your place in return.”

She smirked, but continued exploring. “You have quite the CD collection.” Her finger glided along the top edge of one of the rows. “How are they sorted?”

“By genre. Then alphabetically.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and she looked at me, as if she could see more of me by my OCD music-organization tendencies.

I shrugged.

She turned and kept investigating as she moved toward the head of my bed.

Nothing much else to see. I didn’t keep many personal items. Most of the stuff on my desk was school or work related. Her hand paused when she turned toward my nightstand, and she glanced at me.

I arched a brow. “What? The brave explorer grows afraid of what might be behind drawer number three?”

“No. I’m just not sure I need to go there. I’m good with imagining.”

I laughed hard. “Condoms. Nothing frightening in there, only condoms.”

“Depends on your definition of frightening.”

I ran my tongue across my teeth, then smiled, slow and easy. Undaunted by her uninformed judgment, I shrugged. If she knew the quantity of condoms and the number of girls, she might actually be frightened. But I was who I was, a product of circumstances beyond my control, and I’d done my best to cope. If she ever grew brave enough to open my nightstand drawer, she would deal.

When she turned, a baseball cap that I’d left on the corner of the nightstand fell on the floor. She bent down to pick it up. “What’s this?” Crouching further, she picked up the yellow sticky note.

That
yellow sticky note.

I shrugged. “A list of girls.” Looked like Hannah would get a glimpse after all.

“Friends?” Her eyebrows arched.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Friends with benefits.” She gave a curt nod, as if she understood without confirmation.

“Closer,” I hedged.

She cocked her head and flipped it over, examining it. I sat down in my desk chair, watching her. There was nothing I could do about her discovery, so I let it play out. No point in making an effort to hide what it was.

She put the list on my nightstand. “That’s a lot of friends.”

I shrugged. “I’m a friendly guy.”

Kicking off her shoes, she put her purse beside the list, above the drawer with the condoms. I tried not to smile at how her actions had staked a subconscious claim—well, in my deluded mind, anyway. She sat on the bed, then pushed back until she’d moved to the center of it.

“So, that’s like a small harem.”

I huffed out a laugh. “What does that make me, an Arabian prince?”

Her eyes gleamed with humor. “I doubt that.”

“You’d be right. I’m no prince.” I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on my thighs, curious to see her reaction to the truth of me. “It makes me a sexually satisfied and very lucky man.”

A glance at the list, then back to me. “Those women would have to be very satisfied to agree to be in a harem.”

I smirked. “One might think that.”

Our gazes held, locked. The temperature in the room started to escalate.

I had no idea what she was thinking, but with all the talk of my being sexually satisfied, I was already undressing Hannah in my mind and coaxing her into a number of sexual positions. But then my primal thoughts faded away as I got lost in those vivid eyes of hers.

Behind her sensuality, the girl sitting in the center of my bed held a large amount of vulnerability she couldn’t hide from me. I’d seen it before in her, but not to this magnitude. Both brave and scared at the same time, she didn’t know quite what to think of me.

Hell, I didn’t know what to think of me.

Sitting here with someone I actually cared about beyond a physical attraction was new territory since the devastating fiasco nearly two years ago, which had pushed me over the edge. And now that I’d climbed to the top of the abyss I’d fallen into—had been lost in for so long—I wondered if my salvation lie buried somewhere deep behind those greenish eyes.

“How about we not talk about my harem tonight. The only girl I want to focus on is you.” I leaned forward, swiped up the list, and dropped it into my top desk drawer.

Her eyes widened.

I clarified immediately, remaining three feet away from the sexiest temptation ever to grace my bed, keeping my ass firmly planted in my desk chair. “Business. The next two hours you wrangled out of me will be
strictly
business.”

Excitement lit up her face as she realized all of the time tonight would focus on helping her, and she moved to touch one of my pillows. Her hand hovered over the pillowcase, but she hesitated, and her brows drew together. Instead, she turned around on the comforter and eased down onto her stomach, facing me.

Her hesitation in touching something of mine, where I laid my head down at night, felt like a gut punch. I frowned and made a mental note to fix that shit ASAP with new pillowcases that no other woman had touched. I wanted her completely comfortable here. With everything.

She’d moved on, however, dropping her chin onto her raised hands and kicking her feet up behind her, crossing them. She smiled at me, looking eager to learn.

My throat went dry as I stared at her, blinking.

That was one position I hadn’t put her in.

Innocent, trusting, comfortable.

And that position had now become my favorite one of all.

T
he Valentine’s Doomsday had arrived. Activity buzzed around me at the event, but all of it seemed light years away. My gaze was lost, unfocused.

My unsteady hands slipped into the side pockets of charcoal dress pants. They hadn’t been worn for exactly two years to this day. Since then, they’d hung in my closet, ignored, but not forgotten. The tailored wool had been brought out today as a cleansing of sorts. I decided who I was beneath it all, not others. Lasting healing came from within.

And so I stood silently, hands in my pockets, staring down at the ultimate catharsis in cake form. When I’d told Hannah the theme was “love is a battlefield,” she hadn’t disagreed.

But she’d expressed an entirely different perspective.

At first glance, the cake looked like a long table, like one would imagine existed inside the dining hall of a stately English manor, where the lord sat at one end, the lady at the other.

But instead of chair backs tucked beneath the table, they were gray headstones. And instead of a tablecloth, there was a sea of grass that stretched from one end of the eight-foot table to the other. Tufts of the vibrant green poked up through a littered mess of papers which were covered in a scrawled handwriting.

Most of the papers were torn letters that had words running down them, like tears had streaked the print. Bits of hearts in crimson red had been shattered, their pieces scattered like shrapnel.

The destruction was, at once, all consuming and inconsequential. Devastating and uplifting.

Because it told a gut-wrenching story.

As I took in all of the heartache depicted, understanding dawned. The two grave markers on the far ends were empty, devoid of any engraving, any marking of life. The two headstones in the center, however, told something else entirely. They were positioned so closely together, I almost thought they were one, but there was the barest light shining through them. At their feet, an abundant mound of grass sprang forth, bright green and healthy. Between them, in that indistinguishable space that hardly existed, was a pure white whole heart.

And inscribed on those two headstones, in bold letters, were matching his-and-hers epitaphs.

Loved.

The sounds of the party grew louder and more distinct. I felt a quiet presence beside me. Had no idea how long she had been there.

We stood in comfortable silence for a while, two people appreciating a work of art. Patron and artist. After absorbing the enormity of detail and emotion reflected in modest baked flour coated in sugar, I finally asked, “How can you create such beauty in impermanence?”

We remained facing forward, but I could see she’d shrugged. “It’s my medium.”

“It should be in a museum.”

“Thank you.” Soft-spoken, hidden emotion edged her voice.

“Cade! There you are.” Kristen sounded frantic. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s a disaster happening in the sound booth.”

She probably didn’t yet realize the disaster was my sense of humor. Or therapy. Like the pants. And the cake.

I glanced down at Hannah. Her eyes met mine.

A connection flared stronger there. Some unnamable bond, fragile and new, had begun to form between us, and it had flickered to life long before she’d created a mural of every tattered heart’s emotions exploded into a million pieces. Only now, I realized something very important—she knew devastating heartache too.

“I’ve got to go.”

A tender smile brightened, her face full of understanding. “I know.”

In a rush, I was assaulted by three female linebackers and bulldozed away. My last view before I had to become a businessman and fix technical problems was of Hannah laughing.

Oingo Boingo’s “Dead Man’s Party” played. No, it hadn’t been on the original soundtrack for tonight, but it was crucial for levity. The playlist was highlighted, of course, by the great Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield.” Connected on a wavelength with depth I didn’t yet understand, I realized Hannah had created her graveyard art, and without knowing it in advance, my music choices paid homage to her masterpiece.

By the time I returned, several members of the local press, one arts magazine, and one foodie magazine were taking photographs of Hannah standing beside her amazing work of art, posing with the first slice on her silver cake server. Although the PR had initially been intended to highlight our new business, and it would, all the photos and interest centered around Hannah’s unconventional creation.

Throughout the evening, glares came my direction from my sisters. They began when they caught sight of the morbidly themed cake. And their freak-out continued when every song that played would’ve been perfect for a Halloween party.

Each time they objected, I insisted they trust me with a tired, deadpan stare. Anyone could throw a boring, sappy Valentine’s Day party. What was happening here tonight caused the entire place to buzz with energy.

We’d knocked the ostentatious world of high-society events off its axis.

And if we had anything to say about it in the years to come, it would never be righted again.

Hours later, ribbon streamers patterned the wood floors in pinks, reds, and silver. The music had ceased. The lights, dimmed.

The cemetery cake? Demolished. But unforgettable.

“Well?” Hands in my pockets, I walked toward the Michaelson Three as they hovered by the same sliding barn door as they had on New Year’s Eve, waiting to pounce.

Only this time, no anger or frustration marred their expressions. One by one, they broke into huge smiles. Kiki began bouncing in excitement.

Kristen closed the three-foot distance, tackling me in a hug that nearly knocked me over. “Everyone loved it!”

Her high pitch made me wince.

After her crushing embrace, she pulled back. The rest of them crowded in until we’d hunched over, whispering, like one of our huddles from childhood.

Kendall nudged my shoulder with hers. “Not one person left tonight without praising us for throwing the best party they’d attended in years.”

Kiki added, “The party of the century.”

“We have five new orders. I had to start taking notes on my phone.” Kristen brimmed with excitement. “Several said they’d call or text to get more information. And everyone gushed about the music.”

I nodded, smug. “Told you we needed to go edgier.”

Kristen looped her arm around my neck, rubbing her knuckles on the top of my head. “You were right, baby brother. We’ll stop giving you so much shit about your decisions.”

I stood, breaking our huddle. “Good. ’Cause the next soundtrack? Gonna be brutal.”

Panic flickered over Kristen’s face. Worry transformed all three of their expressions.

I smirked. “Pink Floyd. And…Led Zeppelin.”

“No.” They stalked me, shaking their heads, horror reflected in their eyes.

I continued the torture. “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Their mouths fell open.

I bit my lower lip hard to keep from laughing, then raised my hands high and wide, a prophet in my element. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

Backing through the doorway into the cold night air, I burst out laughing.

Hannah had left a while ago. I figured she’d gone home, but as I walked to Kristen’s house, movement down by the pond caught my eye.

A nearly full moon cast everything in a white glow, silhouetting the girl who sat alone on the edge of the dock. Wrapped in a puffy coat, mittens on her hands, and a knit hat on her head, she resembled a kid who’d been dressed to play in the snow.