Trouble (37 page)

Oh, God
.

Dara's mouth went dry even though he had his back to her. Her steps slowed and her heart thundered. She had the wild and undignified thought that she should sneak out the way she'd come without ever letting him know she'd been there.

That was clearly the safest option.

As if she knew what Dara was thinking, Mrs. Baldwin gave Dara's arm a reassuring squeeze.

“He's just a man, Dara,” she murmured. “Sometimes we have to help them along.”

She disappeared into the kitchen just as Jamal looked around and caught Dara's eye. Beaming, he walked away from Mike without a word and hurried over to her. She had a brief impression of Mike glancing over his shoulder to see where Jamal was going before Jamal blocked him from view.

“Good girl,” Jamal said warmly, kissing her on the cheek and tilting his head in Mike's direction. “Why don't you go say hi to the birthday boy?”

He took off for the kitchen, leaving Dara alone in the living room with Mike.

Mike stared at her with open stupefaction, a vivid flush creeping up from beneath his black turtleneck and staining his cheeks. He didn't speak for several endless seconds.

Dara couldn't move. Not when he caught her with that piercing gaze and she had problems getting her lungs to work.

“Hi,” he said hoarsely.

She nodded. A smile was completely out of the question.

“Hi.”

Long pause.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Dara's heart fell. He'd probably ask her to leave now, just as she'd feared.

“It wasn't my idea,” she said quickly. “Your mother insisted.”

He blinked, his expression darkening.

“Well, well, well.” Sean appeared on her right and studied Mike with open suspicion, a glass of wine in each hand. “Look who it is.”

“Sean.” Mike's tone was clipped. “What's up?”

“Dara's here, man.” Sean watched him closely, his expression shrewd and disconcerting. “Judging by the way you were just looking at her like you want to swallow her whole, you must be thrilled.”

Dara stepped in, eager to divert the topic. God knew what Sean would say in his current mood. “Is that all you have to say to your brother?”

Sean shot her a mocking little smile.

“Sorry, man,” he told Mike, taking a generous swig of wine. “I just flunked my fourth and last final today. My manners are a little off. Congratulations on another glorious victory.”

Mike glared and said nothing.

Sean turned to Dara.

“Did I ever tell you what it was like growing up with a perfect brother, Dara? Did I mention how much fun that was? And did I tell you Mike can do anything?”

“Shut up, Sean,” Mike interjected. “You're only embarrassing yourself.”

“Mike can speak—what is it?—Spanish, French and Latin. Well, maybe Latin doesn't count, because nobody
speaks
it—”

“Sean—” Dara tried.

“I flunked Latin. No surprise there.” He drank again. “Mike plays basketball. The team won the state semifinals his senior year. I got cut. What else? Oh yeah. Mike went to Harvard. Mike's an engineer. Mike was a Boy Scout. Mike's kind to orphans. Everyone loves Mike best.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye, Sean.” Dara started for the kitchen.

“Everyone loves Mike best. Dad. Mom.
You
.”

Furious at being put on the spot by this drunk idiot when she'd known all along that she didn't belong at this party, Dara spun back around, ready to cut Sean down to size.

Mike got there first.

“You've got an excuse for everything, don't you, Sean?” he asked calmly. “Which part of your life is your responsibility?”

Sean winced, his ears turning bright red. “Fuck you, my brother.”

Still carrying the wine, he stormed out through the kitchen, brushing past Mrs. Baldwin, who stood next to the back door, watching them.

Dara looked helplessly at Mike, still gripping his brightly wrapped present. Her face felt like it'd found its way into the middle of a blast furnace.

“I shouldn't have come in the first place,” she told him, flustered. “I'm really sorry. Bye.”

She hurried back the way she'd come, raising a hand to stop a visibly alarmed Mrs. Baldwin from approaching her now. There was no way she'd stay there for another second, so she'd have to call the woman tomorrow to apologize. Jerking the hall closet open, Dara found her coat, slung it over her arm and reached for the front door knob.

“Dara!”

She opened the door, letting in a blast of frigid air. “I have to go, Mike.”

“Wait.” He touched her arm, stopping her cold. “Please.”

Sighing because she knew this was a terrible idea, Dara closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door's frame. Then, with a deep breath, she shut the door again and turned to face him.

He was close. Really close. If she took one step forward, her entire body would press against his. She felt a desperate urge to run away to a place where she couldn't smell the crisp scent of his cologne or see the banked intensity in his eyes, but she was trapped between him and the door and getting her legs to function now was a clear impossibility.

His unblinking focus was avid. Hungry. Unsettling.

“How were your finals? Did you kick ass?”

She had to smile at that. “I think so.”

“I know so.”

The words reached inside her and squeezed her heart, making her smile fade. She'd been proud of herself for doing well, yeah, but Mike's praise felt like someone wrapping the universe in a satin bow and placing it into her outstretched hands.

The moment was so unbearably bittersweet she wasn't sure she'd survive it.

Not with him looking at her like that.

She took a deep breath. “Jamal told me about his bonus. That was a wonderful thing to do.”

“Yeah, well.” He dropped his head, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting uncomfortably.

“It was. You're a good guy.”

His head came up and there was so much raw emotion in his bright eyes, so much open vulnerability, it was like a mirror into her own soul.

She stared unhappily at him, waiting for her moment to escape.

“Is that for me?” he asked softly, pointing to the box.

“What? Oh!” Surprised she still held the thing in her hand, she thrust it at him. “Yeah. Happy birthday.”

He took it, put it on the foyer table and went to work on the ribbon.

“What are you doing?”

Amused, he spared her a quick glance.

“It's customary to unwrap gifts people give you.”

“It's really nothing,” she said hurriedly. “And I left the gift receipt inside, so you can always exchange it. You'll probably want to exchange it. It's no big deal. Really.”

Mike already had it open. He looked into the box and gasped, his astonished gaze flicking between her and his present, which was a ceramic Christmas tree studded with colored light bulbs. He held it up and stared at it as if it were something immeasurably precious, like the chalice Jesus used at the Last Supper, saying nothing.

So … Did he like it? She watched him closely, but there was no penetrating his face's absolute stillness and blank inscrutability.

“When I was a little girl, my grandmother gave me one just like this, and I kept it on my nightstand,” she told him.

No response.

Nerves got the best of her, which always led to babbling. She grabbed the cord and held it up. “See? You plug it in, and it lights up.”

No response.

“Anyway …” She faltered. “I know you're not big on decorating for the holidays, and I wanted you to have one little …”

He turned and stared at her in utter disbelief, as if he'd never seen her—or any of her species—before.

“You bought this for me?” he asked, a vague frown marring his forehead.

“Well … yes.”

A rough swallow made his Adam's apple bob. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Blinking, he looked away and lowered the tree back into its box.

“Well … I should go now,” she said.

“When”—he cleared his throat— “when do you leave for Chicago?”

“In a few days.”

He nodded, his frown deepening.

“I hope you have a good …” She trailed off because it occurred to her in a sudden and painful wave of self-pity that when she left, she wouldn't see him again anytime soon, and certainly not for Christmas.

Suck it up, Dara
, she told herself.

“Merry Christmas, Mike.”

One corner of his mouth turned up in an intriguing Mona Lisa smile.

“Merry Christmas, Dara,” he said quietly.

She left.

Dazed, Mike stared after her for a long time, finally sprawling on the bottom few stairs and dropping his head into his hands. Screw the party. The guests were the last thing on his mind.

He was wildly and desperately in love with Dara.

Of course he was.

Too bad he was too stupid to have realized it in a timelier manner.

Unbelievable
.

In the past, whenever his brain had accidentally wandered in that direction, he'd immediately felt that roiling anxiety in his gut, as if he couldn't simultaneously love Dara and live a normal life. As if loving her would somehow suck the essence out of his soul until he became some new, unrecognizable, and lesser Mike.

The prospect of marriage, meanwhile, had almost caused him to hyperventilate.

But tonight, everything was different. He'd taken one look at her and frozen like he'd been hit by one of those curare-filled darts South American Indians used to immobilize people. After the torture of not seeing her for three weeks, he'd known three things:

He loved her.

He couldn't live without her.

He wanted to marry her. Without question.

Just like that, he'd
known
. Instead of endings, he'd envisioned a wonderful life with her, one filled with endless possibilities: Dara moving into the house with him; cooking together in the kitchen, bickering over whose turn it was to do the laundry; Dara decorating the house for Christmas, Easter and every other conceivable holiday; Dara pregnant with their first child; Dara in the hospital smiling at him over the downy head of their sleeping baby.

He suddenly couldn't wait for any of it.

And when he'd stared into her sweet brown eyes, which miraculously still glowed warmly for him, it'd been equally clear she loved him—
still
loved him—even after the bullshit she'd overheard him spouting to his mother and his subsequent bad behavior.

How could he be so blessed?

And why didn't he realize it before?

Of course she loved him. Hadn't she told him as much the day she'd broken up with him? What else would've made her so upset?

He'd been so focused on his own broken heart, he hadn't noticed hers.

Mama peeked her head around the corner from the kitchen, surveyed the scene, and approached cautiously.

Mike met her concerned gaze with a sardonic half smile. At the foot of the stairs, she smacked his knee. He drew up his limbs so she could sit on the step below his. They both stared at the front door.

“Scared her off, huh?” Mama asked.

“Yep. I'm pretty good at it.”

“You should stop.”

“I know.”

Mama pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I like her.”

Mike grinned. “Good. That's your future daughter-in-law, if she'll have me. It's not looking too good at the moment, though.”

Mama smiled. “I know. Why else do you think I threw this party for you to try to get her back?”

Mike had to laugh. He should have known. He wondered how much misery he could have avoided in his thirty-five years if only he'd listened the first time Mama told him something.

“Well, tell me this, genius,” he told her. “If you know so much, why did I push her away the other week and put myself through this misery?”

“Because you're an idiot. Clearly.”

Mike snorted. “No argument there.”

She slid a hand across his shoulders, stroking them.

“I think it's because of that girl from college. What's her name?”

“
Debbie?
What the hell's she got to do with this?”

Mama pinched his arm. “Language, Michael.”

“Ouch!”