Victoria's Got a Secret (8 page)

He went for the most neutral conversation he could find. It was either that or jump on top of her and forget the pain of the last few weeks, and he wasn’t ready to do that. “How did you get in?”

“The door.”

He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing at that. “The locked one?”

“Is this what you really want to talk about right now?”

“Only in that I need to know who to thank tomorrow for letting you break in tonight.”

She lifted the sheet, revealing every curve and inch of pink skin. “I might have something better in mind.”

He’d stopped breathing. Not even a whiff of air moved through him.

His sole focus centered on her, wanting her, trying not to go to her. If she hadn’t shifted her legs, he might have stood there forever trapped in her spell.

“I . . . uh.” He swallowed as his brain searched for the right words. For any words, actually.

“Did you want to say something?”

“What are you—”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Man, he hoped so.
“I don’t want any miscommunication this time.”

“Come closer and we can talk it over.”

“Talk?”

“Eventually.”

No need to play hard to get. The woman had eyes. She knew the effect her bare body and sweet voice had on him. If she didn’t, all she needed to do was glance at his pants and pick up the hint.

He grabbed the edge of his shirt and unfastened fast and hard enough to rip two buttons off. “How’s this?”

“You’re doing fine.”

He put his knee on the bed and his hand on her flat stomach. “I aim to please.”

“You usually do.”

“Let’s see what you think in an hour.”

Two hours later, they sat at his breakfast bar. His navy robe was big enough to wrap around her twice, but she didn’t even bother to belt it. She just sat and nibbled on a turkey sandwich while he poured them both a drink.

“Any chance I could get that welcome home on a regular basis?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“I was hoping for something more definitive.”

“You’re not listening.”

He had no idea what she was talking about but didn’t want to tick her off by asking. “Uh, okay.”

“I told you I was kicking you out of the house, not my life or my bed.”

He didn’t want to fight. Not again. Not after the way she rode him until his muscles begged for mercy. “You’re not the easiest woman to read.”

“Here’s a hint.” She picked at the lunch meat. “When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

“Like not talking to me.”

She shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, Tracie said it was juvenile.”

“Yeah, well, you made your point with the silent treatment.”

Jennifer dropped the food and pushed the plate away from her. “I couldn’t afford to surrender. The point was too important to let it go without a fight.”

“And you do like to fight.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe.” When he crawled into that bed with her he’d made a silent promise not to replay this argument. He wanted to move forward, and if she was willing, they would.

But her words held in his mind until he couldn’t hear anything else. “Is that how you see our relationship? You surrendering to me and my needs?”

“I’m trying to figure out what our relationship is.” She peeked up at him through her silky hair. “How do you see it?”

All plans to play it cool died a hard death. “All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t seem to let you go.”

“Okay.”

Not exactly the warm reception he was hoping for. “Okay? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“It’s the right answer for now.”

“And tomorrow?”

She shrugged. “We’ll handle each day as it comes.”

“Jennifer—”

She dropped the robe off her shoulders. He saw the creamy skin and the tops of her breasts . . . and he was lost. “Right. Tomorrow.”

“Now, let’s concentrate on today.”

“I think we found something we can agree on.”

Eight

There are times when you need to follow
your head and not your heart.

—Grandma Gladys, The Duchess

“W
HAT IS THAT
?” P
AUL PEEKED OVER HER SHOULDER
at the pot on the stove.

Jennifer gave the food a final stir. “Dinner.”

He slid next to her with his back against the counter. Facing her, he screwed up his mouth, letting her know what he thought of her choice. “No thanks.”

“Why?”

“Looks like fish eyes.”

“Oh, come on.” When he raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, she stared at the grains. “It’s quinoa.”

“Sounds as bad as it looks.”

“It’s healthy.”

He reached over and slipped a beer out of the refrigerator.

“You’re not selling it.”

“You need to try new things.”

“I’m good with what I know.”

Even though they were joking—well, she was—the words echoed in her brain. Something about him being satisfied and her wanting more sounded like a blueprint for their relationship. She worked as a way to pay the bills, knowing there was more out there. Something bigger. He’d been paying the bills for so long he didn’t want or expect more from that part of his life.

Some days she secretly blamed him for not joining her in a thirst to know what else they could be and do. Other days she envied his calm reassurance. He worked honest and hard. That was worth something, and she hated her mental wanderings that suggested otherwise.

“Does this mean you agree?” he asked.

When he just stared at her with his handsome face wide with hope, she knew she’d missed part of the conversation. “About?”

“What I just said.”

“Fill me in.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Admit you weren’t listening to me.”

She grabbed the pot off the stove and moved it to the counter to have something to do. “Of course not.”

Before she could turn around or leave the room, he snuck up behind her and reached around until his hands rested on her stomach. His body rested against hers and his chin balanced on her shoulder. “It’s okay to zone out now and then.”

“This conversation is ridiculous,” she said as she tilted her head to the side to give her better access to her neck.

His mouth found her shoulder. Her earlobe. “I think you’re afraid to admit it since you frequently yell at me for not listening.”

She set the pot down and turned around in his arms until she faced him. With her arms wrapped around his neck, she pulled him in closer. “I do not yell.”

“Guess I’m thinking of my other girlfriend.”

She leaned back and punched him in the shoulder. “Aren’t you funny?”

After a beat of silence, his eyebrows straightened. “You okay?”

“Offended by your taste in food, but yes.”

“You’ve spent a lot of time the last few days with your body here but your mind somewhere else. I just want to make sure you’re . . . I don’t know, content.”

For him, that was a good word. It meant happy. To her, it still meant settling or at least standing still.

She kissed his chin. “I’m definitely content.”

“Any chance you’re also willing to make something else for dinner?”

She playfully shoved him away and turned back to the pot.

“You’re eating the quinoa. It will be good for you to try something new.”

“That theory has never worked for me.”

She feared it never would.

Months later, the sex remained smoking hot, but the same old arguments surfaced. The restless energy bubbled inside her. As much as he slid into a sense of contentment, Jennifer longed to try new things.

She loved going to the office and working with her coworkers on targeted sales plans for new household products. She craved her time alone with Paul. But the wide-open world kept nibbling at her heels. There was something else out there. The knowledge radiated through her and blocked out everything else.

“Do you think we fight more than most couples?” Jennifer asked as she watched Paul read the sports page in the morning newspaper.

He didn’t even look up. “You do.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m just sitting here.”

“Refusing to engage is fighting.”

He snuck a peek at her over the top of the paper. “Actually, it’s not.”

“That’s not true.”

“So now we’re fighting about what counts as fighting?” Amusement laced through his voice. “Did you run out of logical things to pick at?”

He made her argument sound ridiculous when he said it like that. She stuck to it anyway. “No.”

“Problem is, you won’t just let yourself be satisfied and happy as is.”

She dropped her hand through the paper, crumpling it into a ball against the counter and uncovering his sleepy face to her stare. “What do you want from life?”

“You.”

The fact he answered so fast and so sure brought the guilt racing up to meet her. She looked out on the horizon of her future and saw opportunities and possibilities. She often thought about his life view as limited. He didn’t ask for much or want much. On her most uncharitable days, she saw it as a lack of ambition. Today she envied his grounding.

“I mean, for yourself.”

“Same answer.” The fact he sat there and answered in a clear voice confirmed he didn’t have a need to reach outside his insular world.

“You’re happy to go from job to job, play the drums in clubs now and then, and hang out with friends.” Her assessment carried a slap, but she couldn’t pull the words once they were out there.

“I take it you disapprove.”

“I didn’t say that.” She knew she didn’t have to. The unspoken words hung between them, building an even bigger wall to their happiness.

“Is my life and what I want really so bad?”

She glanced out the kitchen window and saw the snow fall into steep piles outside his townhouse. In a few hours he would throw on a down coat and wool hat and head outside to shovel. He’d revel in the labor, in working with his hands in the brisk air and seeing what he’d accomplished. He was decent and hardworking . . . and not what she needed right now.

The realization made her stomach flop. “What if there’s more out there and you’re missing it?” she asked.

“Like?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not a particularly compelling argument.”

She watched the neighbor struggle to free his rear tires from the ice packed around them as she fought to find the right words to express her thoughts. “I know.”

Paul reached out and slipped his fingers through hers. His thumb caressed the back of her hand. “Explain to me why we can’t find whatever it is you’re seeking together. Why do you insist this
something
is out there and you have to be alone to find it?”

A reasonable answer escaped her. “I don’t want to just get by.”

“You want to experience and learn.” He dropped her hand and sat back. “Yeah, I’ve heard this all before.”

“I’m talking about me.”

“Us.

“This isn’t about you.”

“It’s about how you think I’m not adult enough for you. That I’m not ready for these grand plans you have in your head.”

She looked at him then. Saw sadness in eyes that usually danced when she walked into the room and wondered why her brain insisted on throwing it all away. “Are you ready to grow up?”

“This is all because I bought a lottery ticket when I picked up the paper?”

“Of course not.” It went so much deeper, and she couldn’t figure out a way to make him understand that.

It was a symbol of how they led their lives. When he stumbled across a few extra dollars, he played a hunch. She got money and tried to think of a way to stretch it into this magical adventure that would stay in her heart forever.

He blew out a long agitated breath. “I’m tired.”

“Right.” What had she expected? They’d spent most of the evening making love and were not in the right state of mind to deal with the tough decisions they had to make. “We can talk about this later.”

He wove his fingers together and clenched them until his knuckles turned white. “I mean of this conversation. It exhausts me every time we have it. You want something—something you can’t even define—and when I can’t figure out how to get it for you, you pick a fight.”

“That’s not true.”

His palms fell open. “Then just tell me what you need from me.”

Everything . . . nothing. She really didn’t know the solution for finding the right guy at fifteen, before she was prepared for him or had lived the life she wanted to live.

“This really isn’t about you,” she whispered, hoping he’d believe her this time.

He raised his hand. “Hold up.”

“It’s about—”

“Stop.”

The words died on her lips. “Okay.”

“You want to go off and find yourself, or whatever you call it.

Fine. Do it. But don’t hide behind some dumbass line guys fall back on to dump women who cling too hard.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“If you need to leave, then go.”

A hot ball of grief lodged in her throat. “I don’t want to.”

“Honestly, Jennifer. You don’t know what the hell you want.” He cocked his head to the side and stared at her as if he was reasoning out the world’s problem. “Strike that. You know one thing. You know I’m not enough for you.”

Right now.
The words echoed through her as her heart shredded in half. She could hear the ripping in her ears and feel the tear right through her skin. She looked down at her pink slippers, half expecting to see blood on the floor.

“All I’m asking for is some time,” she said.

He slid off the stool and stood up. “You can have it. Take all you need.”

Every cell inside her screamed to grab onto him and not let go. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He stopped as he hit the doorway to his bedroom. “I’m not going to hold you where you don’t want to be.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is.” He rubbed his eyes, stared at the ceiling—did everything he could not to glance in her direction. “Remember one thing.”

“What?”

“I’m not the one who walked away. One day I might not be here when you come back.” Then he slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.