Where You Least Expect (17 page)

She looked back at the table before she could stop herself and saw every eye—except for Joe’s—on her. There was no doubt who they’d been laughing at. The expression on the men’s faces, some amused, others slightly embarrassed and apologetic, Joe’s completely blank, only confirmed the truth.

And that truth shattered her.

Quickly, she looked away and focused on finding the bathroom without making a bigger fool of herself.

When she got inside, she stood next to the door, trying to make her lungs work normally, while her mind processed what had just happened. It wasn’t working. She was light-headed, stunned, and her mind kept trying to put another spin on it, come up with another explanation for what she’d heard, for what had happened.

There wasn’t one.

It would have been kinder if he’d insulted her. But to do that, to deny her very existence, to treat her as if she were nothing… She couldn’t decide whether it mattered that he’d done so after he himself had insisted with his words she was worthwhile, even when she would have denied it, after he’d so lovingly showed it with his body and his actions. But she couldn’t think of a time when she’d hurt more than she did in this moment, the tight pull in her chest making it feel impossible to breathe.

“Is anyone—Oh, Verna, hey, you ready?” Blakely asked as she pushed open the door.

Apparently, Verna had been in her own world long enough for Blakely to come looking for her. She took a couple of slow, deep breaths and tried to keep a tight rein on her emotions.

“Yes, let’s go,” Verna said, her voice sounding far away in her own ears.

Blakely looked at her, the other woman’s sharp gaze roaming over her face. Verna prayed she wouldn’t ask any questions; she wasn’t up to talking. Thankfully, after another long, assessing gaze, Blakely nodded and stepped aside, allowing Verna to exit. As they walked back to their table, Verna refused to look over at Joe. She hoped her face was impassive and didn’t betray the fact that hurt gripped her so tight that her lungs didn’t want to expand, that the pain had left her both hollow and full with anguish she had never imagined, but she almost didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting the fuck out of there without losing her shit.

Somehow, through Blakely’s efforts she guessed, they were soon loaded into a taxi, with Verna’s house as the first stop.

“Vern, we’re here,” Blakely said.

She hadn’t even noticed they’d moved, but she nodded and grabbed the door handle, preparing to leave. Blakely’s hand on her forearm stopped her.

“Call us, call me, if you need me,” she said.

Verna nodded and whispered a good-night before she walked up the driveway and unlocked the door. She waved out at the cab once she’d stepped in and after it pulled off, she closed the door and relocked it.

And then, as she leaned against the front door, she let the tears come.

Chapter Fifteen

He’d fucked up.

Bad.

Really bad.

Epically bad.

Whether it was so bad that she’d never forgive him he wouldn’t know until he saw her. Which was why, as soon as she’d headed out of Mason’s and into the taxi, he’d been hot on her heels, cursing himself for even being there tonight. The trip hadn’t even been planned. Poole had called and told him that some of the guys were getting together, and given the choice between sitting at home alone or going out, going out had won. If he’d stayed home, he knew all he’d do was think about Verna, wonder what she was up to and who she was up to it with, so catching up with the guys had been a reasonable alternative. Sure, it had sucked when he arrived and saw Westmore, one of his least favorite people, there but still, it was good to see the team again, to feel like he was back when he’d been fully a part of something.

And it had been good, at least at first. He wasn’t plagued by thoughts of Verna or worries about what he was going to do with himself. In fact, he’d been so distracted that he hadn’t even noticed her there with her friends. Which was surprising. The woman seemed to have a homing device inside her set to a frequency that he couldn’t escape. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been that close to her and been unaware of her presence, and now, as he hurriedly drove home, he wished he had never even seen her. It would have made his life a lot easier now. But he’d caught sight of a woman out of the corner of his eyes, and on second glance, he’d realized it was her.

He’d tried to ignore how seeing her made his heart pound, how, with every fiber of his being, he’d wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms, and hold her tight. Though he, with great, great effort, had kept himself rooted to his seat, his gaze kept straying to her over the hours, the sound of her laughter, the open, unrestrained expression that had been plastered on her face the entire night, making his heart as light as a feather and his cock as hard as a stone. It was a terrible, wonderful, confusing set of emotions, emotions he’d never felt before. Somewhere along the way, the infuriating woman had wormed her way under his skin, into his soul, and he had no fucking clue what to do about it and sitting with a tableful of SEAL buddies certainly wasn’t the place to sort it out.

So he was powerless, stuck feeling things that he couldn’t examine and tortured by the knowledge that she was there, sharing a space with him but not
with
him as he’d acknowledged, with no small degree of discomfort, he’d wanted her to be.

And then she’d smiled at him, her eyes light with friendliness that he wanted to replace with the desire and affection that so often filled them when they were alone. He’d nodded at her, trying to communicate his happiness to see her, his desire to see her later, while not giving anything away to the rest of the room. But Poole hadn’t been fooled. The man had looked at him with knowing eyes, and that he hadn’t said a word reminded Joe of why he counted him as a friend. He couldn’t say the same about Westmore. Apparently, Joe’s little tip of the cap to Verna had attracted the other man’s attention, and when he’d looked over at the table at Verna, he’d released a snort of derision.

“Ugh,” he’d said.

Joe’d tried to ignore him, so he took another sip of his water and looked at the other guys. Westmore had been undeterred.

“That’s unfortunate,” he’d said, and when no one had followed up with a question, he’d just continued on, “the other three are okay if you’re into that sort of thing, but that one”—he gestured toward Verna—“there’s not enough lipstick in the world to gussy up that pig.”

Joe’s fists clenched and a look over at Poole had showed that the other man’s eyes had gone flat and his shoulders were tense; he appeared ready to speak, and swing if need be, not that Westmore, idiot that he was, had noticed. But Sommers, who’d tagged along though he hadn’t known many of the others, and was smarter than his youth and cocky, carefree demeanor would suggest, had, and he’d smoothly redirected the conversation to another topic.

After a few beats, Poole relaxed, and Joe gave him a commiserating head shake. Joe figured Matt’s concern was probably more directed toward one of Verna’s companions, but Joe had appreciated it anyway.

And he’d been royally pissed at himself for letting the insult go. He’d wanted to bash Westmore’s face in, but something, confusion about his feelings for Verna, unwillingness to examine what such a strong reaction revealed about them, hell, probably all of the above had kept him still. But as the minutes had passed, he’d felt himself loosening, letting the camaraderie distract him.

And then he’d sensed her moving toward them, but he’d kept his gaze trained away, hoping she wouldn’t stop and hating himself for it. Wishful thinking because in a blink of an eye, he felt her hand on his shoulder and heard her cheerful greeting, one he’d never tire of and one that he missed when he was forced to go without it.

But he’d been frozen. Torn between what he wanted to be and what he thought he should be, somehow suddenly convinced that if he turned toward her and kissed her as he normally would have, that if he’d even done anything to acknowledge her, he’d be shutting the door on the man he used to be.

So he’d done nothing, and it had only been after she’d walked away that he’d realized that he wouldn’t have been shutting a door but rather opening one that led to his future.

She’d been gone by then, and the moment had passed.

One of the guys had cracked some stupid joke, and he’d laughed mechanically. And then he’d looked up and directly at Verna, catching her eyes just as she’d turned away. The shock in them had been quickly covered, but he hadn’t missed it. He’d imagined that to everyone else she’d looked collected, but he’d seen the pain that marked her. It had been evident in her face and in that nervous way she’d smiled, the left side of her mouth a touch higher than the right—that expression almost always gave her away when she tried to hide something—in the seemingly unconscious way that she’d wiped her hands against one another and then down her jeans, that fidget a reminder of all the times he’d seen her uncomfortable in her own skin but valiantly trying to hide it.

Then she’d been gone and Joe had wanted to rip his own face off, do something, anything, to take his hateful actions back. He hadn’t wasted the effort trying to pretend that she’d misread the situation, and had instead looked at Poole, who’d given him a hard stare that was equal parts disappointed and angry. Joe would have willingly let his friend beat him to a bloody pulp if he’d thought it would help. He’d have probably let him do it anyway just because he deserved it, and Matt had looked like he wouldn’t have minded doing so at all. After a final stern glare that said they’d discuss this topic again, Poole had looked over toward Verna’s table, his gaze following one of the other women as she’d walked to the restrooms and retrieved Verna.

Joe hadn’t pretended not to watch them, but Verna had stubbornly refused to look in his direction, though her demeanor had seemed pretty normal, the overbrightness of her eyes one of the only clues to her distress. When she and her friends had left, he’d made a hasty retreat, making no secret of his hurry. He’d felt the urgent need to see her, reassure her if he could, and he hadn’t let social graces stand in his way.

Now, as he parked in his driveway, he looked over at her house, the dim light from her bedroom shining in the night. He seriously considered leaving it until tomorrow, but decided he needed to talk to her now. He knew Verna, knew that she’d take his words as truth, and the longer he let her believe them, the harder it would be to convince her otherwise. So, tail figuratively tucked between his legs and heart in his throat, he walked across the side lawn that separated their houses and knocked on the door.

And waited.

And waited longer.

After a few more minutes, he stepped back and looked up toward her second floor. The light he’d seen earlier still shined, which meant she was home. And if she was home and not answering the door, she had to be avoiding him. Not that he blamed her, but he couldn’t let her, or himself, hide from this.

He stepped back toward the front door and knocked again, this time harder, more urgently, and in less than five seconds, he heard the lock click and the creak of the door as she opened it. Though the foyer was barely lit, the moon cast a glow on her face, making her dark eyes shine and giving her an almost angelic sheen. She pulled the door open a little wider, but made no move to allow him in. She was clad in the roomy T-shirt and cotton pants she favored for pajamas, and for a moment, he could have been convinced that he’d interrupted her sleep, that this was like any other day and that she’d soon issue a stinging reprimand for him daring to come over so late into the evening that it was now technically morning.

He wasn’t, though. Yes, she had all those familiar trappings, but her eyes were off. They were flat, guarded, suspicious, nothing at all what he’d become accustomed to—what he’d come to crave—seeing when Verna looked at him. Whether teasing or yelling or deep in the throes of passion, Verna’s eyes had always been open, revealing who she was inside, revealing that gentle spirit that the hardness and humor had grown around to protect.

But now, because he’d been so thoughtless and uncaring, there was a wariness in her gaze. While he’d seen a similar look before, back when they’d first met, this look in her eyes now had an alien quality that had his gut churning. He’d lost her trust; he could see so in her hooded expression, could feel the distance between them growing as he stood on her porch as he had countless times before.

“Um, Joe, hi,” she said, sounding sleepy and slightly surprised. “Is everything okay?”

He nodded and took a step closer, but she still didn’t move to allow him in.

“I, uh, it’s a little late, and I’m very tired. Can we catch up some other time?” she asked, her voice still sleepy and slightly befuddled-sounding, like she had no earthly idea what would have brought him to her doorstep at this hour.

“Please, Verna, let me in,” he said, a needy, almost harsh edge in his voice.

Her eyes widened at his tone, and she moved an increment, just enough for him to slide his body into the foyer. He pushed the door closed and locked it, then turned to look at her. Her face still had that confused expression, her full lips slightly parted and a brow lifted in question. Anger, lightning quick and inferno hot, flashed through him at the visible proof of what he’d done to her.

She should have been raging at him, cursing him for treating her so badly, but instead, she retreated into that damned shell, probably thought she was getting what she deserved, and he hated himself even more for not understanding until this very moment that she didn’t believe she deserved better. That she didn’t demand better.