He’d really thought Lizzie would be in the club that night. Coming to him on her terms. Letting him know that she called the shots.
When the gig ended, he took his time about packing up. He stopped across the street from the club for a carton of chocolate milk to take back to the hotel with him.
He spent the night in a state of weird dream and restless wakefulness. At one point he got up and showered. A long hot cleansing. He let the water sluice over him, relaxing his muscles. Drying off, he wandered naked back to bed.
Half an hour later, he tried the television, flipping through channels, trying to find anything that would bore him to sleep.
When others were going to church Sunday morning, Nolan was wandering the streets in his jeans and black vest, arms bare except for the T-shirt he had on, oblivious to the fifty-degree chill. He’d wanted to be free of Lizzie’s hold over him. He’d put the goal first and foremost on his list.
So that was what was happening. Maybe not the way he’d envisioned. Maybe not with him losing all the pent-up yearning for her, but with her rejecting him. Still, the end result was the same. He didn’t have to worry anymore about his feelings for her controlling him and driving him to make poor choices that not only mucked up his life, but hurt his family, and her, too.
She wasn’t willing to be party to any of his choices.
Seeing her there outside her door yesterday, with her looking at him as the man he was—Nolan Fortune, millionaire in his own right and joint heir to billions—had brought home to him the insane differences between them. It wasn’t just about what block you lived on, or the size of your house or where you went to school. It was a way of life—hers, and then, in a completely different atmosphere, his.
Nolan Forte had been able to pretend he belonged in her apartment.
Nolan Fortune couldn’t.
He still couldn’t figure out why Carmela had come to find him. Insisted that Lizzie was messed up and needed to see him. She hadn’t known about his alias so it couldn’t have been his money she was after.
Lizzie hadn’t appeared at all “messed up.” In fact, she’d looked as incredible as he’d remembered. Better, really. She was curvier than a year ago, which he liked. A lot. He’d teased her before about being all skin and bones. She’d been on a tight budget and hadn’t been eating enough, in his humble opinion.
But she’d had the same exact expression-filled brown eyes with insanely long lashes, beautiful skin and high cheekbones that set her apart, outlining that one-of-a-kind smile.
Not that he’d seen her smile yesterday. She hadn’t been pleased to see him.
So maybe Lizzie had just needed closure—had needed the truth. Maybe Carmela had meant that he’d messed her up emotionally with his disappearing act. Given her an inability to trust. She’d obviously tried to call the number he’d given her, since she knew he’d had it disconnected. Maybe that had been playing with her—thinking that he’d deceived her about everything else, too.
He’d told some lies, but not about how much he’d enjoyed his time with her, or about how special she’d been.
He turned corners. Passed open coffee shops, a bagel place, a bakery. He heard church bells, avoided traffic.
And it dawned on him...he’d done it again. He’d left without giving Lizzie a way to contact him—other than the club for the next two weeks. He’d told her his name, but he’d still given her no access to Nolan Fortune. Maybe that’s what she’d needed. Just to know that she hadn’t been kicked aside.
Yeah, his pace picked up as he landed on the thought. Pulling out his phone, he was pretty sure he was on the right track. He’d call her, give her his real number, his private cell, not the one the band used. Tell her that if she ever needed anything, he’d like her to call him.
It’s what a Fortune would do.
And one thing was unequivocally certain to Nolan these days. He was bound and determined—needed—to be a stand-up Fortune.
In spite of the emotions boiling inside of him.
* * *
Normally Lizzie was zonked from the second Stella fell back to sleep after her middle-of-the-night feeding until the baby woke up again just before dawn. It hadn’t happened that way Saturday night and she was heading for a nap on the couch when Stella finally nodded off in her swing just after nine on Sunday morning. Carmela was at the library studying—she loved it there on Sunday mornings because it was so quiet—and while Lizzie had planned to get the Christmas decorations out and have the place festive and happy feeling by the time her roommate returned, she really just wanted to sleep.
In flannel pajama pants, her butt made it to the sofa cushion, but her head wasn’t even on the pillow she’d punched into the arm of the couch when her cell rang.
Not recognizing the number, or even the area code, that flashed on her screen, she let the call go to voice mail. Too many sales calls, debt consolidators and political robots these days. If the call was important, they could leave a voice message. She had to get some sleep.
Her eyes had just closed when she heard the faint ting of her voice-mail notification. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to ignore it enough to doze off. She was going to lie there and wonder who’d left that message.
“Lizzie? This is Nolan Fortune. Listen, I’m not planning to harass you or anything. I just wanted to make sure you have my phone number this time. My personal cell number. Please call me if there’s ever a time you need anything. I’ll be happy to hear from you.”
He’d be happy to hear from her?
Lying back down, her heart pounding and her belly flip-flopping, she tried to relax. He might be richer than Midas and he’d be happy to hear from a first-year schoolteacher who was living paycheck to paycheck?