I spent years of my life hurting over that man and finally I convinced myself that I didn’t really feel all those passionate, intense things I’d thought I’d felt for him. It was all a façade of memories gone wrong: a fairy tale I’d created in my mind that never existed. And then he showed up today, acting like he’s what I’ve been waiting for and all those passionate feelings showed back up with him.
That man destroyed me and now he’s about to take all that there is left of me, all that I care about. He can’t be here now. He will take all I have left and leave me to bleed out.
I pull into my driveway, hit the garage door opener, and wait impatiently for the door to rise. Anger burns through me, the safest emotion I dare allow myself until I’m alone, and perhaps, ever. It controls me, a fierce live charge that has me driving far too quickly into my garage and slamming on the brakes. My black convertible BMW, my gift to myself when I watched the final brick go up on my first commercial design, jerks to a stop, and I hit the button to seal myself inside. The car I bought to celebrate alone. Savage was gone. My father was gone. There was no Gabriel then. I had no idea what a blessing that was, either. Me and men don’t work.
A mental flash of that first rainy night with Rick has me killing the engine and opening the door before I dive down a rabbit hole that I’ve been trapped inside far too often the past decade of my life. By the time the garage is shut, I’m out of the car and inside the house, locking the door behind me. I don’t stop there, either. I do what I always do when I’m stressed. I pour a glass of wine and I walk to the bathroom, deposit my glass and my purse on the counter, and then start a hot bubble bath.
I’ve just stripped and slipped into my robe when my cellphone rings. I want to ignore it, but with all that is going on right now, I can’t. I yank it from my purse and find Gabriel’s number. God. Not now. I don’t know how I play this role I’ve chosen right now, this night when I’m dealing with the emotional impact of seeing Rick. But I have to. I have to or bad things might happen. I force myself to answer. “Hey,” I say, my voice cracking. God, my voice cracked. He’s going to notice.
“Just wanted to make sure you got a dress for tomorrow night,” he says.
Not hello. Not how are you. Not hey honey. He’s worried about me being arm candy at a political fundraiser. At least he didn’t notice my state of mind. “I’m just going to wear something from my closet.”
“No. No, I told you, you must stun at this event. I need you looking like a future first lady.”
And of course, that takes work for me. That’s clearly what he’s telling me. “I’ll find something.”
“It’s tomorrow night.” He sounds exasperated.
“I know. I’ll find something.”
“I’ll have a stylist meet you at the mansion tomorrow. I may or may not be back from Austin when you arrive. I’ll text you the details of the stylist’s arrival. She’ll pamper you.”
The mansion being the insanely extravagant home that he inherited from his father before I ever met him, which is also where he has his offices. “Thank you. That sounds lovely.”
“Anything for my future wife. You know that. I’m headed to drinks with an important donor. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. See you tomorrow.”
He hangs up and I do what I never do. I down all of my wine when a sip is how I drink. I then pin my hair up, strip and climb into the tub, turning off the water and sinking low. Just that fast, I’m back in the past, my father and Rick eating chocolate cake in my kitchen, the only two heroes I’ve ever known by my side. I want to be back there again. I want to be in that moment and have everything happen differently afterward.
My cellphone rings again and I grab it from the sink to find a New York number. I don’t know this number and considering I’m currently under contract to design a military facility that’s had more than a few challenges, I have to answer. “Candace Marks,” I answer.
“Candy.”
The voice and the nickname crush my chest with emotions. There’s a joke behind that name. A dirty, funny, intimate joke that shreds my crushed, torn, bleeding heart. “Rick,” I whisper.
“Not Savage?” he challenges softly.
“I told you—”
“I’m not going away, baby.”
“Ten years,” I say, my voice lifting. “It’s been—”
“Eight years, three months, and four days.”