Chapter 14
“I will stay in the house with you tonight . . . and tomorrow we will see what can be done.”
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
It was barely five o’clock, but even though Dancy had stayed up late working on the script, she couldn’t sleep any longer.
Watch padded in from the other room and put his paws on the side of the bed. She stroked him and picked up the ragdoll lying
on her pillow. She straightened its three pieces of yarn hair and ran her thumbs over its clumsily painted cotton cheeks.
Her fully charged phone lay on the table next to her. She still hadn’t checked it, and undoubtedly a torrent of messages were
waiting for her, but she needed coffee before she could let the world in.
She emerged from the bedroom only to come to a dead stop at the sight of a large man lying on her couch, calves propped on the arm, his feet—clad in athletic socks—dangling over the edge.
He wore rumpled khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that had ridden up to show a muscled band of abdomen.
A pair of boat-sized Adidas lay on the floor at his side. So much for having a guard dog.
As Watch now scrambled over to greet Clint, she wondered where he had been all day yesterday. And more mystifying, why was
he sleeping in her caboose? With his limbs sprawled here and there, the couch looked comically small. One of his big hands
rested flat on his chest, and the other rested on the carpet, palm upturned. Even asleep he looked competent . . . and delicious.
Once again, the sexual arousal she thought she’d lost burned through her. She wanted to touch him, to lie on top of him and
tuck her head into the crease of his neck, to feel those strong arms around her, those hands on her back. Her bottom.
She shivered. It wasn’t Clint himself she desired but the stability and decency he represented. The only emotion Clint felt
for her was pity.
She still wanted to press herself on top of him.
Idiot.
His spiky lashes rested against tanned cheekbones. She considered covering him with the quilt from her bed but resisted. Stepping
over his Adidas, she opened the door and took Watch out.
When they returned a few minutes later, Clint was still on the couch, forearm draped over his eyes. Watch settled by him as
Dancy made coffee. By the time she brought Clint a cup, he was upright, knees splayed. His crisp, brown hair stuck up on the
side of his head, and instead of brushing it back in place, as she wanted to do, she handed him a mug.
He looked up at her, those ocean-blue eyes faintly bloodshot, jaw rough with stubble. “You’re still here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He cupped the mug. “One week deadline. I hope you forgot.”
June had turned into July, and tomorrow was her last day. “Of course, I didn’t forget.” She’d promised she would leave in
a week, but she wasn’t ready to abandon her caboose cocoon.
He rose from the couch, filling the space. Mug in hand, he tilted his head toward the boxes on the floor. “What’s all this?”
“Some finishing touches for the caboose,” she said uneasily. “I hope you like everything. I can donate it if you don’t. Roth
and I worked on the script yesterday, and I didn’t have time to unpack.”
He nodded and, taking a sip from his mug, bent his head to look out the window. “That one-week deal we had. It’s off.”
“But I have another day! I have until tomorrow.”
“No, I mean that you don’t have to leave.” He turned from the window. “You can stay.”
“I can stay? Really?”
He looked annoyed. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
Curiosity mixed with her relief. “You’re acting strange. Why were you sleeping on my couch?”
“I got back late,” he said, as if that explained it.
“And?”
“And nothing. Stay here as long as you like.”
She stiffened. “So all I had to do for you to change your mind was tell you my sob story?”
He pointed his mug at the opposite wall. “The work you’ve done here . . . I like the color.”
“You’re letting me stay because you like the paint color?”
“What other reason?”
“Because you feel sorry for me,” she said flatly. “Clint, I’m a big girl, and you caught me in a weak moment.”
“Either stay or don’t stay. It’s up to you.” He set down his coffee and turned to leave. As he reached for the doorknob, she spotted the blood crusting his knuckles.
“What did you do to your hand?”
He glanced down. “Must have happened in the gym. And maybe I like having you around.”
With that, he was gone.
Clint strode across the drive toward his house. Someday he’d tell her what he’d done to Mick. She might get pissed and say
it wasn’t his responsibility, that vengeance was hers and other kinds of crap, but she wouldn’t deliver the physical vengeance
Mick deserved. What Clint had done felt damn good.
If this were olden times . . . he didn’t exactly know how olden, but olden enough that men were allowed to extract punishment
on behalf of a woman without that man being seen as controlling and sexist . . . If this were olden times, the woman would
be so grateful she’d take off her clothes and melt into a guy’s arms. Not that he wanted Dancy to do any melting—far from
it. But he wished the image of her naked wasn’t so blindingly clear. Pissed, he turned around, stalked back to the caboose,
and threw open the door without knocking.
Dancy stood at the counter, phone in her hand.
Ignoring her, he gestured toward the animal who’d rushed over to greet him. “Come on, dawg.”
Watch obediently followed him out the door.
Half an hour later, the two of them were on the lake, Watch safe in the canine life vest Clint had bought during his disastrous Walmart shopping trip. The dog perched on the front of the kayak, ears catching the breeze, happy as a mutt could be.
Clint dug the blades into the water. Dancy wasn’t going anywhere for a while, and even though having her here was still a
violation of his privacy, being alone hadn’t been doing him any good. For now anyway, he could live with her hanging around.
Dancy sat on the rear platform, scrolling through a flurry of text messages and emails, many of them pleas for interviews
from every TV talk show, podcaster, and reporter who’d been able to get her cell number. She also had urgent messages from
her agent with two job offers: one to advertise reverse mortgage loans and the other touting long-term care insurance. She’d
officially hit the bottom of the career barrel.
She didn’t follow any of the links to the video, but she couldn’t avoid the tabloid headlines:
Dancy Lights Up, Freaks Out
Dancy on Suicide Watch
Roth Devastated by Dancy’s Breakdown
Dancy Can’t Let Go
Various unnamed sources reported seeing her drunk in Dubai, coked up on a beach in St. Bart’s, and passed out in the parking lot at Malibu Country Mart.
All the “reliable” stories said that she was still in love with Roth and unwilling to accept his new relationship.
The only factual reporting stated that no one in her circle knew where she was.
There weren’t as many stories today as there had been a few days ago. Her breakdown was becoming old news.
The only text she responded to was from Roth with an address and time for them to meet. Clint had dognapped Watch, but he
hadn’t retrieved the key to his Range Rover. She fetched her script and set off.
They’d been working on the script for several hours in the living room of the old Victorian lake house Roth had rented for
a few days, and they were both getting tired. “You can’t ignore it,” Dancy insisted. “Why does he take the cigarette?”
Roth stopped pacing. “Maybe it’s only a cigarette!”
“Is it?”
He deflated. “Of course not. The guy’s a health nut.” He stretched. “That’s enough for today. Same time tomorrow.” He issued
the command and strode out onto the sweeping lawn through the sliding doors without giving her a chance to respond.
The Victorian was a high-ceilinged, faintly musty space with heavy moldings, floor-to-ceiling draped windows, and fading wallpaper
printed with birds, insects, and flowers. Apparently, it was the best his assistant could rent on short notice, and since
they were staying only a few nights, Roth said that he and Bisa could “slum it.”
Dancy rose from the tapestry-covered armchair, the script in her hand. Today’s work had exhilarated her.
“How did you learn to do that?” Bisa, curled up on an uncomfortable-looking settee near the fireplace, set aside the phone she’d been scrolling through for the past few hours. She hadn’t left Dancy and Roth alone for a second.
“Do what?” Dancy slipped her feet back into her slides.
“Look at a script that way. Ask all those questions.”
“I’ve studied acting for years.”
“It must have been frustrating watching Roth get all those parts and not getting any yourself.”
Meow. Bisa’s claws were out. “I made my choices.” Dancy didn’t add how wrongheaded many of those choices were.
Bisa tossed her curly hair. “I think you still love him.”
Dancy wouldn’t play games. “I fell out of love with Roth long before our divorce. You’re welcome to him.” She zipped the script
into her shark backpack.
“It’s okay. I’m not threatened. I know he loves me.” Bisa picked at the waistband of the trendy yoga pants over her baby bump.
“You shouldn’t have broken down in Chicago like that. I felt sorry for you.”
Just because the kitten had sharp teeth didn’t mean Dancy would let herself get bitten. “I was drunk and had a bad day. I
don’t have the energy to take care of him anymore. He’s all yours.” Dancy grabbed her backpack, but Bisa wasn’t done with
her.
“He told you that we didn’t start seeing each other until after you guys separated, but he only said that to keep from hurting
you.”
Dancy curled the fob in her palm. “What do you mean?”
Bisa came to her feet. “I’m not proud of sleeping with a married man, and I’m sorry for that. But as soon as we met each other,
we knew we’d found our soulmate. I think you’re probably a decent person, and I thought you should know.”