Chapter 20
Eliza held the ring Charlie had given her up to the lamplight and appreciated the way the diamond sparkled with white fire.
She couldn’t begin to guess what the thing had cost. But it was surely plenty. And if she’d needed another reason why she and Charlie had only been a good match on paper and not in person, it was the stone staring back at her.
She’d never been one to wear flashy jewelry. For one, she thought it was a classless show of wealth. For two, she viewed the entire diamond market with a jaundiced eye and was quite vocal about her beliefs.
Even if a person could be assured the stone they purchased wasn’t a blood diamond, mined off the backs of the poor and desperate to finance regime change, insurgency, and genocide, then they still had to contend with the idea that the value of the gem was a construct.
De Beers held a monopoly on the market and hoarded their stash of the world’s rough-cut diamonds to artificially create a shortage and push the idea that diamonds were rare and therefore expensive.
Yes. She definitely didn’t believe diamonds were a girl’s best friend despite what the ineffable Marilyn Monroe once sang. And she and Charlie had discussed this at length one evening over lobster bisque and crab legs.
So…either he’d forgotten their conversation, or he’d assumed it had simply been an intellectual exercise and not a personal belief she actually put into practice.
She sighed as she turned the ring again and watched the light reflect on the facets of the stone. What the hell should I do with this now?
She certainly couldn’t keep it. It had never really been hers.
So, what? Donate it to one of his charities? Start a scholarship fund in his name at his alma mater? Sponsor some refugees from Nigeria where Charlie had spent so much time volunteering after the floods in 2018?
She would have to think about it and hope his memory would steer her in the right direction. But she was too emotionally wrung out for such an exercise tonight.
Fisher had been right. The hot bubble bath had worked wonders on her sore muscles and aching bones. But the soft, steamy water hadn’t been able to touch the ache in her heart.
Good people had died in front of her eyes. People who, if Agent O’Toole was right, had been working to expose corruption within their own ranks. Charlie had died saving her. And then there was Fisher who loved her too much not to love her enough.
She rubbed at the pain behind her breastbone.
She knew grief. She’d been touched by it when she’d been far too young. And it felt the same now as it had back then. Like a canker on her heart. A sore spot that she could sometimes forget about and then wham! The pain would catch her unawares and she had to fight not to let it drag her to her knees.
She took a deep breath, forced her diaphragm to expand, and then let it out slowly.
Nope. Still there. Still feels like someone has stuck a hot poker through my aorta and?—
The hard rap of knuckles on her door had her jumping. After gathering her wits, she carefully placed the ring back inside her nightstand, cinched her robe tight, and made sure the terry cloth covered her bare thighs.
“Come in,” she called. Or at least she tried.The lump in her throat meant the words were barely a whisper. She cleared her voice and tried again. “Come in!”
The door opened and…cue the butterflies.
Fisher stood on the threshold and the hallway light haloed him in a golden glow. His grin was slightly provocative when he asked, “How was your bath?”
“Fine.” She narrowed her eyes, trying to pinpoint what was off about him. Then she caught the faintest whiff of burned bread. “How’d the sourdough come out?” she asked with feigned innocence.
His grin slipped off his face. “I swear I did everything right. I think the cookin’ gods have cursed me.”
She snorted. “Given all the other ways you’ve been blessed, that’s probably only fair. No one should be good at everything.”
“Name one thing you’re not good at,” he challenged.
I’m terrible at not loving you.
She turned to stare briefly out the large window as she thought of an answer she could share aloud. There were no storm clouds to block out the stars tonight. And the sickle moon cut its white slice out of the black sky.
“I failed spectacularly at that pottery class I took last year,” she finally admitted. “The walls on my bowls were always uneven. I have a terrible sense of direction. If I have to drive more than ten miles, I almost inevitably get lost. And I can’t whistle to save me life.”
To prove her point, she pursed her lips and winced when the air she pushed through her mouth sounded like a deflating rubber balloon.
He grabbed the casing above the door with both hands and leaned forward. As always, the move caused his shirt to ride up and reveal the trail of curly brown hair that started at his navel and disappeared into the frayed waistband of his jeans.
Desire bloomed at her center like a hot flower.
“Oh, yes.” The light in his eyes turned teasing. “I stand corrected. Not sure how you’ve made it this far in life without bein’ able to whistle.”
Since she couldn’t erect a physical barrier between them—after all, they lived and worked together—she decided she had to get good at erecting emotional barriers.
There’s no time like the present.
“Is there something you needed, Fish?”
“Just reckoned I should check in on ya.” He dropped his arms and stepped into the room. To her astonishment, he flopped down on the bed with his hands laced behind his head. As he stared at the ceiling, he added, “Ya know, just in case ya needed someone to keep ya company until ya fell asleep. Like last night.”
Former Eliza would’ve jumped at the opportunity to spend another evening held in his arms.
“I think the worst of the shock has passed,” she assured him, proud that Current Eliza was able to ignore the temptation. “I’ll be okay on my own.”
“Ya sure?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’d be happy to offer a little more…distraction.”
She’d been sitting on the edge of the bed watching him over her shoulder, but that had her turning so she could fully face him. The flush on his cheeks, the overbright shine of his eyes, and the way his drawl seemed more pronounced had a lightbulb blazing to life above her head.
“Say she sells seashells by the seashore,” she demanded.
“What?” His dark eyebrows pinched together. “Why?”
“Humor me.”
He shrugged indifferently. “She shells she shells by the she shore.” He frowned and tried again. “She shells she shells by the she shore.” Shaking his head he asked, “Was that right?”
“No.” She pointed to his nose. “Are you drunk?”
He grinned impishly and held his thumb and his forefinger an inch apart. “Just enough to take the edge off.”
“Take the edge off what?”
“Off knowin’ I could have ya if I weren’t me and you weren’t you.”
That canker on her heart was burning again. “Fish, we’ve been through all this. I guarantee the subject isn’t going to improve with repetition.”
“Hear me out.” He lifted a finger in the air. She’d always loved how long and knobby-knuckled his fingers were. “The way I figure it, we’ve been lookin’ at this thing all wrong.”
“Have we?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “But the bourbon cleared my head.”
“Mmm.” She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “Because that’s usually how bourbon works.”
“No, seriously. It gave me an epifoamy.” He frowned and corrected. “I mean an epiphany. Hear me out.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that nothing good ever came out of a bottle of bourbon, but he plowed ahead.
“See, ya don’t want to be just another notch on my bedpost ’cause you’re not a one-night stand kinda gal. And I can’t give ya the great, big BKI love you’re lookin’ for. But there’s something we haven’t considered.”
“Oh…kay,” she allowed hesitantly.
“Friends with benefits.” His grin was awash with self-satisfaction. “It’s the perfect middle ground.”
“Is it?” she challenged.
“Think about it. You’ll have a ready and willin’ bed partner while ya hunt for Mr. Right. And I’ll get to scratch this itch that’s been plaguin’ me for four years.”
Irritation had heat creeping up her throat to flame in her face. “From a notch on a bedpost to an itch that needs to be scratched. Wow, Fish. Way to make a woman feel real special.”
He shook his head. “Maybe I didn’t explain it right.”
“Oh, I think you explained it just fine. And after much consideration”—the derision dripping off her lips was so thick, she was surprised she couldn’t see it—“my answer is no.”
“But why?” His expression was as petulant as his tone. “It’s the perfect solution.”
“It’s not,” she countered. “Because friends with benefits only works when neither party is…”
She stopped herself on a dime. She’d almost said when neither party is in love with the other.
Pressing a hand to her temple, she insisted instead, “It would be a mistake, Fish. Our situation, living and working together, would make it too complicated.”
“What’s life without a few mistakes, huh?” His grin was infectious. “If ya went back and erased all the mistakes you’d ever made, you’d be erasin’ yourself. And yourself is pretty great if I do say so myself.”
“Fisher—”
“If Britt has taught me anything,” he cut her off, “it’s that life is about takin’ risks. Otherwise, it’s just a string of mundane Mondays.”
The more he talked, the more she wanted to say to hell with it and give in. He was just so tempting lying there with his thighs bulging against the denim of his jeans, with his pectoral muscles forming two near-perfect squares against the cotton of his T-shirt, with his beautiful mouth pursed into a moue of seduction.
Luckily, she was able to hold on to her good sense.
Unluckily, it was by a mere thread.
“I’m not sure you should be taking life lessons from the King of Carefree,” she told him with a frown.
“Hey! No disparagin’ my bestie.”
She usually found drunks annoying. But Fisher just got more charming. All that golden retriever energy was multiplied ten-fold.
Or, the little voice that lived at the back of her head proposed, you’re just so smitten with him that you think everything he does is amazing.
Gah. Seriously, sometimes that voice was a pain in the ass.
“Come on,” he cajoled. “Let me help ya forget all your trials and troubles and tribilay…tribuh...” He blinked. “Tri-bew-lay-shuns.”
“Oh, is that what this is all about?” She chuckled and shook her head. “You’re doing me a favor?”
He grinned self-deprecatingly. “I should probably confess to finer feelings of friendship and compassion. But the truth is I’ve wanted to get ya naked since the second I clapped eyes on ya.”
Later, she wouldn’t be able to believe she’d done it. She’d never had a violent streak. Even as a little girl she’d always agreed to whatever game her friends wanted to play, avoiding any sort of controversy. But she flew across the mattress and pushed him off the side of the bed.
He hit the floorboards with a loud thud.And his hair was as wild as Ozzie’s when his head poked over the side of the mattress once he sat up.
“For tit’s sake.” He scowled and moved his mouth like his lips weren’t cooperating. “I mean, for shit’s sake. Ya could’ve just said, thanks but no thanks, Fish. Ya didn’t have to resort to violence.”
“Blame it on the concussion.”
“Oh, now you’re goin’ to use that as an excuse?”
She shrugged and watched him shove to an unsteady stand. He wiped imaginary dust off the seat of his jeans. “I take it that’s a no to the friends with benefits idea?”
“Thanks but no thanks, Fish.” Her tone was sugary sweet.
He sighed heavily. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’ though, right?”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” she assured him, pasting on a soft grin to hide the grimace that threatened.
He suddenly looked far more sober. “We good? I mean, is there anything I can do or say to make things okay between us? ’Cause even without the benefits part, I’d still like it if we could have the friends part.”
Why? Why does he have to be so damned wonderful?
“I think you said everything that needs saying, Fish.” If her voice was a little hoarse, she hoped it wasn’t enough for him to notice as he headed for the door.
Turning at the threshold, he proved that when it came to saying things that were as beautiful as they were awful, he was a champ. “Just so ya know, if it were possible for me to have a great, big BKI love, it would be with you.”
He shrugged sadly before stepping into the hallway and softly closing the door behind him.
Five minutes later, she’d managed to crawl under the covers. The sound of his harmonica drifted softly through the brick wall. He played Nina Simone’s “Wild is the Wind.”And the sad sound of the tune perfectly matched the sorrow in her heart.