42. Christopher
forty-two
“What do you want from me?” she says, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Fucking Emma. I’m going to kill her. It was all of two seconds. I didn’t even know she was there, and then she was snaking her way against me. I pushed her away immediately and grabbed my phone dinging with Alexandra’s ringtone.
All of two fucking seconds and she had to see that.
“Why did you take off like that?”
Her mouth gapes. “The nerve,” she says and folds her arms against her chest.
“Is this about Emma?”
She huffs, cocks her eyebrow, and shakes her head. “Just—forget it,” she says, dropping her arms to her sides. Like this conversation is pointless.
“I’m not gonna forget it. I want you to tell me why you flew out the parking lot, when clearly, you came to pick me up.” I know why she did. I want her to own it. Can she do that for me?
Does she care about me enough to fight for us? Call me on my shit? Tell me that what she saw was hurtful? Confusing? Fucking bullshit? That she won’t put up with it?
“What am I supposed to do when another woman clings to you? Just ignore it, right?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Claim me. I want you to claim me, Alexandra. I want you to want me the way I want you. I want you to tell me to go fuck myself with my game of hiding around.“Nothing.”
She turns her back to me and looks out the window. “I suppose you have new plans for tonight,” she drops. She doesn’t even want to argue, to call me out for saying one thing and then the opposite.
“No.” I take two steps and stop shy of her. The tremble of her body is visible. I place a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffens. “Hey,” I say softly. If she’d stayed, she’d have seen me push Emma away. I’d have been with her in seconds. I might even have kissed her in the parking lot. Because—fuck people.
The thing is, I’d make her mine in front of the whole damn town if only she’d give us a chance. If only she’d tell me she’s not going back to New York.
But she decided to leave, again. Just like when she saw lipstick on my shirt and went to karaoke, or when I was having dinner at Emma’s and she went to The Growler. She might be pissed, but not enough to put up a fight.
She doesn’t seem to care enough to do anything about it but run.
“You looked good in my truck,” is all I say.
It’s getting dark out when I knock on her bedroom door a couple of hours later. I go in before she answers.
Her face is collected, and there’s no trace of her previous anger or tears. Is that a mask, or is that how she really feels? Like nothing.
“Oh perfect,” she says, turning her back to me, her hands laced at the top where she’s fumbling with the clasp of her dress.
Standing behind her, I push her hair aside and kiss her neck, then proceed to hook the clasp of her dress. It’s a detail, but it’s everything, and it nearly tears me apart before this evening even starts. Me clasping her dress before we go out is a glimpse at what life as a couple looks like.
A life I thought I’d never want.
Until her.
She looked so fucking edible in my truck this afternoon, and even before I stepped out of the arena, I was wishing I’d told her to come pick me up so we could drive home together.
Home.
Together.
I want that so bad.
I want my bedroom to be hers. I want my car to be hers. Fuck, I want my daughter to be hers. I want to give her my life.
Because I know how she looks when she’s in my arms, I know how she looks when she’s with Skye, and that’s a thousand times better than when she’s on the phone with any person in New York. Hell, even when she hangs up with her friend, Sarah, she has a worry crease that I never see here—not even when she’s messing up in the bakehouse.
As I guide her into the restaurant with my hand on the small of her back, I indulge in this fantasy that we’ve come out as a couple.
Alexandra mellows under my touch, and I wonder if she feels the same.
Can I bring her back to where we were before what happened in the parking lot? Before Emma pulled her stint. We were so good. We were building something. And then her confidence in me fell apart in less than a few seconds.
I need to talk to her. Ask her if she’d consider staying here.
But that’s crazy, right? Why would she do that?
Where will she go when she leaves? My mind drifts to the dark side as I mindlessly peruse the menu.
I can’t stand the thought of another man with her.
And then my eyes meet hers, and I grind my teeth at the acute awareness that it’s way more than that. I can’t stand the thought of her away from me. At all.
“Did you make your choice?” the waiter asks, pulling me out of my dark thoughts.
“Alexandra?”
“Oh. Ummm… the fiddleheads. And the perch?”
I close my menu. “I’ll have the same.” I need to get my head out of my ass and tell her how I feel about her. I brought her to this restaurant because I thought it would show her Vermont also has fine dining. As if pitting Vermont against New York was the way to go. What was I thinking? I’m going about this all wrong. I’m dead on arrival.
“Good evening,” the sommelier says.
And here we go deciding on pairings. I’d normally enjoy this, but tonight I’m in no mood. I’m painfully drawn back to a similar scene years ago, when I dressed up nicely and paid for lunch and did everything right, but the woman across the table from me still laughed at me and ultimately looked at me like I was something the cat dragged in when she realized I was serious.
“Skye was making your Gram’s sandwich bread recipe with Grace today,” Alexandra says. Shit, I’m not even making small talk with her. I need to pull myself together.
“Was she, now?”
“I don’t think I ever saw those at the bakery.”
She’s right. I don’t sell them. I just don’t want to make them.
“You should think about offering those. I mean… once you’re done with the baking competition. I know that’s pretty taxing, right now. But, starting this summer, you know? Gives you a little time to prepare. I could help you market it in advance, build demand.”
Demand for when you’re gone?
“From what Grace said, it goes really well with barbecues and for sandwiches?” she continues.
I don’t give a shit what I sell or don’t sell once you’re gone.
“You know what would be great for the summer?” I answer, and she looks at me expectantly. “You.”
Her face falls a little. “I—I was thinking of staying a bit longer after the exam, see if I could get some vacation time from Red Barn?”
I huff. Right. Of course. Vacation. And how about the next fifty years, Alexandra?
But I can’t bring myself to ask her the question. I don’t know what she wants, deep down. Is this still about having fun? Or does she want a ring on her finger? Because, if that’s what she wants, I’m dragging her to church right this fucking minute.
Hell, if I wasn’t close to certain she’d publicly reject me, I’d be on one knee right this minute with a rock the size of Mount Mansfield if that’s what it’ll take.
“You’re freaking me out,” she says, her gaze on my hands balled into fists around my cutlery.