Chapter 21
21
Shane
“What do you mean it’s sealed?” I ask, walking toward the elevators with Stuart.
My attorney says, “She doesn’t play ball. She hits back. Ms. Farin just flipped the script on us.”
“How?”
We both go silent when the door to the offices is pushed open.
My. My. My. What have we here?
The little vixen herself. I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to her than I am after she reverse-played me with her own secret weapon.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I shift back on my heels and give her a wink. “Well played, Cat.”
“Touché.”
The elevator doors open, so I step aside so she can get on first. “Want a ride?” I tease, the line never getting old.
“You’re wearing it out, Faris, and nice try. I’ll be taking the stairs.” She pushes into the stairwell, and I can hear the soles of her shoes clacking as she gallops down.
I jump on the elevator and hit the lobby button repeatedly to get the doors to close. “Get on, Stuart.”
He steps on, not fast enough for my liking, and the doors close behind him. “You got your forty-eight hours,” he says, knowing exactly what I’m up to.
“I’ll take anything I can get.”
“This isn’t like you, Shane. If she’s that special, why aren’t you staying married?”
I’ve never had to answer for the sins of my past, but I need to get used to it if I’m going to win Cat back. “I was an asshole. Right woman, wrong time. And a whole other slew of fuckups that led us here.” I get ready as the elevator is about to land on the bottom floor. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
The doors open, and I rush to the stairwell exit, tugging it open and leaning against it.
Cat slows as she comes down the last flight of stairs, a slow smile growing before my eyes. “That’s quite the party trick.” She passes in front of me, tapping my nose as she goes. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, watching that ass as she shakes it walking away. I release the door and double-time to catch up to her. “You’re all mine for forty-eight hours.”
“Don’t make it sound so lascivious.” She glances at me out of the corners of her eyes. “There will be no sex involved.” Suddenly stopping before walking out the front doors of the building, she squares her shoulders to me. “You get access to me for forty-eight hours. You don’t ‘get’ me.” She uses finger quotes for emphasis, but as stern as she’s trying to be, I don’t believe she’s as upset as she’s pretending.
The way the edges of her mouth turn upward is a dead giveaway, but there are plenty of other signs. Her eyes are bright, the gold shining even in the bad lighting of the lobby. But the way she’s happy to stop and talk about it makes me glad I made the effort. For me. For us. For her, though she may not realize it yet.
I’m not the man she once knew, and I intend to show her I’ve changed.
“I have no intentions of forcing you to do anything you don’t want to. Remember, the papers are signed. Our fate is in your hands.” I leave her standing there with her lips parted in shock. But I didn’t miss the fire I lit in her eyes.
Stuart waits by my car when I head in that direction. From behind, my little Cat calls, “What do you mean our fate?”
I glance back over my shoulder, and reply, “I’ll be in contact soon about our date.”
“Forced proximity, you mean.”
“Tomato tomahto.” Something is so satisfying about using her words against her. Not that I find it a thrill to win, although I typically do, but that she knows I was paying attention.
When I reach Stuart, I turn around to see her scrambling to keep her skirt from blowing in the wind. I grin from watching her, from feeling like I just won the lottery with this second chance, and because she’s fucking more spectacular than ever.
As soon as she slips into her car, I ask Stuart, “Tell me again what she requested. I missed it.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” he says. “It’s a sealed document. We won’t know what it is until after the forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Neither do I, but you already agreed to it, so it’s a done deal.”
“Well, fuck.”
He opens the door to the Lamborghini parked next to my Ferrari, making me realize I pay him way too much. He tosses his briefcase in the passenger’s seat, then says, “She guaranteed us it’s not financially motivated, and it won’t give her ownership of any part of your personal property or business. If you ask me, she wanted control.” He slips inside the red sports car. “I wouldn’t worry about it. What could she possibly want from you if it doesn’t pertain to getting a share of something you own or a piece of your fame?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a mystery, but you’ll know soon enough.” I shut his door for him, not liking how wide it opens near my car anyway. He rolls down the window. “Let me know when you’re done with the forty-eight hours, and I’ll retrieve the envelope for you to open.”
“Will do. Thanks for coming out here.” You’d think I was asking him to travel to Barstow. It’s just not Beverly Hills.
“That’s my job.”
Slipping inside my car, I can’t help but replay what happened inside. Not the negotiations. That went as planned, except for the surprise Cat threw in at the end. The elevator was an unexpected development in the story. I chuckle, a smile working its way out from the memories. She probably thinks I paid someone to make that happen.
I shift into reverse and pull onto the main road with so much spinning through my thoughts. I got the days I wanted with her, but she twisted the plot right out from under me. What game is she playing?
The same one I am. I just wonder if her end goals are the same.
The ten months without her were brutal, but that’s what it took for me to realize what I lost. I came here on a mission because of the time apart. I’m also a better man for it. But can I be the man she needs?
I fucking hope so.
I’m still uneasy about the unknown, and she’s packing a punch with her comeback request. It doesn’t seem to pertain to financial gain. That makes it worse. Unpredictable. I would have given her anything she wanted—my pride and joy Ferrari, a million dollars to get the house she lost back, or my fucking house. She could have had whatever she wanted.
Instead, she’s going to hit me where it hurts. It only makes sense since I broke her heart first. And there’s a strong possibility that she won’t forgive me even though I’m destroyed. That won’t stop me from trying. Her forgiveness matters more to me.
Forty-eight hours. That’s all I have to prove I’m a changed man.
Me:
Hi, it’s me.
It took me all damn day plus the week and a half I let pass to get the courage to text Cat, and that’s what I go with? I’m even cringing. Sitting on the deck, I drop my head into my hand and rub my temple. C’mon, babe, text me back.
The sun is setting, so I look out to enjoy its beauty, but my hands are sweating, so I drag my palms down my jeans-clad legs. I used to be able to enjoy the sunrise or sunset on a surfboard in the ocean—starting my day and leading into a night of trouble once I got off the water. I’ve gotten away from surfing but can’t shake my past. Specifically, Cat.
She saw me for who I was and wasn’t putting up with that shit. I don’t blame her. I respect her more for it. She should never settle for less. I take another shot of courage, the beer talking me into sending another text. Logic tells me to wait a few minutes. I’m on my first lager, so I don’t fall for the tricks beer plays on its victims.
A message pops up and relief washes through that I didn’t jump the shark on this situation. I look at my phone on the table.
Cat:
I thought I blocked this number.
Grinning like an idiot, I laugh before I question whether she’s joking. Shit. What do I say to that? I reply:
Guess you forgot. I’ll wait while you block it now.
Cat:
Too late. You’ve already found me.
I drove by Parkdale twice and saw her once when she was leaving for the day. I didn’t dare approach, figuring we were long past having a civil discussion. Though, I’m not sure that spying on her was any better. I sit back in the iron chair, and type:
Want to hear something really creepy?
Cat:
No.
I text to cajole her:
Come on . . .
Cat:
Fine. What?
Me:
I knew where you were all along.
Why the fuck did I think telling her that was a good idea? Fucking hell. I roll my eyes, another reminder of her. She’s cute when she’s annoyed. When wasn’t she adorable, though? Not one memory comes to mind.
Cat:
It’s so creepy you were stalking me like a celebrity.
I’m stuck on how to read between the lines. Is she fucking with me, being funny, or playing along. I type :
I’m not sure I know how to do it differently. I thought I was special.
Three dots roll across the bubble, then die. Fuck . I thought she’d find the play on words charming. The three dots return, and another message pops up:
You were.
If she wanted to gut me, she did it in two words. Scraping my fingers through my hair, I stare at the screen. There isn’t anything clever I can say to make the words taste better.
She has a right to be mad. I was hurt and took it out on the one who felt in control of my pain. No excuses. Just facts. So it’s not surprising she’d strike when she can. Unknowingly, I gave her the perfect setup for that reaction.
Another message pops onto the screen from her:
You didn’t have to spy on me. You could have stopped by to say hi instead.
Sobering. I remind myself that I didn’t stay away because I wanted to. I kept my distance because she needed me to. She needed neat and orderly, a life she could fit in a little garden home plot. So why am I fucking it up for her? I know why.
Am I ready to admit it?
Not out loud. Not to her. Not even to me fully. I’m still grappling with who I was then and who I want to be, and I’m currently stuck between the two.
I text:
I thought you’d refuse to see me or, at the very least, throw me out.
Cat:
I would have because it was too soon for me. It still might be, Shane. But at least I would have known you cared.
I was a fool for what I did, but I know she’ll value action more than words. I start to type when her next message pops up first:
Maggie misses you. Specially, and I quote, “his big strong arms.” She also mentioned your ass, but I don’t want to feed that ego of yours. You have plenty of others up for the task.
I laugh to myself. If there’s one thing she’s protective of, besides her own heart, it’s her patients. I text:
If you like my ass, just come out and say it.
Cat:
I like your ass, but you know what I like better?
Did I open a can of worms when all I was trying to do was sync our calendars for forty-eight hours? My fingers have been hovering over the letters. Do I pretend she never asked or ? —
Cat:
Don’t overthink it. It’s burritos from El Fuego’s.
She has me laughing, but I’m grateful she didn’t slam the proverbial door in my face when I texted. She’s done the opposite. She’s kicked it open and invited me in. If she can crack jokes, I still have an inkling of a chance. It may be too late to get the girl, but I can make it up to her. She can move on and live her life. I’ll move on with mine. At least she’ll know I made the effort.
Me:
I’m not sure how I feel about a burrito being better than my ass, but obviously, I need to amp up leg day.
Cat:
Don’t stress. Your ass is pretty great. But those burritos . . .
I’ll take pretty great. As much as I’d like this to continue, I know she’s probably got better things to do like saving lives or spending time with a boyfriend who is smart enough not to fuck it up.
That’s something I hadn’t considered prior to her assuming I wanted the divorce so I could marry someone else. I’ve failed her. But I’m not letting another guy win her heart before I have a chance to show her how I feel. I need to lock this down, so I text:
What’s your schedule look like for our time together?
Cat:
Is it really time together, or we just need to spend time in the same zip code? I need details. All of them. I need to make plans for this hostage situation. Where are we going? What do I pack? Do I need to get a tracker inserted into my body so Luna can find me? You know, those kinds of things.
There’s no trust left, but I don’t blame her. I deserve it and don’t mind earning it back. I’m surprised it’s so far gone after the casualness of our text exchange leading me to believe otherwise. And she’s not lost her sense of humor. A positive in this complicated situation. Me:
Time together. You’ll have your own room, if that alleviates your concerns. Pack for the lake. You can swim, right?
Cat:
I can swim. It’s all so fascinating.
I down my beer, needing every ounce of bravery I haven’t mustered in ten months. Tell her . Me:
You always were the most fascinating girl in school.
Cat:
Thought you didn’t notice?
Me:
I never said that.
There’s a pause in the conversation, and then a message from her pops up again:
It almost sounds like you’ve been planning this for at least a few hours.
Me:
Months, but who’s counting?
Cat:
You are, but . . .
Damn, she’s fast with the comebacks. I don’t know if anger or entertainment drives her, but she doesn’t let a thing I say slide. The pause is killing me, though. I reply:
But what?
Cat:
How’s Memorial Day weekend? I have a long weekend from work. After I serve my time at the lake, I’ll still have a day to enjoy the time off.
Hit me where it hurts indeed.
She shouldn’t make this easy, but I didn’t know how my emotions would feel either. They’re a scratchy, ill-fitting wool sweater. This is the path I chose, so I have to walk it. I reply:
Memorial Day weekend is set. Thank you.
Cat:
I didn’t have a choice.
I stare at the message for probably too long, trying to read between the lines. Does she mean it, or is she teasing me? Although I struggle to read the meaning she’s intended through text, she’s not entirely wrong.
Feeling heavier after reading that finale of a line, I stand and go inside. I’ve caused enough damage already. I text:
You always have a choice with me, Cat. I’ll send you the details. You can decide what you want to do from there.
I stare at the screen for a few minutes before I add:
Good night.
She replies:
Good night.
I got what I wished for. Don’t fuck it up, Faris.