Chapter 26
My date was in a bad mood. A terrible, no-good, throwing bags of cement mix like they were softballs mood.
I pushed my safety glasses up, dropped my hands to my hips. "What's the deal?" I asked, nodding toward the haphazard pile of cement mix. "What did they ever do to you?"
But Ben didn't answer. He stalked off, going around the side of his house and coming back with another bag over his shoulder. He threw that one on the pile with more force than the last few.
"Seriously. What's the deal, Ben?" I yelled. "If you're still mad about me not allowing you near saws of any kind then that's too fucking bad but—I mean, just tell me what's going on."
He stomped toward the side yard again but stopped, pivoted. "It's nothing," he called, the length of the backyard between us. "I'm just not feeling very friendly today."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "What? Why?"
He looked up, his gaze arcing from the bright summer sky and trees to the roof. We'd made good progress on this place but it was slow going. Any renovation that received only a day or two of attention each week would be.
"I'm sorry, Magnolia," he replied, his tone thick and syrupy. "I forgot the part where I'm supposed to spend every minute fawning over you."
I peered at him. "You're not."
"Really? Are you sure about that?" he asked. "Because last I checked, the only objective here is kneeling at your feet and shooting sunbeams up your ass and reminding you that you have all the power here."
I yanked my gloves off, shoved them in my back pocket. "Yeah? Where are you checking? Because that seems fucking ridiculous to me."
He advanced on me in long strides, quickly closing the gap between us. "Does it? Or are you too busy enjoying all the kneeling and sunbeams to realize this whole thing is fucking ridiculous?"
I stared at him, not sure I understood which "whole thing" we were discussing.
It could've been the work on this house.
With just the two of us doing this on the weekends, it was tedious.
I wanted to call in a crew to assist but Ben was dead set on doing this himself.
He was proving some kind of point but I wasn't clear who was on the receiving end of that point.
It could've been the house but it was most likely us. Me and Ben…and Rob. With each passing day, the rope around us seemed to tighten, cinch us in closer. Make it harder to imagine walking away from one of them.
And yeah, I did have the power here. For once in my life, I wasn't being jerked around by a fuckboy or dealing with an asshole guy who set the shady terms. I held the cards; I was in control.
But unlike those jerks and those assholes who'd never cared a bit for me, Ben and Rob mattered to me.
"I know," I conceded, holding my hand out to him. He stayed rooted where he was, didn't reach for me in return. "It will be over soon."
"Yeah?" he snapped. "Is that supposed to be comforting? Or is it a threat? Like, I better get my shit together because judgment day is on the horizon? If I don't keep quiet, I'm gonna get cut. Is that it?"
I moved closer to him, curled my hand around his forearm. "No, not like that," I replied. "It's just—"
"I don't want to hear it," he said, looking away from me. "Not today."
I stared at him as he stared at the trees behind the house. His jaw was locked, his feet planted, his arms crossed. He was angry but that anger served as the shell. Inside, where he was tender and vulnerable, he wasn't angry. He was aching.
But I couldn't take full responsibility for that pain.
Part of it, yes, but his grandmother owned the rest. He didn't say it but I knew he was struggling through that loss.
I saw it every time he swept a bitter gaze over the house and mumbled to himself, "What was I thinking?
" or "What a fucking disaster I've made out of this. "
And he was allowed to struggle. There was no timeframe for grief. It took up residence in the dusky corners of our hearts, it grew, it swelled, and it stayed.
Then it occurred to me that he knew I was going to the engagement party with Rob tonight. I wasn't sure how—hell, I could've mentioned it—but he knew, and he wasn't happy about that.
And that was the tough reality of dating two men. Two men who didn't play well with others. Two men who limited their sharing to cookies and beer. Two men who wanted to love me more than I knew how to accept.
I squeezed his arm one more time. "I'm going to go. If it's sunny tomorrow afternoon, we'll work on pouring the patio cement before I head down to New Bedford for dinner with my family."
I paused, debated whether I should say anything else.
It wasn't the right move but I wanted to invite Ben to my parents' house.
That urge wasn't a product of wanting to do a meet-the-parents dance but of wanting to give him a family.
He needed that. It would complicate the shit out of my life but he needed some extra-strength mothering.
"Fuck the patio," he replied. "I hate this fucking project. It's nowhere near finished, it's costing a fucking fortune, and it's a shitty way to spend a summer. No offense, but this is fucking horrible."
I hummed to myself, nodding as I folded those comments into his overall mood.
He wasn't insulting me or any of the free labor I'd offered.
He was working out some issues. I was sticking with that story—and withholding the dinner invite.
Maybe next weekend. "My mom dropped off a ton of food while I was at work on Thursday.
Truly, a ton. There's a big dish of chicken salad in my fridge if you're hungry.
I have lunch meetings all week so I know it will go to waste. "
"I do like her chicken salad," he muttered, still staring at those damn trees. Why wouldn't he look at me? Why wouldn't he just tell me what was at the heart of this?
"Then come get it," I said. "I hate wasting food and I don't have time to drop any of this off at the Walsh Associates offices so you should take some of it."
He jerked a shoulder up. "Maybe."
"Okay. I'm going now." I pushed up on my toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. "The back door is open if you want to grab that salad."
I stepped back, expecting a colorful comment about back doors and grabbing and…I didn't know, salad? But he continued staring at the trees. He didn't take the opening I'd offered.
My chest ached as I walked across the street to my house. It was a real, true pain, one I'd experienced before but never in this way. Men had left me hurting plenty of times but I didn't think I'd ever been the one to leave someone raw and fragile and angry.
I tried to put it out of my mind as I stepped into the shower and washed off the day's work. I had several hours before the engagement party but I required extra time to sort out my hair and cram myself into Spanx and—
The shower curtain clattered against the rod and Ben was standing there, the fabric bunched in his fist, a scowl on his lips, his body as bare as the day he was born. "Scoot over," he ordered as he stepped under the spray and yanked the curtain back into place.
"All right," I murmured, mostly to myself.
A minute passed without a word from Ben.
Not a grunt or growl. Then another minute.
He didn't touch me either. But I felt him.
Frustration—and hurt? I wasn't sure—radiated off him in waves.
He couldn't hide any of it. We stood there, two separate souls sharing a shower while a fuckton of emotions choked the air between us.
Finally, I started, "Ben—"
"No." He shook his head, drove his fingers into my damp hair. Droplets streaked down his cheeks, over his chin. They weren't from the water. "No."
"Ben. Listen. I want—"
"No," he repeated, bringing his hands to my waist and backing me up against the wall. Goose bumps spread over my skin. The tile was cold despite the steam rising around us. "No."
He pressed his forehead against mine, closed his eyes while tears poured out. He stayed there, his thumbs on my pelvis and his fingertips digging into my ass cheeks, his breath on my cheek and his cock hot and hard on my belly.
He needed to hold me. He also needed to hate me.
"Ben, I want—"
He stole my words with a kiss, a thrust, a sob.
He reached for my thigh, brought it to his waist. I was open to him now, in every way I could be.
And he knew it because he looked me in the eye for the first time since I'd called out his moody cement tossing.
He looked me in the eye while he pushed two fingers inside me, while I curled my hand around his cock.
He stared at me, watching while I rocked and writhed against him, while I stroked him, while I begged for more, while we reached the edge and fell over together.
And then, when I was dizzy and warm and boneless, he pressed his lips to my neck and whispered, "Don't go. Please, Magnolia. Don't go tonight."