Chapter Three #3
Jane sat at the window seat in the guest room. In the trees, morning birds called to one another and their young. It wasn’t yet seven, but already the humid heat threatened. Another Southern Sunday, she thought, pulling her light, cotton robe closer around her body.
Last night Adam had stayed out late. She’d waited up as long as she could, but exhaustion had forced her to bed.
This morning she’d rushed to the window and had caught a glimpse of him jogging off.
He had to come back sometime, and she’d be waiting.
They still had a lot to discuss, and avoiding each other wasn’t going to make it go away.
After washing up in the bathroom, she pulled on shorts and a blouse.
She would dress for church after her talk with Adam.
She checked to make sure Billie was still asleep.
Her child lay curled up like a possum. The light sheet covered everything but the tip of her head.
Jane silently shut the door and made her way down the stairs.
The house echoed with morning stillness.
Underfoot, the hardwood floors felt cool and smooth.
Adam had pulled up the old wool carpets and replaced them with scatter rugs.
Most of the furnishings remained the same, but yesterday she’d caught sight of a complex entertainment unit in the game room.
While he’d kept the family portraits and photographs, the darker paintings had been exchanged for bright moderns and a few lithographs.
An original cartoon cell hung in the hallway outside her bedroom.
The changes in the house were minor, but no less important for their subtlety.
Reaching the bottom stair, she sat down and waited.
It had been almost an hour. He had to return soon.
So what was she going to say? How far was she willing to push him?
Telling herself that dealing with his anger herself was better than risking it spilling over to Billie was one thing.
Facing Adam in a rage was quite another.
The girl he’d known before would never have defied him. If he’d told her he didn’t want to talk about something, she would have never mentioned it again. That girl had been lost somewhere between Billie’s birth and the present.
The back door slammed and jerked her out of her reverie. Here goes nothing, she thought grimly as she rose and brushed her damp palms against her shorts. She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. And stopped.
Adam stood with his back to her. His bare back.
Since he’d last jogged out of sight, he’d removed his T-shirt.
Sweat glistened on his skin, the sheen defining the rippling muscles clenching and releasing like thick ropes.
One hand held the refrigerator door open.
He reached in and pulled out a bottle of juice.
He shook the container, then raised it to his lips.
As he drank, her throat tightened and swallowed.
A bead of moisture dripped from the bottle onto his chest and was lost from view.
Her gaze drifted down, past the flat midsection rising and lowering with each deep breath, past the bulge indicating his gender, to long, powerful legs.
She knew the exact moment he became aware of her presence.
The sudden tension of his body forced her to look up.
He hadn’t shaved. Stubble darkened his jaw and outlined the firm line of his mouth.
A smattering of hair, damp and matted from the run, arrowed toward his waist. Her breathing grew ragged.
Not from exertion, but from apprehension.
She had initiated this meeting, it was up to her to tell him what she wanted.
But her tight throat wouldn’t allow speech.
Adam closed the refrigerator and set the bottle on the counter. After grabbing his T-shirt off the chair, he wiped his face and chest.
“What do you want?”
He stood with his hands on his hips. The elastic of his shorts dipped scandalously low; he looked every inch a dangerous man. Billie had the same way of standing, of looking defiant and angry. But Billie was only eight, still a child. Adam was—Adam was the girl’s father.
“I ordered a replacement for the window,” she blurted out.
His mouth twisted with irritation, but he didn’t speak.
“I wanted you to know. It should be here Monday. They’ll install it and everything.”
“Fine.”
He stood there, perhaps sensing there was more, or waiting for her to leave.
Those eyes, she thought, at last letting her gaze meet his.
Those damn eyes. He still made her feel young and foolish.
At seventeen, the six years difference in their ages had loomed between them like an uncrossable bridge.
He’d been forced into adulthood by the death of his parents and the responsibility of his siblings.
She’d been forced into adulthood by her own actions.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“Did Billie break something else?”
“No. I’m sorry for—” She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling. “Dammit, Adam, say something.”
“Such as?”
“Why are you so calm about this? I waltz in here after being gone almost nine years and it’s like nothing happened.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t have time for reminiscing. I’m not interested in the past. It’s done with. Let it go. I have.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re beating a dead horse.”
He moved to walk past her. She touched his arm to stop him. Her fingers brushed against hot, damp skin. A current leapt between them and she jerked back, half expecting to see smoke. He froze in mid-stride, caught between her and the counter.
“What do you want?” he asked, shifting until one hip braced against the cupboard. The T-shirt hung over one shoulder.
She stared at the hem of the garment, studying the tiny stitches as if the answer lay hidden in the weave or the design.
“I’m moving in next door.”
“So?”
“There’s no way to avoid—”
“The hell there isn’t. I don’t want to be friends. I don’t, as a rule, socialize with my neighbors. So your living there doesn’t matter to me.”
She told herself his disinterest came from pain, but a part of her wondered if she was wrong. Was Charlene speaking the truth? Had Adam recovered from what had happened? Did she not matter anymore?
“Billie likes you.”
“And I like her. I’ll be friends with the kid. I don’t need to deal with you for that.”
If only it were that simple.
“So the past means nothing?” she asked. She knew she was really asking if she meant nothing.
He shifted. Again she risked raising her gaze to his. The brown irises had darkened to black. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.
“What do you want from me, Jane? You want me to tell you I still think about you? I can’t, because I don’t. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”
“I’m not asking if you think about—” this was harder than she’d thought “—me. I understand that we’ve both moved on. But I won’t believe you’ve forgotten what happened. How it made you feel. Or what I did.”
He looked away then, staring past her to something she couldn’t see. The curse he mumbled made her flinch.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
What was the old saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. “You once asked me to marry you.”
He laughed harshly, the sound carrying more irritation than humor.
“Hell of a coincidence. You once said yes.” His arms folded over his chest. “Don’t push me.
I still don’t understand what you’re looking for, but I’m the wrong man.
You don’t want to get me angry, and that’s about five seconds from happening. ”
“At last,” she said, stepping closer, feeling her own temper rise.
“The fine, upstanding Adam Barrington. Banker, model citizen. You mean there’s someone inside?
Someone real, with feelings? Is that a crack in the old wall there?
I’m not completely at fault, you know. You let me go, damn you. Why? Why didn’t you come after me?”
Jane covered her mouth. That wasn’t what she’d planned to say at all. But it was too late.
“Let you go?” He spoke quietly, with a barely controlled rage.
The muscles in his arms bulged with the effort of his restraint.
His eyes burned with a hot fire that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with rage.
“You walked out on me. Not a word or a note. Just a church full of people and a bride who didn’t bother to show up. ”