“I could eat.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
“Don’t you need to talk to your dad?”
“No. Whatever he’s got to say will keep.”
I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. I was going to let him in. A little. Starting now. “You’re lucky, in the same situation, my dad would’ve gotten very quiet and given you this look that would have shriveled your balls to raisins. And after you’d slunk out of his office, he would’ve smiled like nothing had happened and continued on with the conversation he intended.”
Simon stilled. “You’ve never talked about your parents before.”
I kept my eyes trained on the floor, terrified I was giving too much away. “They’re not a part of my life anymore. They’re not … the nicest people. Especially my dad. And my mom … well, she only ever really cared about keeping up appearances. We were never close.”
He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Thank you. For telling me that.”
I finally met his eyes and shrugged. “I’m trying.”
“I know. And that matters. A whole hell of a lot.”
I tugged him toward the door. I needed to change the subject before I was tempted to tell him everything. “Feed me.”
“Whatever the lady wants.”
I smiled, but it felt forced. My confession had unsettled me. And what’s more, I couldn’t stop thinking about what his dad had said about Simon’s campaign getting off the ground. How the hell could I stay out of the spotlight and hold on to Simon at the same time? You can’t, the realist in my head whispered. The bitch was undoubtedly right. But I wasn’t giving up yet.
Simon was holding out on me, and it was starting to piss me off. Correction: I was pissed off.
No sex.
For two weeks.
It wasn’t like he and I were engaging in all out Sexual Olympics before I decided to make poor life choices, but now there was nothing. Simon was adamant about me not doing anything too taxing, which apparently included all forms of sexual activity, until he was satisfied that I was fully recovered. I supposed I should be happy that we were, after our first fight, firmly back in the honeymoon phase. Except honeymoons included sex. Well, honeymoons without knife wounds did.
Granted, I had much bigger things to worry about, but focusing on the sexual drought I was experiencing was easier. Safer. And if it made me a coward, I could live with that. For now.
I’d worked tirelessly trying to make progress with the notebook. I’d even considered asking Con for help. But I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, but the need for secrecy was crushing. People would kill for the information I had. I was pretty damn certain of that.
I also considered telling Simon the truth more times than I could count. But just the thought of admitting to all of my lies had bile rising up in my throat and eating away the words like battery acid.
“If you keep begging, I’m going to make you wait longer.”
I glared at him. “I’m fine.”
We were sitting on the couch in his den, watching a movie. A movie. Like high school freshmen on a handholding-only date.
“You’re pretty hot when you’re pissed.”
“Then you’re going to think I’m goddamn gorgeous if you won’t fuck me tonight. Why am I the guy in this relationship? Why can’t you be as hard up for it as I am?”
Simon’s smile turned sinister. “Did you really just call me the girl in this relationship?”
“Hell yes, I did. You’re giving me a complex.”
He shook his head slowly. “Charlie, you really are something else.” He reached behind the sofa and produced a large box. “If I were the girl in this relationship, I think you’d be giving this to me and not the other way around.” He set it in my lap.
“What is that?”
“A present.”
“But why?”
“Just open it, okay?”
I looked down at the blue box with black lettering. It was from a fabulous boutique specializing in 1950s and rockabilly dresses. Eighteen months ago I could have bought the whole store; now, I could only afford to look.
As excited as I wanted to be about what was probably inside the box, I feared we’d end up at another impasse. Or worse, another fight. “Simon—”
“Just open the damn box, Charlie.”
I lifted the lid and handed it to him. I parted the tissue paper to reveal a gorgeous red dress and a black and red-feathered mask. I lifted the dress out. It was one I had drooled over in the window—ruched sweetheart neckline, thick straps and a full skirt. It was fabulous.
My heart sank as I lifted my eyes to Simon’s face. He wasn’t smiling.
“I’m not giving you an ultimatum. I’m simply extending an invitation. I would love to have you next to me on the Fourth, but if you can’t, I’ll get over it. What I won’t get over is losing you again.”
I squeezed my eyes shut against the sting of tears. He lifted the box from my lap and folded the dress and put it back inside. Once again the words of confession bubbled up inside of me. But when Simon pulled me close and tucked me against him, the thud of his heartbeat and my desperate need to savor the moment pushed them back down.
I am a coward. A lying coward who doesn’t deserve him.
I stood on the deck of the Steamboat Orleans and sipped my scotch. Derek stood next to me, leaning against the railing. We hadn’t seen much of each other since his wedding in May. Between his honeymoon and newlywed status, and my chasing after Charlie, we’d lost touch. But he was here tonight because I’d asked him to come. I was still holding out hope that the other person I’d asked to come would show up. Because of the fireworks, the Orleans was staying docked all evening. There would be no excuse of missing the boat. I’m not sure if that made it better or worse.