Natalya yawned, nodding, then gestured toward the slider. “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”
I reached for her hand when she started to walk by. She took mine without looking up at me and I pulled her into my arms. I almost sighed because the contact felt so good. Fist-bumps and neck hugs from the boys were great, but they didn’t stave off the loneliness.
Natalya folded her arms around my waist and I buried my lips in her hair. The embrace was platonic until I let my lips linger, following the part down the middle. She stiffened and I let my arms fall away, afraid I’d crossed some unspoken line. The shower incident was almost fifteen months ago. You’d think it had never happened at all.
She retreated a step and looked up, her eyes searching my face. The skin between her brows bunched. “Let’s grab some beers after work tomorrow. We can talk about what’s bothering you.” She grinned.
My mouth tilted up at the corner. “Beers sound great.”
“But not the talking.” She wagged a finger at me. “Now I know something’s going on with you. Don’t worry, I won’t push it. Yet.” She walked into the house and I followed. We said good night in the kitchen and I watched her walk down the hallway. She stopped and studied the pictures on the wall. I knew which one had her attention. A photo of her and Raquel at our wedding, bent over in laughter. Both of them beautiful in their dresses. Raquel in white and Natalya in lavender. She touched her fingers to her lips then the glass. Then she disappeared into the bathroom.
I tossed the bottles in recycling and went upstairs to write. Doctor’s orders. But what started as a daily exercise in hopes of recovering my past had evolved during the last six months into a tool of survival. Should I lose myself to James, my memories would still be here.
CHAPTER 9
JAMES
Present Day
June 22
Los Gatos, California
“Aimee.”
Her name fills the room before he realizes he spoke it out loud. The agony from not seeing her, hearing the smooth richness of her voice, folding her lean frame in his arms, the press of her feminine curves against his solid plane, floods the hollowness inside him. It nearly brings him to his knees.
The bottle slips from his fingers, lands with a thud on the wool carpet. Amber liquid bleeds into the cream fibers, soaking the sole of his bare foot. He barely feels it. Every sense is sharply tuned to the woman in the vehicle parked out front.
The headlights turn off; then after a few ticks of the ugly, ancient clock behind him, a family heirloom someone had the terrible sense to leave behind, they turn on again. It’s as though Aimee’s trying to decide what to do.
She’s going to leave.
Like his beer-soaked foot, James hardly registers his long stride consuming the distance between them, or the front door slamming into the wall because he opened it with such force. He swore to himself he wouldn’t contact her. She has a husband and a child. He doesn’t want to disrupt her life, further complicating the mess Thomas created. He doesn’t want her hurting any more than she already has. Hurting just as much, if not more, than he is.
But here she is, after years of separation for her and what seems like months for him, and nothing is going to stop him from getting inside that car. He wants to feel her nearness. He wants to hear her voice.
He knocks hard on the passenger window. She bucks in her seat, turning toward him as she white-knuckles the steering wheel with both hands. A complicated stew of emotions ravages her face, visible under the misty glow of the streetlight that floods the vehicle’s interior. He sees the same longing he feels deep into the marrow of his bones, along with a haunting regret. But there is also disappointment in, and resentfulness toward, him. His heart crumbles a little more. He hurt her and betrayed their trust. He’d kept so much from her. He’d been so ashamed.
“Aimee.” He rattles the latch. “Unlock the door.” His pulse races. He can feel it throb in his throat. His skin is hot and uncomfortable. Sweat drenches his armpits. “Please.” He rattles the latch again.
The lock clicks and he hauls open the door, sliding inside. He shuts the door behind him and plasters his damp back against the leather to stop himself from crashing into her. His lungs heave and nostrils flare as though he sprinted a 10K. A quickening tightens his chest as he breathes her in. Jasmine and orange blossom. Aimee’s signature scent. Much more powerful than the memory.
Their gazes meld across the center console, and something electric rushes through him, a flash flood of emotion. He heatedly whispers her name, his own expression worshipful.
A river of brown, wavy hair—hair he used to twine around his hands when he kissed her deeply—falls gracefully over her shoulders. The Caribbean-blue orbs he knows so well swim in pools of unshed tears. Her lashes glisten—the pale, delicate skin encircling her eyes, puffy. She’s been crying for some time. There are teardrop stains dotting her jeans.
He watches his hand reach for her. He wants to caress the concave of her cheek, kiss away the tears, wind his arms around her, and never let go. But she’s no longer his to care for, to soothe away the worry. The gold band on her finger, bright like starlight in the glow of the street lamp, is a grim reminder. She’s no longer his.
His arm drops into his lap and her gaze follows. “You’re shaking.”
“Because I want to touch you so badly,” he rasps.
She shifts her face away, revealing her profile. The soft slide of her nose, the quiver of her chin. With the base of her palm, she wipes away the moisture that makes her cheekbone shine.
“Aimee.” His own eyes dampen. He blinks rapidly, fighting the burn. “Aimee, baby. Say something.”
She briefly squeezes her eyes shut and James curses the endearment that slipped from his tongue. He doesn’t want to scare her away.
Her breath hitches on a long inhale. “I’ve been driving in circles for the past two hours.”
“Baby . . .” This time he ignores the slip. He doesn’t like it when she’s upset or sad. Make that devastated.
She wipes her face again. Her hand trembles and his restraint shatters. He grasps her fingers and his tears fall.
For an instant she tugs her hand, startled by the contact, only to grip his palm tightly. She turns fully toward him, tucking her nearest leg underneath her. “I’ve known for a while that you remember again.”
“How long? Since December?” And she never reached out to him.
She nods. “Kristen called me after you called Nick. I always wondered if you’d recover. Carlos didn’t think so. I mean, you didn’t think so. But I still wondered. I also wondered what it’d be like when you came back. I’ve wondered that since the beginning,” she quietly admits.
“Since Mexico?”
“Yes, since I found you.” She glances out the front window with an unfocused gaze and James wonders if she’s back with him in Puerto Escondido. All he knows about that visit is what Carlos wrote in the journal. Aimee had been honest with him and herself before she left. It had been achingly difficult to read, but he admired her strength. He didn’t like it, but understood why she had to walk away from him.
“I wasn’t sure how I’d feel living near you and not be with you. Would I realize I was still in love with you? Would I leave Ian to be with you?” Her voice diminishes until barely audible. She moistens her lips and stares at their joined hands, her fair Irish complexion a vivid contrast to his deep tan from years living under the Mexican sun.
“Nick called yesterday and told me you’re here.” She motions at the house. “With your sons. And suddenly . . .” She pauses, lips parted as though figuring how to word what she has to say. James gives her hand an encouraging squeeze and she looks up at him from under her lashes. “Suddenly I didn’t have to wonder anymore. I knew. I can’t invite you over for Saturday-night barbecues. And I won’t go to Nick and Kristen’s house for their pool parties. Not if you’re there.” Her mouth contorts into a watery grimace and James wilts inside. She’s right, though. Still, it doesn’t hurt less hearing it. It’ll be awkward for both of them.
“I wish . . . I wish I’d listened to Lacy. I could have found you sooner.” Her shoulders shake as she cries harder, forcing out the words. “But she was so odd. She scared me and I didn’t know her, and the thought of you still alive . . .”