Jennifer Probst - All the Way

A reluctant laugh escaped her lips. “My grandmother loved the movie Moonstruck . We used to watch it together. Cher wore a beautiful red dress to the Metropolitan, and when Nicholas Cage took one look at her, I knew he fell madly in love. After that, I longed to see an opera.”

“Hmm, at least you didn’t admire Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction . If my memory is correct, she shared her love for Madame Butterfly with her lover. Then she tried to kill the poor guy.”

She sniffed. “You’re making fun of me.”

Gavin chuckled. “I never saw the movie, but you beat Cher out. You wore green, the exact color of your eyes. The dress had that hood wrap thing, and when you loosened the cloth, all I could see was fiery red curls spilling around your face.”

She caught her breath at the vivid description. “You remember detail well.”

“I remember you.” He paused. “We saw La Traviata . You gripped my hand so hard I thought I’d be crippled by the finale.”

“I didn’t want her to die.”

He nodded. “During the last scene, you cried. Of course, you used to cry over everything. Songs on the radio. Television commercials. Those awful Lifetime movies you always watched. You didn’t budge from the chair at the end, and insisted the composer made a terrible mistake.”

“I was a bit emotional. I hoped for a happier ending.”

“Operas never have happy endings. That’s why people always remember them.”

She retreated from the brief flash of pain. “Yes.” Silence fell over the room. The steady tick of the clock on the mantle mingled with the snap of wood. Shadows danced against the wall. She heard her name whispered from far away. Too tired to fight the raging swirl of emotions, sleep dragged her down and claimed her, and she welcomed it, knowing it would stop the endless array of emotions slowly torturing her.

The words raked across her ears in a caress and melted into the misty fringes of sleep.

“It was never just sex. I loved you.”

…

Gavin stared into the dancing flames and whispered the words to the woman beside him. “It was never just sex. I loved you.” He gave a soft laugh. “I convinced myself it was only an affair, but every time I held you in my arms, I felt whole. No other woman has been able to make me feel complete. I don’t think any other woman ever will.”

He waited for her response, but only the sounds of snapping logs broke the silence. He dragged in a lungful of air and decided to turn around. Maybe if he looked into her eyes when he said the words, she’d finally believe him. Maybe he’s see a gleam of surrender and know there was a chance. Maybe—

He gazed into her face.

She was asleep.

He blinked. No fucking way. His big confession caused the woman to fall into slumber.

Gavin half groaned at the irony. Why was he surprised? Even sleeping, the woman drove him crazy. He ran a finger down her cheek. Warm, satiny skin. Her strawberries and cream scent drifted around him and caused an instant erection. He shifted as the primitive need to plunge between her thighs took fierce hold. God, he wanted her. Wanted to taste every inch of her skin, bring those animal sounds of pleasure to her lips, and bury himself deep inside her tight, clinging heat.

He’d never been able to keep his hands off her. He’d never had a problem controlling his lust before, or even the basic need to hear her voice and touch her. But nothing could happen until he regained one basic block of foundation.

Trust.

He needed to get his lady to trust him again, and that required keeping his hands off her. At least, for a while. Two weeks. Maybe one.

Ah, hell, he’d barely last another twenty-four hours.

The inner voice mocked his thoughts.

What will happen when your time is up?

He dragged in a breath. He never intended on staying. He had commitments to a company who’d given him a chance to make his dreams come true. Yet, the woman who’d haunted his memories and dreams was here in New York. And lately, he felt more comfortable wearing a waiter’s uniform than a Prada suit.

It was as if a fork in the road opened before him. He ached to claim her again. Give himself to her as fully as she’d given of herself years ago. If he used the time wisely, he may discover if something remained from the ashes of the relationship.

Hell, Phoenix rose from the debris. Maybe so could they.

Except she deliberately wrote that review with one intention: to destroy him, and Mia Casa.

The primitive in him roared at the injustice of her act the same time he ached to bury himself between her thighs. He was betting he’d be able to convince her to write the second review, but at what cost? If he had to end up choosing between his family’s legacy and the lost love of his life, what decision would he make?

The questions whirled in his head and made his temples pound.

Andy and Elaine were due home soon, and his gut told him to disappear. Emotions ran deep this evening, and when Miranda woke, she’d be forced to deal with them. He needed to give her the time and space. Maybe he’d have a plan put together to get everything he wanted.

Two days. He’d wait two days, and then he’d call her.

Gavin checked on the sleeping toddler, washed up, and left.

…

Miranda juggled two grocery bags and kicked the door shut behind her. She dumped the bags and wrinkled her nose. Huh. Her apartment smelled quite…fragrant.

Oh, crap.

She widened her eyes at the sight of dozens of roses. Scattered on tables, glass countertops, even her bookcase. Brilliant colors blended together in a dazzling array, making her blink to test the reality of the image.

Damn. Gavin Luciano struck again.

Miranda grumbled under her breath and stomped to the refrigerator. The man didn’t know when to stop. After the night they spent at Andy’s, she woke to find him gone. Asshole. He had that move down like an expert. It was just like him to begin breaking down some of her barriers, and then take off for greener pastures when the impulse struck. At least she knew she was done this time. One hundred percent over him. She craved stability and peace. Gavin dumped her life upside down and shook out the contents. She prepared for his call the next day and pumped herself up to give him the kiss-off speech of the century.

But he never called. She threw a bag of lettuce, apples, and cheese into the crisper, and squirmed. The man waited two whole days to contact her, then acted outraged when she told him she never wanted to see him. Again.

Miranda took out the Ginseng tea, along with the honey chamomile, to hopefully help her sleep. Any other man would accept her decision and move on. Not Gavin. So he’d started with the gifts.

First candy. He must have bought out every Godiva truffle in Manhattan, in every size, shape, and flavor. She took one box home and gave the rest to her coworkers. At least he remembered her weakness for chocolate. Not that it mattered.

Then the music. An iPod filled will all of her favorite songs, all with a theme. Romance and forgiveness. The man even slipped in Barry Manilow—her secret passion.

Now flowers. She peeked into the living room and gazed at the sensual beauty filling up every space. She adored roses.

Who cared that he was good at remembering what a woman liked? Probably a talent he used to seduce females into his bed. Their relationship was over, and roses and candy and music did not make up for the past. She filled the kettle and began to settle into her evening tea when the bell rang. Another delivery? Great. She trashes his restaurant, and he sends her flowers. Sounded like a bad country song. She flung open the door.

“Why won’t you take my calls?”