Inglath Cooper - Unfinished Business

They fell back onto the bed, heads colliding with the mound of pillows beneath the headboard, most of which Culley quickly swept away. Their hands reached for buttons, zippers, yanking, pulling, breaths fast and harsh, as if to stop for the briefest moment would allow reason and logic a chance at protest.

His hands transformed her from a woman whose self-image had hit bottom with the discovery of her husband’s infidelity to a woman who at this moment, felt, from the deepest part of her, wanted, desired.

It wasn’t only his touch, but the way he touched her. He made her feel as if this was something he had wanted for a very long time. Could that be true?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe all that mattered was the way he lifted her up, up, way above any place she’d ever been before. Too soon, the air got thin, and she thought surely her lungs would burst. At that last moment, Culley kissed her again and said, “Are you sure, Addy?”

She could have changed her mind then and there.

Her choice.

Yes or no.

But for the first time in months, the pain inside her was gone. And all she wanted was to stay here in this place where there wasn’t any hurt. So she kissed him again. And he kissed her back.

There in the darkened hotel room, the radio continued on with its salute to Sinatra, and somewhere below the raised window, a horse nickered.

CULLEY AWOKE TO a strip of sunshine that sliced the bed in half. During the first second of wakefulness, a distinct wave of well-being rolled over him. As if he’d been rehydrated after a week without water. Replenished. Renewed.

And then he remembered. He sat up. “Addy?”

He swung out of bed, checked the bathroom only to find it empty. Glanced in the closet. No clothes. No suitcase.

He searched the bed for a note, then gave the desk across the room a similar perusal. He went to the window and stared down at the already congested traffic.

She’d left.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant.

He anchored a hand to the back of his neck. He should have just walked her to her room last night. Left when he’d seen things were getting out of hand. That’s what a friend would have done.

But the truth was he hadn’t wanted to leave.

The truth was last night had been the first time in longer than he could remember when he had been something of who he used to be. For a few hours, he’d closed the door on his guilt and simply enjoyed being with a woman who had once been his best friend.

In his regular life—the one where he wasn’t falling into bed with newly disillusioned women, the one where he was a reliable father of one and a small-town doctor known for taking the time to listen to patients who needed to talk about their problems—he would have paid attention to his own normally demanding voice of reason. It would seem he’d deliberately tuned it out last night.

But it was back this morning with a megaphone to his ear. That, combined with his stinging conscience, lit a flare of urgency inside him.

He would call her. Go see her in D.C. He’d made enough mistakes in his life to know he didn’t want this to be another on the list.

MISTAKES, WHY DID they have to feel so obvious?

By the time the plane landed in D.C. shortly after ten that morning, Addy’s regret had reached fever pitch.

She’d left the hotel room just before six, slipping out without waking him. Every time she started to remember what they’d done last night, she closed her eyes and blanked the thought.

Of all the people in the world, in New York City, why had she met up with Culley last night? A conversation and a couple glasses of wine, and she’d practically jumped him.

Heat torched her cheeks.

She had just wanted to forget for a little while. To find a place where pain couldn’t reach her. To stitch back together what felt like a permanent tear in her heart. On that, she had succeeded. For a few hours, anyway. A short-term gain with a long-term price tag.

And now came regret. A big black cloud of it.

If she could just flip the clock back a dozen hours. Just twelve hours. She would have taken the shuttle home last night. Painted Georgetown red with Ellen. Sat at home eating Ben & Jerry’s. Anything but what she had done.

Regret, real as it was, didn’t change a thing.

At least in leaving before he woke up, she’d saved them both the embarrassment of admitting what they already knew.

It should never have happened.

It would never happen again.

HER NUMBER IN D.C. was unlisted.

Culley had tried Washington information no less than five times, hoping to get a different operator with a different answer.

After leaving Addy’s room, he’d gone back to his own hotel, showered and packed, then written a note for his buddies, telling them something had come up, and he had to get home. Coward’s way out maybe, but he didn’t want to hang around for their question-and-answer session about last night. He knew them. They would be merciless.

At the airport, he pulled out his cell phone and got the number for Addy’s firm in D.C. on the off chance that she was already back and had gone there. A receptionist sent him to her voice mail. He left a short message, started to add more, but hung up at the last second. He had no idea what to say.

ADDY WENT STRAIGHT to the office, intent on burying herself under a pile of work.

Of course Ellen was there. Addy walked by her office with a neutral good-morning, heading for her own office two doors down.

“Whoa,” Ellen called out.

“Later,” Addy called back. She dropped her coat and laptop bag on the leather couch by her door, crossed the floor and collapsed into the chair behind her desk.

Ellen appeared in the doorway, leaned a shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. She was dressed in workout clothes and Nike running shoes. “Up for a run?”

During the week, the two of them ran together at lunch. Addy shook her head, pressed a finger to the dull thud in her temple. “Not today.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow. “So how’d the little black dress turn out?”

“Should have left it on the hanger.”

Ellen came in and sat down in the chair across from Addy, looking like a psychiatrist about to get a juicy morsel. “Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“I can wait.”

“Ellen, really.”

“You left the book in the room?”

Addy sighed. “No. But I did run into an old friend from high school.”

“And?”

“We sat in the Oak Bar and talked.”

“And?”

Addy tipped her head to one side.

Ellen’s eyes went wide. “You slept with him!”

Addy covered her face with her hands. “That sounds so—”

“Delicious!”

“Ellen!”

“Well, was it?”

“Ellen. I can’t believe I did that. It’s so not me.”

“It’s so exactly what you need. All these months since you and Mark split, and you haven’t even been out on a date. Not normal.”

“Oh, Ellen,” Addy said, making a face, “We grew up in the same hometown. His mom and my mom go to the movies together every Tuesday night. He must think I’m—”

“Human?”

“Easy!”

Ellen laughed. “Now there’s one for the fifties dictionary.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Addy, my God, you’re entitled. Did you practice safe—”

Addy held up a hand. “Too personal.”

Ellen chuckled again. “You were born in the wrong era, Hester.”

Addy dropped her head back, stared at the ceiling. “Why did I have to pick him? Why couldn’t it have been someone I’d never see again?”

“Because you wouldn’t have slept with someone like that. If you picked this old friend, there must have been a reason.”