Christine Pacheco - Lovers Only

Thank God he had a secretary to help him take care of the details. She’d found a magazine, cut out the pictures, directed Clay to the right store, even found him a shopper to help put it all together.

“You did this?” Catherine asked again.

“Mostly.”

Her eyes narrowed, but a genuine smile curved her lips. Ah, what a paradox, this woman he loved. The woman he hoped would soon invite him into the ridiculously froufrou queen-size bed...barely big enough for two.

“Mostly?”

“Jean gave me pictures,” he admitted.

“Go on.”

“And sent me to a store at the mall.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped in the most unladylike manner. “And you did the rest yourself?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“A shopper helped me pick it all out.”

“And you did the rest yourself?”

He nodded.

She frowned. “You arranged all these pillows?”

“And the sachet.”

“Sachet,” she corrected. “The T is silent.”

So was he.

He waited in agony for her to say something. Anything. He’d never done anything like this before. He shifted. Already he was starting to regret it.

The deep throw rug absorbed the sound of her heels as she walked toward him.

She stopped, barely a foot away.

Jeez. The scent of her perfume, some sort of flower, teased him, reminding him of a time he’d stretched out on their bed, watching her dress, not caring that the inaction would make him late for an appointment.

Her eyes, wary, but not skittish, were open wide, searching for the truth in his gaze.

Her motion wasn’t swift and sure, but rather slow and considered as she reached for him. Her fingertips were smooth as they stroked the length of his cheek—smooth softness to dark shadow. He remained still, not sure of his reaction to the reality of her touch after dreaming of it for months.

The sharp edge of a fingernail dragged the outline of his lower lip.

He hardened.

A more purely sensual act, or response, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t imagine.

“Thank you, Clay. It means a lot to me.”

“It’s all yours, Cat.”

He wondered if she too remembered the bitter argument they’d had when she’d insisted on having her own space. Not much, really, just a room for her to decorate the way she wanted, fill with the things she adored.

Even though she’d shared the simple dream and he wanted to make her wishes come true, when faced with the reality of her having something that didn’t include him, he’d panicked. Selfish and blind, he’d believed she wanted to be away from him.

Back then he hadn’t realized the more independence she had, the more she’d turned to him. For a while, at least.

Then had come the half-bottle-of-whiskey night when she hadn’t come home at all.

She finally had all the space she wanted.

He placed a hand over hers, stilling her motion. His gut had tightened painfully and the emptiness could only be eased by Catherine’s healing touch.

“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready,” he said, letting go of her hand.

She nodded.

He escaped.

In his mind the soft click of her door seemed to reverberate his failure. There’d been a time when nothing stood between them.

Now a gulf of years yawned wide and unbridgeable.

Clay reminded himself he specialized in conquering jobs others believed impossible. Love would be the toughest of all.

He went to the kitchen, popped the top on a beer, put a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator to chill. Didn’t matter that they were having red meat. Catherine liked her chard.

Clay frowned. At least he thought she still liked that kind of wine.

As he lit the grill and unpacked the groceries, Clay realized he was fooling himself if he thought getting Catherine to capitulate—agree to stay married till death do us part—would be an easy matter.

She had made him the gift of her love once. He hadn’t cherished it, as promised in front of their friends and family, in front of God. She probably had no intention of succumbing with her heart, even if she did with her body.

Which made his job twice as difficult.

Sex was great, likely that hadn’t changed.

It was the emotional angle that needed work.

But until the instant he’d lost Catherine, Clay hadn’t realized he was an emotional man.

“Smells good.”

At the sound of the melodic tone weaving through her voice, Clay turned. And immediately he was struck by her loveliness. She’d left her hair loose, and it floated around her shoulders, just the way it had on their wedding day. Blue jeans snuggled her hips and thighs, and a sweatshirt showed the gentle swell of her breasts.

The uptight businesswoman was gone.

In its place resided the Catherine he’d once known.

Maybe he did have a chance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

She entered the kitchen far enough to lean against a counter. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You can grab the silverware and plates.”

Having her in his kitchen seemed so natural. So right. He went back to the salad, pleased by his triumph. This morning he’d gambled. Bluffed. If she’d called it, he had no doubt he’d be staring at the bottom of a glass through glazed eyes, instead of chopping tomatoes.

“Uh, Clay?”

He stopped.

“Where do you keep the silverware?”

Reality hit him with a thud. She didn’t know. Damn it all. “Top drawer in the island.” Concentrating on dinner instead of the sudden pain, he scooped tomatoes on top of the shredded lettuce and asked, “Something to drink?”

She glanced up from where she folded napkins. Her hair curtained her expression. “White zinfandel, thanks.”

He cursed silently. Strike two. “I’ve got chardonnay chilled.”

With her fingers, she tucked her hair behind her ears. She grinned. “In that case, chardonnay is fine.”

He recognized the impish tilt to her mouth. She’d got him. He carried the salad bowl to the table. “Just for that, I should tell you I only have beer.”

“Makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if that’s how you want to spend our month together...”

Not wanting to follow her unspoken words, but rather to take the truce, he said, “I’ll grab the corkscrew.”

Dinner was awkward, neither said much, both tiptoed, ignoring her earlier question of what went wrong. And both scrupulously avoided touching the other.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said.

“Sherlock Holmes had nothing on you.”

“Making conversation,” he. admitted with a slight shrug.

“Me, too.”

They looked at each other. He saw regret in her eyes. Regret for what failed? Or regret that she hadn’t gone her separate way this morning?

Damn it, dancing around important issues like two strangers didn’t suit him one bit.

She stood and gathered their plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

“We both ate,” he said. “I’ll help.”

It wasn’t until she gave him a wide berth near the dishwasher that he realized she was trying to avoid anything that might resemble intimacy.

Finally, dishes rinsed and loaded in the machine, counters wiped, he offered, “Refill on your wine?”

At her nod, he poured her another, then grabbed a second beer for himself.

She followed him into the living room with the huge bank of windows.

After turning on a couple of lights and sliding a New-Age favorite of hers into the CD player, Clay took a seat with his back to the window, leaving her little option but to sit across from him.

Confront him.

Catherine sank into the couch, curling her legs beneath her.

How many times had he imagined a similar scene as he’d worked to make the cabin into someplace Catherine would want to be? In his mind, though, their being together hadn’t been shrouded with distrust...nor had it been dampened by Cat’s reluctance to be near him.