53 Letters For My Lover (24 page)

“You need to dry off.” His hands go back to the wheel. “There’s a towel in my gym bag. In the back.”

I reach around, feeling for it, but I can’t find it.

“It’s on the floor, behind your seat.” He turns into an empty parking lot. “Here.” He gets the bag and hands me a towel.

I smell him on it. The rich, sensual scent of his skin brings back flashes of bare, sweaty moments and tangled sheets.

“Damn it, Shayda. Dry off!” He grabs the towel and starts rubbing it briskly over my hair.

“I can do it myself!”

“Fine.” He tosses the towel back at me and turns the car off.

“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed as he removes his tie and starts undoing his shirt, one button at a time.

“What does it look like I’m going?” He slips out of the wet shirt and digs into his gym bag. “I’m changing.”

I’m hit with the brunt of raw masculinity, the corrugated leanness of his abdomen, his nipples hard from the rain. I don’t breathe until he’s safely covered up.

“I’d offer you the t-shirt, but I sense you won’t be as free dispensing with your blouse.” His eyes fall to the top that’s clinging to me like saran wrap. I hold the towel closer, shielding myself.

“Don’t worry, Shayda.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m not going to take you like some depraved, dejected fool. You’ve made it very clear that you can’t stand the sight of me.”

Can’t stand the sight of him? I hold back the crazy laughter that threatens to break free.

He reaches into the dashboard for a cigarette, and places it between his lips.

“Don’t,” I say.

“What do you care?” His eyes challenge me.

Lightning illuminates one side of his face.

Damn you, Troy. Why do you have to be so heart-breakingly handsome?

“Just don’t.” I remove the cigarette from his mouth.

It’s a simple move, but it brings back all the other times I’ve done it before—a hotel room with soft, fluffy pillows, foggy mirrors in the bathroom, him zipping up my dress and leaving hot, smoky kisses on my back.

He watches me put the cigarette away, like he’s battling his own army of flashbacks.

“Your hair is still wet.” I hold up the towel, expecting him to take it, but he leans forward and puts his face in it.

I wipe his hair, wanting to kiss the thick, dark strands. I wipe his eyes—eyes that know all of my secrets. I wipe his cheek, the one he liked to rest on my belly. I can’t bear touching him and yet not touching him, so I remove the towel from his face. But it’s a mistake, like I’ve removed a mask. His eyes are bare, naked, like he’s been running for a long, long time and now he’s finally here, looking at me, tired, weary, and very, very thirsty.

Please don’t look at me like that.

He lowers his gaze, picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger.

“I miss you,” he says to it.

It’s barely audible over the sound of the storm raging outside, but in here, it’s like a roaring crescendo.

Why do his words have the power to turn my world upside down?

Why do will and shame and guilt and sense fall by the wayside when I’m with him?

Because you love him,
comes the answer.

You love him.

You love him.

It echoes like the clap of distant thunder.

How many women have loved him and been left by him? How many have sat with him on a rainy night and felt like this? This gut-twisting, soul-wrenching thing he does to me? What does it matter, this sad, useless love, when it would destroy all my other loves—my home, my family?

“What happened that day wasn’t your fault,” he says. “Stop punishing yourself, Shayda.”

I take a long, slow breath, feeling my resolve falter.

“I think you better take me home,” I say.

He nods and starts the car.

I don’t need to give him directions. I wonder if he’s circled this block before, driven by my house, debated what world lies beyond its red door.

“Looks like you beat everyone to it,” he says as we approach. All the lights are off.

“The kids are at Maamaan’s and Hafez is away.”

For a moment, he looks at me without unlocking my door. The air turns thick with possibilities.

“Well...” My fingers tremble as I reach for the handle.

I have one leg out the door when he pulls me back.

“Shayda...I’m sorry.”

I know he’s apologizing for kissing a stranger under a tree, the day Zain almost drowned, but all I can feel is the rough pad of his thumb caressing the inside of my wrist. And he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Goodnight, Troy.” I turn and dash for the front door, a wobbly mass of tangled nerves. I am in love with a ninth level dark spell master.

The rain is a welcome relief from the hot, steamy car, but it does nothing to wash away the imprint of his touch. My hands shake as I fish for the keys. I glance back, half expecting him behind me. I get in and lean against the door, holding my breath until I hear him drive away.

August 5th, 2000 (1)

“Did you make it
home all right?”

No, Jayne. I slipped up somewhere between your place and mine.

“Yes.” I reply.

“Can you believe it? Running into Troy out of nowhere?”

“Did you get your car back?”

“I did. With a full tank of gas, a Petro-Canada gift card, and not a whisper of it to Matt. That man.” She laughs. “You know, I haven’t seen him in ages. He just dropped out of the scene. No girls, no booze, no parties. But damn, does he keep getting better looking or what? He must be what now? Forty?”

“Thirty eight.”

“That’s right. You guys share the same birthday. How weird is that?”

“Any news from Bob and Elizabeth?” I ask.

“They’re having a fabulous time. Dad’s been so relaxed since you got your broker’s license. Has it been busy without him?”

“Yes, but Marjaneh’s really picking up.”

“I’m glad. So what time are you there till today?”

“I’m just getting ready to leave.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us tonight?”

“Maybe another time. I’m actually looking forward to some alone time.”

“Call if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, Jayne.” I put the phone down and collect my things.

“Delivery for you.” Susan buzzes me.

I switch the lights off and step into the reception.

A small parcel is waiting for me—a generic, cardboard box with no markings except for my name.

I leave the office and get in the car. It’s a scorcher of an afternoon. The seats have been baking in the sun. I picture Hafez on the road and hope he’s keeping hydrated. I switch on the a/c and reach for the package. When I nudge the packing paper aside, I freeze. Inside is a fold-up umbrella, like the one I lost last night, except in red. I get out of the car and open it. A single butterfly, a few shades darker than the umbrella, is printed on one side. It’s fun and playful and vibrant. It makes me want to go out and dance in the rain.

I choke back a sob. This is what he does to me. Open up the windows of my soul and push me out.

Fly, dammit, fly!

I get back in the car, trying to overcome the choking sensation in my throat. I think of spending an empty night in a dark house, of waking up to cereal and cold milk, of doing the laundry, and being good and right and dutiful.

But I drive the other way, through tear-blurred streets to Troy’s office.

‘HEATHGATE GROUP’ in gleaming gold letters, now occupies four floors. I get in the elevator and press the top one.

Please be there. Please be there. I may never have the courage to do this again.

“Miss? MISS! May I help you?” I barely hear the receptionist trying to stop me.

There is only one office and it’s closed off behind dark wood paneling. I swing the door open and step in.

There he is. One hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone to his ear, looking out of the floor-to-ceiling window. No basketball hoops. Just stark lines, gleaming steel and sleek white furniture.

He turns around at the commotion and fixes his pacific blues on me. His eyes narrow as he scans me.

“Sam, I’ll call you back,” he says before hanging up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Heathgate, she just—”

“Thank you, Tina. That’ll be all.” He dismisses her.

We’re alone.

It’s so quiet, I can hear the thundering beat of my heart. Now what? I hadn’t thought this far. We stare at each other across the room. His hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it. And he’s wearing the same t-shirt from last night.

“I got the umbrella,” I say.

“Good.”

“Doesn’t look like I’m going to need it today.”

“No.”

“Well.” I fumble with my hands. “I just came by to say thanks.”

I pivot on my heel and open the door.

He’s behind me in two long strides, pushing it shut.

“Don’t go.”

I stare at the grain of the wooden door, the smooth texture, the small open pores. I can feel his breath on my neck, but he doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, hands braced on either side of me. Then he steps back and heads to the bar across the room.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

I let my breath out and turn around.

He pours me a cup and holds it out. When I don’t take it, his lips twist in a wry smile and he places it on the counter.

“Here.”

Where our hands won’t touch.

“Thanks,” I reply.

“Cream? Sugar?” He adds just the right amount.

“Aren’t you having any?” I ask.

He pours himself a cup and stares into it.

He looks worn, haggard. The ready laughter that lived in the corners of his mouth is gone.

“Troy?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want coffee.” A hot tear rolls down my cheek.

“Don’t, Shayda.” The muscles on his forearm tighten as if to stop himself from reaching out.

“I don’t want coffee. Or cream. Or sugar.”

“I know, baby. But it’s all we got.”

I clench my fist until my nails leave red crescent marks on my palm. “We’ve got today.”

“What are you saying, Shayda?”

“I’m saying, we have now. Here. Today.”

He goes very still. “Quit fucking with me, Beetroot.”

“I’m not. If you still...” I barely manage to lift my voice beyond a whisper.

His brow furrows. “I don’t know, Shayda. I’d have to check my schedule.”

My heart sinks. What was I expecting? StupidstupidstupidShayda.

He walks over to his desk and buzzes his assistant.

“I think I’ll just get going.” I tuck my chin and head for the door.

“Tina,” he says into the receiver, “clear my calendar for the day.”

I halt in my tracks and spin around.

He has the biggest smirk on his face.

Oh yeah?

I hold up three fingers.

“Hold on.” ‘Three days?’ he mouths silently. “Tina, clear my calendar for the next three days.” He nods. “I know. Reschedule them.” He studies me thoughtfully. “And Tina? Take the rest of the day off.”

He hangs up and sits back in his chair.

“What?” My pulse beats erratically as he steeples his fingers and regards me.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Barge into my life and expect me to drop everything for you.”

“Don’t send anonymous packages to my office then, and pretend like you didn’t mean to summon me.”

“Touché.” He measures me with an appraising look. “You grew a pair. I like that. Now come here so I can kiss you like I’ve been dying to since the moment you walked in.”

The first kiss is gentle, a soft re-acquaintance of our lips, as if we’re gliding on a dream, careful not to wake ourselves out of it. The second sends the pit of my stomach into a wild swirl. He ravishes my mouth with an intensity that is both frightening and exalting. I wind my arms around his back, molding my curves to his body, giving myself up to it. When my senses are completely short-circuited, he lifts his mouth and gazes into my eyes.

“You put me through hell, you know.”

“We both knew it couldn’t go on forever.”

“And yet here we are, Shayda.” He sighs. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Three days.” I drop my chin to his chest. “I haven’t thought beyond that.”

“Three days, huh?”

I squeal as he puts one hand under my knees and picks me up.

“We better get going then. You, my dear, have a lot to make up for.” He grins and carries me out of his office.

Tina has left and the building is quiet. We cross the lobby and head for his car.

“Someone will see us, Troy. Put me down!”

“Not a chance. You’ve taken off on me too many times.” He ignores the stunned looks from passers-by. “Besides, it’s so much easier when I don’t have to throw you over my shoulder, kicking and screaming.”

“Caveman,” I say when he deposits me in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

“My place. For now.”

“I thought your place was off-limits.”

“You made a three day exception. I’m doing the same.”

We take the private
elevator to his loft. The door opens and closes. We don’t notice. He has me against the wall, his knee between my thighs, my fingers in his hair, our lips locked in a hungry kiss. It’s not until the second ‘ding’, when the elevator hits the basement again, that we come up for air.