Filthy English (25 page)

She’d told me the good news as soon as I’d arrived back from London. I’d hugged her hard and for a long time. With most of my tuition paid for with a scholarship, that money would come in handy for living expenses. Of course, Hartford had offered to pay my expenses this fall—especially since he was part of the reason I had those issues—but it had felt wrong. I wanted to do this on my own, and having the money back that I’d saved from waiting tables meant something big.

Something in me had shifted in London, and having the extra money amplified it. Perhaps it was because Hartford had jilted me, maybe it was the attack, but for the first time, I was operating without a detailed plan except to get into graduate school and take care of Malcolm. By my standards, I was operating by the seat of my pants.

Marrying the perfect guy wasn’t on my list.

Having the perfect suburban home wasn’t on my list.

Kids weren’t on my list.

I was on the list.

Who the heck knew what tomorrow would bring?

Rainbow-colored hair?

Maybe get a few piercings?

Mom put her hands on her hips as I threw Malcolm’s bag in the backseat. She tucked brown hair behind her ears, her sharp eyes assessing me from the top of my red hair to my flip-flops. Tall like me with patrician features and wavy brown hair, she’d turned fifty-three this year, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the way she took care of herself. Even today on her day off as a night manager at the Pringles plant, she was dressed in casual pressed slacks, a boat-necked shirt, and a light sweater. If you looked closer, though, you’d see the brittleness in her eyes; the sadness that still lingered since Dad had died. He’d left us with life insurance, but we’d never been a wealthy family. Not like Hartford or Dax. Most of the money had gone to pay off the rest of our house, a large two-story colonial, while the rest had been used to help with my college fund, Malcolm’s private school where he received extra attention for autism, and Mrs. Johnson, Malcolm’s sitter who slept over on the weeknights Mom worked.

Mom exhaled. “Tell Hartford he needs to come for dinner soon. I’m glad you’re giving him a second chance. You know, he’ll always take care of you.”

What she really meant was:
He’s rich and loves you. Don’t let him slip through your fingers.

I opened my car door and slid inside. “I can take care of myself, Mom.”

She leaned down to my open window. Confusion crossed her face at my comment. “Plain and simple, he’s the guy for you—nothing like that boy from freshman year—”

“Do not bring that up,” I said with steel in my tone as my hands tightened on the steering wheel. I didn’t want Malcolm knowing the details.

“I’m just saying, your life would be easier—”

“Stop,” I said, cutting her off. “This
is
my life, Mom. I like my red hair. I like my flip-flops. I’m completely in charge and it has nothing to do with Hartford. And you know what, I can do anything I want. Maybe I’ll never get married. Maybe I’ll jump on a plane and move to London. Maybe I’ll raise llamas.” I softened my tone. “Mom, you have to let me go.”

Malcolm had stiffened next to me in tune to the mercurial relationship I had with Mom. He reached across the gearshift and took my hand. “Let’s go now, Remi. I want ice-cream.”

I smiled at him. Clearly I needed him way more than he needed me.

I cranked the car, my eyes flicking to Mom’s. “Thank you again for taking care of the money thing. I love you.”

She exhaled and stepped back from the car. “I love you both. See you tomorrow.”

Putting the car in drive, I pulled out of my driveway and headed to Raleigh.

After a quick trip to the grocery store and a stop at Sonic for ice-cream, we headed back to Dax’s. Once there, I dug around my boxes, found my games, and we played a few rounds of Scrabble. Afterwards, we headed upstairs where Malcolm helped me organize my closet and dresser. I promised him dinner in return.

Around six o’clock, Malcolm was sitting at the kitchen table working on a puzzle of The Globe Theatre I’d gotten him in London while I stirred the spaghetti sauce I had on the stove.

The front door opened and my body tensed. Dax. I’d sent him a text earlier thanking him for my breakfast, and he’d replied with a
K
.

I turned as he walked in the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes off his body in a pair of athletic shorts and a fitted shirt that clung to every muscle in his abdomen. I noticed his face was softer than last night, his eyes hesitant, almost questioning.

“Smells amazing in here,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over me, lingering on my hair. My lips.

My heart ached at the sight of him.
Stupid heart.

“Thanks.”

His shoulders dipped. “Look, Remi, I—I’m sorry for last night in the bathroom.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you hit me if you want—right in the gut.” He grinned and patted his six-pack abs, and some of the tension from last night I’d been holding in melted.

Malcolm looked up at both of us, blinked. “You might want to rethink that. She has a mean right hook that Dad taught her.”

“Thanks for the warning, man,” Dax said, giving Malcolm a fist bump. “I’ve actually seen your sister in action, and it wasn’t too shabby.” He smiled at me—but it seemed off as he fidgeted from one foot to the other.

“No need for hitting,” I said. “There’s plenty of spaghetti here if you want some.”

He smirked. “You won’t try and poison me?”

“I never said I was a good cook. It might just kill you anyway.”

He moved to the stove and stood next to me as I checked the noodles I’d put on earlier.

Keep your eyes off him.

“Homemade sauce?” From my peripheral vision, I felt his gaze boring into me.

“Yep—if you count Ragu with some spices and meat thrown in.”

“Cool. Want me to do anything?” He inched toward me, the heat from his arm near mine.

“Uh, maybe set the table and get us some drinks.”

“What would you like?” he asked.

I swallowed. “There’s Coke and Newcastle in the fridge I bought today. Malcolm will want lemonade.”

“Which do you want?” Another inch closer, and I caught the heady scent of sweat and man.

“What?”

“Which drink do you want?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Beer.”

“Me too.” He brushed past me, his fingers grazing the side of my leg.

I inhaled and kept stirring. Total accident. It was a small kitchen.

He set my beer down on the counter already opened and propped himself back on the counter to stare more.

Did I have a zit?

“You want to put the garlic bread in the oven?” I asked a bit later as I poured the noodles into the colander.

He paused, a strange expression on his face. “You want me to put a bun in the oven?”

Of course I got the joke, but it was out of place and odd. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” I poured the noodles back in the hot pot so they’d stay warm. I shrugged. “I guess I should have put it in earlier. Now our pasta will be cold.”

“Nothing is ever cold when I’m with you,” he murmured, putting the bread in.

Malcolm sent us a curious look, his hand pausing over a puzzle piece.

I started. Something was definitely wrong with Dax tonight.

A few minutes later, we carefully transported the puzzle to a place in the den to make room for our dinner on the table.

“It’s our first cooked meal in the new house,” Dax said quietly, his eyes on me. “Thank you.”

My entire body tingled at his gaze.
God, would I ever stop wanting him?

We sat down to eat and Dax kept sneaking little looks at me, the intensity of his attention making me self-conscious. Once, I’d even excused myself to run upstairs and check my appearance. I looked fine. My hair was kind of a mess, but I didn’t see anything on my face. I sniffed my armpits. I didn’t smell.

Later after we’d eaten and Dax had cleaned up, I hung out in the kitchen and baked chocolate chip cookies while Dax ran upstairs for a shower. I figured he had plans.

Malcolm plopped himself in the recliner in the den and flipped through the channels. He wanted to watch a movie, so I put the finished cookies on a plate and carried them into the den.

Dax was sitting in the middle of the couch with wet hair, dressed in loose sweats and a Tau t-shirt.

“It’s Saturday night. Aren’t you going out?” I asked.

He propped his feet up on the coffee table and spread his arms out along the back of the couch. “Nope.” He patted the seat. “Come on, sit down. You worked hard at making us dinner. Malcolm picked a movie out already—
Four Weddings and Funeral
.”

“He loves British movies,” I commented as I sat down within inches of him, feeling like I was in high school again, nervous and jittery about what was going to happen next.

My phone dinged with a text. It was Hartford wanting to know what my plans were for tomorrow. I replied, turned my phone off, and tucked it under the cushion.

“Hartford checking in?” Dax asked.

I nodded, seeing his lips tighten.

Another hour and a beer later, I grew drowsy, my head nodding into my chest. I drifted off and dreamed that Dax was really Aquaman, only he was way hotter than any comic hero I’d ever seen. His hair was messy and sexy and he had dragonfly designs all over his blue skin-tight wetsuit. I was a beautiful mermaid only I had legs. With the sea crashing around us, he chased me in the sand until he caught me and carried me into his cave. He kissed me . . .

I jerked awake, the only light in the room coming from the glow of another movie that had come on. Malcolm slept in the recliner, his mouth open as he snored.

Dax stared at me. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

I yawned. “Was I out for a while?”

“Not long.” He touched my hair, his fingers ever so slightly brushing the ends.

Barely even aware of doing so, I sighed and leaned my head into his hand.

“What were you dreaming?” he asked softly. At my questioning gaze, he said, “You moaned.”

Heat colored my face. “You remember in London telling me about your dream where I was a mermaid and you chased me on the beach and took me to a cave . . .” I stopped.

“I dream about you all the time, Remi.”

My heart jumped. I licked my lips. “My dream was . . . like that.” Feeling braver, I turned my head to take him in, questions burning in my mind. An idea had taken root earlier in the day as I’d had more time to analyze
why
Dax was so bitter about Hartford and me.

“Something’s been bugging me, and I wanted to ask you . . .”

“Mmm.” His hand pushed harder, the tips of his fingers digging into my scalp and working to the nape of my neck. Oh God. Felt so good. I bit back a groan.

“It’s hard to think when you do that,” I said.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Never,” I whispered.

“Good.” His hand skated lower, massaging the knots in my shoulder. “What’s been bugging you, Remi?”

My chest rose and I took a deep breath. “I—I have a theory about London on why you never answered my texts.”

His hand stilled. “Oh?”

I swallowed, staring down at my hands. At my ring. “It’s—it’s because you
did
come back with breakfast but you saw me with Hartford when the door was open or you heard him through the door. You left—because you were hurt.” My voice cracked at the end.

God, I was taking such a chance here. What if I was wrong?

I lifted my gaze to read his face. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

The bag of sand I’d been carrying around my neck dropped. “Why didn’t you just tell me? We could have talked—”

“I saw you with your tongue down his throat. I don’t think there’s anything else to say. I was your rebound guy. You love him. He’s good for you. I’m not.” His voice was low. Matter-of-fact. Final.

I bit my lip. Nodded. Those things were all true.

He closed his eyes. Opened them, a void there.

“Don’t—don’t look like that.” I slid over to him, and he wrapped me in his arms. I pushed my face into his chest, and we sat like that for a while. For some reason, I was terrified to look at him, and maybe he was afraid to look at me, because just one little movement from him, one little whisper of my name, and I’d be willing to jump off a cliff. I’d go down that rabbit hole.

He placed his hand on my stomach, his eyes questioning. “I have a question for you. What happened to our baby, Remi?”