Swap Out (8 page)

She’s absolutely stunning.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, nervously adjusting her purse on her shoulder, and I have to remind myself she doesn’t realize I know the truth.

Over the weekend it all came back, flashes at a time, but I now remember every word we shared in my bed. How she told me she wanted a family. How she…
she took care of me
. Texting Scott to come over to make sure I was fine before she disappeared. And I know I didn’t finish that bottle of Jack, but it was empty when I got up which means she poured out the rest.

She kissed me.

And yeah, it was only on my back, but it’s the first time her lips have ever been against my skin.

She was
real
, and for a moment, we were more than we’ve ever been.

For a fleeting second, we were together.

But for all she knows, I’m under the impression we ended in a fight. Me calling her a liar and repeatedly trying to kick her out of my apartment. She may not even know I remember that much. She could think that the last thing I recall was leaving her house.

I still haven’t decided how much to own up to, so I clear my throat and cross my arms.

“I’m working.”

“And what makes you think you still have a job?”

“Look,” I say and start to walk towards her, “I don’t feel like dancing around this, so I’m just gonna be blunt. I know things ended badly when I left your house Friday night. And to be perfectly honest, I went home and drank. A lot.”

She looks up at me when I pause in front of her, trying to keep my hands by my sides.

“Whiskey and I, we don’t mix well.” It’s still the truth, and I almost just tell her everything, but I change my mind at the last minute.

She wanted to keep it a secret. She’s the one who said she was a dream. And I don’t know why she needed to be fake to be real, but if that’s what made her feel safe, then I’m not going to embarrass her about it.

“And it may not have even happened, but I have this feeling you showed up and I might’ve…said some things. And
if
that happened, then I’m sorry.” I watch her carefully and her bottom lip trembles for a moment, but she gets it under control. My voice lowers in resolve when I say, “It won’t happen again, Zoe.”

She nods, then looks down at the floor. “I’m sure I would have deserved it.”

“No,” I say immediately. She peeks up at me, and all I can think about is her lying beside me, our hands woven together as I held her. I tilt my head, the corner of my lips pulling up. “It’s funny…” I say quietly. “I had the craziest dream that night.”

She holds my gaze, but fear touches her eyes, my peripheral vision catching the elevated rise and fall of her chest.

I was right. She’ll never be able to handle me calling her on the truth.

I shake my head. “I should get started on the truck. Let me know what you need loaded up for this morning.”

I turn, but I’m only a step away when her voice stops me in place.

“Luca?”

I pivot and look back at her, and hesitantly, she walks towards me. Her right hand rises slowly, hovering an inch beside my left cheek, then delicately she rests it against my skin.

“Are you okay?” she asks worriedly, and my brow furrows. But when I realize what she’s asking, I nod.

“It’s fine, not the first time I’ve been slapped. And no offense, but I’ve had worse.”

“I know you have,” she says softly, and I swallow. “But I’m…I shouldn’t have hit you. That won’t happen again either.”

I reach up and cover her hand with mine, lightly squeezing her fingers as I pull them away. But I don’t let go, and neither does she.

I sweep my thumb over the back of her hand, and she sucks in a breath.

“There’s coffee in your office, and crackers in your desk,” I say very quietly and her eyes water, a smile curving her lips I’ve never seen from her before.

“Thank you.”

I nod. “Just let me know if you need anything else. And the sooner you can get me the list of what we need for this morning, the be—I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” she says, nodding. Then she clears her throat and says a little fiercer, “I’m not about to be late to a stage and ruin my reputation just because your memory sucks.”

I smile at the transparent and wobbly demonstration of pride she’s scrambling to hold onto, then catch sight of a clunky old Ford Tempo pulling into the parking lot and I narrow my eyes at it.

“Do me a favor,” I grit out. “Go in your office and close your door, and listen to music or something.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I say and let her go, then walk towards the front door. “Kevin’s here and I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.”

“What? Why?” Zoe exclaims, rushing after me.

“Office, go,” I say and point, stiff-arming the front door with my other hand. But I pause halfway over the threshold and look back at Zoe, unsurprised to find her right on my heels. “If I kill him, are you gonna fire me?”

She grins. “Not if you find a replacement for him.”

“You got a deal,” I say and wink, and when she turns and heads toward her office, I make my way outside; Kevin’s eyes widening when he sees me striding toward him.

I flip off the light in the warehouse, then head up front and do the same, the light from Zoe’s office casting a warm glow from where it is pouring out of her open office door. I pause by her doorframe, leaning against it with a sigh when I see she’s asleep: her right arm stretched all the way across the desk and her temple resting against the inside of her elbow, her hair pooling over a stack of paperwork she’s laying on.

All week she’s been exhausted. Constantly sneaking in yawns and dozing when I drive us to this house or whatever store. She’s still a little shaky when she comes in at the start of the day, and she hasn’t said anything but I know the morning sickness has been kicking her butt. She’s taken to the decaf peppermint coffee though, and it seems to be helping.

Food is another battle entirely.

It’s not uncommon for me to pick up lunch for her, or we’ll stop if we’re out during the day, but everything is either gross, tastes weird or is bland, and just the
smell
of Chinese food sends her dashing to the nearest bathroom. Doesn’t help that when something finally sounds good to her, like this afternoon when she couldn’t stop talking about her incessant need to inhale a plate full of BBQ, we got there and she took one look at the word “Pork” on the menu and then gagged, rushing back out to my car.

She apologized about being so difficult, and I shrugged it off. I just need her to eat
something
. But we went to a diner and finally, she settled on mashed potatoes, a side of pickled okra—which she dipped in peanut butter—and then pumpkin pie. I tried as hard as possible to keep a straight face, but it’s impossible when she’s being all adorable and acting like
I’m
the one who’s crazy. Problem was, I wasn’t the only one who noticed her abstract culinary choices.

Moab isn’t exactly New York, and the community is small. So when the older waitress chuckled and then asked when Zoe was due to deliver, I awkwardly laughed it off and then quickly informed her Zoe was getting over a cold. The waitress apologized profusely, but the damage was done and Zoe spent a good five minutes just staring out the window, not speaking.

The thing is, I don’t know if she’s changing her mind or still set on her decision, but either way, the situation hasn’t changed.
Yet.
We just don’t talk about it. Everything else is relatively normal: she’s still fierce about quality and perfectionism, rattling off a list of demands and then stomping off. But sometimes, she looks a little guilty when she asks me to do something, and I don’t know if it’s hormones or just everything.

I have to admit, when I go home I’m waiting to hear a knock on my door, but none comes. And more than once I’ve thought about knocking on hers, but I don’t. I tell myself she’s sleeping, or hopefully finding some sort of sustenance she can keep down, but it’s been over a week since she’s been in my bed and yeah, I’m feeling it.

And okay, that’s kinda screwed up with the reality we’re living in, but when I look at her…

I shake my head. I can’t think like that. Because whatever this is, whatever is starting to happen between us, it’s not going to last. Everything could change tomorrow.

The thought sinks in my stomach as I look at her, sleeping soundly on her desk, and I wish so much I had more control over the situation, but I don’t. All I can do is take this one unsteady day at a time, appreciating the little bit of this she’s giving me.

I push off the doorframe and try to be as quiet as possible when I walk towards her, then crouch down beside her chair. I smooth my palm up her back, and when she hums contentedly, I smile.

“Zoe,” I breathe, and her eyes flutter open before she sits up like a shot. She sways a little like she’s dizzy and I steady her, then chuckle. “Guzzling tequila on the clock again?”

She groans, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk, her forehead falling into her hands.

“God, what time is it?”

“It’s a little after eight,” I say and tuck her hair behind her ear. “Everyone’s gone.”

She yawns, then turns her head and props it on her fist, smiling sleepily at me. “Did you—”

“All taken care of.”

“Really? What about the—”

“Done,” I say and snap my fingers.

She chuckles. “You’re gonna make me get a plaque with your name on it declaring you employee of the month, aren’t you?”

“No,” I say and shake my head. “But I’d settle for employee of the year.”

She giggles quietly, then yawns again.

“Want me to drive you home?”

“No,” she says, then yawns a third time. “I have to—ohmyGod!” She sits up and looks over the paperwork on her desk, her eyes wide in alarm. “Crap, I never finished payroll.”

I scoff. “That’s easy. Just pay me everyone else’s salary, and then you only have one check to write.”

“It’s not funny, Luca,” she says, frustrated, then begins shuffling the papers around like it makes any difference in resolving their current status. “Can you just go? I can’t deal with this while you’re hovering over me.”

I sigh. “Zoe, you’re falling asleep at your desk. Just do it tomorrow.”

“I can’t, if I don’t get this done toni—
ow
!” She sucks in a breath and snatches her hand away from the papers, inspecting the pad of her index finger before she raises it towards her lips. But it never gets there because I grasp her hand and pull it away. “Luca!”

“Just…don’t move,” I say sternly, then get up and head to her closet. I grab the first aid kit out of the bag I put in there Monday, taking it back to her desk and opening it up.

“You cannot be serious,” she says, amusement seeping through her tone. “It’s a paper cut, not a rusty nail.”

“Yeah, well…” I clear my throat and clean off her finger with an alcohol wipe, ignoring her wince. Then it’s dabbing a small amount of Neosporin on the cut before covering it with a Band-Aid and throwing the wrapper away in the small trashcan beside her desk.

I smirk at her and then close the kit, putting it back in the closet. And when I return to her desk, leaning against the side, Zoe crosses her arms with a grin.

“Germaphobe?”

I take a deep breath, then say without apology, “Your immune system is lowered and you’re more prone to infection. Not to mention your equilibrium is a little off which is why you get dizzy when you sit or stand up too fast.”

She flinches, her eyes widening.

I arch an eyebrow at her, and she daintily clears her throat, looking away.

“Were you a doctor in a past life or something?” she mutters, and I snort.

“Something like that.”

Her face whips towards me, a shocked smile pulling at her mouth. “Now you’re just screwing with me…”

“You knew I was in the military.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what? You thought I spent my time polishing grenades?”

Her cheeks flush. “Maybe.”

I nod. “Fair enough. Want to know what else I can do?”

“No,” she says immediately, and I reach for her right hand. “Luca!”

I flatten her hand out inside of mine, palm up, and look it over: carefully studying the lines and curves. I twist it a little and check, then grin. “Ever had your palm read?”

“You do not know how to do that,” she says as skeptical as I am eager to do it, and I chuckle.

“For a while, I lived with this woman who was practiced in the art of palm reading, fortune telling, and tarot cards. Picked up quite a bit.”

“Some girlfriend,” Zoe taunts, and I snort.

“Foster mom,” I tell her, feeling a little smug when she forgets to be surprised at hearing the first word. “You want to know your fate or what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, Zoltar, enlighten me.”

Lightly, I run my fingertip down the line stretching from between her thumb and index finger, all the way to her wrist. “This? This is your life line,” I say and she widens her eyes mockingly. “It’s very close to the edge of your palm, and exceptionally straight.”

“Does that mean I’m gonna live forever?” she stage whispers, and I almost lie, but I don’t because she has enough trust issues as it is.

“More like extremely cautious when it comes to relationships.”

Her face falls a little, and I look back to her hand.

“This one,” I say, then trace the line cutting through the middle of her palm, “is your head line. Again, very straight, deep and long. Clear thinking, focused.” I touch the two points where tiny lines cross it, one at the beginning, and one a third of the way down. I almost don’t even want to say it, but I still do. “See this little guy here, and then here?”

“Yeah…”

“Momentous life decisions,” I tell her, and her frown deepens. “Next we have your heart line—”

“Luca.”

“But…” I trail off, my brow furrowed as I pretend to study it closer. “Huh, it’s not wavy at all. That’s interesting.”

“Why?” she asks nervously, and I smirk.

“Wavy is a lot of…partners.”

She gasps like she’s scandalized, but at least she’s smiling again.

I look back to it and tenderly touch the break in the line, nearly a quarter of an inch wide and clear as day. Which is so fucked up, and it’s killing me because I know why it’s there.

“What? Is that bad? That space or whatever?”

I look at her, then say as gently as possible, “It’s emotional trauma.”

She nods sharply. “And we’re done.”

I tighten my hands around hers, keeping it in place. “One more, this one you’ll like.”

She narrows her eyes. “You going to tell me how I’ll be rich and famous?”

“
Actually
your financial success line is extremely strong, but since that one’s a given I was going to skip it.”

“Hilarious,” she deadpans.

I shift her hand a little so she’s looking at the base, and I point out the distinct horizontal crease just under her pinkie.

“You know what this is?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “This is your marriage.”

She flinches, and my voice drops lower.

“There’s only one, no affairs, no divorce, very clear and…yep, very short engagement. Smart guy,” I say with a wink. “And below that,” I say, then point out the whole reason I even brought this entire thing up, “this is children.”

She swallows, her voice a little unsteady. “There’s only one line, Luca.”

I shake my head. “It’s not a count, Zoe, just that there will be. Could be one, could be six.”

I let her hand go and she leans back in her chair, distractedly chewing on her thumbnail.

“You gonna stay and finish up the payroll?” I ask, and she jumps a little.

“Yeah.”

I nod, then get up and start walking towards the door.

“Luca?”

I turn and look at her, my palm on the doorframe.

“What do yours say?”

I smile. “Depends on which hand you read. Left?” I shake my head. “No good. Broke, practically living in a hospital bed, no marriage, no kids, die young.”

“That’s not funny!” she bursts out, and I arch an eyebrow at her.

“It’s the fate I was born with.”

“Well…what about your right hand?”

I chuckle. “That’s the tricky one. Your dominant hand is how your fate changed, what you do with the life you’re given.”

“And?”

I shrug. “It’s a lot like yours.” I hold up my right hand so the base is towards her, then point to the lines just below my pinkie. “Especially this part.”

Her cheeks flush, and I jerk my chin at her.

“Text me when you get home?”

She arches an eyebrow with a smile. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

She swallows. “I’ll see you Monday, and don’t be late,” she says and looks back at her paperwork, and I grin.

“Have good dreams, Zoe.”

I turn and head towards the front door, but I still hear her suck in a breath.

*              *              *

So hungry, and so fucking tired.

Need food. Need beer. Need sleep. Need sex. Need—

Hell fucking yes.

I double fist pump before turning down the burner on my stove, then head toward the door of my apartment. Quick roll out of my shoulders and neck, then I open it.

“You didn’t text me when you got home,” I drawl playfully, Zoe looking a little guilty and a little like she’s looking for a fight. I quickly try to remind myself that even though my body and cock recognizes that look as mind blowing, sore muscle creating, multiple orgasm sex, that she is in no way here for that.

Unless she is and good God, I could use it. She probably could too.

I blow out a mental breath and try to get my hardening erection under control before saying as calmly as possibly, “And now I know why.”