Always on My Mind
Page 10
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Their college years were good, but once they’d graduated and entered the real world, both of them had been miserable. Because even though the world of finance wasn’t nearly as interesting as he’d hoped it would be—and he missed being outside for more than the hour it took him to do his daily run through Central Park—he’d worked longer and longer hours at his firm to avoid coming home to her false smiles, to perfectly made dinners he had no appetite for, to one event after another full of people he didn’t know...and didn’t want to get to know.
Somewhere in there, his perfect wife had begun to drink. Of course, she’d hidden it from him. From everyone. Yes, she’d have the requisite bubbly in her hand at her parties, but to the naked eye, it would look like she’d barely sipped it all night.
A thousand times over, Grayson wished he’d had the balls to make Leslie sit down and talk with him before things got that bad. But she’d been just as good at hiding from the mess of their marriage—and their lives—as he was.
The day the call had come in from the police was forever imprinted in his mind. There had been a crash, just her car on a lonely road. Leslie had been drinking. She’d died on impact. He’d seen a picture of the scene in the paper the next day...and the same bile that had risen in his throat then rose now.
He’d grieved for her, deeply. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been in love anymore by the time she’d died. But they’d always been friends, and he’d cared about her happiness, had wished that she’d been able to find some.
Only, so much worse than his grief was the guilt that lingered. Guilt that had never—and would never—go away. If only he’d loved her better, if only he’d been the husband he’d pledged to be, then maybe he would have known about her drinking.
And maybe he could have saved her.
An invisible fist was clenching his gut tightly inside of it, when Lori hollered, “Dinner’s on!”
Grayson’s memories were a grim weight deep in his chest as he headed out to the kitchen. His stomach growled again, this time at the incredible smell of the stir-fry Lori had put together. She’d set the small white table by the kitchen window, as well, with his simple white plates and some colorful napkins he’d forgotten he had. Now, as he looked at the bright flowers stitched on the napkins, he remembered that they were a farm-warming gift from the family whose property adjoined his. The teenage daughter had stitched them by hand, she’d informed him with pride. But he’d been too dead inside to appreciate her workmanship.
The table—hell, the entire kitchen—felt too small as Lori served them both. Her scent, her beauty, they were everywhere. Even his bad memories didn’t seem to be enough to drown them out.
And when he took the first bite of the stir-fry with rice that she’d put on his plate, it was all he could do to stifle a groan of pleasure. For three years he’d been a bachelor, cooking for himself. He was pretty good with a grill, and during the summer he had an endless supply of fruit and vegetables to fill up on, but everything else was simply fuel. It had been years since he’d eaten anything this good.
They both ate in silence and he was more than a little surprised to watch Lori mow through a plate of food that was nearly as big as his own. Then again, she’d worked her perfect little ass off today, hadn’t she?
He was reaching for seconds when she finally broke the silence. “Is your stir-fry okay?” Her question had an edge to it, one that clearly said, A thank-you wouldn’t kill you, bastard.
But he hadn’t asked her to come to his farm. He sure as hell hadn’t wanted her to stay. And making dinner hadn’t been on her list of chores. So even though her stir-fry was so good that he wanted to drop to his knees and worship at her spatula, all he said was, “It’s fine.”
She glared at him. “It’s not fine. It’s great!”
He couldn’t help but be struck by how different this dinner was from the ones he’d shared with Leslie. His wife had been a master of small talk, of filling silences with chatter about weather and gossip and the garden. And she hadn’t been able to cook, not in the slightest, so they’d had a personal chef supply them with fresh meals.
He was just about to finish his second helping when Lori stood, took her plate over to the sink, and started washing it. Knowing he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her for much longer, Grayson said, “You cooked. I’ll deal with the plates.”
Instead of taking the hint and going to her bedroom, she shook her head. “I work for you now. It’s my job to cook and clean.”
God, she was stubborn. But if she wanted to add to her list of chores, he wasn’t going to stop her. Of course, he needed to remember not to get too used to meals this good, since he was sure she’d be gone and heading back to her pampered real life by lunchtime tomorrow.
But just then, the plate went slipping from her hands and crashed to the floor. She cursed as she quickly bent down to clean up the shards.
Grayson moved to help her, but not quickly enough to stop her from cutting herself on one of the sharp edges of the broken plate. He grabbed her hand as it began to bleed.
“Damn it, Lori, I said I would deal with cleaning up.”
She tried to yank her hand back, saying, “It’s just a little cut,” but he was already pulling her up and running her finger beneath the faucet.
He didn’t care how little the cut was, he didn’t like to see her hurt, or to know that she’d done it to try to prove a point to him about how hard she could work. “You need to be more careful,” he growled as he wrapped a clean dishtowel around her little finger and applied pressure to it, “especially when you’re tired.”
They were standing close enough now that he finally saw the dark smudges beneath her eyes. And given the fact that, for the very first time, she hadn’t come back with a quick retort, he knew she had to be exhausted.
“Go to bed, Lori. I’ll deal with this mess.”
“I’m fine.”
The urge to stroke his hand over her cheek to find out if her skin was as soft there as it was on her hands made his voice more gruff than it needed to be as he told her, “The day starts early here on the farm. You need the sleep.”
Her full mouth tightened down, before she shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”
She looked at their hands and he belatedly realized he was still holding hers. He took a step back and let her go. Of course, she couldn’t just head to her bedroom, she had to make a pit stop to make a fuss over the cat again, with a promise of making her some “yummy treats” soon. It wasn’t until she started sneezing uncontrollably that she finally wished Mo good night with a kiss to the patchy fur on the cat’s forehead.
Somewhere in there, his perfect wife had begun to drink. Of course, she’d hidden it from him. From everyone. Yes, she’d have the requisite bubbly in her hand at her parties, but to the naked eye, it would look like she’d barely sipped it all night.
A thousand times over, Grayson wished he’d had the balls to make Leslie sit down and talk with him before things got that bad. But she’d been just as good at hiding from the mess of their marriage—and their lives—as he was.
The day the call had come in from the police was forever imprinted in his mind. There had been a crash, just her car on a lonely road. Leslie had been drinking. She’d died on impact. He’d seen a picture of the scene in the paper the next day...and the same bile that had risen in his throat then rose now.
He’d grieved for her, deeply. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been in love anymore by the time she’d died. But they’d always been friends, and he’d cared about her happiness, had wished that she’d been able to find some.
Only, so much worse than his grief was the guilt that lingered. Guilt that had never—and would never—go away. If only he’d loved her better, if only he’d been the husband he’d pledged to be, then maybe he would have known about her drinking.
And maybe he could have saved her.
An invisible fist was clenching his gut tightly inside of it, when Lori hollered, “Dinner’s on!”
Grayson’s memories were a grim weight deep in his chest as he headed out to the kitchen. His stomach growled again, this time at the incredible smell of the stir-fry Lori had put together. She’d set the small white table by the kitchen window, as well, with his simple white plates and some colorful napkins he’d forgotten he had. Now, as he looked at the bright flowers stitched on the napkins, he remembered that they were a farm-warming gift from the family whose property adjoined his. The teenage daughter had stitched them by hand, she’d informed him with pride. But he’d been too dead inside to appreciate her workmanship.
The table—hell, the entire kitchen—felt too small as Lori served them both. Her scent, her beauty, they were everywhere. Even his bad memories didn’t seem to be enough to drown them out.
And when he took the first bite of the stir-fry with rice that she’d put on his plate, it was all he could do to stifle a groan of pleasure. For three years he’d been a bachelor, cooking for himself. He was pretty good with a grill, and during the summer he had an endless supply of fruit and vegetables to fill up on, but everything else was simply fuel. It had been years since he’d eaten anything this good.
They both ate in silence and he was more than a little surprised to watch Lori mow through a plate of food that was nearly as big as his own. Then again, she’d worked her perfect little ass off today, hadn’t she?
He was reaching for seconds when she finally broke the silence. “Is your stir-fry okay?” Her question had an edge to it, one that clearly said, A thank-you wouldn’t kill you, bastard.
But he hadn’t asked her to come to his farm. He sure as hell hadn’t wanted her to stay. And making dinner hadn’t been on her list of chores. So even though her stir-fry was so good that he wanted to drop to his knees and worship at her spatula, all he said was, “It’s fine.”
She glared at him. “It’s not fine. It’s great!”
He couldn’t help but be struck by how different this dinner was from the ones he’d shared with Leslie. His wife had been a master of small talk, of filling silences with chatter about weather and gossip and the garden. And she hadn’t been able to cook, not in the slightest, so they’d had a personal chef supply them with fresh meals.
He was just about to finish his second helping when Lori stood, took her plate over to the sink, and started washing it. Knowing he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her for much longer, Grayson said, “You cooked. I’ll deal with the plates.”
Instead of taking the hint and going to her bedroom, she shook her head. “I work for you now. It’s my job to cook and clean.”
God, she was stubborn. But if she wanted to add to her list of chores, he wasn’t going to stop her. Of course, he needed to remember not to get too used to meals this good, since he was sure she’d be gone and heading back to her pampered real life by lunchtime tomorrow.
But just then, the plate went slipping from her hands and crashed to the floor. She cursed as she quickly bent down to clean up the shards.
Grayson moved to help her, but not quickly enough to stop her from cutting herself on one of the sharp edges of the broken plate. He grabbed her hand as it began to bleed.
“Damn it, Lori, I said I would deal with cleaning up.”
She tried to yank her hand back, saying, “It’s just a little cut,” but he was already pulling her up and running her finger beneath the faucet.
He didn’t care how little the cut was, he didn’t like to see her hurt, or to know that she’d done it to try to prove a point to him about how hard she could work. “You need to be more careful,” he growled as he wrapped a clean dishtowel around her little finger and applied pressure to it, “especially when you’re tired.”
They were standing close enough now that he finally saw the dark smudges beneath her eyes. And given the fact that, for the very first time, she hadn’t come back with a quick retort, he knew she had to be exhausted.
“Go to bed, Lori. I’ll deal with this mess.”
“I’m fine.”
The urge to stroke his hand over her cheek to find out if her skin was as soft there as it was on her hands made his voice more gruff than it needed to be as he told her, “The day starts early here on the farm. You need the sleep.”
Her full mouth tightened down, before she shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”
She looked at their hands and he belatedly realized he was still holding hers. He took a step back and let her go. Of course, she couldn’t just head to her bedroom, she had to make a pit stop to make a fuss over the cat again, with a promise of making her some “yummy treats” soon. It wasn’t until she started sneezing uncontrollably that she finally wished Mo good night with a kiss to the patchy fur on the cat’s forehead.
