Suddenly One Summer
Page 72
But there’d been that look that Victoria had given him when she saw him with Samantha.
And that look was bullshit.
That look had pissed him off all over again, because they’d had their nice talk last week. They’d had their closure and they’d parted ways on good terms and they were supposed to be done but that look, that fleeting, brief, probably meaningless look of hers . . . had given him hope.
And he didn’t want to have hope.
Not when he knew exactly how this would turn out.
He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock at night. Swearing under his breath—so much for not sitting around ruminating over Victoria—he grabbed his phone and nearly texted Charlie and Tucker before stopping himself. He knew they would be at a bar, and he had zero interest in the bar scene tonight. Texting Brooke also was out of the question, because the only reason a single man would ever text his married female friend at ten o’clock on a Friday night was to talk, and he didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to get out of his place and burn off some energy.
So he changed into his workout clothes, went to his twenty-four-hour gym, and just . . . ran. On the treadmill, for an hour. Afterward, he lifted weights, and by the time he got home it was after midnight. He took a long, hot shower that sapped every last bit of mental and physical energy out of him, and then he crashed hard.
He slept until nine o’clock, then dove back into the research he’d started the night before. All morning long, there was this nagging sensation in the back of his mind, and at noon, when he broke for lunch, he finally figured out what it was.
No hair dryer.
Granted, there’d been a couple other weekend mornings when Victoria had skipped her interminable hair-drying routine. But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard any sound coming from her place for nearly the last eighteen hours. No hair dryer, no heels on the hardwood floors, no shower, sink, or bathtub running, and no front door opening and closing. Not even a toilet flushing.
And that was the moment he started to get a little worried.
He thought about texting her, but to say, what, exactly? Are you okay? Did you come home last night? Because I’ve been sitting here like a loser wondering why I never heard your hair dryer or your bathtub running.
Yeah, because that wouldn’t be creepy and stalker-ish at all.
He went into the bedroom and pressed his ear against the wall, listening for any signs of life.
Nothing.
He’d slept hard last night; he supposed it was possible she’d come home after he’d gone to bed—or, maybe, while he was at the gym—and he’d missed that. And then, perhaps, he’d somehow also missed all sounds of her stirring this morning. Maybe on some subconscious level, he’d wanted to tune her out, so that he didn’t have to think about her.
Or maybe she’d just been missing for the last eighteen hours.
Fuck.
He went to her front door and knocked.
No answer.
Once back inside his loft, he told himself to keep calm, that there was no reason to believe Victoria was in any trouble. Still, to be on the safe side, he grabbed his phone, having thought of a plausible reason to text her. He would say that he planned to install a new faucet and towel bar in his master bathroom, and wanted to make sure this wasn’t an inconvenient time for her since there would be a lot of noise. It was a short, polite question, and she would write back some short, polite response. And then he would know she was okay and could move on with his day.
He was halfway through typing the message when he heard her front door open.
Thank God.
He exhaled in relief—both that she was safe and that he didn’t have to go dig out the towel bar in his closet and start drilling away in order to maintain his cover story. Realizing he never had grabbed that lunch, he stuck his wallet, keys, and phone in the pockets of his jeans, tucked his sunglasses into his shirt, and headed out.
As he was shutting his door, Victoria’s door opened. She stepped out into the hallway carrying a bag of garbage.
And wearing the same shirt and jeans that she’d had on the night before.
She spotted him and blushed, her hand instantly smoothing down her wild-ish, wavy hair. “Hi.”
Feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him, Ford momentarily had no words.
Right.
Understood.
Judging from her hair and clothes, it was pretty clear that Victoria the Divorce Lawyer had not, in fact, slept in her own bed last night.
He somehow managed to keep his tone casual. “Hey there.”
She smiled hesitantly, probably worried he was going to say something that would make this really uncomfortable. “Heading out?”
“Uh, yes. I’m meeting someone for lunch, actually.” He even threw in a sheepish smile, as if he, too, was acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. Because at this point, screw it. He might as well let her think he was dating Samantha. It was better than letting her think the alternative—that he was the fool who’d been worrying and waiting for her to come home all night.
“Oh.” She shifted the garbage from one hand to the other. “You know, I was—”
“Sorry.” He cut Victoria off, feigning an apologetic smile. He wouldn’t make a scene, or say anything to make her feel awkward. But he couldn’t stand there, talking like everything was normal. Not right now. “But I’m actually running a little late, so . . . ” He pointed to his watch.
“Right—of course.” She swallowed and waved him on with her free hand. “Have a good lunch, then.”
“Thanks.” With a nod in good-bye, he headed down the hallway. Not bothering with the elevator, he pushed through the stairwell door and kept walking, down four flights of steps, and then out the building’s front door and into the bright summer sunshine.
He put his sunglasses on as he headed down the sidewalk, ignoring the ache in his chest.
So much for that last shred of fucking hope.
Thirty-one
THE NEXT MORNING, there was an unexpected knock on Ford’s front door. When he answered, he found Brooke standing there, one hand on her hip and the other one holding a ticket.
Ford frowned. “Didn’t you get my text? I said I’ll pass on the game.”
“Oh, I got your text.” Without waiting for an invitation, she bulldozed her way into his place and walked straight into his kitchen. She grabbed his phone off the counter and used it to turn on a satellite radio station. Music suddenly filled his entire loft, piping through the built-in speakers.
And that look was bullshit.
That look had pissed him off all over again, because they’d had their nice talk last week. They’d had their closure and they’d parted ways on good terms and they were supposed to be done but that look, that fleeting, brief, probably meaningless look of hers . . . had given him hope.
And he didn’t want to have hope.
Not when he knew exactly how this would turn out.
He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock at night. Swearing under his breath—so much for not sitting around ruminating over Victoria—he grabbed his phone and nearly texted Charlie and Tucker before stopping himself. He knew they would be at a bar, and he had zero interest in the bar scene tonight. Texting Brooke also was out of the question, because the only reason a single man would ever text his married female friend at ten o’clock on a Friday night was to talk, and he didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to get out of his place and burn off some energy.
So he changed into his workout clothes, went to his twenty-four-hour gym, and just . . . ran. On the treadmill, for an hour. Afterward, he lifted weights, and by the time he got home it was after midnight. He took a long, hot shower that sapped every last bit of mental and physical energy out of him, and then he crashed hard.
He slept until nine o’clock, then dove back into the research he’d started the night before. All morning long, there was this nagging sensation in the back of his mind, and at noon, when he broke for lunch, he finally figured out what it was.
No hair dryer.
Granted, there’d been a couple other weekend mornings when Victoria had skipped her interminable hair-drying routine. But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard any sound coming from her place for nearly the last eighteen hours. No hair dryer, no heels on the hardwood floors, no shower, sink, or bathtub running, and no front door opening and closing. Not even a toilet flushing.
And that was the moment he started to get a little worried.
He thought about texting her, but to say, what, exactly? Are you okay? Did you come home last night? Because I’ve been sitting here like a loser wondering why I never heard your hair dryer or your bathtub running.
Yeah, because that wouldn’t be creepy and stalker-ish at all.
He went into the bedroom and pressed his ear against the wall, listening for any signs of life.
Nothing.
He’d slept hard last night; he supposed it was possible she’d come home after he’d gone to bed—or, maybe, while he was at the gym—and he’d missed that. And then, perhaps, he’d somehow also missed all sounds of her stirring this morning. Maybe on some subconscious level, he’d wanted to tune her out, so that he didn’t have to think about her.
Or maybe she’d just been missing for the last eighteen hours.
Fuck.
He went to her front door and knocked.
No answer.
Once back inside his loft, he told himself to keep calm, that there was no reason to believe Victoria was in any trouble. Still, to be on the safe side, he grabbed his phone, having thought of a plausible reason to text her. He would say that he planned to install a new faucet and towel bar in his master bathroom, and wanted to make sure this wasn’t an inconvenient time for her since there would be a lot of noise. It was a short, polite question, and she would write back some short, polite response. And then he would know she was okay and could move on with his day.
He was halfway through typing the message when he heard her front door open.
Thank God.
He exhaled in relief—both that she was safe and that he didn’t have to go dig out the towel bar in his closet and start drilling away in order to maintain his cover story. Realizing he never had grabbed that lunch, he stuck his wallet, keys, and phone in the pockets of his jeans, tucked his sunglasses into his shirt, and headed out.
As he was shutting his door, Victoria’s door opened. She stepped out into the hallway carrying a bag of garbage.
And wearing the same shirt and jeans that she’d had on the night before.
She spotted him and blushed, her hand instantly smoothing down her wild-ish, wavy hair. “Hi.”
Feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him, Ford momentarily had no words.
Right.
Understood.
Judging from her hair and clothes, it was pretty clear that Victoria the Divorce Lawyer had not, in fact, slept in her own bed last night.
He somehow managed to keep his tone casual. “Hey there.”
She smiled hesitantly, probably worried he was going to say something that would make this really uncomfortable. “Heading out?”
“Uh, yes. I’m meeting someone for lunch, actually.” He even threw in a sheepish smile, as if he, too, was acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. Because at this point, screw it. He might as well let her think he was dating Samantha. It was better than letting her think the alternative—that he was the fool who’d been worrying and waiting for her to come home all night.
“Oh.” She shifted the garbage from one hand to the other. “You know, I was—”
“Sorry.” He cut Victoria off, feigning an apologetic smile. He wouldn’t make a scene, or say anything to make her feel awkward. But he couldn’t stand there, talking like everything was normal. Not right now. “But I’m actually running a little late, so . . . ” He pointed to his watch.
“Right—of course.” She swallowed and waved him on with her free hand. “Have a good lunch, then.”
“Thanks.” With a nod in good-bye, he headed down the hallway. Not bothering with the elevator, he pushed through the stairwell door and kept walking, down four flights of steps, and then out the building’s front door and into the bright summer sunshine.
He put his sunglasses on as he headed down the sidewalk, ignoring the ache in his chest.
So much for that last shred of fucking hope.
Thirty-one
THE NEXT MORNING, there was an unexpected knock on Ford’s front door. When he answered, he found Brooke standing there, one hand on her hip and the other one holding a ticket.
Ford frowned. “Didn’t you get my text? I said I’ll pass on the game.”
“Oh, I got your text.” Without waiting for an invitation, she bulldozed her way into his place and walked straight into his kitchen. She grabbed his phone off the counter and used it to turn on a satellite radio station. Music suddenly filled his entire loft, piping through the built-in speakers.
