Husband Under Construction (20 page)

The gangly, graying blonde plunked the platter on the counter dividing the living area from the kitchen in their fabulous, eclectically furnished condo overlooking the Colorado River. “Nope. Got it covered.”

“But you did all the cooking, you should let me do
something
.”

“What you can do,” Patrick said with a wide, slightly gap-toothed smile, “is keep Her Royal Highness from waddling in here and telling me I'm not loading the dishwasher right.”

“It's true,” Elise said with a shrug from her perch on
the tangerine-colored sofa, her puffy, fuzzy-socked feet stretched out in front of her. “I would. Because he tosses the dishes in there any old way, no respect for order at all.”

Laughing, Roxie sank into the other end of the sofa, soaking in the soft glow of the colored lights on the retro silver aluminum Christmas tree and trying desperately to hang onto something that almost passed for contentment. It had been a lovely, lazy day, filled with laughter and friends and ending in the most amazing meal she'd ever eaten in her life. She absolutely loved her job. And in a week she'd be moving into her new apartment, an adorable one-bedroom in a quirky old Queen Anne not far from work.

Only then she'd have to return to Tierra Rosa to get her stuff out of storage, a thought which made the contentment go
poof
. So to distract herself she focused on Patrick's bustling about the kitchen, humming to himself as he worked.

Big mistake.

“You've got a real keeper there,” she said, not even trying to keep the wistfulness out of her voice.

Elise tried to shift, winced, then sighed a happy sigh. “And don't I know it. Although I had to kiss a hella lot of frogs before I found him. Astounding, the number of losers out there…oh. Sorry,” she said, grimacing as she apparently remembered Jeff. “Can I blame it on the pregnancy?”

“Sure. And it's okay. I'm more than over
him
, believe me.”

Oops.

Elise nudged Roxie's thigh with her foot. “And who is it you're
not
over?”

“I have no idea what—”

“Hey.” Spearing Roxie with her dark, way-too-astute gaze, Elise said, “I'm sending you to Italy next month, last thing I need is you ending up in Bulgaria by mistake
because some dude keeps pulling you to La La Land. So what's going on?”

It'd been years since she'd thought of how her mother could immediately tell when something was amiss, how a simple, “What's wrong?” could reduce Roxie to tears. Fighting the suckers now, she said, “Other than managing to once again fall in love with the absolutely worst possible person for me? Not a thing.”

“You really need to stop doing that,” Elise said, and Roxie sputtered a laugh. “So how did this one rate on the ol' Jerk-o-meter? Assuming Jeffrey was, what? A ten?”

“Ten, hell. Try twelve. And to be honest, I'd assumed Noah was at least a seven, maybe even an eight.”

Elise handed her a box of tissues off the end table. “But…?”

“But it turns out he's actually…pretty darn close to perfect. Except for one or two tiny things.”

“Oh, hell…he's gay.”

Roxie laughed again, even as she dabbed at her leaking eyes. “Um, no. But he is allergic to white picket fences.”

“Oh, sweetie…” Elise held out her hand, wagging for Roxie to take it. “I'm so sorry,” she said with a gentle squeeze. “I'd give you a hug, but bending forward ain't happening these days.” Then she whispered, “Was the sex good, at least?”

“We never got that far.”

“You
sure
he's not gay?”

“My decision, not his. Because I knew…” She swiped at a hot tear trickling down her cheek. “Well. It seemed like a good idea at the t-time.”

With great effort, Elise slowly swung her feet off the couch to sit up, gesturing for Roxie to scoot over so she could give her that hug, at which point Patrick—who'd known Roxie for all of two weeks and had clearly heard
the entire conversation—mumbled something about men being dumb as bricks, which only opened the floodgates.

Because when it came to
dumb,
Roxie had 'em all beat, hands down.

 

“Do you believe this snow?” Noah's father said, stomping the damn stuff off his feet as he came inside the shop, his grin broad in a face still tan from the cruise.

Plans for a new project spread out on a drafting table right inside the door, Noah grunted. Normally he greeted the first snowfall of the season like an excited little kid, champing at the bit for snowball fights and sledding parties, rubbing his hands in glee at the prospect of navigating his truck through snow-choked, winding mountain roads. But this January—the snowiest on record, for which the New Mexico ski industry was extremely grateful—it only made him grumpy as hell.

“Everything okay?” Gene asked, stuffing his gloves inside his coat pocket.

Noah pushed his mouth into a smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

At least on this front it was. Apparently, Gene's forced vacation had made him look at things from a whole new angle. Including, as it happened, Noah. Not a day passed that his father didn't tell him how well he was doing, how pleased he was. In fact, whenever Noah tried to defer to his dad when the old man was around, Gene backed off, saying, “Whatever you think is best, I trust you.” Who'dathunkit?

So now he waved his father toward the back of the shop. “Go take a look at the order Benito and them are working on, it's turning out fantastic.”

But as his father trundled off—whistling, for God's sake—Noah's smile quickly crumpled into a glower. Because nothing felt right anymore. Felt like home. Ever since
Christmas, when he'd admitted out loud how bad he had it for Roxie, his skull had felt like a pressure cooker about to explode. And with every day that passed the discontent only grew deeper, choking out even the supreme satisfaction of proving to his father—and, okay, himself—that he was damn good at what he did. That, by making sure he had the best crew ever working with him, he could even juggle both the cabinetry and construction arms of the business.

And not drop a single ball.

By rights he should have been on top of the world. Victorious and vindicated. Instead, he simply felt…empty. Empty and alone and frustrated beyond belief.

The plans a blur, Noah threw down the pencil he'd been using to make notes and roared into the office to get his coat, still wrestling into it as he walked to his truck through a gentle blizzard of lazily floating flakes, as if somebody'd busted open a featherbed. The snow was too wet to stick to the roads, although the minute the sun went down that'd change. Now, however, it was safe enough to take a drive, clear his head. Although what he really wanted to do was bang that head against the steering wheel, maybe jar something loose. Or give himself amnesia so he'd forget about Roxie once and for all.

He drove away from town on a sparsely populated stretch of road that led past Garcia's Market, the Baptist church, a small storage facility…nearly running the truck off the road when he caught a glimpse of Roxie carting a big box around to the back of a U-Haul, the snow nearly turning her curls white.

Feeling as if King Kong was squeezing the hell out of his chest—and having no earthly idea what he was going to say—he drove up alongside the van and got out. From the
Oh, crap
look on her face as he approached, it was pretty obvious she'd hoped they wouldn't run into each
other. And if her heart was beating as hard as his was right now, her chest probably hurt like hell, too.

“Why didn't I know your stuff was stored here?”

Typically, though, she met his gaze dead on. “It never came up?”

“You could've asked me, I would've gladly brought it to you. Saved you a trip.”
So take that,
he thought, as her brows lifted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Everything okay, Roxie?” her uncle called from a few feet away, shuffling through the snow, carrying a box.

“Yes, of course,” she said with a glance in Charley's direction, then back at Noah, who could barely breathe for wanting to haul her into his arms. Get
over
the woman? In what universe?

Even through the snow he saw her cheeks redden before she cleared her throat. Behind her the van's loading door rumbled shut.

Noah slugged his hands into his coat pockets. “You sticking around for a bit?”

“No,” she said on a pushed breath. “In fact, if you hadn't come along when you had, you would've missed me altogether. Hey, I hear you're doing great. With the shop and everything.”

Fine. If that's the way she wanted to play, so be it. “I am.” He paused. “How's the new job?”

“Everything I hoped it would be,” she said, and he could tell by the way her eyes softened, she meant it. “And more. I was in Italy for a week. Going to France in the spring.”

Want company?
he almost said, suddenly imagining waking up in Paris with her snuggled up against him, naked and warm and smelling of faded perfume. And sex. Not that he'd ever been to Paris, but he could fill in the blanks
as well as the next person. “Sounds great,” he said flatly. “You seeing anybody?”

The question apparently caught her so off guard she reeled. “Um…no. Way too busy, for one thing.”

His eyes trapped hers. “And for another?”

He watched probably a dozen possible responses flash behind her eyes before she finally said, “Not really interested, to tell the truth.”

Noah felt the corner of his mouth tuck up. “You're not just saying that?”

Tears bulging over her lower lashes, she shook her head, and now King Kong planted his hairy butt right on Noah's chest. “No,” she whispered, then swiped her mittened hand underneath her eyes, leaving snow stuck to her lashes. “How about you?”

Against his better judgment, Noah lifted a hand to brush away the tiny white clump. “You kidding?” he said softly, then turned and walked back to his truck. Yeah, just like that, like the whole thing had been a dream.

Or a nightmare.

Except, the minute he walked back inside the shop it was as if something really big and
really
loud bellowed
What the
hell
do you think you're doing?

He stopped, looking around the shop, at what, up to that moment, he'd considered his life. The only thing he'd ever believed would be a constant in it. A second later his gaze landed on his father, joking with Benito as he showed a new hire the ropes, and he knew what he had to do. No matter how much it scared him.

Because, quite simply, if he didn't he'd die.

“Dad?” he called across the shop, waiting until his father's eyes met his before he said, “we need to talk.”

 

God knew how long the banging on her front door had gone on before Roxie roused herself enough from her coma
to hear it. Opening one eye, she saw it was barely eight, an unholy hour when you'd stayed up until nearly five unpacking.

She briefly considered ignoring the increasingly insistent knocking, only to decide it might be her landlady bringing her coffee cake or something equally yummy—which Mrs. Harris was prone to do, bless her seventy-something heart—and it would be rude to turn her away.

Yelling, “Just a sec!” Roxie heaved herself upright, shuddered at her Brillo-headed reflection in the mirror over the dresser, and grabbed her ratty chenille robe, yawning as she tied it closed on her way to the door. Through, she noted with disgust, stacks of boxes that had clearly multiplied during the night.

She briefly considered at least running a comb through her hair, decided Mrs. Harris wouldn't care—or see, being blind as a bat—before she yanked open the door.

And then shrieked.

Grinning around a lollypop stick, a beard-shadowed Noah straightened up from leaning against the doorjamb. “About damn time you answered the door.” He pulled two Tootsie Roll pops out of his jacket pocket. “Cherry or chocolate?”

She had nothing. Speech, thought…all gone. Until, after roughly fifty years, “What…? How…?” finally screeched out, followed immediately by her realizing she looked like a haunted house reject and probably had morning breath and ohmy
god
, what was he
doing
here?

He waggled the Tootsie Roll pops. “Breakfast of champions,” he said, and she took the cherry one, which she shakily unwrapped and stuck in her mouth, sucking on it like mad for several seconds before the sugar kick-started her brain enough to realize the man didn't come all the way here just to give her candy, and with a little cry, she
threw herself across the threshold—nearly tripping over the doorjamb, natch—and into his arms, and then it was all about tangled tongues and knocking teeth and mixing cherry and grape and salty tears, and she grabbed his hand and yanked him inside, through the boxes and down the hall to her tornado-struck bedroom, where she proceeded to rip off his clothes, explanations could wait, she couldn't.

Apparently neither could he, praise be, and seconds later they were naked and joined, and she cried with the sheer bliss of his filling her, then cried again when he pushed her over the edge into a soaring free fall the likes of which they'd never believe down on the farm.

And when it was over, Noah gathered her close, both of them panting and sweaty, and said, “And here I was just hoping to score coffee,” and she laughed so hard she started to sob, and he held her tight until she could breathe again. Could think.

Gently brushing her hair away from her temple, over and over, he whispered, “What was all that about being afraid to bond?”

“It was worth the risk,” she said, then bit her lip.

And then he said, very gently, “God, I love you, Rox,” and she burst into tears all over again. Jeebus.