Midnight Valentine(86)

There’s a sneer in my laugh that makes his eyes darken. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. All your talk of ‘I don’t play games’ and ‘You’ll always know where you stand with me.’ Women must eat that shit up. I mean, I thought it sounded genuine.”

I pause, staring at him with what I hope is pure disgust on my face. “I’m sure Colleen thinks so too. Tell me, how long did it take you to call her after you dropped me at my front door? Ten seconds? Twenty?”

After a beat, he leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap, and smiles. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

He thinks I’m jealous? The ego on this idiot. He’s lucky there isn’t any cutlery on the table, because he’d have a fork embedded in his forehead right about now.

I say with freezing calm, “Time to fuck off, Craig. And if you don’t want me telling your girlfriend Colleen what a giant piece of shit you are, make it quick.”

“She isn’t my girlfriend.”

“If you don’t get out of my face within five seconds, I’ll find something to stab you with.”

His smile grows indulgent, like he’s dealing with a cute, fussing baby. “Don’t be silly. You’ll do no such thing.”

I lean in on my elbows, rest my chin on my hands, and smile back at him with all my teeth showing. “Haven’t you heard, Craig? I’m. Fucking. Nuts.”

When he blinks, I know I’ve finally broken through.

“Oh, Craig! Hi! Fancy seeing you here!” Suzanne stands at the side of the table, holding two drinks and gazing at Craig with all the warmth of an iceberg.

I haven’t told her about my talk with Colleen at the pharmacy, so her reaction is all about his brush-off when the three of us had dinner. I’ve always liked a woman who can hold a grudge.

“Hello, Suzanne,” he says smoothly, rising. “How nice to see you again. You look beautiful.” He ogles her cleavage, not bothering to be the tiniest bit discreet about it.

Jesus Christ. The man is single-handedly eroding my faith in humankind.

“I know,” says Suzanne flatly, and pushes past him to sit down.

Then the universe decides it hasn’t had nearly enough fun for the evening and produces Colleen.

She’s wearing a tight black Catwoman costume and looks fantastic. Nary a baby bump in sight. “Hi, ladies,” she says, smiling. She glances at Craig, standing there with his plastic grin fixed on his face. “Have you met Craig?”

Suzanne and I both say, “Yep!” and glare at him.

As Colleen’s face registers confusion at all the odd tension in the air, the music changes. What was an upbeat pop number fades into the slow, sultry voice of Etta James, singing her signature blues love song, “At Last.”

Closing my eyes, I soak in the song’s passionate vocals and sweeping violins. I pull the stupid purple wig off and drop my head into my hands, wishing I were any place else on earth so I could burst into tears.

“Sweetie,” says Suzanne, touching my hand. “What’s wrong?”

“This song,” I say, my voice breaking.

“What about it?”

I start to chuckle in small, agonized gasps that are closer to sobs than laughter. “It was our song. Mine and Cass’s, from the time it was playing on the radio when he gave me a promise ring when we were fifteen, to our first dance at our wedding reception. Every time it came on, he’d tell me he loved me.”

I love you, sweet pea. I’ll love you till the end of time.

I hear his voice exactly as if he’s standing right beside me. Tears, hot and burning, quickly form behind my eyes. Shit—I’m going to cry. I’ve got to get out of this room before I have a meltdown.

But instead of running away when I open my eyes, I freeze, the impulse to flee retracting in one hard, reflexive movement, like a hand clenching to a fist.

Across the dance floor, half-hidden in the shadows of a doorway, stands Theo.

He’s staring right at me.

He’s smiling.





26





The room fades to black. Everything and everyone else disappears, and all that remains is him, standing there motionless, gazing at me with his smile so warm and his heart shining so brightly in his eyes.

He’s freshly shaven. It makes the hard angle of his jaw gleam like the edge of a blade. He’s wearing his usual outfit of boots, black leather jacket, and jeans, but his hair has been combed and trimmed. He looks scrubbed. Refreshed.

Knock-out, breath-stealing, uterus-scorching beautiful.

Someone says, “Is that Theo?” Then his name is all over the place, whispered in every corner of the room, an astonished repetition of TheoTheoTheo in dozens of hushed voices, none meant to carry but collectively as loud as a bell.