“Connie said his fans may not be able to recognize him for a few weeks. Might have to have his jaw wired shut.”
“You need Freon. The air conditioner is blowing hot.”
“I like it hot. I’m anemic.”
“Maybe you should eat more meat.”
“Why? I’ve got a bottle of giant horse pills that do the job, more or less, minus all the animal slaughter.”
“Evidently not.”
“Who knows? Maybe I need new blood work. I’ll get around to that and every damn thing else I have to do sooner or later. My insurance just lapsed, so I’m in a special, fun place. Hope I don’t break a leg or get knocked up in the near future.”
He cringed, though she didn’t know for which part of her statement. Maybe both. “I have the paperwork started to add you and Toby to my policy.”
“Nope. Toby is still on Spike’s plan.”
“How long do you think that’ll last?”
“You know something I don’t?”
Of course he did. She could tell from the burr in his voice and the way his hand tightened around his left knee that he was holding something back. He’d learned something during that meeting earlier, and whatever it was, she had the right to know.
What the hell had Stephen been thinking, dragging Seth into the fray, anyway? Stephen couldn’t get anywhere near Spike without them coming to blows, and he’d probably expected a fight. But Seth? What was his endgame?
She stole a look from the road and glanced at him cracking his knuckles. His jaw ground left to right several times before she put her eyes back on the asphalt.
Never before had she witnessed him so agitated. She hadn’t known he was capable of it, and the energy in the car—crackling and anticipatory—was doing more for her arousal than him walking in front of her naked ever had, and she liked him naked.
A lot.
Perhaps her upbringing was betraying her, for as much disgust as she felt at once again being the butt of blogger jokes, part of her liked the idea that this man had fought over her, or at least in a situation relating to her, and won.
Maybe when she had insurance, she should get her head checked again.
Meg had her condo key extended, all ready to slip into the lock when Rosamund opened her door and peered out.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” Meg preempted. “Heard about your sweet tell-all book deal.” She turned the key and listened to the lock tumble. “Going around, doing interviews with all the women Spike slept with that lived to tell the tale? Classy, titling it Poor Meg. Real fucking classy.” She shouldered the door open and Seth followed her in, eyeing her with apprehension as he stepped over the threshold.
“Oh, come on,” Rosamund said. “Most of them, okay, seventy-five percent, were from after the separation. Meg, think of the possibilities. If I could get you to write the foreword, you’d lend some—”
Meg shut the door on Rosamund’s words, but not before showing off her second-favorite finger to the classless yoga-bunny. “I can’t wait to move out of this building,” she said to no one in particular, but Seth paused in front of her, studying her face.
“Where would you go?”
“The world is my oyster. I work from home. I could move to Moscow if I wanted. Anywhere with Internet access would suit me just fine. Alaska. Guatemala. Scotland.”
He shifted his weight. “How about Fayetteville?”
And he went there. She’d only half expected it, but was wholly flattered. She had no intentions of letting that on, though, because she’d already decided she’d never again be in a relationship with another man who didn’t value her counsel…and evidently Seth didn’t.
She was just an inane technical writer, after all. He was the one that built rocket ships and named stars and bullshit like that.
“Megan, you’re shaking. Are you cold?”
He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into his warm, spice-scented chest and rubbing her back just way she liked. When he wasn’t there, his scent seemed to permeate everything around her. Her bed, in the fabric of her sofa, her towels. It drove her crazy and sent her rummaging through her old, reliable box of tricks. The collection she’d started during Spike’s third world tour—the first one he’d left her behind for.
She pushed Seth back, or tried to, anyway, but his hold was too strong. Too sure. Not this time, he seemed to be saying.
“I’m not cold. Let go of me.”
“Then you’re angry. Tell me why you’re angry.”
“That should be obvious.”
“I’m a scientist, not a psychic. If there were something observable and classifiable there for me to glean, I would have noticed, and therefore not asked.”