Sure and then I'll win the lottery, and ride a unicorn into the sunset, she thought grimly. The fantasy of moving her store, having her own clothing line, and raising a child was … well, a fantasy.
Babies were expensive. Even babies of millionaires. And she refused to ask Landon for more than his fair share. She was no gold-digger. She wouldn't ask him to provide her with a lifestyle she hadn't earned. Didn't deserve.
I never should have pushed him away.
The thought was so out of left field, she choked on her tea. She waved at a neighboring table when they looked on with concern. "I'm fine," she croaked.
But she wasn't fine. She was an idiot. She'd ignored her heart, ignored her feelings. All because … because she was trying to be someone she wasn't. Because she'd allowed her past to predict her future. She'd ignored every instinct she had about Landon. And why? Because she'd failed in the past? But this situation was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. She'd never been pregnant, and she'd never known anyone-never loved anyone-the way she loved Landon.
He'd been a recurring thought, looping her brain every day. Maybe because half of him grew inside of her. Of course she'd think of him. If she hadn't been pregnant, she wondered if they would have stayed together? Yes. They would. There was too much connection, too much desire, too much joy between them to walk away.
So why did she insist on walking away when they shared something as epically life-changing as a child? Because she'd screwed up, that's why.
Picking a corner off the muffin, she chewed forlornly, no longer hungry. When he'd come to her house, she'd shoved him away. Demanded an agreement. An arrangement, she thought with a wince. And he'd been there … why? Why had he come to her apartment?
She sipped her tea and thought back to the night he'd climbed her stairs and tried to kiss her. After she'd refused him, she'd steered the conversation and, like the captain on the Titanic, had gone down with the ship. Landon may have taken charge when it came to drafting their agreement, but only because she'd asked. He'd looked downright resigned while doing it, she recalled with a stab of certainty.
What if … she shouldn't think it … but she did anyway. What if he came there that night to say he loved me?
She loved him. No doubt about it. All the pragmatic and practical arguments she'd been making were forced. That had been her, trying to be someone she wasn't. She wasn't practical or pragmatic. Why hadn't she trusted her heart? Just one more time?
She'd denied her feelings, denied the man she loved. And why? Because she was a modern-day woman who had a baby in her belly? A baby that wouldn't be there if not for Landon. A baby that was as much his as hers. A baby he'd been so terrified of losing that he'd agreed to a rigid, black-and-white arrangement at her behest.
What have I done?
And what would that arrangement look like to their child? She'd been concerned over becoming an embittered housewife, but now what would she look like? A woman going robotically through the motions each time she talked to Landon? Denying their emotional connection-her love for him? Did she really want her child seeing her as some emotionless robot?
And what if she wanted a second child? What if she wanted a brother or sister for the baby growing in her womb? Could she really date again? While the man she loved was in the same town, sharing custody, and making her long for his touch each and every time she saw him? No way.
Kimber shoved her food away and stared into her cooling, flavorless tea. She'd made a horrible mistake, and all she could hope for was that Landon would be magnanimous enough to hear her out. Would he consider giving her another chance to make things right between them? She hoped so.
Her phone chimed: e-mail. She tapped the screen and read the message, confused for a handful of seconds.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Voice mail
Dear Ms. Reynolds:
Please read this before you open the attachment.
You may recognize my name, you may not. I'm Landon's cousin/business partner who lives in Ohio. Last night, he seems to have gotten incredibly inebriated and called my secretary Keena by mistake. The voice mail was meant for you. I debated sending it, and I'm still not entirely sure you want to hear a slurring speech of undying love from my eldest cousin, but in the end, I can't not forward it on. It's here, in the attachment. Sounds like he got cut off at the end, but I'll leave it up to you to call him and hear the rest.
For what it's worth, Landon is a good guy. He's about as hardheaded as I am when it comes to women, but his heart's in the right place. I was lucky enough to find the woman who was willing to wait out my stupidity. On the chance you might be that woman for Landon, I didn't want to deny you the same opportunity.
We're a thick bunch sometimes.
Sincerely,
Shane August, CEO August Industries
Kimber's thumb hovered over the attachment as she digested Shane's e-mail. She reread it, stopping to think about what "a slurring speech of undying love" might sound like.
She was about to find out. There was no way she wouldn't open it now. She wanted to hear what Landon had to say. Drunk or not. She clicked the attachment and brought the phone to her ear.
"Kimber. Hi, it's Landon … "
His head pounded harder this morning than it had Sunday morning. And Sunday's hangover had been a whopper. Probably wasn't a good idea to drink last night, too, but he figured why not? He'd made a grievous error-not letting Kimber know how he felt-followed by another grievous error. The phone call where he had. Maybe if he kept drinking, he'd kill off enough brain cells that one day he wouldn't be able to remember doing either.
He'd held out hope she might hear his message and call him, but his phone stayed silent all day Sunday. No messages. No calls. Just a silence that spoke louder than anything she could have said to him. She may not hate him, but she didn't love him. And she hadn't appreciated his profession being soaked in thirty-year scotch.
Imagine that.
He remembered the gist of what he'd said in that voice mail: I love you, I miss you. Even though he'd spoken it through a throat burning from Macallan Limited Release, the sentiment had demanded a reply. But she hadn't replied.
Which he took to mean she didn't care. That was the only reason not to call back. If the opposite of love was apathy, it wasn't hard to reason that Kimber felt nothing but indifference toward him. Maybe he was better off spending his nights drunk and alone in his enormous and lonely penthouse. Maybe he should get a dog.
"Mr. Downey?" his secretary's voice came over the speakerphone in his office.
"Yeah, Cindy." He grabbed his head with his hands to stop the throbbing in his skull. Speaking made his brain ache like he'd shouted instead.
"I have a Ms. Reynolds here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment but-"
"Send her in." He stood from his desk, knocking his chair with the backs of his legs and rolling it several feet from his desk. He raced across the room to his private bathroom, shocked by the man staring back at him from the mirror. He looked like hell. If hell had been subjected to freezer burn, then microwaved. He dampened his fingers and ran them through his hair, swishing mouthwash around his teeth at the same time. By the time he'd stepped into his office and slid his glasses back onto his nose, Cindy opened the door.
She ushered Kimber inside, and he nearly buckled at the sight of her. Seeing her was like walking into the bright sunshine after a long day under fluorescent lighting. She practically burst with light … the pregnancy glow.
He wanted to drop to his knees, bury his head into the folds of her green dress, and beg them both-Kimber and the baby-for a second chance. Melodramatic? Maybe. But he'd do anything-anything-to get her back. He'd give up his business and his penthouse. Move into her teeny little apartment and become a stockroom boy for Hobo Chic if he had to.
Because nothing else mattered. Not his career. Not his top-floor penthouse. He'd worked hard to craft a perfect façade of a life. Then Kimber had come into it, and left, proving the life he'd worked so hard to build as flimsy as a matchbook house. One that had gone up in flames the second she walked out of it.
Cindy shut the office door and Kimber gestured to the couch. "Mind if I sit? I'm exhausted."
"Please," he said, holding the crumbling walls of his heart together with both hands. Maintaining as usual. Mr. Control. Sometimes he hated that about himself.
She patted the cushion next to her and he sat, obediently. Tired of not saying what was on his mind he blurted, "I want to touch you so badly."
She smiled, her eyes shining. There was something in them that was real and warm, and not the least bit indifferent. A spark of hope lit within him. Tentatively, he reached for her face.