No Magic Moment Page 9

  I steeled my jaw. Forced the shield to cover my heart, too. Didn’t matter. The worry in her voice was like a blowtorch, threatening to sear it. She’d been distant and quiet in the security office. What the hell was this fresh concern all about?

  “Do you even care?”

  “Of course. I—” She pulled back, looking hurt at first, until green fire flared in her eyes. “Why the hell would you say that?”

  I grunted, letting my gaze travel to Simcox. “Looked like you were filling your time just fine when I walked in.”

  Margaux shot her hands back to her hips. Her gown, even rumpled, swished so every line of her delectable figure was accented. “Michael Adam. Don’t.”

  “‘Michael Adam don’t’ what? Drag up the past? Looks like I’m a little late for that, baby. Did you two have a nice little trip down memory lane while I was playing a thousand and one questions with Andy Griffith and Barney Fife?”

  “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Way to prove it taught you a damn thing, Opie.”

  She wanted Opie? I’d give her fucking Opie. “Thanks, sweetheart. This is the perfect ending to a dream of an evening.”

  As if matters could get worse, Simcox loped forward with the exuberance—and social aptitude—of a Saint Bernard. “Hi there. Great to meet you. I’m—”

  “I know who you are.”

  His grin faltered. “Uhhh, right. Well, then.” He recovered within seconds, extending a hand. “It’s Michael, right? Pearson? Like I said, good to meet you, man.”

  I let him hang for a good five seconds. Ten. His composure teetered in the silence. Yo—point to Pearson. Boosh, Dougie-poo. Totally childish? Yeah. Totally satisfying? Fuck yeah. And why the hell not? Ancient history or not, Margaux would carry scars because of this big mutt for the rest of her life. He’d cleaned up well with a shit-ton of hair gel, a professionally close shave and a tailored black suit, but he was still a goddamn mutt.

  Did I wish they’d never broken up? Of course not. But there were ways you did things and ways you didn’t. The golden rules of guy code. He’d snapped at least a couple by breaking up with a woman when she wasn’t on solid emotional ground, jumping on a plane for his next away game and never looking back. To the best of my knowledge, he’d never even checked in with Margaux again.

  The asshole looked intent on making up for lost time now.

  “Well,” he said after we finally shook hands. “Guess I should really thank you. You got the party rolling with one hell of an ice breaker.”

  Touché, fucker. “Anything to help the cause. The arts are pitifully neglected in our schools these days.”

  “Much agreed, my man.”

  Without lowering my head, I smiled—with my mouth alone. “I’m not your man.”

  “Uhhh…pardon me?”

  Through her teeth, Margaux seethed, “I said don’t.”

  I grinned again. What the hell. Might as well enjoy my stint in the doghouse. “You heard me. I’m not your man, Simcox.” I rocked back on my heels, glancing around as if we were just shooting the shit about the Chargers’ chances for the upcoming season. “Don’t even try to pretend we’re friends, or that you care one shit about this cause.”

  Margaux pushed forward again. She raised her hands as if to embrace me, but they froze in mid-air, stopping in front of my chest, as if there were an actual wall between us.

  My gut turned over.

  How had we gotten here?

  This time last night, I was sprawled on her living room floor after the most incredible sex of my life. Now, I felt like the goddamn puppy who’d peed on the carpet.

  “Michael.” She finally wrapped her fingertips around my tuxedo’s lapels. The tenderness in her tone unspooled me worse than her ire ever could. “Let’s just go home, okay? Andre is waiting out front.”

  I debated how to respond to that. After all the venom I’d hurled at Simcox, it was Margaux’s tenderness toward me that finally rankled the guy. I smirked, openly gloating. He tensed, openly fuming. I wasn’t about to throw a punch at the Neanderthal but if he wanted to rumble, I was more than ready.

  The Del’s security team had other plans. They appeared in two separate entryways, before approaching cautiously.

  “Mr. Pearson?”

  I didn’t stray my stare from Margaux. She was really the only one who mattered here. “Yeah?”

  “Perhaps it’s a good idea for you to call it a night.”

  Shit. Was the directive-by-diplomacy thing still a thing?

  I didn’t care. I slipped my hand into Margaux’s, meshing our fingers. “Sure. I can think of some very nice excuses for going home early…can’t you, sugar?”

  Dougie-poo’s face discernibly tightened. Too bad, so sad—you lose, bastard.

  “Thanks for taking the time to catch up, Mags. It was nice.”

  Or not.

  “Mags?”

  She didn’t see the glare I swung at her with it, already stabbing hers into him. “Damn it, Doug. I told you—”

  “Sure you did,” I growled.

  She yanked her hand from mine. “Okay, you want to go at it with me, as well, Pearson?” She scooped both hands into the air between us, beckoning with her fingertips. “Come on. Let’s just do it right now. Take your best swing then let me put you down right after, because God fucking knows, that is seriously what I want to do to you right now!”

  Like a sliced hot air balloon, everything inside deflated. Crashed. Then burst into flames. In their wake, my senses were a black mess I didn’t even want to sift through.

  Without another word, I turned and paced out through the lobby. As Margaux had said, Andre waited with the car. I stalked past him, climbing into the limo then slamming into the corner seat, nearest the driver’s partition.

  We traveled back across the bay, now haunted by fingers of mist, in silence.

  No. Not complete silence.

  As staunchly as she tried to hide them, Margaux’s soft sniffles filled the air every couple of minutes. Every one of them stabbed my heart like a rusted dagger.

  And my own damn hand was on that hilt.

  We pulled up the wide drive in front of the El Cortez. The car had barely stopped before I let myself out, digging in my jacket for my car keys. Despite that, I turned to assist Margaux out of the car. Her fingers were cold against my palm.

  For a moment, just one, I gripped them tighter. Yearned for her to meet my gaze…and see the words I couldn’t speak yet.

  I’m trying, princess. God damn it, I’m trying.

  Instead, she worked her hand free once more, instantly twisting it into the depths of her skirt. Her head remained down as she regarded the keys in my grip. “I won’t wait up.”

  I almost went after her. Maybe I should have. Was that what she wanted? Fuck. I didn’t know anymore. Back at the Del, I’d envisioned a wall between us—a barrier stacked higher with every one of her tears in the car. What had I done? Sat there like a mute asshole, not even offering to go to her. The memory of how she’d lashed out at me on the beach, instantly connecting me to Declan’s bloody face, had been too fresh. It still stung like hell.

  I was a mess. Plugs jammed into all the wrong sockets.

  In order to figure it out, I had to disconnect and start over.

  Once I got in the truck and pulled away from the Cortez, only one direction felt clear.

  I headed for the mountains.

  For home.

  * * * *

  The best-laid plans…

  I didn’t need the rest of it spelled out. It was the story of my life lately, so why did I expect different now?

  I made it as far as Ramona before a crowd of cars, the aroma of coffee and the siren call of Dudley’s bear claws made me slow down. Frowning curiously, I pulled into the diner’s parking lot. What the hell? The place was rarely open this time of night.

  A group of kids in tuxes and formal gowns passed by, filling in the answer. Must have been fall formal night for the high schools.

  Sud
denly, blending into a crowd of teenagers felt better than a late-night greeting—and grilling—from Mom.

  Too bad I was premature about the hallelujah on that freedom.

  As I settled into a small booth in the back of the dining room, my cell vibrated. The name in the window drilled my jaw with tension.

  Killian Stone.

  For another two seconds, I wavered my thumb over the green button. Why I even considered the red one was a mystery. Fruitless cause, man. The man didn’t carve time out of his Saturday night, especially at this hour, to ring up a buddy to shoot the shit. Whether he’d called on his own or at Margaux’s request, I wasn’t going to get out of this.

  The green button it was. Damn it.

  “Mr. Stone.”

  “Mr. Pearson.”

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Killian chuckled. “You serious about that?”

  I lifted a smile at the waitress as she brought my coffee. Dropped it as soon as she left. “I was hoping to be.”

  His heavy exhalation filled the line. “Claire and I were in bed. She was looking for a new book to read, but a swarm of celeb gossip alerts blew up her feed. You know what they say about the vultures.”

  “Yeah.” I’d learned the back end of that one during my first week in corporate PR clean-up. “Can’t dodge their shit if you don’t know where they’re circling.”

  “And some nights they like to circle longer.”

  I blew on my coffee, instantly recognizing the action as habit rather than practicality. No way would I be dumping the shit into the acid pond of my gut now. “So it’s the Michael Pearson feeding frenzy for San Diego’s rag sites tonight?”

  “San Diego?” he countered. “Dude, your little fireworks show at the Del has already been picked up by the national feeds. I think TMZ’s leading with you tomorrow.”

  I raked a hand through my hair. “Wonderful.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “As long as I’m prettier than Kanye, right?”

  “Oh, you’re pretty, all right. Must be that combination of model perfection and animal rage. Last time I checked, a few thousand women were posting about how to get into your pants.”

  “Access to my pants is controlled by one hell of a gatekeeper, man.”

  Killian’s pause was significant. “So Margaux’s still speaking to you?”

  “Define speaking.” Sharing details beyond the initial drama in the ballroom with Dec seemed a bad decision right now.

  “Damn. Claire was afraid of that. Honestly, so was I.”

  “It’s fine,” I insisted. “We’re fine. We just need some space before we…talk some things through.” When he threw back nothing but a snicker, I growled, “What?”

  “Space? In order to talk things through, huh?”

  I grimaced. “What the hell is wrong with that? You’ve never had anything to talk through with Claire?”

  Another long pause. Too long.

  Finally, Kil’s snort filled the line. “You’re not even at home, are you? Did you run off to a bar? Isn’t going to help, my friend.”

  “Says the guy who ran off and played grunge Jesus for six months?”

  “And almost lost the love of my life because of it,” he asserted. “Pearson, learn a valuable lesson from my mistake. Go home and do your penance on the couch for a few nights. Then she’ll be ready to talk to you. Drinking yourself into a stupor only puts off the inevitable.” He pushed out another telling breath. “By the way, Andre’s driving, right?”

  “I’m not drinking, god damn it.” Not even the coffee, which smelled pretty fucking good. “I’m just—”

  “Not at home. Which is where you should be.”

  The waitress plunked down my bear claw. I stabbed a fork into the pastry and twisted hard, resigned to mutilating the thing instead of eating it. “There’s nothing wrong with giving this some space.”

  As I spoke, rough rustlings crackled over the line. Only it wasn’t Killian I heard next.

  “Are you out of your damn mind?”

  Claire’s huffy bark would’ve made me laugh—except that she scared me in this state of rage. I held the phone back for a second, wondering when the raging bees would burst from it.

  They didn’t. But maybe honey was a good idea, anyway. “Heeyy, Claire-Bear—”

  “Do not with the ‘Claire-Bear’.” More scratches on the line. When she spoke again, her voice was louder. “Why the hell are you out carousing, when—”

  “I’m not carousing!”

  “That’s not the point. You’re out, Michael Pearson. Do you know what that’s doing to my best friend—the woman you claim to love?”

  “Claim to love?” You mean the woman I just proposed marriage to—who, incidentally, turned me down?

  “Don’t piss defensive on me,” she snapped, “when you repeatedly threatened to knock Killian’s ass into the next century when he disappeared on me last year.”

  “What?” Killian punched it out from the background. “He did?”

  “This isn’t the same.”

  “You think Margaux knows that? Margaux, who has deeper issues than I ever had about feeling accepted, acknowledged, loved? Margaux, who’s been treated like a disposable toy by everyone in her life—who thinks maybe, for the first time, she’s found a person who won’t throw her away, even when times get rough?” She let out a little growl. “What the hell are you doing with that trust now, Pearson? Moping in some dark corner somewhere about how complicated your soul is, about how she won’t get it? Opening all that baggage again, whatever the hell it is, and crying over the dirty underwear inside?”

  I took a gulp of the coffee. If it rained acid on my stomach lining, so be it. Maybe I deserved the agony. “I’m not—”

  “Save it.” Both words were seething switchblades. “Stop sulking over your dirt and clean it up, Michael. Deal with it. You have a remarkable, beautiful, brave woman who wants to help you do just that. Get your ass back to her—and refuse to give up until you make it right!”

  So. Silences really could be deafening. She’d gone so quiet, I wondered if the connection had been lost—until hearing Killian clear his throat in the background, communicating one clear message. Claire had just wowed the pants off her husband—if he was still wearing any. Better odds lay on him not—in which case, I guessed at how he craved to wow her in return.

  “I’d better go,” I finally mumbled.

  “Great idea,” Claire returned. “And hey…Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I only get this pissed if the cause is worth fighting for.”

  A smile started in my heart and brimmed on my lips. “I know, Claire. I know.”

  She didn’t fight me on the nickname this time. Just like I didn’t say a word once I got home—and found bedding waiting for me on the couch. A red blanket, a white blanket, a down pillow—items yanked off the bed from the guest room, driving it in that if she found my ass in there come morning, she might cuff me to the damn school desk.

  “Penance on the couch.” I echoed Killian’s words beneath my breath while stripping off my tux, then settling against the massive orange cushions of the designer monstrosity. Though the thing was bigger than a lot of beds, it didn’t relieve the clamps over my chest one damn inch—or make it easier to resist rushing upstairs, back to the place I belonged. Wrapped around Margaux Asher. Forever.

  Tomorrow, man.

  I could start forever…tomorrow.

  By taking out my laundry and finally getting it clean with her. For her.

  I was ready.

  I had to be.

  * * * *

  Pound.

  I flinched and moaned. Cracked open one eye, only to be stabbed by a glint of morning sun off the patio’s steel rail. My legs tangled in the blankets as I reached for the pillow and thumped it atop my head.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “No,” I mumbled. “No. Uh-uh. Don’t want any.”

  Pound. Pou
nd. Pound.

  “Damn it. No!”

  Margaux’s whine made me lift the pillow. I looked up in time to watch her clear the last few stairs into the room. Our gazes snagged, wrestling in lingering anger and brand-new awkward, before I succumbed to the temptation of gawking at the rest of her. Fuck, she was cute, all bed-head and sleep-lined face. Was that a little pajama set beneath her satin robe? With cupcakes on it? Wait. The woman owned pajamas?

  Maybe I’d woken up in another dimension.

  In which case, it should be no problem to fulfill my fantasy of peeling those cupcakes off her body then launching a quest to taste her…frosting.

  Reality thundered back in. More thumps shook the door.

  Margaux glared at the locked panel then back at me. Scraped her hair from her eyes. “It’s Sunday, right?”

  I nodded while yanking my tuxedo pants back on. Though the building didn’t have a doorman, the condo was on the penthouse floor, meaning we still had to buzz people up—

  Unless they were entities who didn’t have to ask permission for that shit.

  Dread fisted my chest. I forced one word past it, anyway. “Fuck.”

  “Huh?” Margaux sputtered. I hated the fear that crept into her eyes. “Michael? What—”

  “Michael Pearson! Open up! This is the San Diego Police Department.”

  “—the hell?” She jerked her robe shut, switching to self-preservation mode without even knowing it. That was good. Very good.

  “Stand back, sugar.” I paced past her, toward the door. “Way back. This probably won’t be pretty.”

  “Screw that.”

  So much for the reassurance she’d protect herself. She raced in front of me, twisted the deadbolt free and whooshed open the door. Sure enough, a pair of San Diego’s finest filled the space. They both examined her from head to toe before dutifully riveting their gazes back to her face. That’s good, fellas. Keep them there if you want to keep your gonads intact.

  “Officers.” She braced a hand on the door frame and another on her hip. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

  Both cops were dark-haired and baby-faced, though one’s face was etched by the subtle lines of experience. He was also the one who stepped forward and dipped his head. “Ma’am. Good morning. Can I ask you to step aside? We’re here for Mr. Pearson.”