Page 79 of Savannah Royals
“You ready to fall asleep now, Kat? You feel better?”
“I do. Goodnight, Abe.”
“Goodnight, little wolf.”
We fall asleep beside each other, not touching. But he’s there, and he lets me stay, even though I’m offering nothing more than my tired, plaintive self. It’s a kindness, and I realize, suddenly, that’s how Abe has always shown he loves me—with kindness. It’s quiet sometimes, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
I burrow down in my blankets and close my eyes. It’s a very good night of sleep, the restorative kind. No dreams, no nightmares, just the endless, warm arms of rest. I wish it could go on forever.
“Get out.”
I jolt awake to Paul’s voice. He’s standing over the bed, rustling Abe’s foot. Daylight streams into the room.
“Out.”
If Abe is annoyed at being kicked out of his own bed—and I’m sure he is—he doesn’t show it. He silently gets up and strides from the room, closing the door behind him. “Don’t screw on my bed,” he hollers through the wood, an afterthought.
I almost laugh, and Paul nearly does too. It’s the icebreaker we so badly need, the familiarity we’ve lost. Paul sinks down on Abe’s mattress with a heavy sigh.
“Is this your room now?” I hear sadness, not accusation, in his tone.
“No, Paul, but you really tied one on last night. You were corked.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was upset. You’re my blind spot, Kat. I don’t always see or think clearly where you’re concerned. In fact, I don’t think I’m making clearheaded decisions at all lately.” He rubs his face. “You’re right. We’ll wait on the Magpie job. There’s no rush. But there’s something else…I need you to be honest right now. What else do you need from me?”
“I need you to treat me like a real partner, Paul. That means when you have a problem with me, you communicate calmly and rationally. Like an adult. And I don’t want any cheap shots taken at Matthew in the process. He doesn’t take them at you, so stop taking them at him.”
Paul opens his mouth to interject, but I raise a finger because I’m not done.
“And I need you to let me figure things out on my own for a while. Even if it hurts you. I’m sorry about that, but you gave your permission. You told me to do this. I didn’t intend for it to happen, but emotions got involved. I like him. And I’m done feeling guilty for something you instigated.”
Paul focuses on his lap. “You’re saying I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it?”
“Essentially.”
He nods slowly. “How would you feel if I spent New Year’s Eve with someone else, Kat?” he says, raising his eyes to mine. “If I kissed someone else at midnight? Whispered New Year’s promises to another woman?”
This is what I wanted to hear from him last night, honesty and vulnerability, but it’s come twenty-four hours too late. There’s no way to know if these are true feelings, or just after-the-fact rationality. More manipulation.
“I wouldn’t like it,” I answer, “but I also wouldn’t be allowed to care. You’ve made me no promises, Paul. Don’t think I’m not aware of it. I’m still not entirely sure what’s more hurt—your pride or your actual feelings.”
It’s nearly imperceptible, but Paul’s mouth tightens. “Okay.”
“I’ll see you when I get back from the holiday. While I’m gone, I want you to know I’ll miss you. Because I always miss you when we aren’ttogether, Paul. It’s not a zero-sum game. When he gains, you don’t lose. So stop worrying about what I’m doing with him and just concentrate on showing me why it’s been you and me all these years. I’m starting to forget.”
Paul’s fingers flex. His jaw ticks. “I know, I’m sorry. I want you to go. I want you to have fun. If you want to screw him while you’re gone, then I even want you to do that. Because when this is all over, when we end up together, I don’t want you to have any doubts.” He pins his gaze to mine, the old smolder burning low. “I didn’t make you promises because I didn’t think I needed to. It’s always been us, Kat. It always will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Andthen,whentheyfinally plucked up and asked, my father told them,” J.P.—Jack—Morgan Jr. cackles, “‘If you have to consider the cost, then you have no business buying a yacht!’”
I toss my head back and let out a pealing laugh, resting my fingers on Constance Pulitzer’s arm. We giggle like schoolgirls and share a smile. Matthew, on my right, grins into his champagne glass.
“Oh, indeed,” Constance trills. “And tell me, did you bring theCorsairdown this year, like usual?”
“But of course.” He gives a sharp puff of his Cuban cigar, and I inhale, sucking the spiced smoke into my nostrils with a suppressed, gleeful shiver. High on proximity.
“Tradition is what tradition does, eh?” Ethan chimes in.
