Page 89 of Fierce

I shook my head, unable to explain the rush that had just swamped my brain, exactly like being tumbled in a wave. The creative thunderbolt that hit you now and again. If you were lucky.

“Just a thought,” I said. “An idea about...a line.” Woven flax and carved wood, the sea and the bush. Vibrant blues and greens, deep browns and reds. Color and texture and pattern.

“Hemi,” she said. “Did I just...did you just get inspired? Really? Did that just happen? Does that happen? Like that? Like...suddenly?”

I smiled at her. “You did. You saw it. Because you had an idea first, didn’t you. And it was a good one. It’ll pay off. It’ll work.” Somehow, I knew it. All of it.

“Because it’s all about the bottom line,” she said, her own smile teasing. “Because you’re nothing but a cold, hard businessman.”

“Yes.”

She was still smiling at me. And then she reached across the table, put her hand on my cheek, and said, “You’re a good man, you know that?”

The corner of my mouth jerked at that. “No. I’m not.”

“Hemi.” The smile was gone, and she wasn’t looking like a kitten now. She was looking like a woman. “Why do you think you can’t be both? Because I think you can. I think you are. Why don’t you believe it? Who told you that? Who made you feel like you weren’t good enough? That you weren’t...lovable, or capable of...of good things? Because they were wrong.”

I knew I’d stiffened, and I couldn’t help it. “Nobody. Are you finished?”

No. She wasn’t.

“You know,” she said, “I told you about my mother. I’d tell you more if you asked, even though I don’t want to. I don’t enjoy going there, but I would, for you. But you’ve never told me anything. I think you had bad parents, and a good grandfather, and that’s all I...not even what I know. What I think. So what happened? What’s your sad story? I told you mine. How about telling me yours?”

“Hope. Drop it.” I wanted to push back from the table, to walk out. I wanted to move, so instead, I forced myself into stillness. Into discipline. “This isn’t a subject I discuss.”

Why did women always have to push, to poke and prod at the painful things, to try to open the wound? It had all hurt enough the first time around. I didn’t see any point in letting it hurt me again.

“You’ve helped me so much, though.” Once again, she was begging, making herself vulnerable, and she didn’t even care. “With Karen, especially. Why can’t I help you? Couldn’t we…can’t we even talk?”

“No.” I knew my voice was too harsh, could see her wince at it, and I couldn’t help it. “We can’t. I told you. I don’t do that. I don’t do relationships.”

I stood, and after a moment, she did as well. “I’ll take you over the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said, trying to wrestle my emotions back under control. This was why I didn’t let them out. It was too hard to put them back. “As that was what you wanted.”

I turned to go, but Hope said, “Just a minute. I’ll meet you up at the front,” grabbed her purse and shopping bag, and headed toward the back of the restaurant.

I ran a hand over my hair and sighed. I’d softened too much, let her think it was more than it was, and look what had come of it. All I’d done was upset her, and probably hurt her as well. And upset myself, come to that, which I couldn’t afford. I should’ve kept it at sex. That, I knew how to deal with.

From now on, I’d take care to do just that. If I didn’t promise anything, she wouldn’t be disappointed when I couldn’t deliver it.

---