My breath comes quickly, and I know I must break free of this moment if there’s any hope of leaving her here on this doorstep. “Perfection is honorable,” I say, separating her from me, keeping my hands on her waist.
“It is, isn’t it? Good night, Smith. I had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for dinner and the fascinatingconversation.”
I close my eyes for a quick beat to regain some control over my thoughts and the dirty turn they’ve taken. She seems to know what I’m feeling.
Carina crosses one foot over the other and lays one hand on the door handle. “I’m sure Jasmine’s watching us on the security camera right now, by the way.” She waves at the small black ball in the corner behind my head. “Call me tomorrow and let me know what time you want to look at places.”
I can’t help but smile. “You make me so happy. Sleep well,” I say. I lean down, like I’m going to kiss her, but turn at the last minute and touch my open mouth to the side of her cheek. “Next time we’ll give her something worth being creepy for then,” I whisper in her ear.
Goose bumps rise on the side of her body where my lips touch. “I’ve waited so long for your touch. You said it. I’m holding you to that,” Carina whispers.
I put my palm over my rapidly beating heart. “On my honor,” I say.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carina
It’s beautiful.The bungalow house is tiny by most people’s standards, but for a true-blue SoCal girl like me, it’s idealistic. A quick walk to the park, a short drive to the beach, and four walls that aren’t shared with a neighbor. Our new house smells like fresh paint and hardwood polish. It’s smaller and isn’t as upgraded as the house Roarke built for us a few years ago, but for all it represents, it might as well be my own Buckingham Palace.
Smith is away on a training trip, so Jasmine is helping me set everything up. “You should have taken more when you left Roarke,” Jasmine says. She’s swearing under her breath as she cranks an Allen wrench. “Furniture that comes in boxes will be my ultimate demise.” She flips the instructional page in one overexaggerated movement. “You’re lucky I love you.”
I readjust the headband holding back my bangs. “I don’t need anything from Roarke. If it means I never have to look at him again, I’m happy to bear this burden.Well, I guess I should say I’m grateful you are tackling that burden,” I say, laughing.
Even though I’m smiling, fear is coiling my insides. I’ll be here alone. A lot, if I’m being honest with myself. Smith is away much of the time, and that says nothing of the six solid months he’ll be deployed.
I try not to think of Roarke often, but he seeps in during moments of weakness. I know I haven’t seen the last of him regardless of what Smith promises. New cars and moving houses, haircuts and dye jobs only really lend a false sense of security. Men like Roarke always find a way. They’re above the law.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry for mentioning his name. Sean’s kept tabs on him here and there, and he’s truly obeying the order,” Jasmine says, standing with the long piece of wood that will eventually be a bed frame.
I swallow down the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know he was watching him.”
“I mean, it’s not for his job. It’s for you. Because I wanted to make sure you were safe with, uh, your new friend gone.” Jasmine covers a laugh with a cough.
I toss a piece of Styrofoam at her head. It misses. She’s able to help me today because she caught up with her other client’s manuscript. Matthew Manning is a woman who writes romantic mysteries under a pseudonym. She’s prolific. More so than I am. Jasmine reminds me of this whenever she passes by my marker boards leaning against the wall in the hallway. I haven’t pieced together the ending, and she can’t pitch the novelwithout it cemented.
Bending over, I resume circling my own Allen wrench to finish the bookshelf. “You think I’ve gone mad, don’t you?” I ask, turning my gaze to Jasmine’s face. “My life. This book. Everything.”
She shrugs. “The way I look at it is that before Smith, you did nothing right in the relationship department. I understand your reasons for the most part, but he’s different from Roarke. Totally and completely, but…” Jasmine trails off.
“But what?” I ask. Folding my arms over my chest, I raise one freshly waxed brow.
She stops her wrenching and sighs. “You’re an artist to the core. Are you in love with him or the story about him, Carina?”
I scoff and readjust my paint-spattered overalls. “No one said anything about love,” I hiss.
Jasmine rolls her eyes. “Answer the question. Replace love with like, if it makes you sleep better at night, but answer me.” She draws her chin down, much like a scolding mother would look at her child. “You are living with him—his stuff and your stuff colliding in one dwelling. It’s more than like. Maybe you’re confused as to what exactly that means.”
She’s right. The thought is painful and terrifying because I know the answer. Do I love his story? Of course I do. It’s becoming my story. I’m buried so deeply in this world that I feel like I’ve always been a part ofSmith Eppington. I’m in love with him. I sit down on a plastic ghost chair behind me. Finally, after several long seconds, I answer her. “I’m in love with him, okay?”
Jasmine smiles widely, her eyes drawing up in the corners and almost disappearing completely. “That must have tasted like chalk coming out,” she replies. “Have you talked to him about this yet?”
I stomp one foot on the floor. “What if he thinks the same thing? That it’s the story I’m after. That it’s not him. He’s such a romantic, Jasmine. I’m never sure how to approach a conversation so blatantly tinged with love for fear of ultimatums or bringing up old feelings. I mean, my god, I’ve basically agreed to reside in the ghost of his love for Megan. What if his amnesia goes away? If he’s cured? What will my love mean to him then?” It’s hard to think of Megan without guilt, and I’m not sure how long it will take to go away. Even when I’m working on my novel, I wince when I write a scene between her and Smith. I’ve given her a new name and a new description, but she’ll always, always be his first love.
Nodding in understanding, and knowing she can’t help me out of this situation, Jasmine picks up the bottle of wine we’ve been working on and pours the rest of the contents into my red Solo cup. I take a long swallow and set the cup down on my new bookshelf and head for the kitchen, where my cell phone is vibrating on the Formica countertop. I leap forward quickly and jab the greenbutton when I see the S name flashing on the screen.
“Sansa! It’s you!” I say.
Smith chuckles, and the sound warms my stomach from the inside out. I haven’t had the heart to change the name since he programmed his number in my phone.
