Part 44 (1/2)

Gabe eyes me with a curious look, his fork mid-air. I sigh. I was hoping to bring this up myself...but, it just happened, literally less than three hours ago.

”Weston...” I say reluctantly. ”He came by the school after cla.s.s.”

”Why?” Gabe asks, his tone eager.

”He wanted to say a proper good-bye,” I explain. ”I swear it was nothing more. He didn't like the way we left off. You should have seen his eye...I got him good.”

Gabe smiles a little but seems concerned. He glances quickly at the girls, trying not to reveal too much. ”Has he changed his mind?”

Claire and Chloe listen intently-probably trying to figure out our conversation.

”No. He hasn't. It was actually good closure,” I admit. ”I think we both needed that.”

”Did he tell you why they...ended things? They never really gave us a good explanation.”

I shake my head and decide to not tell him about the details of the conversation, about what Weston had mentioned about Bridget not wanting to end it, about Weston's feelings for me, and about the true reason we had to let go of each other.

He doesn't need to know.

”He gave Mommy a big hug,” Chloe tells him. ”A really long hug that lasted like a million hours.”

Nice going, Chloe, you little snitch, I think, feeling caught in the act.

Gabe c.o.c.ks his brow and looks down at his plate, apparently deciding to let it go.

”It wasn't a million hours, you silly,” Claire chimes in. Thank goodness for my sweet little girl.

”But...” she adds, tiny brows furrowed, little red mouth on bendy straw as she sips her chocolate milk, ”it was a really, really, really long time.”

It's been two weeks...and I'm getting better.

Although I've burned the dress, I've never destroyed the photos of us or the cute turtle brooch he gave me on our third date. I keep them in a secret box, stashed under my bed, hidden among a hodge-podge of boxes full of junk. I've only looked at the contents of the box once or twice, tears flowing down my cheeks.

I've been putting on a brave face for Gabe and the girls, and my kids at school, going on about my day, pretending I am completely fine. But every now and then, I lock myself up in my closet or in the bathroom, when no one is watching, and I cry.

This is so hard because I've never been heartbroken before. Gabe was my first love, and he's always been by my side. I feel so ill-equipped to handle this.

But I've been working hard, trying to forget him. And I just can't seem to.

I still miss him so much. I miss his touch...his smile...the way he makes me feel.

I don't hate him anymore.

I am grateful to him. For the decision he's made for both of us-for all of us. I wasn't strong enough to do it. I never would have let go. But I'm so glad he did. Sure it hurts terribly, but it will get better in time. It was the right thing to do. I was so angry when I slung that briefcase at him, but now I realize he was just trying to protect us.

Gwen tells me it's for the best. She says I'm very fortunate to come out of this with my marriage intact, she'd been worried about Gabe and me. She suggests I should forget about him and move on with my wonderful life and simply be thankful for having had the chance to have a little fun...a little adventure.

She's right. I am blessed. I still have the man I love and my two beautiful daughters. It's time to pour all my love and energy where it belongs-they need me. I've been so very selfish these past few months. And I came so close to messing it all up.

It'd been a while since Gabe and I have made love. As he holds me in his arms and strokes my cheek, I reach for him and press my lips against his. His tongue tastes sweet as he pulls me closer to him. And I know I have everything I need.

Right here.

I'm almost sure of that...

Excerpt from the second book in The Ground Rules series.

I WALK OVER THE REFRIGERATOR and grab the carton of juice, busying myself. The last thing I want to do this morning is look at Weston.

”You and Gabe sure had yourselves a good time last night,” Weston says without preamble.

”Uh...” Suddenly, I'm fl.u.s.tered and embarra.s.sed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time-when I was a little buzzed and h.o.r.n.y-as-h.e.l.l. But now, in the light of day, stone sober, I'm really mortified.

”I'm sorry about that,” I say, barely able to look at him. ”We didn't-”

”It's fine, Mirella,” he says, looking up at me through his dark long lashes. ”I didn't mind.”

His words shock me. There's heat in his gaze. He's looking good this morning in a soft grey T-s.h.i.+rt. His hair is mussed up a bit, and he hasn't shaved yet. He looks carefree.

He watches my every move. His eyes are glued to me as I twist the jar of jam open...as I pull a knife out of drawer...as I grab the loaf of bread.

I pull my eyes away from him, my nerves lit up. I can't quite bring myself to look at him, but I feel his gaze on every inch of my body. My heart pounds in my chest. I want to look up, but I just can't.

”You wanted me to hear,” he says, his voice soft. It's not a question but a statement, delivered with one hundred percent conviction.

I blush crimson. Oh, G.o.d...I seem to have forgotten a little fact-Weston Hanson is practically psychic. He's very attuned to people's behaviors. I'm also convinced he can read my mind. Of course, he knows what I was up to.

He sets down his fork and knife. ”And I did hear, you'll be glad to know. Loud and clear. The acoustics in this place don't leave much to the imagination.”

”I'm sorry,” I say again. You'd think I could come up with something more substantial to say, but he's rendered my mind useless.

His eyes fix on me as he drinks the last of his orange juice. He gently sets down the gla.s.s on the granite counter-a soft clank travels across the kitchen through the eerie silence. Still, his eyes don't leave me.

He bites his bottom lip like he wants to say something. He seems to be working it out. I don't take my eyes off him. I want him to say it-whatever it is.

He closes his eyes. ”It was extremely arousing,” he says softly, ”hearing you with him.”

I drop my knife with a loud clank on the granite counter. Strawberry jam splatters all over-the plate, the counter, my white T-s.h.i.+rt, my hands. But oddly enough, none of it seems to land on my piece of toast.

As he gets up from his stool, he smiles-a slow wicked grin. He sweeps past me to drop his dirty dishes in the sink as he shoots me a sly look, cool as a cuc.u.mber.