A Good Man Page 10

  “Don’t worry. She’s a professional. Besides, the bedroom is like the confessional.”

  “Thank you, Father Christopher.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and rattle off everything Trent has done because you already know all the ways he’s hurt you. But just in case your sense of nostalgia urges you to forgive and forget, let me remind you of a couple of things. He isolated you. He picked on you. He denied his actions, time and again. And the first time someone batted her eyelashes at him, he pounced. Personally, I think he enjoyed the rush. He slept with the woman down the road, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I think he needs help.”

  “He probably does, but it can’t come from you. You can’t fix someone who won’t admit he’s broken.”

  Broken. The word sat like a knife in her chest. Something stung her eye. She waited for the deluge of tears, but they still refused to flow.

  “You’re a smart woman, Em. You don’t need me to tell you he’s bad news. ‘Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak.’”

  “Is that from one of your poems?”

  “Nah. Shakespeare. I know better than to take credit for that guy.” Chris grinned and mussed her hair. “Although I was tempted to quote Def Leppard instead. Their lyrics usually work in the same situations.”

  “You’re a goofball.”

  Her brother kissed her on the top of her head. “Perhaps, but this goofball knows you should be with a man who treats you like a queen.”

  An image of Michael Zorn popped into Emily’s head. Who was she kidding? His image hadn’t ever left. She was tempted to text him to see how tiling day had gone at the house but decided against it. She could hardly expect Michael to be at her emotional beck and call. Besides, surely he had plans, a social life. A man like him probably had hundreds of women offering him their bodies in lieu of payment for cleaning up their grout.

  “Tell me more about Michael Zorn.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Read my mind. It’s creepy.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re avoiding my question. Tell me about Zorn.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “And yet you admit you have feelings for him?”

  “No. Maybe. It’s irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant. Right.”

  “You’re impossible. Go home.”

  Chris leaned back and kicked off his shoes, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Nope. I think I’ll stay here with you tonight. You know, just in case your loser ex-fiancé actually does turn up shitfaced, begging for reconciliation. I don’t want you to cave.” He looked around. “Now, where do you keep the wine glasses?”

  Emily sighed as she padded into the kitchen for a couple of glasses. How could her own brother think she would cave?

  Maybe because her recent behavior illustrated a feeblemindedness where Trent was concerned.

  No caving. He’d gone too far. She needed to draw a line.

  Glasses and one of the wine bottles in her hands, she sat next to Chris. He took them and set them on the table in front of them.

  “Now, on the off-chance Trent calls tonight, I will pick up the phone. It will give me a chance to tell the cocksucker to—”

  “Okay, okay. No need to elaborate.”

  Chris hugged her. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Why? For being a dope for two years?”

  “You weren’t a dope. You were duped. There’s a difference. I’d rather see you lose two years to him than a lifetime.” He patted her hand and gave her the side eye. “If you want to have an ugly cry, feel free. I promise not to take pictures. Not too many, anyway.”

  “Is it wrong I don’t feel like crying?”

  “What do you feel like?”

  “I don’t know.” Emily tried to analyze the garbled messages her stomach was sending her, but the various twinges and groans just felt like a case of late-night munchies.

  So many emotions had kept her up at night lately. But now? Only one filled her being and it made her chest expand, as if she’d just taken a big breath of fresh air.

  Relief.

  Trent was gone.

  Chris, already into the wine, brandished the remote. “Let’s bury our sorrows in film. Look. Your favorite movie is on.”

  English accents, waistcoats and genteel manners. Perfect. She snuggled against her brother. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, sis. Oh, and I should warn you. If I see Trent again, I will fuck him up.”

  Emily knew her brother wouldn’t hurt a soul, but just then, his threat brought the tiniest of smiles to her face.

  Chapter Ten

  The next time Emily arrived at the Little Italy house, she came bearing ready-to-prepare soup—baskets of homemade soup mixes, enough for their sizable crew, in pretty labeled jars. The guys swooped in on her in droves, lured by the promise of free food, and she smiled as she distributed containers of minestrone and split pea.

  Michael saw the cracks in her surface, that her smile was merely window dressing, weak camouflage for her disillusionment.

  She was still hurting. The knowledge made him want to do anything he could to cheer her up. Tickle her, stand on his head, whatever it took.

  She walked up to him and handed him a jar. “You look like a minestrone man.”

  He raised an eyebrow. If only she knew he was more a boob and ass man, but he wouldn’t sully the moment with his carnal thoughts. He broke the seal on the container and opened it, inhaling. “God, Em. It smells like heaven.”

  “Just add eight cups of water and bring it to a boil. It’s that simple.”

  “You’re assuming I won’t burn the water.”

  “I would hope a talented guy like you might be able to heat up a pot of soup.”

  He leaned in, his stomach gurgling because he was so happy to see her. It had been lonely on set without her for the past couple of days, despite being surrounded by crew members. “I do have some talents, but cooking might not rank among the most memorable.”

  “You must be referring to tiling floors.”

  “Yeah, tiling floors. You just keep telling yourself that.”

  He was flirting with her. Why was he flirting with her? She’d had her whole world upended. And yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to stop, especially not after seeing the light flash in her eyes again.

  Lacey walked past and Emily offered her some soup. “Split pea?”

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet?” Lacey didn’t accept the mix. “I’m afraid soup’s not really my thing.” The snide tone in her voice indicated it was as much her thing as leprosy. She walked past and into another room.

  “More for you, I guess.” Emily shrugged and handed Michael the second jar.

  “This was a nice thing for you to do. You know, feeding the masses.”

  “Just my way of saying thank you. And, in all honesty, a way to keep myself busy and distracted.” She checked out the new floor. “The floor is beautiful. The white tiles make the place look twice as big.”

  “Glad you like it. Did you see what Eli did out front?”

  “How could I miss it? All the dead shrubbery is gone. There’s so much space.”

  “It’s all coming together.” He pulled her aside. “So have you heard from Trent?”

  This was the part where she would tell him she’d made a horrible mistake. Where she’d inform him that she and Trent had reconciled via a steamy lovemaking session and would adore each other until the end of time.

  “No.”

  “Good. I was hoping he might leave you alone.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled, her face set in a stoic mask. “Life continues. What are we working on today?”

  On a hunch, he set his soup jars down next to his toolbox and led Emily toward the stairs. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “I will admit I was keeping this a secret, but I’ve made an executive decision
to break with Handymen tradition.”

  “What will Lacey think?”

  “Let’s not go there.” He brought her upstairs, to the room that used to be the master bedroom, the one where several crew members stowed their belongings most days. Michael opened the door. At the far end of the empty room sat a large object, covered in a long tarp. “I’ve been working on something for you.”

  “You mean other than renovating my house?”

  He grinned. “Remember those old family photos Lacey borrowed from you?”

  “Yeah. She said they wanted to include a montage of old pictures in the show introduction.”

  “That might have been a slight fabrication. I just needed a way to get some photos from you. Anyway, I was saving this for the big reveal, but I think I want to show you now.” He grabbed the edge of the tarp and pulled, revealing the object hidden beneath it.

  It was an old wooden ladder, one he’d found months ago at a salvage yard. He’d decided to repurpose it, turning it into a set of frames for the old photos they’d borrowed. Faces now smiled out from the six gaps between the rungs. Nonna Olivia hugging two blond children, Emily and her brother. Nonna Olivia and her husband on their wedding day. Six photos in total, all part of the heritage Emily so treasured. He hoped she’d like the rustic look of the ladder. Rather than sanding and painting it, he’d left it rough and worn, so that it looked as if it might have been sitting in Nonna Olivia’s toolshed, just waiting to be used. All Michael had done was affix the appropriate hooks and backings and had blown all the photos up to sizes that would fit the spaces.

  Emily gazed upon her grandmother’s face. Her chest heaved. She blinked once, then twice. All at once, big, fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Michael, it’s…”

  “I hope you don’t mind I used the photos. I thought it might be nice for you to have mementos of your grandmother in the finished store.”

  “Oh.” Her hand covered her mouth, but it shook.

  “Do you like it? You’ve had a shitty week and I thought you could use a pick-me-up. I was supposed to keep quiet about it, so maybe you could keep it under your hat until—”

  Emily threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his torso, cutting off his words and his breath. Only when he hugged her back did he realize how hard she was quivering.

  She wasn’t just crying about the old photos.

  “It’s okay, Em. Let it out, sweetheart.”

  The collar of his shirt grew wet but he didn’t care. Wardrobe had tons of shirts. Besides, she felt good in his arms, all soft and warm. He rubbed her shoulders and the back of her waist, exploring and familiarizing himself with her luscious body. He breathed, drinking in her scent. His nasal cavities had never known such bliss. It was like that first clear breath after a long period of congestion. His fingers were pretty happy too, enjoying the give of her body. It was all he could do not to slide them down, cup her sweet ass and pull her up against him.

  Just not while she was crying over another man.

  She lingered in his arms and he did nothing to push her away. In fact, it surprised him how badly he wanted to keep her there, so much so that when Emily finally extricated herself, he wanted to pull her back into his embrace. Instead, he wiped her cheeks clean of the remaining tears.

  “The makeup ladies are going to kill me for making you cry.”

  It might have been his imagination, but her tears made her eyes appear even greener. In fact, her entire face seemed a riot of tempting color. Each shade called to him. The crushed roses in her cheeks. Her strawberry lips, so plump and moist. Even the doeskin brown of her freckles fascinated him to no end. He wanted to count them, to kiss and mark them all.

  Kissing her made a whole lot of sense right now. Kissing her senseless seemed even better.

  Emily’s eyes widened. Her lips parted in invitation. Michael paused, knowing it was wrong, even though every raised hair on his arms told him it was right.

  As he debated with himself for a split second, she brushed her lips against his. It was quick and soft, hunger masquerading as something platonic. Even though a spectator might have called it a friendly kiss, he knew the truth. As brief as it may have been, he felt her yield to him, even if just a little.

  From the startled look in her eyes, Emily knew it too.

  She took a step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You’re right. I should have been the one to do it.” Michael licked his lips. “Your lips really do taste like strawberries.”

  “Michael, I can’t.”

  “I think you just did.”

  “You know what I mean.” She waved her hand between their two torsos. “This. I can’t do this.”

  “What? Point at my chest?”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “Maybe a little. Listen, Em, I understand. As unexpected as that kiss was, as much as I want to taste your lips again, I know it’s too soon.”

  “It’s too much, too soon.”

  He reached for her hand. “I get it. It’s okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be spending all my waking hours waiting for the moment I can make it happen again.”

  “Michael.”

  “Don’t worry. I’d never force the matter. Besides, I enjoyed having you thrust yourself at me.”

  “Are you ever going to let me live it down?”

  “Not in this century, sweetheart.”

  “Michael Zorn, you are a pain.” Her smirk warmed. “But you’re also a very good man.”

  “Yeah.” The specter of disappointment blew a raspberry at him. “So people keep telling me.”

  He knew Emily meant well. He wouldn’t demean her pain by seizing on it when she was vulnerable. If that meant he was a good man, so be it.

  Although her words instilled a measure of pride, a memory sliced into his consciousness, cutting his pride to shreds. Another woman’s voice echoed in his ears, Jane Ashton’s. Her scream reverberated, as if she was in the same room with them, still clutching onto her last breath.

  He hadn’t been able to save her and the knowledge of his failure tore him down and made him sweat.

  The papers had called him a savior. Emily thought he was a paragon. Shouldn’t he have been able to save Jane then?

  Unable to look Emily in the eye any longer, Michael made his excuses and left the room. A big part of him still believed he didn’t deserve to be happy. His logical brain told him he wasn’t at fault, but the little demon inside him disagreed.

  And some days, in those dark moments upon waking, when the loneliness and pain cut so fine, Michael wondered if he deserved to die as well.

  * * * *

  Later that week, Michael once again measured the space in the kitchen where Emily’s new refrigerator would go. Their sponsor had coughed up a professional-grade stainless-steel beauty with French doors and a chest freezer to match, and he wanted to make sure their renovations accounted for the proper widths and depths. He knew he’d measured correctly the first three times, but he hadn’t gotten a reputation for being finicky with his work for nothing.

  Satisfied with the space, he turned and grabbed his water bottle from the counter, to take a long swig.

  Emily had kissed him.

  No matter how hard he’d thrown himself into his work, no matter how many days had elapsed, he couldn’t forget the profound reaction his body had to her. Everything in him had stiffened and relaxed at the same time. He’d grown hard with desire but had surrendered to her in that moment. One touch of her lips and hope had taken residence in his chest, almost replacing the despair that had burrowed there for so long.

  “Now who’s a poet?” he muttered to himself.

  Determined to clear his head, he walked into the future store area to make sure none of his crew were having issues.

  Glancing out of the front window, he spotted Emily on the walkway, talking to someone hidden by the equipment trailer.

 
She took a few agitated steps and the person followed.

  It was Trent.

  Michael tossed his empty water bottle to the floor and dashed toward the front door.

  “Whoa. Is someone towing your truck?” Eli jumped out of his way.

  He wouldn’t interfere. He just wanted to make sure Em was okay. However, all his good intentions flew out of the window when he whipped open the front door and planted himself on the porch. It took all his strength not to puff out his chest and warn the other male away with a roar.

  “Em, I just want to talk to you,” said Trent. “Is that so bad?”

  “I told you I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

  “We had two years together. Are you seriously telling me you won’t spare me another five minutes?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Well, maybe I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Enough was bloody well enough. Michael raced down the front steps, his pulse pounding in his ears. He could almost hear Eli’s voice in his head. This isn’t your fight. She isn’t your woman.

  Maybe not yet, but by Michael’s calculations, Emily was just one more kiss away from becoming his woman. She was goddamned close enough.

  Trent rolled his eyes. “Ah, Zorn. I was wondering when you’d show up. I hope you’re happy knowing you destroyed my relationship.”

  “Oh, no.” Emily pulled herself to her full height, not seeming to care that the two of them dwarfed her. “Don’t you dare blame Michael for anything. You did this.”

  “Fair enough,” Trent backpedaled. “You’re right, but anything I have to say to you is none of his business.”

  “When I hear a man say he won’t take no for an answer, I make it my business.”

  “I’m fine, Michael.” Emily crossed her arms. “I have nothing to say to Trent. I was just headed back inside.”

  “Veronica’s out of the picture.” The words tumbled out of Trent’s mouth.

  “Really. And if I talk to Veronica, will she say you called it off or will she say she dumped you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Emily laughed. “No, it doesn’t matter anymore, and I guess I have my answer.”