Marry Me (40 page)

At that very moment, were there carpenters stripping the walls in her old apartment?

She sighed with regret. It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore.

She let a scene come into her mind, of him with that bitch-model, Chantal, snuggled to his side. They'd be on a sunny beach somewhere, and Chantal would be cooing over how handsome he was, how manly and marvelous.

The vision worked like a charm. Fury flooded through her, which was ridiculous. He wasn't worth hating. And it had been three months! Why couldn't she accept what had happened and get over it?

She was so pitiful. She was pretty sure she'd fallen in love with him. She'd never been in love, so she didn't have any prior experiences to aid her in measuring her emotions. That was probably why it was so difficult to quit thinking about him.

Despite the fact that he was a Merriweather—and thus, a first rate pig—he'd occasionally proven that he could also be amusing and kind and interesting, and she was so darn sad that he wasn't the man she'd wished he was.

She approached the booth, muttering, "May I help…"

Her voice trailed off. The tray slipped out of her hand, the water glass landing on the dirty carpet with a dull thud.

"Hello, Amy. Fancy meeting you here."

Dustin Merriweather grinned up at her. He was just as yummy as he always was in her memories:  buff, tan, fit. His eyes were so blue, and they were sparkling with humor, as if he'd played a great trick on her.

"How did you know where I was?"

"I stopped by your house and spoke to your mom."

"Pam told you where I was?"
The traitor!

"Yes." He was cocky and obnoxious. "How have you been?"

"Get lost."

"No. Did you miss me?"

"No."

"I missed you," he absurdly claimed.

"Liar."

Her heart was beating so hard, her breathing so labored, that she was certain she was on the verge of a panic attack.

To cover her dismay, she bent down and picked up the tray and water glass. She set them on his table, then frowned with disdain, but her sour glare had no effect whatsoever.

He gestured to the empty spot across from him. "Have a seat."

"I can't. It's against the rules."

"I talked to your boss. He said it's okay if you take a break."

Traitor!
she fumed again. Was the whole world allied against her? She glanced around. There weren't any other customers in the place, and grudgingly, she slid into the booth.

"Do you like working here?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It's all right."

"When I learned that you'd left Gold Creek, I never pictured you in a dump like this."

Neither did I
.

"Some of us aren't as lucky as you. Some of us don't have the money to lounge in our backyard pool while we peruse our dividend statements. Some of us have to accept whatever job we can find."

"Ooh, you sound bitter."

"Don't I, though?" She struggled for calm when what she'd really prefer was to lean across the table and whack him alongside the head. "What do you want? Are you here just to insult me? Or is there actually a valid reason in that convoluted mind of yours?"

"I came to tell you that I didn't go through with the sale to Chad."

"Aren't you special?" she sneered.

He chuckled. "I thought you'd be a little happier to hear it."

"I'm absolutely ecstatic," she responded, completely deadpan.

What was it to her that he hadn't sold some old buildings in Gold Creek? What was it to her if he'd screwed Chad in a business deal? Wow, what a surprise! A Merriweather couldn't be trusted to keep his word.

He chuckled again. "I think you're angry with me."

"I'd have to care about you to be angry."

"You don't care about me?"

"No."

To her ultimate humiliation, tears flooded her eyes. She had too many memories:  Thanksgiving Day when he'd taken her to Boulder to meet his brother, the blizzard that had trapped them in her tiny apartment.

Very quickly, those poignant recollections were replaced by the raw insult of that final, horrid morning in Denver.

Chantal had been welcome. Chantal had been invited inside, but Amy had not.  

"I have to get back to work," she murmured, and she stood.

"No, you don't."

"I can't be fired because of you."

"You won't be fired."

He was grinning again, a sure sign that he was up to no good.

"Why not?" she asked.

"You quit."

"I…what?"

"You quit. I explained everything to your boss."

"You can't do that!"

He feigned innocence. "Really? No one told me."

"Oh, you miserable jerk."

"Can we leave now?"

"No! I have three more hours on my shift."

She peered around, looking for her boss. She was anxious to locate him, to tell him that Dustin was a maniac and she wasn't quitting. Yet all she saw was the other waitress approaching with Amy's parka and purse.

"This is so romantic," the woman gushed, "like a scene in a movie."

She lurched over and gave Amy a tight, awkward hug, but Amy slipped out of her grasp. She scowled at Dustin, at her coworker, at Dustin. They were both smirking, happy as clams.

"You won't get away with this," Amy ludicrously warned Dustin.

"I already have."

"You are insane," she mumbled.

She grabbed her coat, jammed her arms into the sleeves, and stomped out.

The tears that had threatened dripped down her cheeks, and she walked along, furiously swiping at them.

She was so…
sad.
She couldn't have him showing up, intruding where he wasn't wanted and wrecking everything before he headed for LA again.

The prior autumn, her life had been perfect. She'd still been in her apartment, the twins content and settled. She'd been employed at a job she loved. Marge had lived downstairs and played the part of doting grandmother to all of them.

But after he'd appeared, her entire world had been destroyed. He was like a comet, one of those harbingers of doom that the ancients used to fear. He'd swept across her sky, bringing destruction and gloom and ruin.

From the day she'd last seen him in Denver, she'd been picking up the pieces of all that he'd shattered in his wake. He'd wreaked such havoc that she'd begun to wonder if she'd ever get back on track.

After how he'd treated her, she'd refused to keep working for him, had refused to remain in Gold Creek, watching while he sold his family's heritage to Chad.

Marge—bless her heart—had been in total agreement. They'd shut the newspaper office, loaded a U-Haul, and moved to Colorado Springs.

As they'd been preparing to drive away, Pamela had staggered in. Chad had dumped her—no surprise there—and she was depressed and eager to make amends. She'd seemed contrite and sincere in a way she'd never been, and Amy had been so dispirited herself that she hadn't had the energy to tell her to leave them alone.

  So Pamela had come with them, and they were all—herself, Marge, the twins, and Pam—crammed into a small, dilapidated house. It was drafty and rundown and located in a rough neighborhood. Pamela's stipend from her trust fund was paying the rent, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover their bills.

Amy was working, Marge searching for work, and Pamela lounging at home—what she was absolutely best at—so someone would be there for the twins after school.

It was a stressful, ridiculous situation, and Amy felt as if they were hunkered down, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next bomb to explode, the next catastrophe to swamp their little boat.

And now, Dustin Merriweather had waltzed into the middle of it, expecting to be welcomed back, expecting her to be glad he'd arrived.

Well, she wasn't glad!

How had he found her? Why had he even been looking? How long would he stay? An hour? A whole day? By the time he flew on to LA, how much more damage would he cause?

With each stride she took, she grew more irate and depressed.

A car drew up behind her, and it slowed. She glanced over to see Dustin trailing after her in an expensive SUV.

She ignored him. She lived six blocks from the restaurant, and she'd already crossed three of them. If she could hold it together a few more minutes, she'd be there and could lock herself inside.

He rolled down the window. "Do you want a ride?"

"No."

"You've been up on your feet all day."

"I'm used to it."

"It's silly to walk when you don't need to."

She whipped around to face him. "Go away."

"Why are you so stubborn?"

"I'm not stubborn. I just hate you, and I'm not getting in your car."

She continued on, her fury escalating as he dogged her every step. She arrived at her gate, and he asked, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Go! Away!" she repeated.

She stormed in and slammed the door, as he pulled into the driveway and parked his SUV—as if that's where it belonged.

"Bastard!" she snarled.

Too late, she realized that Jen and Jess were back from school and sitting on the couch.

"Amy," Jess scolded, "you said a bad word."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Pamela was in the kitchen, and she poked her nose in. "You're home early. I take it you saw Dustin?"

"Don't mention his name to me, and don't let him in this house ever again."

Just as she issued the command, he strolled in without knocking—as if he owned the place.

"Dustin!" the twins squealed, and they leapt off the sofa and rushed over to him.

"Hey, guys." He hugged them close, as he gazed at Amy over their heads. He was preening, pleased with himself, with his reception, and practically daring her to toss him out.

Marge bustled in. "Get your coats," she told the twins. "Amy has to talk to Dustin. Alone."

"I'm not talking to him
alone
or any other way," Amy insisted.

"Get your coats," Marge said, ignoring her.

"Talk to him," Pamela urged, ganging up on Amy. "Don't be stupid for once. Swallow your pride and do what's best for yourself."

Amy was too exasperated to be civil. She pushed past Marge, went over to the stairs, and proceeded up to her bedroom.

Her window faced the street, and she stood, watching as Marge exited with the twins. Pamela tagged after them. They scrambled into Marge's car and drove away. Dustin never followed them, so he had to be down in the living room.

Well, she could wait him out. She could stay in her room forever if that's what it would take to get rid of him. He'd grow bored soon enough and leave.

But she should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Coward!" he called from the bottom of the stairs. "Get your ass down here—right now."

Against her better judgment, she marched over to her door, opened it, and shouted down, "I have no desire to speak to you. How many times must I tell you to go away?"

"Don't make me come up there," he threatened like an angry parent.

His comment was so annoying that she rolled her eyes with disgust. "Or what? Will I get a spanking?"

"Don't tempt me. I might like it too much."

"Why won't you leave?"

"If you come down, I'll let you know."

She hesitated, dithering, when she heard his foot on the stair. She was not about to have him in her bedroom, and he was so pompous that he'd think he could simply barge in.

She went down to him so he wouldn't climb up to her. He was sprawled on her couch, an arm tossed across the back, an ankle balanced on his knee. He looked much too comfortable, as if he always sat there, and he was arrogantly grinning, having never doubted his ability to lure her down.

"Let's get one thing straight," she fumed before he could steer the conversation.

"What is it?"

"I don't want you here, and I don't want you bothering my family. You can't show up unannounced, and you can't glom onto them as if you…
mean
something to us."

"That's four things."

She scowled. "What?"

"You said we'd get
one
thing straight. That's four things."

She threw up her hands. "Fine. It's four things. Now I'm busy, and I don't have the energy to fuss with you."

"Why are you busy?"

"Some asshole just cost me my job, and I have to start searching for another one."

"You don't need another one."

"Yes, I do. In case you didn't notice,
I
am supporting everybody."