B00Z637D2Y (R) (23 page)

“Mia, please listen…”

She held up a palm to silence him. “You told me I needed to believe in myself. Well, clearly you need to heed your own advice, because I believe in myself a lot more than
you
believe in me. I’m better than this.”

And as she stood there staring at him, it struck her that she believed every word she was saying. He was right; faith in herself was the key. Never would she sell herself short again. If nothing else, she was coming out of this fiasco of a weekend with some mind-blowing sexual experience and a full-on belief in her own worth.

When his phone rang, he ignored it, but she could see the limo from the door’s sidelight window.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Your ride is here to take you back to your real life.”

“I can still distract them in the back while you get in the limo, then I’ll join you with no one the wiser. Come with me. Mia, please.
Please.
”

Saying nothing was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. Her heart shattered painfully into tiny pieces as he picked up his luggage, grabbed Clancy’s leash, and opened the door.

“You misunderstood,” he said before closing the door behind him.

No. She had not misunderstood.
He
had misunderstood. He’d underestimated her. He thought he could get away with doing what everyone else had done, only to the billionth power. He was wrong. She would not allow him get away with it.

Before he’d made it half way down the sidewalk, she opened the door and shouted his name. His full name, just to be sure there was no confusion. It had the precise effect she was going for. He changed his focus from her to the photographers running from behind the house.

She closed the gap between them quickly. His panic shone clear in his wide eyes and tight lips.

“Even Michael Anderson can’t control everything,” she said, only loud enough for him to hear. And then, as much for herself as for revenge, she grabbed his face and kissed him, the shutters from the photographic firing squad snapping like gunfire aimed straight at her heart. When she pulled away, she could swear he was on the verge of tears.

“Oh, Mia,” he said, “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I bet you do.”

Chapter Nineteen

Michael left work late again. It was the eighth day in a row he’d stayed past midnight. He’d actually run out of things to do at the office over the last two weeks, but that was okay. Better over-prepared than under.

A café owner pushed his trash to the curb on the other side of the street and tipped his cap. Michael liked the city that time of night. He and Clancy had even walked all the way home a few times.

When they rounded the corner of his apartment building, Clancy picked up the pace. He still looked for her. So did Michael.

Every time he put his key in the lock, as he did then, he held his breath and wished. But that night, just like every night the past two weeks, his wishes weren’t answered. The door swung open to the same thing: an empty apartment with dead flowers on the table.

He placed his keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and went to the bar to pour a scotch. Then he went to his bedroom and took off his clothes in the exact same order he had done his entire adult life, putting everything in its proper place.

Perfect organization. Perfect order. Prepared. Controlled. Miserable.

He tipped the glass and drained its contents, then went for a refill. As he rounded the bar for a fresh bottle, he froze. She’d forgotten a paintbrush in the sink—a piece of her. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the soft bristles and the familiar smell of oil paint met his nose.
Mia.

She’d cleared her things out that first Monday after the wedding, while he’d been at work. He knew she would come and had asked the security guard to let him know that she had made it in and out with no problem. She probably thought she’d snuck in and out undetected. He ran the slick bristles over his bottom lip and closed his eyes. In retrospect, he should have waited for her.

He set the brush down and opened the new bottle. He’d also had Jim check to be sure she’d made it to her new housesitting job and was doing okay. He should have done that himself as well. Should have told her he was thinking about her. That he missed her.

But as always, he delegated. He told himself it was because he wanted to give her privacy. That wasn’t the real reason, though.

He added two cubes of ice and poured.

The real reason he didn’t reach out to her was fear. He was scared. Of her reaction. Of his response. Of losing control.

Picking up the glass, he swirled it and was reminded of her eyes at the beach. Cinnamon colored most of the time, they were almost amber in the sunlight.

Scotch in one hand and paintbrush in the other, he wandered to the mantle and placed the brush next to the other objects she’d left behind: a hair band and some lipstick. They were centered between the glamour shot of Clancy and the selfie she’d taken of them in the park. As he studied the photo carefully, he had to laugh. It was perfect. Her smile was genuine and full of life and happiness. His was completely and absolutely fake. He’d plastered it on for the purpose of the photo.

“Fuck,” he said, placing his forehead on the cool marble of the mantle. He’d thought himself so put together. She saw right through it.
“Is that who you really are?”
she’d asked of his public persona.
“It’s who I need to be,”
he’d answered.

“Fuck!” he said again.

Clancy bumped his leg and whined, then went to the door. He did this often. He didn’t need to go out. He wanted to go scratch on her door.

“I know,” Michael said, crouching to rub his neck. “You miss her, too.”

The dog jumped on the sofa and whined again. Michael couldn’t even bring himself to sit on the sofa, but that was where Clancy spent most of his time, curled up on the ugly afghan she’d probably left on purpose for the dog. And then there were the two sweaters folded neatly on the dining table next to the vase of dead flowers. What the hell was he supposed to do with those? Even a charity would have a hard time placing sweaters with mismatched sleeves.

After two more trips to the bar, the ache in his chest hadn’t loosened. But his ability to focus had. His thoughts ping-ponged back and forth, from staying the course and giving her space, to seeking her out and trying to set things straight.

He was home alone on a Friday night, wandering his empty apartment in his underwear and getting drunk. Pathetic.

“We can’t go on like this,” he said to Clancy, who lifted his head. “We either need to move on, or…or…”
Or what?
Get her to move in? It wasn’t going to happen. There was nothing he could say that would show her how he felt or how wrongly she had read the situation.

Dr. Whittelsey was right. It was that rigidity and need for control that had fucked him over. Instead of plowing ahead with his plan, he should have taken the time to explain exactly why he didn’t want her in the photos with him, rather than let her jump to an understandably wrong conclusion. But by now she knew. He downed the last of his glass and placed it in the kitchen sink where it belonged.

“Even Michael Anderson can’t control everything,”
she’d said.

But at that time, he’d thought he could. Not her. Never her, but the situation. Mia couldn’t be controlled. That was one of the things about her that had attracted him the most. Her impulsiveness and sense of whimsy.

From the kitchen, he shuffled to the mantle again and ran his fingers over the items on the picture frame, stopping at the ice cream wrapper.
“You’re not what I need,”
she’d said when he kissed her on the bridge.

No shit.

“But she’s what
I
need, Clancy. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

The dog flopped his tail twice.

“What I need…” Oh, hell. It was turning into a regular pity party. “What I need is more scotch.”

A loud knock sounded on the door, and adrenaline bounced through his brain, almost making him feel sober. That same adrenaline dropped to his feet when he opened the door to find his brothers there.

“Hey! Nice outfit, Mikey,” Will said, walking in without an invitation.

“Looking good there, big brother,” Chance muttered, following right behind.

He looked down at his underwear then back at his brothers. “I’m in my own home after midnight on a Friday night. You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all. You should call first.”

Will sat on the sofa and Clancy leapt immediately into his lap. “No, it was a planned surprise attack.”

Chance picked up the half empty bottle of scotch from the bar. “You shouldn’t be drinking alone, Michael.”

“I’m not.”

Both of his brothers glanced toward this bedroom then back at him.

“I’m…” He tried to look nonchalant, which was hard to do wearing only underwear. “I’m drinking with Clancy.”

“Aw, shit. Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sense of humor,” Will said. “It’s going to be a lot harder if you have.”

“What’s going to be harder?”

“This is an intervention,” Chance said.

Michael barked out a laugh. “I’ve only had four drinks. I’m barely buzzed. What the fuck?”

Will pitched some newspapers on the table. “Have you seen the papers?”

“No.” Suddenly, his buzz morphed into a headache.

“Well you should.”

He had intentionally not read anything since the wedding. He couldn’t bear seeing the things they’d say about her. It had taken all of his self-control, but he’d resisted. “No.”

“Newest Catch in the Anderson Web,”
Chance read.

“Michael Anderson’s Love ’em and Leave ’em Legacy Continues,”
Will added.

“Forever Eligible.”

“Wild Weekend Getaway Ends in Violence.”

That got his attention. “What?”

Will turned the paper to show the picture of him holding Jason by the collar.

He groaned and sat in a chair opposite the sofa.

“What’s going on, Michael? You told us you had everything under control.” Will set the papers down and relaxed back against the sofa cushions.

“You assaulted a guy over a Type B,” Chance added.

Michael shook his head to clear it.
Type B: Those who want me for sex.

God. They’d labeled Mia as a Type B, exactly as he knew they would. “No. It’s not like that.”

His brothers sat perfectly still, their attention unwavering on his face.

Shit.
He’d never had to explain himself to his brothers before. Not ever in his life. “She’s not like that.”

Chance stood and wandered over to the mantle, shaking his head.

Will finally spoke. “You used to just bring them home. You were discreet and only the ones who wanted notoriety ended up in the rags. I’ve read this most recent one’s file and she’s not the type to seek the spotlight. You slipped up and this looks bad, Michael.
We
look bad.”

He couldn’t believe it. They thought he’d fucked some random woman and then set her up for media abuse.
Holy shit
. He buried his face in his hands, wishing to hell he hadn’t had a drop to drink. Even on top of his game, this would be absurd.

“Uh, oh,” Chance said. “Come here, Will.”

Will stood and joined his brother.

“It’s like a shrine or something,” Chance whispered.

“I’m not deaf, you assholes.” And it wasn’t a shrine… well, maybe it was. She deserved a shrine. His gaze flitted to the papers on the coffee table, and he had to shut his eyes again. She certainly deserved a lot better than that.

“So, how about letting us in, because maybe we read this wrong,” Will said, holding the photo of the two of them in Central Park. “Perhaps the citadel needs to open the gates for once.”

“Good one,” Chance said, fist bumping his brother.

“I love her,” Michael blurted, probably way too loud. The alcohol buzzing in his blood seemed to give him strength to open up to his brothers. That, or it just fucked up his filter. “I’m absolutely madly in love with her.”

“I’ll be damned,” Chance said.

Will grinned. “Claire told me this would happen. She said you’d fall hard and totally lose your shit. People with control issues often do.”

“I don’t have issues with my control. I have excellent control.” Unfortunately, the credibility of that point flew out the window along with his balance. As he teetered, then flopped back down in the chair, he realized his four drinks had been better than doubles. “And I haven’t lost my shit. I’ve lost the girl.”

After his brothers exchanged amused looks, Will said, “I don’t know if you’ve gained a sense of humor or not, but you’re pretty fucking funny.”

He didn’t feel funny. Nothing was funny. His chest had felt hollow since that horrible day of the wedding, and nothing, not even work, could relieve the ache. “I have to get her back.” He couldn’t just sit around and wait for something to happen anymore. He needed to make it happen. Clancy jumped in his lap and he hugged the dog close. “How do I get her back, Clancy?” He knew how silly this looked: a grown man wearing only underwear, hugging a dog wearing a bow in its hair—and he didn’t care.

Chance came over and put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Do what you do best. Think it through and create a plan. Do that chess game thing in your head you’re so good at and anticipate every move before you make your play.”

After straightening out the pictures on the mantle, Will returned to the sofa. “Tell us what you need, and we’ll help. I think you’re way out of your element here, and if you do what Chance says, and return to your logical way of reasoning things through, you’ll come up with a solution.”

Still hugging the dog to his chest, he tried to come up with a starting point, but couldn’t focus.

“I’m glad we’re not doing some freaky sex addiction intervention here,” Chance said. “I really wasn’t up to that.”

“Me neither,” Will agreed, rolling up the papers and tucking them under his arm. “We’ll leave you in peace, Michael.” He gave his brother an affectionate punch in the shoulder. “We’re here for you, man. Let us know if you need anything.”