Broken Resolutions (11 page)

You’re in a library, moron
, she thought.
Go get a book
.

But what to read? She was too tired to start something new, but too awake to want pure fluff. So she reached for the perfect book, which was already sitting on the cart in the workroom. John Williamson’s debut novel,
Racing Heart
. When Jack woke up, she could show him the section she’d intended to read and explain what it meant to her.

She settled back beside him and opened the book. As always, she quickly lost herself in the love story between Charlie, a man with a heart defect, and Dominique, a lonely widow. After finishing the first chapter, she flipped to the dedication page. She’d read it many times before, curious about the people who’d shaped the life and thoughts of her favorite modern author. Given his reclusiveness, it told her more than almost anything else she’d read about him.

It suddenly occurred to her that he and Jack shared the same last name.
A sign from the heavens
, she thought.
Clearly, Jack was meant to be my man.
She skimmed the dedications for the thousandth time. His editor. His agent. His wife. All the usual stuff.

To my loving mother, Brenda. I only survived losing Dad because your love was strong enough for two
. Weird. John Williamson’s mother had the same name as Jack’s. And she was a widow too.

To my unborn daughter, Casey. May you grow up knowing how fully and joyfully you are loved.

She flipped back to the publication information, her chest growing tight. The first print edition of
Racing Heart
had come out five years ago. Just about the time Jack’s wife would have been pregnant with their daughter Casey.

There was no author photo on the book jacket or inside the back cover, which was unusual. But there were other ways to see what John Williamson looked like.

She abruptly stood up, no longer concerned about whether she woke Jack from his sound sleep. With hurried steps, she moved to the workroom computer.

A quick image search later, she saw him. The picture had been taken from a distance, in profile. He was laughing, his face lit by the sun. His boots and jeans appeared well worn, and his athletic body looked ready to move. Ready to run. He had short brown hair and handsome features.

John Williamson was a good-looking man. Talented. Respected. Intelligent.

He was also the spitting image of Jack, the man lying on a bed of stuffed animals twenty feet away from her. The man who’d so easily identified every single book cover she’d shown him. The man who’d resisted talking about his accounting work. The man who’d said there was nothing wrong with her judgment. The man who’d promised he’d take care of her open, trusting heart. The man who’d had every opportunity to tell her about a hidden second life before screwing her.

Which meant John Williamson was also something else. Something less exalted.

John—Jack—Williamson was a liar. A goddamned, fucking liar. And somehow, over the course of nine hours on New Year’s Eve, she’d allowed herself to begin falling in love with him.

She didn’t know how to stem the pain streaking through her chest, or how to still the pounding in her brain. She didn’t know how to hold back the tears stinging her eyes and burning down her cheeks.

Right now, her every heartbeat seemed to echo the same word:
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
. She didn’t know how to stop that, either.

There was one thing she did know how to do, though. She knew how to send a lying man packing. She was good at it. She’d certainly had enough experience with the process to understand how it was done.

In five minutes, Jack—John?—would be on his way, out of this room. Out of the library. Out of her life. And then there would be time enough to cry, to rage, and to remind herself why she’d made that New Year’s resolution.

Because there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Because I choose men who lie to me. Who use me. Who don’t love me, no matter what they say.

She went to the filing cabinet. His keys sat right where she’d left them. She closed her fist around them, feeling the metal edges bite into her palm.

She stalked to his side and stood over his sleeping form.

“John Williamson.”

He stirred at the sound of her voice. At the sound of his name.

“John Williamson,” she repeated.

He sat up, looking confused.

“John Williamson.” Her voice was stony. Emotionless.

She saw his face change then, as he realized what she’d said. As he heard how she was saying it. His features crumpled in a way she hadn’t anticipated, as if his world was falling apart. But it was too late. She didn’t care anymore. She dropped the keys in his lap.

“John Williamson. Get out.”

11

O
n New Year’s morning, Jack woke up to the sight of Penelope standing above him, her hands on her hips. Her face icy, despite the tear tracks on both cheeks. Her voice full of barely controlled rage as she repeated his name. His
real
name.

No, no, no
, he thought.
Not yet. Not until she knows she can trust me. Not until she loves me enough to forgive me.

“John Williamson. Get out.”

His brain still fuzzy from sleep, he struggled to find the right words to explain himself. He searched for arguments, entreaties, declarations—anything that would wipe that blank look from her eyes. Anything. “I was going to tell you. I swear, I was going to tell you.”

“Get out,” she repeated.

“Let me explain,” he begged, rising to his feet. “When I divorced Casey’s mother, the media hounded us. I was worried about how growing up under that kind of scrutiny would affect Casey. So I tell people I’m an account—”

“Get out.”

“I just didn’t want you to run when you realized who I was. When you realized I’d lied to you about my job when I introduced myself earlier.”

“Get out.”

He reached for her, but she jerked out of his grasp. “Penelope, I’m falling in love with you. Please let me try to make this right.”

At that, she broke. “How dare you?” she snapped, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “You told me you were the man who’d take care of my heart. You told me I could trust myself. You told me I could trust you. Instead, you fucked me, using a false name and a false life history. If that’s love, I want none of it. Not an atom. Not a second.”

“Everything I’ve told you is true,” he said. “Everything except what I do for a living. My legal name is John, but I’ve always gone by Jack. I told you about my daughter. I told you about my mother. And I was going to tell you about my writing.”

“I don’t believe you. You had plenty of opportunities to say who you were, and you didn’t.” Her brown eyes were swollen, and the look in them sliced through him. The sense of betrayal written on her face made him frantic, grasping for an argument that might make her understand what he’d done. That might make her forgive him.

He bent down, grasped the keys she’d dumped in his lap, and dangled them in the air. “You lied to me too. Unless you just found these in the last few minutes, you’ve known where they were the whole time.”

“I wanted you!” she cried, slapping the tears from her cheeks. “I hid the keys because I wanted you, and I didn’t want to wait to be with you.”

“And your car?”

She bowed her head. “The battery is fine.”

“That’s my point. When you find someone you want, someone you could love, you do whatever it takes to get that person. Sometimes you even lie. Especially if that lie won’t hurt anyone. Not in the long run.”

She shook her head. “It hurt
me
, Jack. You knew my history. You knew how I felt about honesty, and you lied anyway.”

“If I’d told you who I was right after we’d met, what would you have done?” he asked her, determined to make her listen to him. “Would you have given me a chance? Or would you have run away from me?”

Her shoulders slumped. “If you’d told me you were the bestselling, famous author of one of my favorite books? I’d have told you to find a better option than a shy librarian.”

“There is no better option for me. I want you.
Only
you. And I didn’t want you to reject me before I had the chance to show you what we could be together.”

“I understand that, Jack. But it should have been my choice. My decision. And you didn’t give me the information I needed to make the right one.”

He reached out again, and this time she let him. His hands cupped her face, and he stroked the tears from her wet cheeks.

“Please forgive me,” he whispered. “Please.”

She covered his hands with her own. At the gentle touch of her fingers, he felt a surge of hope. Then she grasped his hands and removed them from her face.

“I’m sorry, John,” she said. “Get out.”

Jack sat in front of his computer, looking at his upcoming publication and publicity schedule. His fifth book would be coming out in a few months, and his publisher had convinced him to do a virtual book tour via blogs. He hated the idea, but it was still better than flogging his novel on television or in front of crowds. Most writers were natural introverts. Putting them in front of large groups of people usually only led to trouble.

His eyes burned from staring at revisions, as well as lack of sleep. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Usually, this part of the publishing process didn’t bother him too much. It meant he’d succeeded. He’d completed a book, after all, which felt good. Usually better than this, but still. Good. And the opportunity to revise it before sending out Advance Reader Copies was crucial. He didn’t want bloggers and reviewers to catch continuity errors, typos, or other problems he could prevent by a little careful editing. This time, though . . . this time, the process was killing him. Everything was killing him. And he knew why.

It’s January 15. Two weeks since the first time I saw Penelope. Two weeks since the last time I saw Penelope.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He’d seen the back of her head twice, both times when he’d come to the library to see her and plead his case. Before he’d even made it through the entrance, she’d turned and walked into the workroom, closing the door behind her. The second time he’d gone there, the other librarian—the blonde one, Angie—had pulled him aside.

“There’s no point,” she’d said. “Penny’s quiet, but she’s stubborn as a mule. I’ve been trying to plead your case. Not getting very far, though.”

“She told you . . .” He’d trailed off, not wanting to reveal anything Penelope might like to keep hidden.

“Who you are? Yeah. But I already knew. I recognized you the moment you walked into the library on New Year’s Eve.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I thought you’d be perfect for her, and I didn’t want her to reject you before she had a chance to meet you,” Angie had explained.

“But that’s exactly why
I
didn’t tell her!” he’d almost shouted, frustrated beyond endurance.

“I know. If it’s any consolation, she got angry at me too. After I told her, it took a week before she started talking to me again.”

“It’s no consolation,” he’d muttered.

“Think about it this way. She’s my best friend. She’s known me for more than twenty-four hours. Also, she knows my real name and real job, and she has from the beginning. So that’s probably why she’s willing to forgive me, as opposed to you.” Angie had tapped her chin with a thoughtful finger. “Oh, and I didn’t have sex with her. I’m sure that makes it easier to overlook my flaws.”

So he’d left. And, unwilling to become a stalker, he hadn’t returned to the library since. Even though every time he passed by it in his truck, he had to fight the urge to turn the steering wheel and drive into the parking lot. More than anything, he wanted to stride into the library and make her listen to him. Make her understand just how badly he’d wanted her, and how desperately he still did.

He’d tried sending her letters, but she’d returned them unopened.

He didn’t have her phone number, so he couldn’t call her.

He’d sent several e-mails to her work account, but she’d changed her settings to bounce his messages back automatically.

Short of hiring a skywriter or sending a singing telegram, he didn’t see what else he could do. He either had to get over her or come up with a better idea, one she couldn’t dismiss out of hand. He needed a gesture that would speak to his knowledge of her and her fierce, intelligent, fragile heart. Something that would tell her he loved her in a way she could believe.

And since he didn’t seem to be able to get over her, he had to figure it out. Soon. Before she forgot New Year’s Eve, that shining glimpse of what they could be together. Before he ran out of hope. Before his heart broke entirely.

12

“E
nough,” said Angie. “It’s February, and you’re still moping around over Jack. You need to contact him.”

Penelope swiveled her chair in Angie’s direction, trying to figure out a way to deflect her friend for the millionth time since New Year’s Day. The door to the workroom was open. Maybe if she—

“If you try running to the workroom again, I’m unlocking the door and telling Freddie you want a kiss. A
wet
kiss.” Angie nodded toward the door, where they could see the young boy’s mouth pressed against the glass. He’d opened wide, alternately licking the painted letters on the glass and scraping at them with his teeth. “He seems talented. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

“He tries that anyway, even without your encouragement.”

Angie winced. “I know. I dealt with him those four Saturdays last month. I bathed in hand sanitizer those nights.”

Penny had no sympathy. Taking those weekend shifts was the least Angie could have done, given how much the New Year’s Eve program had damaged Penny.

She’d left the library minutes after Jack had finally driven away that morning, making it home in a numb stupor. A quick shower hadn’t sufficed to wash the feel of him from her body, just as a few hours of sleep hadn’t worked to remove him from her mind. She’d lain under her comforter all day, unable to think about anything but Jack and their night together. Unable to do anything but hurt.