If I Break THE COMPLETE SERIES Bundle (4 page)

“Fine,” I relent. “I’ll be out on the terrace while you look for him.”

“Okay. Back in five minutes,” he promises before hurrying off.

I sneak away to the terrace of the club. It’s my favorite place in Chicago. When the wind blows just the right way and the lights of the city sparkle in the night, I feel free. They remind me why I’m not in my old comfort zone in Michigan. This may be my lucky day, since only two couples are making out in the corner. Usually there are so many it’s embarrassing. I stroll to the other side so they can have their privacy. You can see all of Chicago from right here. I could stand here for hours, just looking out over the city.

I glance at my watch and notice it’s been around five minutes. I decide to head back to VIP before Ryan has a panic attack. Right as I’m making my way back into the club, Michael heads toward me.

“This must be my lucky day,” I mumble sarcastically to myself, but loud enough that he can hear me.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks as I walk past him.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone.” I smirk at him before continuing on my way.

“What? Who? I mean, you just got off,” he say, stumbling over his words. I guess I surprised him. I just smile with a shrug, but he calls after me, “Well, when you’re not busy, I need to talk to you.”

I don’t even look back. What Michael doesn’t understand is I don’t care what he needs. He lost that privilege when I caught him banging some girl in the storage room of the club. He didn’t even have the decency to screw her in his car like a respectful douchebag would do.

I’m seeing red as I make my way down to the VIP room. I’m in total disbelief at Michael’s audacity and sudden attempt to weasel his way back into my life, and I don’t even notice the person in front of me until I crash into him. A second later, I feel cool liquid spread down my blouse. Best day ever!

“I’m soooo sorry,” I say, embarrassed. This is completely my fault, and I’m even more furious that Michael caused me to do it.

“It’s okay,” a deep voice replies, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’m sure your shirt costs a lot more than this drink.”

I’m afraid to look up. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. When I work up the courage to finally see whose voice is making my heart try to escape my chest, I find a tall, ebony-haired stranger looking down at me.

And God, he has the most beautiful pair of gray eyes and an amazing smile with the most perfect lips in the history of mankind. I mentally remind myself not to swallow my tongue and breathe. Is he real? Or have I been knocked unconscious and am being fanned with a cover of
GQ
magazine? This encounter will probably turn out to just be a figment of my imagination.

The more I look—no, stare, I’m actually staring now—the more I decide he has to be an illusion. I search for a flaw, taking in every inch of him, from his chiseled features to his chocolate-brown hair falling right over his eyebrows, his strong broad shoulders hidden beneath a dark gray blazer and black fitted shirt. No flaw found. He’s unsettlingly beautiful.

“I-I’m sorry. I can be so clumsy at times,” I choke out, internally cheering as my mind begins taking control again.

“Let me get you something for that,” he responds, disappearing into the crowd.

I panic. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he 
does
 come back? That scares me even more. But a minute later, he’s here again with a cloth in hand, and I’m still not prepared to think like a civilized person instead of a cavewoman.

“Thank you,” I reply sheepishly, taking the cloth from his hand.

He’s smiling at me as though he knows a secret I’m not in on.

“I’m really sorry about your drink. I can get you another one,” I offer, staring up at him. He has to be at least six foot two. I unconsciously take a few steps back so I don’t have to look up at him like a little girl.

“You’re good,” he assures me coolly.

No, 
he’s
 good apparently, since no matter how hard I try, I can’t make my eyes leave his face. “I work here. It’ll be no problem.”

His gaze is intense, almost intimate, but his smile is so charming, or rather, welcoming—like he’s luring me. For a moment, time slows down. All of the noise around us has disappeared, and it’s just the music and my breathing.

I wonder if he hears it.

He steps closer to me, and I notice in those perfect gray eyes, the iris is surrounded by a subtle green tint. But beautiful as they are, they’re upstaged when he releases the right corner of his bottom lip that he’s been holding captive between his stark white teeth. His tongue sweeps across those delectable lips, adding the perfect amount of moisture, and right then, a wave of heat flushes through my entire body. I inwardly cringe for referring to a body part as delectable—a stranger’s body part at that—but there is absolutely no other way to describe them.

“I know.” His words jolt me back to reality, and I lean forward a bit, the return of the noise making it more difficult to hear him. A second later, he leans down toward me, his face near my ear, and my breath hitches. “Your shorts gave you away.” Just as quickly he’s back in his own space.

“These godforsaken shorts.” I’m so embarrassed and begin pulling them down.

He nods, a grin on his face as his eyes travel down my body. “No, thank God for those shorts.” He’s biting his lip again, and I feel myself turning all shades of pink. “I was actually coming to get a closer view of the woman I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of since she walked in.” He looks directly into my eyes with a smile that could melt the Arctic.

With that, I almost swallow my tongue. What am I supposed to say to something like that?

“She’s Lauren,” I can’t help but whisper. Wait, that wasn’t right.
Wake up, genius
! “I mean, I’m Lauren.” I laugh, hoping the music covers my ridiculous answer and that I won’t drop dead of embarrassment right here. Thankfully, my brain cells are released from my hormones’ grip and direct me to extend my hand.

He smiles, almost as if he’s amused. I guess I’d be amused too if I could reduce a college-educated woman to a bumbling idiot just by licking my lips.

“I’m Cal,” he replies.

I
open my eyes and turn over to see Cal’s still asleep. I remember when I would watch him sleep; he seems like such a different person when he’s asleep. When he’s awake, he’s confident, cool, and in control of every situation. I think this is the only time he doesn’t have a wall up—when he’s not plotting and planning and his guard is down—the one he always has up, even with me.

I touch a lock of his hair and move it back into place. He starts to wake up, so I turn away and settle back on my pillow. He knows I’m awake, but he won’t say anything to acknowledge it.

He runs his fingers through my hair before tracing a soft line down my neck and momentarily resting them on the small of my back. He begins to trace his signature there, making me roll my eyes and get goose bumps simultaneously. This is his way of saying good morning, a tease. I feel him get out of bed. His footsteps grow faint as he enters our bathroom and the door shuts. I roll onto my back, entangling myself in our sheets.

A sigh escapes my mouth as my thoughts drift to last night. Tingles shoot through my body at the memory, and I try to shake the thought. He can make me feel wanted and be so in tune with me
physically
, but his mind will still be miles away in an emotional desert. He didn’t used be like this. I can’t pinpoint when he changed, but somewhere along the line, he started to grow resentful toward me, or maybe toward our marriage. I’m not sure which, or if there’s even a difference. We used to talk about it—or at least
I
tried to talk and he blew me off, telling me I was paranoid and overreacting. Now I don’t talk—I throw fits.

I didn’t used to be angry and vindictive all the time, but now it’s my defense mechanism. It’s about my only way to maintain my sanity. He has a barrier up that he won’t let me see behind. I only see what he wants me to see. I’ve known him for three years, and he’s still a puzzle I’m trying to solve. Sometimes I just get mad and want to throw the pieces at the wall and give up.

Unfortunately, I always come back, letting the mystery of the final project pull me in. It seems that’s what we’ve been reduced to—emotional mind games. We both play them. He’s forced me to play, and all I want is for it to be over and for us to be how we were before we were married. If it were up to me, I’d wake up every morning and tell him how much I love him.

Now, I just keep my feelings to myself until I have an emotional overload, like yesterday, aided by a bottle of wine—a bad habit I’ve developed after being left alone for days at a time.

His story is that he’s working. I do believe him—mostly—and for a while, I was content to share him with his job—or at least what he says is his job. I’ve never been privy to the specific details, other than that he works in a special division of Crestfield Corporation, a company that has its hand in nearly everything, from real estate to commercial retail and highly questionable financial investments.

Conveniently for Cal, he’s in a position that’s so confidential he can’t even tell his own wife where the hell he is half the time. When I complain, he says I knew this when I met him. And I did, but getting surprise visits from my boyfriend when we didn’t live together was exciting. The picture isn’t so rosy when you’re home alone most of the time and it seems as if your husband is just dropping by rather than living with you.

I look toward the window, where the sun is shining in. He must have opened the blinds. Two conclusions quickly come to mind: he’s either trying to wake me up, or he’s just trying to annoy the shit out of me. Whichever it is, I’m not happy about it.

I grab the remote that controls the blinds and close them again. I hate how the weather almost never matches my moods. Right now I would prefer it to be raining and dark out, that way I could linger in my depression, but as always, things never go as I plan.

I hear him come back into the room, and I look over as he opens the closet. His typical getup—a gray button-up and black slacks—will be, I’m sure, paired with one of his long black coats. He probably spends more money on clothes than I do. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him leave the room, so I return my attention to the ceiling. Suddenly I feel the sunlight on my back. He’s opened the damn blinds again. I was right. He’s trying to bug the shit out of me.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“It’s time to get up.” He glances at me while rifling through his drawer across the room.

“It’s morning. I’d like to sleep,” I growl before burying my head beneath the covers.

“Morning?” he asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “It’s one o’clock.” He laughs.

One? I roll over and maneuver myself to see the clock on his dresser. Damn. He’s right.

“I’m sorry I tired you out. I won’t keep you up so late tonight,” he says, smugness lacing his voice. He turns his attention to his cell phone.

I roll my eyes at him and start to get up, making sure the sheet covers my entire body. He notices.

“You have something I haven’t seen before now?” he asks deviously.

I don’t dignify him with an answer. I head to my closet, which he is now blocking.

“Excuse me,” I say sharply.

He just smiles at me. When he doesn’t move, I push past him, but he holds on to the sheet, so my choices are to either keep walking, bare as an egg, or to stay put and covered. I tug on it, but he won’t let go. In a battle of strength, he’ll win every time, so I do the only thing I can to save my dignity. I throw my hands up and twirl around in the birthday suit God gave me.

“Happy now?” I ask sarcastically.

“Well, you are wearing my favorite outfit on you,” he says with an amused grin. He points his phone at me, and the flash goes off on the camera.

“Real mature, Cal!” I chastise him before going into my walk-in closet and slamming the door.

I look around, see my robe hanging on a hook, and put it on. I go to my dresser and look for something to wear today. I need to get out of this house.