Making It Last - A Novella (Camelot Series) (8 page)

She smiled. “I meant, you know, mansions or prefab boxes or little cottages on the beach? Frank Lloyd Wright–ish sorts of houses?”

“Custom stuff, but only a few that have been super fancy. Mostly they’re just houses, for families to live in.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. I used to do commercial stuff—warehouses, renovations, car washes, pull-aparts. That kind of work is a drag. Houses are better.”

“How come?”

She was playing with her earlobe, looking right at him like she really wanted to know. Like she wasn’t sure how he would answer the question, which was interesting.

He thought maybe she’d never asked before.

That he’d never even tried to explain it.

“When you build something like a car wash … it’s fine. The client wants a car wash, they tell you what it’s supposed to be like, you get it done. There’s satisfaction there, I guess. But building a house—there’s always a story to it. The people want something, and partly it’s a house, but it’s also this
idea
of a house, and I love being able to give them what they want. Sometimes even something better than what they want.”

“That’s kind of presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that’s not quite what I mean. What I mean is, they haven’t thought everything through, and maybe the architect hasn’t, either, but I can make sure their doors get hung right so they don’t cut off access to the light switch when they’re open. I can hire the most talented trim carpenter I know—this buddy of mine who insists on the best wood and always makes sure the grain matches. I can figure out that they’re really serious about the fireplace, or they have this dream about sitting on the front porch together, and I can make sure they get the most careful mason, or that the guys I hire to do the porch are super meticulous so it’s perfect for these people.”

“I get it. So what’s the best house you’ve built?”

“Best how?”

“The one with the best idea behind it.”

He frowned.

Surely she knew.

Surely she didn’t want him to tell her that the best house he’d built was the one he built for their family. For her.

But she was looking at him guilelessly, legs crossed, leaning forward in the chair enough to give him a view down her dress that he didn’t think was an accident.

She really seemed to want to hear this.

“I built one for this couple,” he said. “Two kids, and a third one on the way.”

“What was special about it?”

“It wasn’t any one thing. It was all the details, added together. The skylight in the mudroom, so it’s not gloomy where they come in from the garage. Cork floors in the kitchen so her feet won’t ache when she’s cooking. The laundry room has a built-in table, long and narrow, for folding clothes on, and deep enough underneath so the baskets fit.”

But none of that was why it was special. He’d built the house as proof of how much he loved her. Proof that he could take care of her, that he had something to give her and the kids. Proof that he was worthy of her.

He’d built it because he wanted to be able to think of her inside it, surrounded by walls he’d had put up, windows he’d had installed. He’d wanted her to look around that house and think about him and feel safe and loved, even when he wasn’t there.

He didn’t know how to put that into words that made sense for Jennifer and Steve—or even into words that didn’t sound so stupid that he couldn’t say them out loud.

It was just a house.

He was just a guy who knew how to work and fuck and grill a decent steak.

And anyway, he wasn’t going to be building houses like that anymore. Not if things kept slipping away from him.

Amber’s eyes had lost focus. He’d been sitting there, brooding over her question, and she’d gone somewhere else in her head.

“I’m boring you, sorry. Too much shop talk.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a trainer,” she said. “I work at a gym.”

He saw her in yoga pants and a sports top, walking some poor besotted sap through his weight routine.

She’d gone to school for sports management, been working at the community center when he met her, and in the past couple years since Jake started preschool she’d found her love of exercise again. Lost some weight that was bothering her, put on some muscle.

She looked like a trainer now, out for a night of fun. Lean body, trim and muscular.
Those fingernails, and the dress.

The haircut, too. Her haircut kept startling him. She’d never had short hair, not once since he met her or in any picture of her he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t just short, it was
short
—half an inch long in some places, maybe two inches in others, revealing the shape of her head and the length of her neck. There was something choppy about the way it had been cut, so that it looked like somebody’s hands had been in it. Fingers skimming the crown of her head, pulling a slick line to a point in the tender space before her ear.

It made him notice how her eyebrows arched and how enormous and luminous her eyes were. How her face wasn’t as round as it had been when they met, because the years had drawn hollows where she hadn’t always had them.

The dress hung suspended from glittery straps, draped in front in a way that exposed her collarbones.

She couldn’t be wearing a bra.

He looked at her mouth, painted red, and wondered if the lipstick would be sticky or dry. If her mouth would taste like Amber. What her skin would smell like tonight.

How it was possible that she’d looked like this all along, and he’d known it, but he hadn’t been taking the time to really
look
.

Her neck seemed so naked with her hair gone. As naked as the constellation of freckles over her right hip. She had a hollow there where he liked to put his mouth.

“You should work at a gym.” He was breaking character, but whatever. This was more important. “If that’s what you want, you should do it.”

She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. “And you should build houses. Only houses.”

“I wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

But he couldn’t answer that question, and he couldn’t look away from her mouth.

He felt shaky, so he slid his hand out from under hers and took a drink. Wine always tasted like vinegar to him, but at least it was cold.

She gave him a little smile. An offering.

“Amber,” he said. Because she held his heart in her hands, and he would drink white wine with her forever if she would let him back in.

She pursed her lips. “Jennifer.”

Tony looked at the ocean.

He didn’t want to play anymore. He wanted to make love to his wife, to look in her eyes and know she was there and she was okay.

He wanted to make everything okay, through sheer force of will.

Not the kind of hope he could take to the bank.

“It’s time for more innuendo,” she said. “Your nipples are hard.”

“That wasn’t innuendo. And you’re not supposed to notice.”

“I’m supposed to notice. I’m just not supposed to say.”

“Either way. You’re not very good at this.”

“I hardly ever get complaints.”

That made her smile. “You’re so cocky, Steve. It’s lucky for you that I’ve always had a thing for cocky men.”

“I’m at least ninety percent cock, Jennifer.”

She snorted, and he knocked back a gulp of cold chardonnay, feeling like he’d accomplished something.

“You were supposed to ask if I liked my job,” she said.

“I was?”

“Yes. So I know that you’re interested in more than my nipples.”

“Oh, I am. I’m interested in a lot more than your nipples.”

“So say it.” Her eyes were happy.

“Say what?”

“ ‘How do you like being a trainer, Jennifer?’ ”

“I bet you like it a lot.”

“I do,” she said. “It’s fun.”

“What do you like about it?”

She tilted her head, considering. “I like that people come in with something wrong, and I can help them fix it, but they have to do all the work. It’s their choice, and they have the freedom to stop coming if they want.”

“Why do you like that?”

“Because it means that when they’re in front of me, asking for my help, I know they’re going to get what they want and then feel better. They’re going to be able to go through their day with less back pain, say, or to feel more attractive or energetic because they’ve lost the weight that was making them unhappy.”

“It sounds very … concrete.”

She nodded enthusiastically, and he knew he’d said the right thing. “It
is
. And when I leave at the end of the day, it’s over. It’s got excellent boundaries.”

Tony thought about Amber’s day. Amber’s life. There were no boundaries in it anywhere. Just kids who needed her all the time, no matter whether she was supposed to be on or off duty. Him, coming home late, needing conversation or comfort in the middle of the night.

He could see the appeal of the fantasy.

He could understand the appeal of the gym, too, as much as he’d resented hearing her talk about Marc when she was a member there going for regular training sessions. Marc this, Marc that.
Marc is going to help me strengthen my core
.

Tony had met Marc once. The power of his hatred for the man had surprised him.

Unfair to Amber, but there it was.

“I dated a girl with a job kind of like that,” he said. “She worked at a community center.”

“Was she cute?”

“Adorable. Hot, too.”

She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “What happened to her?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Last I heard, she was getting married.”

“It’s a plague.”

“She was pregnant.”

“Ah. The old shotgun wedding.”

“I always wondered if she’d have made the same choice. If she hadn’t been pregnant.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. Her mouth went flat, and he could see it in her face. She knew what he was asking.

Would you choose me again?

He’d never asked.

He’d always been afraid of what she’d say.

“What was the guy like?”

Tony looked at the ocean, because the bar was getting loud and he was starting to feel cramped, the noise compressing him into too little space.

“He was all right, I guess. He worked hard. Tried to give her the kind of life she deserved.”

“Did he love her?”

His foot found hers under the table, and he slid past so their legs pressed together, calf to calf.

He wished there were some way to tell her. Some new way that involved different words. Another language.

He said “Yes,” and it sounded like nothing.

“Did she love him?” she asked.

He looked up, wanting to see the answer in her expression, but now it was her turn to avoid his gaze.

Neither of them comfortable. Neither sure what to say in this conversation that wasn’t a conversation. This fantasy that wasn’t a fantasy, quite.

“I thought she did,” he said. “She left me for him.”

She drew a circle on the railing with her fingernail. “I think we’re both doing this wrong now.”

“Sorry. We can talk about something else.”

But he didn’t know what she wanted to talk about.

He didn’t know what she wanted at all.

They’d started off together in a pitch-black basement—not so auspicious, but they’d had a good time together in the dark. Swapped jokes, traded innuendo until he was so distracted by his dick he’d forgotten to be afraid down there.

He’d taken her home that night, and then he’d hesitated. Wanting her, but worried if he slept with her he’d get in over his head.

He was in over his head now. So far in.

He wanted in deeper. Wanted to dig himself in so far that there wasn’t any possibility of either of them turning back. To dig until the only option was to keep going forward, together.

But seeing her with that guy at the bar—thinking about Marc—he couldn’t pretend she didn’t have other options. She could leave him. It wasn’t in his power to stop her, if that was
what she wanted.

“You took off your ring,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So I think you must want something from me.”

“Something, huh?”

“Something.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept drawing circles on the railing with the shining tip of her polished fingernail.

He imagined that fingernail on his dick and shuddered when the image swamped him in a wave of lust. It was fucking
weird
, wanting his wife this way—like she was a stranger, and so was he. But he did. He
did
want her. And more than that, he wanted her to want
him
. He wanted her to tease him with those fingernails, to invite him back to her room and fuck him like they’d never done it before.

“You tell me what you need,” he said. “And I swear to God, I will give it to you.”

She smiled faintly. “What if I want a house on the beach?”

“I’ll build you one.”

“A million dollars?”

“I’ll rob a bank.”

“What if I want some of that cockiness, back in my room?” She put the glass to her lips.

“You want the cockiness or the cock?”

That made her snort, and wine spilled over her chin.

“Tony!”

He mock-glowered. “Who the fuck is Tony?”

“My husband.”

“You say his name in bed, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

“As if you’re in a position to make threats.”

“I know lots of positions. I’m sure I can find one that makes you feel obedient.”

She made a movement like she was tossing her hair, but she didn’t have any hair to toss anymore. That made them both grin.

“Jennifer is many awesome things, but obedient isn’t one of them.”

She picked up her purse and stood, hooking the wine bottle between two fingers. “Come
on,” she said. “Bring your cockiness this way. Jennifer will show you where to put it.”

Tony grabbed his bag from off the floor and followed her.

He wondered if she knew that he would follow her anywhere.

Amber dropped the key card and her purse on the table near the suite’s entrance and then turned to see what Tony made of the room—surely the most lavish rented accommodation either of them had ever been in. It had an ocean-view balcony and an enormous four-poster bed with too many pillows. A little dining nook and a giant shower with two rainfall showerheads. Fresh flowers on the table.