Melt Into You (38 page)

“I know.” Amy sighed. She looked back at Natasha. “But you can’t just pretend nothing ever happened between you two!”

“Sure, I can.” Natasha struck a goofy, ultra-aloof pose. “See? I’m doing it right now.”

“Very funny. My point is, now that the initial shock has worn off, maybe you two can talk reasonably. It can’t hurt.”

“That’s what you think. It
can
still hurt. Believe me, I know.” Every day it hurt, and it didn’t look as if things would improve anytime soon. Every time Natasha picked up a book to read to Milo, every time she walked the familiar path to Milo’s school, every time she looked at a tail-wagging Finn or walked in her front door ... Damon was there. Except he wasn’t. In his place was a big, empty hole, and Natasha had no way to fill it again. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m too busy to talk to Damon. This is the first break I’ve had from interviewing all week.”

“And you’re spending it with us.” Happily, Amy smiled at her. She cradled her expanding belly, absentmindedly stroking it. “How’s the job hunting going, anyway? Made any decisions?”

Natasha shook her head. “It’s been weird, actually. All the job offers I’ve had are terrific. They really are. They’re all lucrative and plenty tempting. But none of them would give me the same autonomy and freedom I had as Damon’s assistant.”

“Really? But I thought the demands of working at Torrance Chocolates were what kept you from doing your artwork?”

“Yeah. I thought so, too. But now it looks as though that situation would be even worse elsewhere.” Contemplatively, Natasha watched the waves breaking on the beach. She swept her hair from her face, shivering at the sea breeze. “I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t my job at all. Maybe it was me.”

“Well, you could always pursue artwork full-time,” Amy ventured, pulling Isobel closer to spray her little arms and legs with a fresh dose of sunscreen. She kissed her head, then set her free and started in on Manny. “You gave up art so quickly after you met Paul. You never really had a chance.”

“I know. The thing is ... maybe it’s never been what I really wanted to do. Maybe Paul was just my excuse for quitting.” Natasha hugged her legs to her chest, then rested her chin on her knees. “It
was
a big relief to switch majors and ditch the weekly critiques I used to get from my fine arts professors.”

“Hmmm. Better for the ego that way, that’s for sure.”

“Exactly!” Natasha laughed. “No fear of failure. If you don’t try, you can’t lose.” Which sounded a lot like Damon, it occurred to her. Except he’d tried
too
hard in Las Vegas.

With Damon, everything tended to be all or nothing.

“So what do you want to do now? Keep job hunting?”

“Maybe.” Natasha shrugged. “I might have to. With my luck, all those companies I’ve met with will withdraw their offers.”

“Right. You’re
so
unlucky that all the companies that have been pursuing you for weeks now will give up on you just when you decide to say yes.” Amy’s caring, unexpectedly exasperated gaze met hers. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Natasha blinked. “Do what?”

“Use that ‘bad luck’ excuse of yours to explain away every ordinary, garden-variety event that ever happens to you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing! I really
am
unlucky.”

“Really? Are you?” Skeptically, Amy peered at her. “Are you sure you’re not just using that bad-luck stuff as an excuse? You’ve already excused yourself at least once before, you know, when you convinced yourself
Paul
was the reason you quit art—”

“He
was
the reason!” Natasha said. “Except ... I just realized he wasn’t. Probably.” She bit her lip, feeling uncertain. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Quitting Torrance Chocolates and leaving Damon has set me kind of adrift, I guess.”

“So it’s probably better to avoid the whole thing, right?”

“Right,” Natasha agreed emphatically, feeling happy that at least
someone
understood her for a change. “Absolutely.”

For a second, the only sounds were the gulls, the waves, Manny and Isobel’s nonsense chatter ... and the guilty, confused beating of Natasha’s heart. She lifted her head.

“That was a trick question, wasn’t it?” she asked.

Amy smiled. “You’d better believe it.”

“You wanted me to realize that avoiding the issue isn’t the answer.” At her friend’s answering nod, Natasha sighed. “What is
up
with you people lately, anyway?” she wanted to know. “Have you been taking lessons from Carol or what? All of a sudden, I can’t so much as make a sandwich without my former mother-in-law demanding I reexamine my perspective on things.”

“Well ...” Amy offered a nonchalant shrug of her own. “Maybe you should give it a whirl sometime. Maybe it would help.”

With a refusal already on her lips, Natasha stopped herself. Instead of saying no, she only gazed out at the ocean. She remembered how beautiful it had looked during her moonlit stroll with Damon. Then, quietly, she said, “Maybe I will.”

If nothing else, it was a start. A tiny, barely noticeable start. But it was better than nothing. She was on her way.

“I really thought I was on my way!” Damon told Jason at 5:15 that evening. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the paper-cupped chocolate samples, the fresh pitchers of water at the testing table ... the conspicuously
empty
panelists’ chairs. “I really thought I was making progress. And now ... zilch. There’s not a soul here. Not even that guy from marketing who always talks in buzzwords and tells me how ‘awesome’ everything tastes.”

“He’s been angling for a promotion, bro.” Jason crossed his arms. “He thinks if he brownnoses you enough, you’ll put in a good word with your dad. And speaking of Jimmy ...” Damon’s buddy looked around quizzically. “Where is he? He’s
always
here in the lab.”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been around all week—which is probably for the best, frankly. I can’t create
and
try to make amends with my dad.” Despondently, Damon plopped on the rollaway cot he’d had brought into the lab. He fluffed his pillow, then swiveled on his back and brooded at the ceiling. “Why didn’t anyone come to the five o’clock tasting panel? What do I have to do?”

“Wait. Is that cot for you?” Jason asked. “Has it been here all week? Have you been
sleeping
in here?”

“Don’t they know I need testers? Don’t they know I can’t do this without them?” Damon lamented, feeling unfairly put upon. “I’m trying to do a good thing here,” he told his buddy. “I should be rewarded for that, shouldn’t I? I’m kind of new to this one-hundred-percent-good-deeds stuff, but—”

“You
have
been sleeping in here.” Jason crossed his arms, marveling at him. “You are completely gone over Natasha.”

Damon scoffed. “She has nothing to do with this. Besides, even if she did ... so what? Like
you
never threw yourself into work to forget a girl. Remember, back in college? You—”

The chocolate lab doors burst open, interrupting him.

“Hey! Am I late to the party?” Wes Brinkman strode in, full of his usual wiseass joie de vivre. “Where’s the candy?”

“Get out of here, Wes. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Yeah. Get lost,” Jason said, backing him up. With a certain undeniable zeal, he added, “
You
don’t get any candy.”

Wes laughed. “Nice to see you, too, Huerta. You’re just as sanctimonious as I remember. And Damon ... well, you’re still pouting over Natasha, I see. You disappoint me. You and your newfound faithfulness are a disgrace to millionaire playboys everywhere.” Wes clucked with dismay. He strode to the sample table, plucked up a miniature, chocolate-covered sunflower-seed-butter cup, then ate it. His eyes lit up. He selected another variety, then eagerly swallowed it, too. He picked up a third, then used it to point to Damon. “They’re going to throw you out of the club, you know. You’re playing with fire here, with all this ...” Wes gave a moue of distaste. “Relentless
work
.”

“I mean it, Wes.” Getting up, Damon flexed his jaw. “You’re the last person I want to see right now. After what you did—”

“After what
I
did? Oh no. You can’t offload all this on me,” Wes insisted, shaking his head. He gobbled up the last chocolate he’d selected. “Why didn’t you tell Natasha the truth that night, dumbass? You know damn well you didn’t do anything close to what she accused you of.” With another head shake, Wes ate more chocolate. “Instead you just stood there and took it.”

Damon glared at him. “You wouldn’t understand.” He could still see the crushed, inconsolable look in her eyes. Stonily, he strode across the room, trying to forget. “I let her down.”

“Did you?” Wes seemed intrigued. “I understand it probably looked that way.
I
didn’t realize it at the time, of course, because I was completely smashed.” He gave a sweeping bow, as though he expected applause. “But you have to admit, if you
had
been trying to win the fair lady’s heart for your own nefarious reasons—to rehab your dinged-up public image—you would have done
exactly
what you did. You would have charmed her, wooed her—”

“But I didn’t do that.” Feeling confused, Damon stared at Wes with his hands clenched at his sides. “I mean, I
did
, but not for the reasons she thought I did. Anyway, the point is—”

“The point is,” Wes said grandly, “that
you
need to cut Little Miss Puppies and Rainbows some slack here. Give her a break. It’s not easy living with men like us, you know.”

Jason boggled. “You’re right about that. You’re working on my last nerve, B-Man.” He stepped threateningly nearer.

Wes only laughed again. “Settle down, Huerta. There’s no need to get thuggish. I only came here to tell Damon something.” His gaze swiveled to him. “You expected her to believe you’d changed. You wanted her to validate that, even without your explaining it to her.” Wes held up his palm. “Don’t bother denying it. I could see it in your eyes,” he said, forestalling Damon’s interruption. “But nobody else can do that for you. Believing you’re good enough is
your
work to do.”

“Right.” Feeling beyond cynical, Damon folded his arms. He gave Wes a hard look. “Did you read that in a fortune cookie? Or was it included in one of your many sets of divorce papers?”

“Neither one.” Wes tapped his temple. “It’s all up here.”

This time, Damon laughed outright. “Get real. You’re hardly in a position to hand out relationship advice, Wes.”

“Well ...” Hesitantly, Jason nodded. “He might have a point.”

Damon wheeled around to face him, even as Wes went on munching his way through the array of chocolate-testing samples.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being married to Amy,” Jason rushed to say, “it’s that everybody has their own sore spots to deal with. And sometimes, when your sore spots collide with
her
sore spots ... well, disaster strikes. Maybe that’s what happened with Natasha. Maybe
she
couldn’t give you what you needed—and
you
couldn’t ask her for it because ... Hell, I don’t know why. I’m no shrink. I’m just a guy with a wife and a couple of kids. All I know is, maybe you’re giving up too soon.”

“Giving up?” In disbelief, Damon stared at him. “I’ve been working my ass off all week. I’m not giving up on anything!”

“You’re giving up on her.” Wes picked up a swirled candy bar with bittersweet chocolate and a cherry center. He ate it, then nodded with approval. “Don’t be a dick, Damon. Go get her.”

“I
can’t
go get her,” Damon insisted. “Not yet.”

Not until I make things right. Not until I make
me
right
.

Being with Natasha meant too much to him. Damon couldn’t risk screwing up. Not with her. Not again. He already knew what colossal failure looked like, and he wasn’t interested in re-experiencing it.

In frustration, Damon stared at Jason and Wes. They didn’t understand. Jason had Amy. They were the perfect couple. And Wes ... well, Wes had everything
except
a perfect partner. Including a ridiculous amount of sheer, balls-out, well-meant audacity.

Frankly, it was just like old times between them.

In the silence, Jason nodded toward Wes. “The idiot savant of relationship advice is right. It’s time. Go get Natasha.”

“Hey!” Wes burst out, looking offended. Then he shrugged. “Never mind. I guess that’s fair.” He picked up a few more cups of chocolate. “These are really tasty, by the way. Yum, yum.”

Taken by surprise, Damon blinked at him. “You like them?”

“Are you kidding me? You’d have to tie me to a tree, cover me in honey, and let fire ants bite me on the testicles to get me to quit eating these things,” Wes said emphatically. “Even then, I’d probably try dipping the chocolate in the honey.”

“Okay.” Making a disgusted face, Jason turned to Damon. “Word of advice?
Don’t
go with that testimonial in the advertising.”

Damon laughed. “I won’t. But ... you
really
like them, Wes? Some of those chocolates are”—he hesitated—“allergen-free.”

“So?” Wes licked his fingertips. “Does that mean they’re full of bizarre ingredients or something?” A shrug. “I can’t pronounce half the things in a chicken nugget, and I eat those.”

“Hmmm. Good point.” Damon thought about that. “And no, they don’t contain anything bizarre. The trick is thinking about all the things I
can
include instead of the few things I can’t.”

“Whatever, Martha.” Wes went on chomping. “I don’t know squat about chocolate making, but I know what I like. These.”

“Well, it’s unlikely you’re being tactful,” Damon told him. “After all, you’re
you
. If you hated my candy bars, you’d tell me. You’re a giant walking ego. You think everyone cares what you think—and needs to know about it, the moment you think it.”

“If you’re trying to tell me they don’t ... save your breath.”