Swept Away (24 page)

“Then why do you look worried?”

She raised her gaze to find Michael wearing a small, insightful grin, his head tilted
inquisitively. She returned a conceding smile. “I guess she’s been under a lot of pressure lately.
Planning a large wedding is stressful, plus she’s trying to prepare for her pottery showing at
the same time. But I’m sure she’ll bounce back to normal once all the hoopla dies down.”

He looked a bit skeptical, then slightly wicked. “Myself, I always find really good hoopla invigorating.”

She let out a short laugh, then covered her mouth as she felt eyes from other tables glance her
way. “Sorry,” she said softly.

“For laughing? Never be sorry for laughing, Debra. You have a great laugh.”

She met his gaze. Felt the flirtation, the heat of it rising to her cheeks. She didn’t know what to
say, so said nothing, but then regretted it—because it left the flirtation hanging in the air,
obvious, and them both so very married that it ate down into her marrow lightning-fast. “Let’s talk about you,” she said, desperately seeking a subject. “We always talk about me, but never
about you.”

His eyes widened. “Our entire last lunch was about me. You interviewed me, in fact— remember?”

Dunce. You are a dunce. Only, then she realized. “But you always politely turned the
conversation back to something about me. So I know facts about you, and about your career, but I don’t know... say, what your daughter is doing this weekend.”

All hints of mirth left his eyes and she wondered what she’d said that was so dreadful. The
mystery stretched further when the waitress returned to add water to glasses that set sweating
on the table between them. After she departed, Debra asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

He gave his head a short shake. “No, it’s just...” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it back to hers, now with a confiding expression. “Rhonda and I recently separated, so I only see Chloe on weekends now. I’m still getting used to the idea.”

Debra didn’t realize she’d lifted her hand to her chest until she felt her fingers splayed there. She couldn’t have been more stunned. “I’m...so sorry, Michael. I had no idea. I thought...” When he didn’t say anything to fill in the gap she’d just created, she continued honestly. “You
sounded...so happy about your marriage during our interview.”

He cast a slow, wry smile. “I was faking.”

Of course. You don’t air your personal problems to strangers. Which made it clear he no
longer considered her one. “Do you... want to talk about it?”

“She... got bored with me, I guess.”

“You’re kidding!” Drat—that might have come out sounding a little too impassioned.

But he didn’t seem to notice. “I thought we were happy. Twelve good years together, you
know? But over the last year or so, we just grew apart. She tried to blame it on my career—
claiming I was more devoted to the work than to her and Chloe. But I know how to be a good husband and a good father, always have. She’s the one who pulled away. And I feel like she pulled Chloe with her. Especially now.”

His pain radiated through his voice and she felt it deeply. “Do you see Chloe a lot?” She remembered from their interview that Chloe was nine, and sounded bright and energetic in a
way that had reminded her of Kat at that age.

Sadness clouded his face again. “Not as much as I’d like. The house is pretty lonely these days.
Weird, because writers like solitude—but not that much. I miss just hearing her playing in the
next room. And it seems as if... well, as if Rhonda keeps finding reasons to change our
schedule so Chloe sees me less. She makes plans for Chloe during the times she’s supposed to
be with me, things Chloe wants to do, so it makes me the bad guy if I object. I hate to say this,
but it feels vindictive, like she’s doing it to punish me for whatever she thinks I did wrong.”

She nodded, thinking it sounded vindictive, too, but resisted saying it, since she didn’t know
the situation, or the woman.

“I should have seen it coming, I guess. She quit having sex with me months ago. But I thought
it was always just coincidental—she was tired, or it was the wrong time of the month.” He
raised his gaze to hers. “I’ll admit I’ve spent the last six months buried in this book. It didn’t
write itself. But she knew what I was about when we got married. I’m not sure what changed.”

Debra didn’t know what to say. Except now she was imagining him having sex. Not with the
faceless Rhonda—but not with herself, either. She was simply reminded that he was a man,
and he had sex, he wanted it. They all did, of course, but the open knowledge of him having
warm, visceral desires settled low in her belly, like something intimate.

“God, I’ve blown this, haven’t I?” he asked, then scrunched up his nose in a playful manner she’d noticed before—it made him seem young, vulnerable, in a good way. Like he didn’t feel
he needed to put on any sort of virile act with her.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I meet a nice, pretty woman, I enjoy her company, I look forward to this lunch—
and now I screw it up by throwing up my personal life all over the table. That wasn’t part of my plan for today.”

His plan? He had a plan? Maybe that should worry her—but, to her surprise, it flattered her
instead. “What was your plan for today?”

He offered a soft smile. “Nothing too devious. When you agreed to read the book, I just...
realized I was going to enjoy seeing you again. I just wanted to have a pleasant lunch—that
simple.”

She nodded. “Well, so you know, you haven’t blown anything.” In fact, she found herself
wanting to comfort him... and something more, too. She hated the idea of him feeling sad and
wanted to be the person who changed it somehow.

He looked wistful. “But I always think other people’s marriage troubles sound so... generic, or
typical maybe. They’re complex when they’re happening to you, yet there’s so much divorce in the world that I always feel it sounds mundane. So I had no intention of boring you with it. Especially since I know you’re in a perfectly happy marriage yourself.” He wrinkled his nose
again, just slightly, then gave another playful grin. “I didn’t want to sound like one more
getting-divorced loser.”

“I would never think you’re a loser, Michael. And...” Could she say this, actually give voice to it? Up to this moment, it had all been thoughts and doubts and disappointments in her head—
but nothing concrete. And saying it would make it real. “Maybe my marriage isn’t so happy,
either.”

His face fell, as if truly saddened for her. “Really?”

She winced lightly, then nodded. “It’s not...” She swallowed, unsure what she intended to say, then pressed onward. “It’s not awful or anything. I just feel... neglected, I guess.” Then she bit
her lip, embarrassed. “I’m starting to see a trend here—men who work hard and women who
feel neglected.”

“Except for one thing,” Michael said. “I wasn’t really neglecting Rhonda. It’s an excuse she
used because she wanted out, and we both know it. I have a feeling,” he went on, looking deep
into her eyes, “that you’re not the kind of woman who makes things up. You seem...
unerringly honest. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to read the book. You seem like you
see the world very clearly, Debra. I noticed that about you immediately, and it’s one of the
things that drew me to you.”

He was drawn to her. That should have felt like a miracle, set her heart racing like a teenager.
But suddenly, already, it didn’t surprise her anymore. They were drawn to each other, and it
was no longer shocking—just a new awareness floating between them. The strange calm that
came with understanding that allowed her to stick to the topic. “Clark is very... money driven. Which can be a good thing. But like most things in life, when taken to excess, it’s too much. So
I’ve just grown to feel... lonely over the last few years.” Then she laughed, albeit without joy. “Lonely—what a morose word. Not a word I’d have ever dreamed of to describe myself.”

“Nor should it be,” he said, a light shining in his eyes. “You should never be lonely, Debra. He shouldn’t let you be.” That’s when he reached across the table to touch her fingers where they
played with the stem of her water glass. Her gaze dropped there, to their hands, together, then
rose to his eyes.

He pulled back. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to do that.”

She nodded quickly, dropped her gaze, and was glad when the waitress arrived bearing plates
of food. A few short smiles up at her, pleasantries about the meal and did they need anything
else, and she was gone—and they were back again, alone together. Their eyes, locked across
the table, said they both recalled that something weird and awkward had just happened.

Michael let out a sigh. “God, I so don’t intend to put the moves on you, Debra—okay?
Touching your hand like that... Totally out of line, and it won’t happen again. Forgive me?”

Something in her heart blossomed. He wore that boyish look once more, so sincere. “Yes, of course. And, well... it’s not as if you committed a grand crime. I’ll survive.” She even managed to smile.

He returned it. “So you’re not going to call off the friendship?”
She shook her head.

“Good.”

And then things settled—into talk about their meals, and food in general. Her family’s long
history in Naples; he’d only moved to the area as a teenager when his father had accepted a job nearby. They chatted about the Everglades, and the book The Orchid Thief, and they soon
discovered they shared a fondness for movies by the Coen brothers—although they agreed it
was a little out of character for them both. Talk turned to Kat’s work with children, and he
shared that he and Chloe had just signed up for a father/daughter art class on Saturdays. That somehow led to home dcor, and her fabulous new kitchen, although she admitted she wasn’t much of a cook, turning the conversation back to food. He then regaled her with tales of his culinary feats, impressing the hell out of her—since she couldn’t create great food, but she
certainly enjoyed it.

“Too bad you’ve got such a busy week ahead or I’d invite you over for lunch,” he said. Then he raised his eyebrows teasingly—temptingly. “I make a killer chicken parmigiana.”

“Next week?” she suggested. “The wedding will be over and I’ll have plenty of time.”

He grimaced. “Leaving on a short book tour Sunday night, as soon as Chloe heads back to her
mom’s. I’ll be gone for two weeks. But if you can’t make it this week, when I get back.”

She reached in her purse, locating her datebook much easier now than when she’d been
 
d
riving.

“Besides, this will give you a chance to read the book. You can rake me over the coals while
we eat,” he said with a grin.

“I could maybe do Thursday,” she offered.
His eyes widened hopefully. “This Thursday?”
“If the offer still stands.”

“Of course. Are you sure you have the time, though?”

She smiled boldly, pairing it with a nod. “I keep reminding myself lately that I should do more
things just for me. And this is for me.”

Chapter Nine

Hours passed, and Kat napped in Brock’s arms. He sat still, quiet, listening to the sounds of
the island—breezes ruffling palm fronds overhead, the occasional call of a bird—and felt
thankful when he heard nothing more.