And today, he didn’t bristle.
“I can’t imagine a love like that,” Doug continued. “And I married Wendy Rogers, a woman I’m madly in love with.” Silence followed, so he prodded. “Can you?”
The question brought forth a memory. One he spent a decade failing to forget.
“I love you, Jameson.” She stared at him with eyes so blue, he believed her. Clutched him with a grip so desperate, he thought she’d never let go. “Each for the other, two against the world.” A vow he recited back.
Wendy Rogers was Chloe’s best friend, so Doug must know of their history. Might even know how—and why—it ended.
“Sure can’t, Doug.” He stood, tossing his crumpled cup into the trash next to the desk. “I’m not a believer in love. The only thing permanent in my life is the guarantee that everything’s temporary.”
“Everything and . . . everyone?”
Jameson grabbed the file, tapped the bottom to straighten the life-altering documents inside, and turned to leave. “Even the United States Navy got the boot.”
He was in the lobby when Doug caught up to him.
“You’re not staying in East Hampton?” When Jameson shook his head, Doug pointed at the file. “What about Maine Hardware?”
“I’ll sell it.” Same as he intended to do with Maine Lane. “Unless Chloe wants to steal that out from under me, too.”
Which reminded him . . .
“I’m contesting the sale,” he warned Doug, adding some profanity-laced threats that made the eavesdropping receptionist gasp. “Mommy’s money and daddy’s influence won’t get her out of trouble this time.”
“She’s done well for herself,” Doug said, coming to her defense. “Considering.”
“Considering what? Life’s always been good to her. It’s that power and privilege thing.”
“Listen, I don’t know what happened between you two. I’m not sure Wendy knows, and if so, she isn’t talking. That means it must be awfully bad because she’ll jabber jaw given half an opportunity.”
“Don’t care, Doug. It’s ancient history.”
“History I’m not sure Chloe has forgotten. Her office is across the street,” he said, sporting a sudden twinkle. “Did I mention that?”
“You did. Did I mention you should fuck off and mind your own business?” His grin softened the reply and they shook hands, parting like old buddies.
On better terms this morning than last night.
“Hey, Jameson. Wait.”
One foot on the cobblestone sidewalk, he stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder.
“She never came back,” Doug said.
“What?”
“After you two had your, uh . . . history that summer. She never came back to school. Genevieve took her to Europe for the winter. Chloe completed her senior year and earned her diploma in Paris. She never came back to East Hampton until May. Memorial Day weekend, I think. She and Wendy picked out colleges that summer, and nobody ever talked about it again.”
She wintered in Paris. How fucking lovely. Meanwhile, he’d been walking through a hell of her making.
“Not sure why you think that information applies to me.”
“Because she never came back.”
“You just said she was back by Memorial Day.”
“Physically, yes. But the Chloe that Wendy knew? That I’m guessing you knew?” He shook his head. “She never came back. She was never the same after that.”
Hesitating, Jameson looked at his escape route—his truck parked at the curb. Then at the office across the street, the sign on the door eye-catching for its fresh, feminine vibe.
Something Borrowed.
Glancing back at Doug, he said the only thing he could. “She dug her own grave.”
His old friend—and Chloe’s defense lawyer, apparently—cocked his head. “Do you suppose she’s waiting for a wonderful reunion?”
Jameson stared at him with hard eyes. A stare that made many a terrorist pray aloud for sweet, swift death.
Each for the other, two against the world.
Lies.
“More like absolution for her guilty conscience.”
After his time as a SEAL, Jameson knew the feeling well. Guilt.
Taking a life would do that to you.
Once upon a time, there was a lost boy named Jameson Maine.
And Chloe Morgan, lost herself, fell in love with him.
Because Jesus Christ on a cracker, when you were a seventeen-year-old girl there was always a boy, wasn’t there?
But this wasn’t your average boy. No, sir.
He was sweet and tender and young, but still, so damn mature. An adult in the way a hard life forced you to be. And he made her teenage dreams come true.
He made her feel independent. A smart girl who could choose her own path in life, no demands to attend an Ivy League school then join a prestigious firm on Wall Street.
He made her feel important. A shoulder for her grief-stricken soulmate, though she had no experience of death herself. Nor the knowledge of unconditional maternal love.
He made her want for faraway lands. Naval bases filled with cookie-cutter housing that could fit newlyweds today and a family tomorrow.
He made her feel sheltered. Protected in a way that wealth and status never could, even against the hand that rocked the cradle and falsely claimed her best interest.
Until the warm fall day when he left. Without her.
Without a word, in fact.
And now that boy was a man. A man no longer sweet or tender. A man who loved the F-word and who used to love her. Told her so way back when anyway. And God, did she love him back.
Might very well still love him.
That was the problem with this boy-turned-man. He owned her heart and soul, even though he’d broken it and turned it black.
And even though she knew better, he made her think of another boy. One she loved just as much.
Inside her car idling a half block down the street, hidden behind a non-descript sedan that belonged to the owners of the bungalow three doors down, she watched that other boy run out the front door of a two-story colonial. A colonial painted winter white with black shutters and a red front door, grapevine wreath included. Very homey.
His frenetic energy made her smile, and laugh out loud when he stopped suddenly halfway down the flagstone sidewalk, putting on the brakes when something—or someone—called to him from the red doorway. Nodding as he ran back, he grabbed the ball cap, tucking it tight to his dark head, then retracing his steps, still running. Always moving.
Her smile slipped when she pictured the woman who handed him the pinstriped Yankees cap. Chloe knew her well, though her face was hidden from view. Though they could never become friends. Though they carried the same love for the same person.
Chloe watched him run down the sidewalk, opposite the direction of her car, until he was out of sight. Not daring to follow.
A glimpse was all she needed.
All she was allowed.
“Canon in D” sounded, her cell phone ringing through the car’s Bluetooth speaker. This morning, the wedding march didn’t bother her as much as it usually did.
She answered Wendy’s call as she pulled out of her parking spot, whipping a U-turn on the quiet residential street, avoiding passing by the colonial.