“It’s been a long time,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Not long enough. What do you want?” she asked again.
“It’s our anniversary, Margie. I was thinking about you, wanted to tell you that I appreciated what we had, and that I’m really sorry I fucked it all up.”
His voice was so sincere, the tone so apologetic, that she had to work to stay centered, to keep from slumping back into the person who’d accepted his excuses. It helped that he called her “Margie.” She hated that, had told him a dozen times she didn’t like the nickname. That he still used it said a lot about his character.
“I don’t want your apologies or your thoughts, Rowan. I want you to lose my number and never contact me again.”
“That’s entirely fair, and I don’t blame you for it. I just—I’m traveling, and I’m in a hotel room alone, and the mind begins to track back, to think, to look at the way things were. I’d have hated myself even more if I didn’t take the time to tell you how amazing you are. You deserve that, Margie. And more.”
He was good. She could admit that to herself, because it just confirmed what she believed—that he’d say pretty much anything to weasel his way back into her life. That was the game he played. He’d be charming as long as he was pursuing her, because he loved the thrill of the chase. But when that was done, he’d become—slowly or not—an asshole.
Rowan might have been a bully, but he was also a coward. “If you call me again, I’ll hand the phone to Ethan, and I’ll let him decide how to handle you.”
Margot ended the call, put down the phone, and fisted her hands together to stop the shaking; she wasn’t sure if it was from fury or fear. Then she blew out one breath, then another, until her heart was no longer racing.
She’d faced her fear, and she’d handled it. She’d hung up on him. She’d set a boundary.
She needed to keep doing that—setting appropriate boundaries. The courage it had required to threaten him with Ethan just confirmed to her that she wasn’t ready for a relationship.
With no better options, Margot pushed the phone into her apron pocket and got back to work.
4
The pizza had been delicious. Mallory had stayed for dinner, not just for the food but also to help keep me calm while the others investigated.
I was tired, physically and emotionally. Mallory must have seen it, because when dinner was over, she stood up, offered me a hand.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I’m going to grab some brownies or ice cream or candy corn—whatever’s available—from Margot, and we’re going to your apartments, and you’re going to rest. We’ll watch a movie or play cards or something.”
I opened my mouth to object, thinking I needed to contribute to the search, but Ethan shook his head.
“We’ll handle this. The Ombudsman’s office is involved, and the House is secure. Have a break and relax with Mallory. You can . . . complain about men and our foibles.”
I stared at him. “Is that what you think women talk about?”
He leaned forward, kissed my forehead. “In addition to the important social and political events of the day, yes.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
I kicked off my shoes the second I stepped into the apartments, then headed for the bathroom and turned the shower’s silver taps.
The hot water helped soothe the aches from the fight—or at least from hitting the ground on my butt. I took my time, luxuriated in the hot water, steam, and scented soap.
By the time I was wrinkled and dry, I felt a little more myself. And because warm showers always soothed the baby, I felt much less like her personal dojo.
I climbed into a tank and pretty flowered pajama bottoms, turbaned my hair into a towel.
“Better?” Mallory asked, when I walked into the bedroom. She was sitting on the enormous bed with a bag of salt and vinegar chips, one of my favorite indulgences.
“Better,” I said, and sat down beside her. “Hand over the snacks.”
She poured out a handful of chips for herself, passed the bag to me. “Asshole wanted to kidnap you,” she said, gaze on the television across from the bed. A tall woman with platinum hair and four-inch stilettos appeared to be kicking some very serious ass.
“Yep,” I said. “He apparently did, and he was definitely an asshole.” I settled back against the mound of pillows, gestured with a chip to the screen. “Who’s she?”
“Assassin. Orphaned, trained by the British. She poses as this rich and helpless fundraising type. But she’s got mad skills.”
The woman used one of her heels to take out a bulky security guard, then slipped into the room he’d guarded.
“She’s good,” I agreed, and crunched a chip. “And they’ll find the guy.”
“Of course they will,” she agreed. “Here’s something to take your mind off your troubles.” She finished the last chip, dusted her hands. “I’m pregnant!”
“You’re—what?” I turned to stare at her, saw the hopeful light in her eyes. “Mallory! Oh, my God!” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gave her a sideways squeeze. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” she said. “We’re very excited. Or as excited as Catcher gets about anything. And the baby’s cooking right along. I’m at ten weeks, so we’ll be sixish months behind you.”
I looked down at her belly, scrutinized what might have been a tiny bump.
“Oh, that’s not baby. That’s just the pizza.” She patted her belly. “But the baby’s in there, probably enjoying the sausage and pepperoni.”
“Morning sickness?”
“Not as bad as yours. Couple barfy moments when Catcher mentioned pork chops which”—she looked up at the ceiling, blew out a breath through pursed lips—“still makes me feel a little weird. And I’m eating salt like it’s going out of style.”
“Wait until everything starts to swell. And you can’t reach anything. Or fit into anything. I am ready to evict this particular tenant.”
Mallory grinned. “I’m hoping Baby Bell is a girl. Then I can use all your hand-me-downs.”
“You can have whatever you want.” I sat back, ate another chip. “You think they’ll be friends?”
“Our being friends doesn’t mean they’ll be, but if they’re anything near as cool as us, then obviously yes.”
“Obviously yes,” I said, and settled back to watch a movie with my bestie.
By the time Ethan returned, I was alone again, brushing my now-dry hair in the bathroom doorway, still watching television. A small, quirkily dressed woman was trying to convince two homeowners to hang a five-foot-high boat anchor on an empty kitchen wall.
Ethan gave an eyebrow to the show or the anchor, I wasn’t sure which, then pressed his lips to my forehead. Then followed that tender gesture with a kiss hot enough to scald.
“What was that for?” I asked, when I opened slumberous eyes again.
“For coming back to me in one piece.”
“Well, two if you count Peanut.”
“I always count her,” Ethan said. He gestured at the present sitting on the console. “Shall we open the gift from your parents?”
“Sure,” I said, and put away the brush, walked to the console, and gave the box a gentle shake.
“Why shake when you could just open it?”
“It’s part of the process.”
I didn’t see him roll his eyes, but I could feel the disturbance in the force. Mallory called him Darth Sullivan for a reason.
Ethan put his arms around me, or as far as they’d reach, and looked over my shoulder. “You can’t fault the wrapping.”
“Trudeau’s does a good job,” I agreed. “We got some wedding presents from there, too.”
“I remember.”
Inside the thick paper was a lidded box in some sort of silvery tweed. I lifted off the lid, found layers of thick, white tissue paper sealed with a blue sticker. I peeled that off, unfolded the paper, and found a layer of crinkled, shredded paper.
“How many trees were murdered in the making of this gift?” Ethan asked.
“Entirely too many.” I brushed aside some of the paper, reached in, and pulled out another small box. “It’s giftception.” My patience waning, I flicked off the second lid, and found . . . a gleaming silver apple.