Desire and the Deep Blue Sea Page 8

  Did all his other coworkers secretly hate working with him too? Did they sigh with relief every time they glanced at the schedule and saw that, once again, Callie would serve as the sacrificial librarian for the entire department?

  She never worked with any of the others, not given the schedule Thomas ensured for her. Had that—had he—stopped her from making closer ties at the library? Was he the reason she never went to the bar with them anymore, or to dinner after the library closed?

  He could envision her standing behind the desk, facing an onslaught of patrons alone. How many times had he registered that sight in a distracted glance, and then turned back to his own work without offering a single bit of help?

  So many lines. She’d dispatched so many lines of people with seeming ease, with seeming happiness, but thinking back, he could recognize that tight smile. That glassy stare. That veneer of calm and professionalism hiding profound anxiety.

  He’d believed the mask.

  No, that was offering him too much credit.

  He hadn’t even bothered to question it.

  Should he leave the library? But what in the world could he possibly do instead? Several years as an adjunct professor at Marysburg University and multiple failed bids for tenure-track jobs had proven him entirely too scattered, too unambitious, and too slow for a life in academia. Teaching at a public school, from what he’d heard, would require even more efficiency. And if he tried to lead tours through the historic area, they’d probably last a decade each.

  What other people think, what they might expect or want from me, doesn’t concern me, he’d told Callie yesterday. And he’d done so with…

  Not pride. Not exactly. But total acceptance. An assumption that he couldn’t and didn’t need to change that about himself. That his obliviousness was, at worst, a harmless character quirk. When all the while he’d been hurting the woman he loved, and maybe all his other coworkers too.

  The shame of it. He’d never experienced anything like the shame that burned his cheeks and shuddered through his body and roiled his stomach.

  That shame and a terrible, grinding grief had nearly brought him to his knees just inside the hotel room door, listening to her phone conversation over the sound of running water.

  He’d lost her. Lost her, before he even truly had her.

  Because how could he possibly believe Callie wanted a future with him?

  Every time they worked together, she’d remember what he’d done to her. How oblivious he’d been to her needs and desires. How could she ever trust him?

  And how could he possibly assume this change of heart, her profession of interest, was anything but the psychological effect of days spent in the same bed, in the same space, pretending to be in love on camera? A cable-television, tropical version of Stockholm Syndrome?

  He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  Confrontations and awkward, emotionally fraught discussions made her anxious. Gave her hives. So he wasn’t going to inflict one on her, because he was done hurting Callie Adesso.

  Instead, he’d fake a smile for this last on-camera interview, wave off the HATV crew, and leave her the hell alone. Let her enjoy her vacation and recover from the stress he’d inflicted on her for months. Talk to their supervisor and try to change his schedule as soon as they returned home.

  And he’d do it even through this tearing ache in his chest.

  For her. For Callie, the woman he loved.

  Because avoiding her, he finally understood, was the best way to show that love.

  Eight

  Thomas didn’t touch her the rest of the day. Not once.

  They’d endured their final interminable interview in yet another generic hotel meeting room. They’d discussed the benefits and drawbacks of different islands and announced their decision to stay their last three nights on Renaissance Island. The crew had contacted the other hotels and a ferry company to cancel reservations. She and Thomas had made their goodbyes to the crew and seen everyone off at the ferry dock.

  All the while, he hadn’t once reached for her hand or wrapped an arm around her waist or stroked the wind-whipped hair from her face. All gestures she’d apparently become dependent on during the course of three short days, because their absence hurt.

  More than that, their absence confused her.

  Because he still smiled at her, the expression weaker than normal but seemingly sincere. He saw to her comfort, such as when he’d noticed her shifting in that too-narrow chair with the wooden arms and brought her a wider seat without a word. He’d backed up whatever opinions she expressed during the interview and deflected Gladys’s occasional complaints about the lack of great footage on Renaissance Island.

  And if she’d truly hurt his feelings so badly with one insensitive remark, why didn’t he tell her so? Why didn’t he initiate another one of those nerve-wracking conversations of his? Why didn’t he share what he was thinking, as he—unlike her—had seemed to do so ably and comfortably before now?

  Maybe he’d been waiting for the crew to leave?

  But when the ferry disappeared over the horizon, he spoke without looking at her.

  “You probably want to sit in the water and relax for a while.” His eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners, despite his smile. “Don’t worry about entertaining me. I found a few local history books, and I might take a tour of the grounds to locate some of the landmarks.”

  From the sharp pain and coppery taste on her tongue, she must have broken the skin of her lip as she bit it. “Okay.”

  She didn’t expect him to spend every minute with her, of course, but…

  Yeah. It stung. And something was clearly amiss.

  Say something, Cal. She shifted on feet that had suddenly started to hurt, pinched by her strappy sandals. For Christ’s sake, take his hand and ask what happened. Ask him what’s wrong.

  But the thought of that tripped her heart in her chest and made her skin prickle with both humiliation and hives. She couldn’t do it. Not when his answer meant so much to her, and the wrong response could crush her.

  Maybe he simply needed some alone time, away from her incessant worries, and was too kind to tell her that outright. If so, she couldn’t exactly blame him. And if she forced him to stay with her, to have that awkward, potentially hurtful conversation, maybe he’d get angry. Maybe he’d think she was too demanding, too needy.

  Maybe he’d tell her they were through. That she was too much for him.

  No, she should let him go. Let him work through his thoughts and come back to her. If he had something he needed to tell her, he would. In his own time. She wouldn’t force the issue.

  His blue eyes had turned dull. Opaque. “I hope you have an amazing day, Callie.”

  Her chest was afire, her throat thick. She didn’t want him to see her in this state. So when he turned to leave, she didn’t call him back.

  She did what she always did. What she did best.

  She kept her mouth shut and put one foot in front of the other, no matter how much it hurt.

  Late that afternoon, she sent him a text. Just a reminder: We have reservations for dinner at seven. Meet you in our room before then.

  Then she shut down her phone before he could text back to cancel. Because if she knew Thomas—and she did, or at least she’d thought she did—if she didn’t confirm that she’d received his message, he’d show up to their room out of sheer politeness.

  And she needed to see him. To reassure herself that everything hadn’t gone wrong, much as she knew it had. Suddenly. For reasons she feared she comprehended all too well.

  True to form, he arrived in their suite half an hour before the reservation, and his eyes immediately flew to the corner of the room where she sat, fully dressed and ready to go.

  “Hello, Callie.” He cleared his throat. “Did you have a good afternoon?”

  She could interpret the wince creasing his lean face. He’d wanted to cancel, but only a jackass would do so at the last minute, wh
en she’d clearly spent time and effort preparing for the occasion.

  Oh, yes, she knew him. Not as well as she’d hoped, but well enough to stage this moment. Now she just had to figure out what to do with it.

  He didn’t come within five feet of her, and he didn’t make eye contact as he scuttled around the room and gathered clothing for a dinner that would undoubtedly be horrible and stilted.

  She was wearing her goddess dress again, and he didn’t even give her a second glance.

  So much for Amazon queens. She should have known better.

  And at that moment, something broke inside her.

  Fuck her anxiety. Fuck her hives. She had things to say to Thomas McKinney, and he was going to listen, like it or not.

  “No.” This time, the voice that emerged from her mouth wasn’t tentative, Anxious Callie Voice. It wasn’t even smooth, competent, Professional Librarian Voice. This one was new. Loud. If she had to give it a name, she thought she might call it Callie’s Had Enough of This Shit Voice. “No, I didn’t have a good afternoon. I’d thank you for asking, but since you’re the cause of my crappy day, I think I’ll forgo that pro forma response.”

  He spun to face her, that firm jaw going slightly slack.

  She sat forward in her chair. “I don’t know what the hell happened this morning. I’m sorry I called you a mess, but I already apologized for that, and I did so sincerely. If you’re still angry about it, we can talk it over, but I don’t think what I said was unforgivable.”

  “It’s not—” His words stuttered to a halt. “Callie, no, that’s not—”

  “But I suspect that’s not the problem at all. Maybe once the cameras were about to leave, you realized you’d gotten swept up in this whole experience, and you started considering everything you’ve learned about me these past three days. Maybe you finally realized being with me would be an enormous pain in your ass, and you don’t want to hurt my feelings by saying so.” She rose to her feet. “But now’s your chance. I’m topped up on Benadryl, so do your worst. Tell me why you don’t want to look at me or touch me anymore, despite everything you said j-just”—her voice wavered—“this morning. Tell me I’m too needy or too anxious. Tell me I’m too much for you.”

  Her breath hitched, but she refused to scratch at her hive-ridden chest.

  His eyes had closed with her words, his face scrunched into an expression of pain she understood. He was a good man, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  But she was going to force him to do it, because she was done being silent and wondering what might have been different if she’d only said something. Advocated for herself. Asked questions and clarified what was happening in her world.

  If he was going to dump her abruptly, she was damn well going to know why.

  When his eyes opened again, she jerked in shock.

  They weren’t opaque anymore. They were wet, like hers.

  But he didn’t reach for her or move closer.

  “I know, Callie.” The words were choked. “I know.”

  She threw her hands in the air, infuriated and befuddled. “What does that even mean?”

  Her heart drummed through several beats of silence.

  “I—” His deep breath lifted and lowered his chest. “I came back with breakfast this morning, and you were in the bathroom. I overheard your conversation with your friend.”

  What?

  Oh.

  Oh, shit.

  “Thomas.” She took a step toward him. “How much did you hear?”

  “I’m so sorry.” His shoulders slumped, and he gazed down at his sneakers. “I shouldn’t have listened to a private conversation. But most of all, I’m sorry for making you so miserable. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you. I’m sorry you thought for even a moment I considered you too much. And I’m sorry that because of me, you’re forcing yourself to have another awkward conversation that’s giving you hives.”

  The defeat in his voice tore at her heart.

  “The hives don’t matter. I have medication to help with that.” She exhaled through her nose and took another step toward him. “If you heard everything, then you know I’ve changed my—”

  He backed away, toward the door. “I don’t know how to make this right. But clearly there’s no way we can have a future together. So I figure the best thing I can do for you is let you have a relaxing vacation and talk to Bridget about our schedule as soon as we get back. I promise I’ll try to avoid you in the future. But if that’s not enough, let me know, and I’ll see whether I can find somewhere else to work. Maybe a research library in Plymouth.”

  What? What the hell was he talking about?

  He lifted his hand in what was likely meant to be a sort of sad farewell gesture, and she actually stomped her foot.

  No. She wasn’t letting him duck out of this conversation until she understood everything.

  “If you want to make this right, you’ll stop moving toward the door and answer my goddamn question.” She pinned him with her glare. “How much did you hear?”

  He was staring at her brows, seemingly frozen. If she hadn’t been so upset, she probably would have laughed.

  “Thomas?” she prompted.

  He visibly started. “Uh…your friend said you loathed me. Because I always scheduled myself with you and left you stranded on the desk. Which is true, and like I said, I’m so sorry, Callie. I wish with every cell in my body I could go back six months and do everything differently, but I can’t.”

  “And you didn’t hear my response?”

  He shook his head. “I left before that. Then I gave you enough time to finish your conversation before coming back.”

  If they had any chance of moving past this, they needed to lance the wound. So she pointed to the bed. “You obviously didn’t hear everything. But let’s talk about what you did hear for a minute. Take a seat.”

  “Okay.” He shuffled across the room and settled on the edge of the mattress, his eyes pained and resigned. “If you want to have this conversation, I’m ready to listen.”

  Where to start? After months of frustration and days of affection, where to start?

  “Do you deliberately match your schedule requests to mine every month?” At his nod, she sank back into the chair. “You should’ve asked me before doing that, Thomas. I never get the chance to work closely with anyone else, which isolates me at the library. And more importantly, it isn’t your right to control my life that way.”

  “I know.” He sat perfectly still and held her gaze, not a hint of denial or anger on that pale, grief-creased face. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Will you do it again without asking me first?”

  “No.” He shook his head violently. “God, no.”

  “Then on to the next issue. You need to give me the opportunity to deal with more complex questions. Without them, I can’t prove my worth to the library or use my training and academic background.” She waited for his nod. “And you have to pay more attention to what’s happening around you while you’re working. If there’s a long line, tell people you’ll get back to them later. Research on the eighteenth century isn’t a life-or-death situation, and it can wait an hour, or even a day or two. Other patrons are important too. So are your coworkers.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. I’m not…” He hung his head. “I’m not great at multitasking, but I’ll try. I swear to God, Callie, I’ll try harder.”

  The desolation on his face twisted her heart, but she took a gulp of air and forced herself to finish. “Last thing. I know I need to stop measuring myself against other people’s opinions and expectations all the time. But you need to do it more often. Because self-confidence is great, but obliviousness isn’t.”

  He flinched, but he met her eyes. “I’ve thought about this all day, and I agree. Completely.”

  “Then I’m done.” She let out a slow breath. “That’s all I have to say about work.”

  Maybe she was still itchy, but her
head felt so light it could almost float away.

  She’d done it.

  She’d laid out every single point she’d mentally screamed at him for months. She’d done so clearly and succinctly, and she’d made herself understood.

  He’d listened. Of course he’d listened. But more than that, he got it, he didn’t appear to hate her for what she’d said, and he was going to try to do better.

  With their past tackled, it was time to look to their future. Together.

  “Again, I’m so sorry.” He’d risen to his feet, and he took a step toward the door once more. “I wish I’d paid more attention months ago, but I’ll do better in the future. I promise you’ll never have to deal with my bullshit again. But please know that I never, ever wanted to hurt you. You deserve the world, and I…”

  His words grew reedy and hoarse. “I wish I were a man you could love. But whoever he is, he’ll be the luckiest man ever to draw breath on this Earth.”

  He offered her one last sweet, sad smile. His eyes glowed with that unshadowed adoration she’d seen just that morning, and they lovingly traced every feature of her face. Like she’d fallen from the heavens, his heart’s desire in flesh. Beautiful but too divine to touch.

  And then he was walking toward that damn door again.

  Really? Really?

  “Thomas?”

  He let go of the door handle and looked over his shoulder at her.

  She raised her brows. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Patting his pocket, he frowned. “I have my keycard. And I’ll reserve my own room before tonight, so don’t worry. I’ll pack while you’re at dinner.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “I didn’t mean your keycard.” She waited for a moment, but he simply continued to stare at her. “I mean, weren’t you supposed to ask me what I wanted from now on?”

  “Oh.” He hesitated. “Did you want to move to a different room, instead of me? I figured it would be easier for you if—”

  If she murdered him, any jury would consider it justifiable homicide.

  “No.” When she walked up to him and gripped the front of his tee in a fist, he blinked down at her, his eyes wide. “I want you to ask me how I feel about you. How I want our future to look. Instead of assuming what I want and how I feel once again.”