“She’s the opposite of Melissa. Complete opposite.”
“Well, f**king finally.”
“What does that mean?”
“Auntie Whit,” Abby reprimanded, making Wes laugh.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “It’s Uncle Wes’s fault.”
“Pffft.” Wes said.
“It means you’ve spent way too long trying to put that ghost behind you.”
His stomach took an uncomfortable tilt. “Speak English, please.”
“After you two broke up, you spent years dating women just like her. Women close to their families. Sweet, people-pleasing women. Pretty women who stayed well within societal standards. It’s about time you figured out those women don’t fill your less-than-conventional spirit. Don’t challenge you. Don’t thrill you. And as a result, don’t keep you interested.”
Wes’s insides seemed to shift, then fall into place, though he couldn’t say it was a comfortable place. “A few days ago, you told me to walk away from Rubi.”
“Rubi? That’s her name?”
“Yes.”
“I said that because from what you’ve told me, I’m making an educated guess that Rubi has deep emotional issues that could damage your chances at long-term happiness. But like I said, every case is as individual as the person. It would help if I could meet her.”
“I asked her to come, but…”
“The idea of family freaks her out,” Whitney said, her voice confident.
“Among other things.”
She slid a glance his way. “The fact that she refused to come meet your family is important. In a solid, balanced relationship—even early on—a significant other doesn’t usually refuse that kind of invitation without a legitimate reason.”
“She has a legitimate reason.”
“Dysfunction does not count as legitimate,” Whit said.
“She’s working against a short work deadline, she has a dog she can’t just walk away from, and her father is selling her house out from under her, so she has to find another place to live. So, I guess she has a few legitimate reasons besides the fact that she doesn’t do family.”
“If those legitimate reasons were gone, do you think she’d have come?”
Wes’s stomach dropped. “No.”
On the freeway, Wes drank in the utterly green, lush landscape of the St. Louis suburbs, its distant rolling hills, quiet three-lane freeways void of suicidal drivers. He already felt his blood pressure dipping. Wes fought to mesh his happiness at being home with his disappointment with Rubi’s reluctance to come.
His phone buzzed, and he looked down.
RUBI: Cute. They look like you. And you look happy.
WES: I’d be happier if you weren’t still mad at me.
RUBI: Me too.
WES: What are you doing?
RUBI: I’m the early bird at Stilettos. What do you think I’m doing? I have a deadline…unlike some other people.
A wry smile twisted his mouth. She had every right to be angry. “I love you” carried responsibility—even if the receiving party didn’t reciprocate. He knew that firsthand. He hadn’t been able to return the sentiment to anyone since Melissa. But he’d felt the weight of responsibility toward every woman who’d offered those words to him.
WES: You’re pissy.
RUBI: Someone emotionally ambushed me earlier. Call me crazy, but I don’t like it.
WES: You’re right, I did. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t plan it, but I couldn’t help it either.
RUBI: Hardly compensation. Some things, once said, can’t be taken back.
Heaviness layered his shoulders. She was right. And his impulsiveness could very well turn her cold. Wes knew exactly how those words said too soon could kill what existed between two people.
WES: The fact that it upsets you should tell you something. If you didn’t care, you would just brush me off.
RUBI: No Lexi-speak allowed. I’m sick of you both. Leave me alone so I don’t totally f**k up this deadline.
“Are you writing a damn novel?” Whit asked.
“Shut up.”
“Ooooo, Uncle Wes,” Emma said from the backseat.
“Sorry.” He pocketed his phone with a sense of failure and loss creeping in.
“So what does she do?” Whit asked.
“Computer programmer. She’s the one who helped me with Wyatt’s rig.”
Whitney lifted a brow. “Seriously? That’s as exciting as a CPA. Hardly any different from Melissa and physical therapy. Or a waitress. Or an art student. Or an insurance broker. Or —”
“Enough.” Wes didn’t need her cataloguing every profession of his previous girlfriends. “What, exactly, were you expecting? A pole dancer?”
“Maybe an actress, considering your profession. Director. Producer. Musician. Hell, a Harley dealer or a tattoo artist would be more your speed. Someone, I don’t know, different. Outside the box. A rebel, like you.”
That made Wes laugh. “Hardly a rebel—at least not in Hollywood terms. And believe me, Rubi’s plenty different. You know it the second you meet her. And, damn, she’s so freaking smart she blows me away. She made this rig for Wyatt really special. She upgraded my design with relays and a custom program. Made it wireless. Connected it to a server where she can make adjustments on the fly. Really freaking brilliant.”
“She challenges you.”
“In every imaginable way.”
“Definitely novel as far as a girlfriend goes. Is that what’s got you hooked?”
Wes shook his head and exhaled heavily. The suburbs gave way to farmland, bordered by thick, lush trees. He could feel the LA grime melting away. “There’s so many things about her that have me hooked, I couldn’t name them all. She’s strong, independent, feisty. She’s ridiculously generous with both time and money. And she’s got a really thick sweet streak she only shows to those closest to her.”
“Which, I’m guessing, isn’t many.”
“Right again. Lots of acquaintances, very few close friends.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s going to work out. I know she wants to jump, but wanting and doing… There’s a big-ass gap in there.”
“Where was her neglect?”
“She’s the product of a quick affair. Her mother died when she was young, just two or three. And she was deposited on her rich father’s doorstep. And I mean filthy rich.”
“So she grew up with nannies, an absent father, and a ton of cash at her disposal.”
“Yep.”
“And she’s smart and strong.”
“And gorgeous. Did I forget to mention that?”
“I figured.” She shot him a look. “You do have standards, after all. So, smart, strong, gorgeous, rich, and unsupervised—in Los Angeles. Talk about a recipe for disaster. Poor thing.”
“You wouldn’t think of her as a poor thing if you met her.”
“Defenses. She put them in place early. And, it sounds like, she’s still holding on to them pretty hard.”
“So, give me the secret passage into her heart, oh great psychotherapist.”
Whitney chuckled, the sound heavy and resigned. “If I had that answer, bro, I would have had the money to send a limo to the airport to pick you up.”
Nineteen
Rodie inched closer to Rubi on the sofa, his front paws just grazing her thighs beneath the hem of her running shorts, and whined.
“Okay, okay…” She scrolled through the last section of code she’d written looking for that damn bug that had been plaguing her for hours. Sitting back with a disgusted sigh, she whipped her hair into a ponytail with the band around her wrist. “Damn it. I’m so close.”
So close to being done with this program. Or at least the initial version. But she wanted it off her to-do list and into NSA’s testing phase. She knew there would be tweaking and fixes, but she could at least get a break. Tightening her ponytail high on her head, she thought about Wes, Wyatt, and the rig. Earlier today, Wes had checked in for a small tweak of his own. Ruby also added three more programs with different settings according to the physical therapist’s suggestions, sort of like a treadmill’s preprogramming.
Wes’s low “Are you still mad at me?” continued to roll through her head, confusing her. Then his “Do you miss me yet?” making her yearn. She missed him far too much to be normal. Or healthy. Or reasonable, given the short span of their intimacy. But the physical was the least of what left this hole at the center of her body.
The loneliness was sharper now that she had nothing to fill the void. Lexi and Jax were together in every spare moment, Wes was gone, and Rubi couldn’t find any interest in hanging at Stilettos only to get hit on by men she didn’t want. The empty, two-dimensional quality of her life glared.
Rodie’s head popped up, and a feral growl rolled from his throat. Followed almost immediately by a round of vicious barks so loud Rubi jumped, winced, and covered her ears. Her heart squeezed and thudded so hard her ribs vibrated. Or maybe that was the sensation of Rodie’s bark rippling through her.
By the time she muttered a curse and uncovered her ears, the front door bell rang. Rodie already stood at the front door, snarling and barking against the sidelight, paws scraping at the window.
Rubi’s patience split. “Goddammit. Hasn’t anyone ever heard of a telephone?”
She grabbed Rodie’s collar and flung the door wide. The three people standing outside, two men and a woman, jumped and scrambled back away from the entry. Rubi recognized the Realtor in a crisp suit, the buyers in Friday designer casual.
“There is this thing called common courtesy,” she said slowly, deliberately. “Maybe you’ve heard of it. Looks a lot like a phone. You know, one of those things where you punch a few buttons and then talk into it. They’re used for things like…appointments. Sharing information. Leaving messages. Just a helpful piece of advice; next time, you might want to use one. Unless, of course, you’d like his freshly cleaned choppers in your leg.”
“I…I…” the Realtor stammered, his gaze darting between a still-snarling, lunging Rodie and an irate, sick-of-this-shit Rubi. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We… I… The listing didn’t mention the need to contact the resident prior to—”
“And I guess you missed the three signs I posted on your walk to the door.”
The man glanced nervously over his shoulder with a bewildered “Oh…”
“Wait five minutes,” Rubi said. “We’re going for a run. That will give you forty-five minutes inside. If you’re here when we get back, no guarantees.”
She shut the door in his stunned face and released Rodie. Rubi grabbed his leash, glanced at the clock, and tightened the laces on her running shoes. “We’re going to be late meeting Desiree,” she told Rodie as she slipped on her sunglasses. “Rodie, come.”
He trotted away from the front door toward the sliders, and Rubi closed them behind Rodie.
He whined and pranced beside her as she trudged through the dry sand to the water line. “All right, go on.”
She gestured, and Rodie took off, sprinting after a flock of black-tailed plovers. The birds scattered, some into the air, some into the sea, and Rodie lost interest, sniffing along the shore as Rubi found her stride and caught up.
She pulled her phone from the neoprene holster around her bicep and called Desiree, who was meeting her at a house three miles up the beach. Rubi got her voice mail and left a message.
“I’m going to be about ten minutes late. Other Realtors don’t seem to think calling ahead to show a house is important, and I got waylaid. On my way now via a run on the beach.”She shoved the phone back into her armband and shook out her arms, trying to relax. Trying to put the day behind her. At least a dozen unannounced showings of the house. Twelve solid hours of coding the NSA’s clandestine tracking program. A banana, cup of yogurt, and granola later, she needed a break. And some adult human companionship. But Lexi was working late, then taking Jax to dinner with a client. So Rubi was alone. Like she’d been alone the night before.
Wes’s sudden absence made her realize just how much she’d come to depend on him—for companionship, comfort, camaraderie, and, yes, entertainment. She hadn’t laughed since he’d left. It hadn’t even been a full forty-eight hours since Wes had been gone, and she was lost.
“I really need some friends,” she told the empty stretch of pristine shoreline alight in sunset colors of yellow and orange. “The kind I can hang with outside of sex clubs. Maybe I should get a life while I’m at it. And a hobby. And ice cream.”
She continued down the shoreline, her feet striking the wet sand in a steady pace she knew by feel would pump out an eight-minute mile. She was in the mood for about eighteen eight-minute miles tonight. Or eight Sexy Bitches. Or eight Valium. Because she couldn’t get that terror-inducing, “I just…love you,” out of her damn head.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Her body had been in a constant state of flight since then, her adrenaline ebbing and flowing, dragging her up and down like an angry ocean.
Rubi picked up her pace, deliberately forcing her mind to focus on her body—and only her body—for three miles, until her phone beeped. Slowing her pace, Rubi scanned the cliffs on this stretch of the beach, and the homes beyond as she glanced at her screen. The map program had alerted her to the home for sale, which, according to her phone, lay at the top of those three-hundred rickety wooden stairs traversing the cliff face.