“I didn’t have a choice. You did.”
Yes, she’d had options. She could have stayed and lost herself. And then she’d have lost him, too. She’d decided it would be better to make a swift, clean break and quit him and the liquor cold turkey. “I had to go.”
“Why?”
She shoved her roller across the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the lines of paint. “Does it really matter? The past is over.”
“What are you hiding, Renee?” he said an inch from her ear.
Her muscles snapped tight. If Flynn learned the truth and she wasn’t already pregnant, he might refuse to give her the baby she desperately wanted. Her mother was an alcoholic. Renee could have easily become one. Their baby might carry that tendency in its genes. She was flawed and she didn’t want Flynn to see her as damaged goods.
She stepped away from the heat of his bare torso under the guise of adding paint to her roller. “You’re imagining things. I think I’ll work another hour and finish this wall. If you’re tired of painting you can head for bed.”
“I’m in for the long haul. I always was.”
She looked at him and held her tongue. He wouldn’t have stuck around if he’d discovered the truth about her. Her mother’s long line of lovers had proved time and time again that not even love could conquer the killing effects of alcoholism.
Nine
O ver the next two hours Flynn focused on the cadence of Renee’s roller strokes, biding his time as he plotted his next move.
As her agitation faded, the sticky sounds of paint application slowed from rapid sweeps to slow and unsteady stabs. In the past ten minutes he could tell her will to get the job done was the only thing moving her exhausted arm.
He lowered his brush and studied the droop of her shoulders. “Let’s call it a night.”
She startled and turned. “The room needs a second coat.”
He put down his brush, crossed the room and pried the roller from her hand. “Let’s have breakfast, catch a few hours of sleep and then apply the second coat.”
A worry line pleated her brow. “But—”
“Renee, it’s 4:00 a.m. We’re both starting to lose precision.” Like him, she’d always been a perfectionist. She’d understood his spending hours over the details of a blueprint because she could lose herself the same way in a recipe.
She studied the closest wall and a small dime-size spot she’d missed. “I guess so.”
He brushed a lock of hair from her tired, violet eyes. “We have the entire weekend ahead of us. Your kitchen will be ready by the time the cabinets arrive on Monday. I promise.”
So would the nursery, if he had his way, and Renee would be sleeping in his bed. Permanently. It might take a little finesse, but he would win this time.
“A hot shower would be nice.” She rolled her shoulders as if they were stiff, and his fingers flexed in anticipation. But while he’d love to fill a hot bath for her and join her there for a slippery massage, she wasn’t ready for that step.
“Go for it. I’ll clean up here and get breakfast started.”
She panned the painting supplies through eyes only half-open. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go.”
He watched her climb the stairs, admiring her rounded bottom and smooth, pale legs. Renee didn’t tan. She never had. She claimed her tone went straight from cream to lobster-red with no in-between. But he didn’t care. He’d always loved her ivory skin. Tracing the lines of her br**sts, inner arms and belly with his tongue had been one of his favorite pastimes. His groin pulsed at the memory.
Tamping down his unsatisfied need, he quickly put away the painting supplies, then climbed the stairs and washed up. He extracted the food he needed from the fridge and pantry and set to work on what had once been Renee’s favorite breakfast. Was it still?
Fate had a twisted sense of humor. He and Renee had traded places. In the past he’d been the one who couldn’t quit until a project was finished. Renee had been the one to supply him with food and urge him to rest. Giving up had never been a part of his nature. His fault-finding father had made sure Flynn always aimed for perfection. When he’d fallen short his father had relished pointing out every flaw.
Twenty minutes later the house smelled like cinnamon, melting butter and maple syrup, and Flynn had breakfast waiting on the coffee table when Renee entered the den wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. She’d put on a bra this time, unfortunately. He’d enjoyed her beaded n**ples in the cool basement almost as much as he’d enjoyed the peeks he’d caught her taking at him.
Knowing she was still attracted to him worked in his favor. He planned to agitate the chemistry between them until he achieved the desired reaction.
Her damp curly hair dragged across her shoulders, giving her a sleepy, freshly scrubbed look that called to his tired brain cells like reveille. She inhaled. “Do I smell apple-cinnamon pancakes?”
“You left your recipe card in the drawer.”
“I haven’t had them in years. Not since—” She bit her lip.
“We made them together?”
“Yes.” Their gazes met and the shared memory stretched between them. His “help” in the kitchen had usually been more of a distraction and a hindrance. He’d pass her the ingredients she requested until his hands wandered into more intimate territory and the meals were temporarily put on hold for hot sex.
Her cheeks flushed, and she abruptly averted her face. “And is that coffee?”
“Decaf. We need sleep. You can have the real stuff after our nap.”
She lifted a mug from the table and sipped, her eyes closing. “I almost fell asleep in the shower.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” A smile tugged his lips. Until Renee he’d never met a woman who could work so hard she’d fall asleep as soon as she stopped moving. He’d caught her dozing in the shower numerous times.
He handed her a plate. “Eat.”
“Thanks.” She took a bite of pancake. “Mmm. Exactly the right amount of cinnamon.”
When they’d cooked the recipe together in the past, the brown sugar and maple syrup had often ended up being licked off bare skin. Their kitchen had seen almost as much action as their bedroom.
Her lids grew heavier as her plate emptied. By the time she finished she was almost asleep sitting up. He took her dish from her and set it back on the coffee table beside his. She started to rise. He caught her hand. “Sit tight while I clear this away.”
“Flynn, you don’t have to wait on me.”
“Consider it my turn.”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but then she nodded and sank deeper into the cushions, almost limp with fatigue. He rose, gathered the breakfast dishes and carried them to the kitchen. He took his time loading them in the dishwasher and then returned to the den. As he’d expected she’d fallen asleep sitting up. He smiled at the success of his strategy, then debated his next move. As soundly as Renee slept, he could carry her upstairs and tuck her in without waking her. But waking in his bed would put her on the defensive.
He sat beside her and eased her over. She sighed, tucked her hands beneath her cheek and settled her head in his lap. Just like the good ol’ days. Now all he had to do was convince her to move down the hall to his room and the battle would be all but won.
Someone had put hot rocks on her eyelids, Renee decided as she struggled to cut her way through the fog clouding her brain. And she needed a new pillow. This one was hard. And hot. And the down tickled her nose.
Down? You’re allergic to down. Move before your face swells like a red balloon.
She forced her lids open and blinked against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, trying to clear her vision. Her “pillow” resembled a man’s thigh. Flynn’s thigh.
Like rocks gaining momentum in an avalanche, her heart bounded into a faster rhythm as the chain of events leading up to her ending up with her face in Flynn’s lap replayed on her mental movie screen.
The hands on the antique clock across the room pointed to noon. She must have fallen asleep after eating. This wasn’t the first time she and Flynn had napped together on this sofa. But that was then. Now she had to be more careful. She knew how disastrous falling into a false sense of security with him could be, which was why she hadn’t wanted to completely relax her guard and sleep in his bed.
Holding her breath and trying not to wake him, she eased upright and stood. His bare chest continued rising and falling evenly. Flynn looked peaceful and relaxed tipped into the corner of the sofa with his dark lashes fanning his cheeks and the lines of stress smoothed away. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. The urge to comb her fingers through the lush strands and brush them back almost overcame her caution.
She turned away from the temptation. A piece of paper on the end table beside his lamp had caught her eye. Her slowly waking brain identified a drawing on the back of an envelope. She lifted it and her breath caught.
Flynn had sketched out a baby’s nursery complete with a crib and mobile dangling above it, the dresser and even the toy box. She’d shown him the photo she’d taken of the furniture with her cell phone, and he’d accurately depicted the details in excruciating detail.
There was no mistaking which room of the house he’d placed the furniture in. Her room. The French doors leading to the balcony gave it away.
Flynn had always been a talented artist, but he’d usually limited his drawings to architectural designs. Though most of his work had been done on a computer, he’d liked to pick up a pencil when working out the rough idea.
She stroked a finger over the curving runner of a rocking horse, and emotion clogged her throat. Looking at this, she could almost believe he wanted a baby as much as she did. A baby who might have his ink-dark hair and bright blue eyes. A precious little boy or girl that would give her the family they’d once planned to share.
A hollow ache swelled in her chest. She wanted Flynn’s baby probably more now than she had the first time around. And then, anger had filled the emptiness. Flynn loved to draw, to envision, to create. His misplaced loyalty to his family had robbed him of that joy. Why did he insist on denying his gift? It wasn’t as if his selfish mother appreciated his sacrifice, and his father— “What do you think?” he asked in a rough, groggy, sexier-than-sin voice.
Her pulse sprinted. She studied his beard-stubbled, sleepy-eyed face. It would be so easy to love him again. But she couldn’t.
“It’s beautiful.”
“We can do it, Renee—have our home and family the way we once planned.”
The strength of yearning for what he offered scared her so badly she grasped for mental and physical distance. “Why did you do it, Flynn?”
He eased upright in a slow flexing of muscles. “Do what?”
“Give up your dream.”
He rose and towered over her, scowling. “We’ve been over this before.”
“It pains me to see you deny your talent with a number-crunching job. I understood when you stepped in during the crisis. Your family needed you. But what about now? The crisis is over. Why can’t Brock hire another VP and let you return to your dream job?”