The Last Guy She Should Call Page 13

  ‘Let’s see it.’

  Seb turned his head and his heart bumped in his chest. He slowly sat up and looked at Rowan, who was looking at herself in the mirror. The dress was a colour somewhere between blue and silver, low-cut, and a concoction of lace and fine ruffles. He could see glimpses of her fine skin through the lace and his saliva disappeared.

  He remembered that dress—remembered his mother wearing it to a party some time shortly before she’d left for good. She’d grabbed him as she walked out through the door, pulling his reluctant twelve-year-old self into a hug that he’d professed to hate and secretly adored.

  Mostly because her hugs had been so rare and infrequent. Laura had not been affectionate or spontaneous, and gestures like those were imprinted on his memory. She’d smelled of vanilla and she’d worn her blonde hair piled up onto her head.

  Two weeks after wearing that dress out she’d been gone. For ever.

  ‘I love this...love the lace...’ Rowan bubbled, turning in front of the mirror.

  When he didn’t respond, she turned to look at him. She crouched down in front of him, her cool hands on his face.

  ‘Seb? What’s wrong?’

  Seb tried to shake off his sadness. The hurt that he normally kept so deeply buried was frying his soul. He attempted a smile but knew that it didn’t come close.

  ‘Please, please talk to me,’ Rowan begged.

  Seb reached out and touched the fabric that draped her knees. ‘This was my mum’s.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.’ Rowan rested her head on his. ‘I’ll take it off, find something else to wear.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a happy memory. I remember her wearing it just before she left. She hugged me, called me her computer geek, said something about...’ He tried to recall her exact words but they were lost in time. ‘Um, how someone like her had managed to produce someone as bright as me. Or something like that.’

  ‘I remember her vaguely.’

  ‘So does Callie. You were—what?—seven when she left?’

  ‘I was seven. Cal was six.’ Rowan pulled the dress above her knees and sat down on the blanket next to Seb.

  ‘I still feel crap that Callie didn’t have a mother growing up.’

  ‘Neither did you, Seb. Cal didn’t feel the effects of her leaving as much as you did, sweetie. She had Yas...we both had Yas. My mother was so involved in Peter’s life and his studies and her music that she didn’t have much energy or time left over for me. So when we needed a hug, comfort, or to talk to someone we turned to each other or to Yas. Grumpy, spinsterish, with a tongue that can slice metal. It’s strange without her here in Awelfor.’

  Seb ran his hand down her calf, knowing that she was trying to lighten his mood. ‘If she was here you wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed.’

  Rowan laughed and quoted one of Yasmeen’s favourite expressions. ‘“You want the milk, buy the cow!”’

  Seb grinned, and then his smile faded as he looked at the dress again. He was silent for a long time before stating quietly, ‘She’s in Brazil, in Salvador. Low on funds. She was in the hospital a couple of months ago with a burst appendix.’

  Why had he told her that? Why did he want her to know? This wasn’t like him, Seb thought, regretting the words that he’d let fly out of his mouth. He didn’t have this type of conversation with the women he was sleeping with—didn’t have this type of conversation at all.

  What was it about Rowan that made him want to open up to her? To let her see behind the steel-plated armour he’d so carefully constructed? Was it because he’d always known her? Because she was Callie’s friend and now his too? Was it those deep black sympathetic eyes that held understanding but no pity?

  ‘When did you find out where she is?’

  ‘I’ve always known where she is,’ Seb said, his voice harsh.

  ‘How?’

  Seb lifted his eyebrows at her. ‘What do I do for a living, Ro?’

  ‘Oh,’ Rowan whispered, connecting the dots.

  Seb rubbed the material between his fingers again. ‘I found her when I was about sixteen. She was in Prague. I managed to get hold of an e-mail address and I sent her a couple of letters...angry, vicious letters...demanding to know why she’d left and then, in the next breath, begging that she come home.’

  ‘Did she ever reply?’

  Seb shook his head. ‘She changed her e-mail address and I lost track of her for a while. I’d tell myself that I didn’t give a damn and wouldn’t look for her. Then something would happen and I’d start again. But I never sent her another e-mail. I just need to know...you know...that she’s alive. And okay. Not in trouble...’

  ‘But you send her money.’

  Seb’s eyes flew up to meet hers and Rowan shook her head at him.

  ‘You do send her money. Oh, Seb, you...’

  ‘Sucker? Chump? Idiot?’

  Rowan placed her fingers over his lips. ‘You’re putting words into my mouth. I was going to say you shouldn’t.’

  He felt his cheeks flush. ‘She’s often broke. What can I do? It’s just money. I don’t know why everyone gets all heated up about it. Money is easy...’

  Rowan nodded her head. It was. Of course it was. To him. Money was black and white, no shades of grey, clearly defined. It held no emotion, no grudge, didn’t waver or prevaricate. He understood money. People, with all their flaws and craziness and ups and downs, flummoxed him.

  ‘What am I supposed to do, Ro? Not send her cash? Let her suffer because we suffered?’ he demanded.

  Rowan saw the decades of pain buried deep and bit back her protective response—the one that made her want to snap, Yeah! You should let her climb out of the hole she’s dug herself into! Instead she bit her tongue and knew that he needed to talk to her, to someone, about his mum. Even tough guys, seemingly unemotional guys, needed to unload occasionally.

  Rowan suspected that Seb was long overdue.

  ‘How many times have you sent money?’ she asked in her most neutral voice.

  ‘A couple of times a year for the past few years,’ Seb admitted reluctantly. ‘Before that she seemed to be okay for funds.’

  ‘And, if I know you, you probably sent a lump sum every time?’

  ‘It was always an anonymous deposit. There is no way she can trace who it came from.’

  Rowan sucked in her cheeks and gazed at the floor, literally swallowing the angry words at the back of her throat. His mother was many things, but she wasn’t stupid, and she had to at the very least suspect that it was Seb. How many people would she have met and had a big enough impact on for them to make anonymous, generous ongoing deposits into her bank account? Who else would it be other than her computer genius son? And she’d never sent him an e-mail to say thank you, to acknowledge him...

  Oooh, that was rough.

  Rowan looked down at her hands, vibrating with tension. Good grief, families were complicated. Parent-child relationships could be crazy. The ways to mess up your children were infinite, she decided.

  Seb still held the hem of her dress—his mum’s dress—between his fingers and Rowan looked at his bent head, at the masculine planes of his face, the tiny tick of tension in that single dimple in his cheek. Her tough guy, smart guy, good guy. So strong, so alpha, so damn attractive in his complexity. She’d known him for ever but she felt that she could spend another lifetime discovering all the nuances of his personality; he was that layered, that interesting.

  That intriguing.

  Ugh, pull up those reins, cowgirl. Your horse is bolting away from you... You’re not going to get sappy and sentimental. You can’t afford to, and you know this!

  Rowan stood up, grabbed the edges of the hem of the dress and pulled it up and over her head. Seb gaped as she stood in front of him in just a brief pair of white panties and
silver heels. No bra.

  His eyes clouded over and Rowan smiled a tiny smile of feminine satisfaction. So sue her. She could make this hot guy salivate, and as a bonus banish the sadness from his eyes.

  She looked at the dress in her hand. ‘I love this dress...but I understand if you don’t want me to wear it.’

  Seb bit the inside of his lip. ‘I want to say yes but... Maybe some day. Just...’

  ‘Not today.’ Rowan nodded her understanding. She looked at the pile of discarded dresses on the floor. ‘Okay, black it is, then. Which one?’

  Seb pulled a face. ‘Ugh. Come on, Ro, let me take you shopping. One dress, one pair of shoes... Consider it as nine years’ worth of Christmas and birthday presents I never got to buy.’

  He needs to do this, Rowan realised. He needs to spoil me—wants to do something for me that is outside of the crazy little deals we’ve struck to work around my pride and independence. Could she allow him to do that, or would her stiff neck and habitual self-reliance spoil it for him?

  It was hard. She couldn’t lie. But seeing the pleasure on his face when she finally nodded her agreement was worth the risk.

  He scooted up, dropped a kiss on her nose and grabbed her hand. ‘Okay, let’s go. Now.’

  ‘Good grief, Hollis, I’m still half naked!’ Rowan protested. ‘Pass me my clothes, Einstein.’

  Seb picked up her pink T-shirt from the floor next to his foot and Rowan saw that he did it with great reluctance. His eyes were firmly on her breasts.

  She grabbed his chin and forced him to look in her eyes. ‘Get your head out of bed, Seb. We’re going shopping. For a dress. And shoes. Cocktail dresses and shoes are expensive, by the way.’

  Seb grinned. ‘I’m pretty sure my credit card can stand it.’

  Rowan let him go, stepped away and picked up her shorts. She pulled them up, zipped, and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Seb?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Your mum’s failings are hers, not yours. You didn’t do or say anything that made her leave. That was on her and not on you.’

  Seb pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. Just stood with her in his arms. She didn’t know where those words had come from. She just knew, soul-deep, that he’d needed to hear them.

  Just as she knew that all she had to do right then was hold him.

  And when he pulled away to let go she pretended that the moment hadn’t been charged with all those pesky emotions he tried so damn hard to ignore.

  She did it because quite simply he needed her to.

  * * *

  ‘I need an ice cream,’ Seb whined theatrically, and Rowan rolled her eyes at him.

  What a lightweight, she thought. They’d only done one level of the mall and there were three more to go. She still hadn’t found a dress that was both within the budget she’d set in her head—she didn’t care how flexible Seb’s credit card was; she was not going to pay a fortune for a dress she’d only wear once!—and nice enough to wear.

  ‘Or a beer. Actually, I definitely need a beer,’ Seb added as she pulled him into a tiny boutique that looked interesting.

  ‘This was your idea,’ Rowan told him, unsympathetic, and headed for a rail of dresses at the back of the shop.

  Black, black, red... She pulled a coral chiffon cocktail dress off a hanger and held it up to look at it. Oh, it was pretty, she admitted as she held it against her and looked in the full-length mirror against the wall. It was sleeveless with a dropped waist and a multi-tiered skirt that fell to mid-thigh.

  Take me home, it whispered urgently.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Seb stated, jamming his hands into the pockets of his shorts while Rowan looked for a price tag. ‘Go try it on.’

  No tag, Rowan thought, and knew that it would cost a bomb. She had an eye for picking out quality. She sighed. In clothes and in objets d’art.

  Rowan shook her head and replaced the hanger on the rail. ‘We’ll look for something else.’

  Seb tugged it off the rail and thrust it at her. ‘Try it on.’

  ‘It’s the perfect colour for you,’ the shop assistant stated, and Rowan narrowed her eyes at her.

  ‘Stop being stubborn and try the bloody thing on.’ Seb pushed her towards the discreet dressing room. He turned to the shop assistant. ‘Shoes?’

  ‘Silver diamante sandals. I have the perfect pair. Size seven?’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Rowan muttered as she stepped into the dressing room. She raised her voice so that it could be heard above the partition. ‘Size six.’

  Rowan slipped her clothes off, carefully undid the discreet zip and slid the dress over her head. Yeah, this is the dress, she thought; it was a pity she couldn’t have it.

  ‘Does it fit?’ Seb demanded.

  ‘Yes. Beautifully. It’s a fairytale dress.’

  And she was living in a fairytale at the moment. She had the run of a gorgeous house she’d always loved and was sleeping with a super-hot, sometimes not-so-charming prince.

  She was loving every second of it.

  But it wasn’t real life, Rowan reminded herself. She—no, they were both enthralled by their sexual chemistry, and it was colouring how they saw each other. When the dust settled, they’d start to argue, and then they’d start to fight, and soon—as per usual—they wouldn’t be able to stand each other.

  Because the best predictor of future behaviour was past behaviour, and neither of them had a very good track record at playing nice for extended periods.

  Then why did she feel so settled, living in Seb’s house, living with Seb? Was a part of her yearning for the stability of living in one place with one man? At twenty-eight was her biological clock starting to tick? Was it just being in Seb’s home, waking up in Seb’s arms, that had her wanting to believe that she could be happy with the picket fence and the two point four kids and the Labrador and...?

  You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. The grass always looks greener on the other side. She knew this—heck, she knew this well.

  Before coming home she had never had a serious thought about settling down, about relationships and children and suburbia. Okay, that was a lie—of course she had—but only little, non-serious thoughts. Even she knew she was capable of being seduced by the idea of what-if, of thinking that a wonderful experience could translate into a wonderful life in that place. Hadn’t she gone through something similar in Bali, where she’d thought she’d buy a little house and stay for ever? And when she’d first seen the Teton mountain range, and that gorgeous little cake shop that had been for sale in the Cotswolds? She’d imagined herself living and working in all those places, but the urge to move on had always come—as it would here as well.

  ‘Rowan? You lost in there?’

  Seb’s voice pulled her out of her reverie.

  ‘Coming.’ Rowan pulled on her clothes, stepped out of the room and handed the assistant the dress. ‘Thanks, but we’ll keep looking.’

  The assistant looked at Seb, eyebrows raised, as she slipped the dress into an expensive cover.

  ‘I’ve already paid for it. Shoes too.’ Seb took the covered dress, slung it over his shoulder and grabbed the bag holding her shoes. ‘Can we please get a beer now?’

  ‘You paid for it?’ Rowan asked in a icy voice. ‘What on earth...?’

  ‘You said it fitted beautifully, it’s your colour, and I could see that you love it,’ Seb replied, puzzled. ‘I’m not seeing the problem here.’

  ‘The problem is that it costs a fortune!’ Rowan grabbed the bag and peered inside at the shoe box. ‘And the shoes are designer!’

  ‘Geez, you’re boring when you rattle on and on about money.’ Seb yawned. ‘You agreed that I could buy you a dress and shoes. I’ve bought you a dress and shoes. Can we move on to the next subject for the love of
God? Please?’

  Rowan sent him a dirty look, turned on her heel and stomped out of the shop. Outplayed and outmanoeuvred, she thought, and she didn’t like it.

  Yes, he was on-fire hot, and he was really good company, but she had to remember that Seb could be sneaky sharp when he wanted to be.

  ‘Beer... Food...’ Seb breathed in her ear, before grabbing her hand, tugging her around and pushing her in the opposite direction. ‘The food court is this way.’

  NINE

  Seb snagged an outside table belonging to a funky-looking bistro, draped Rowan’s dress on the third chair and grinned at her sulky face. She still wasn’t happy about the dress... No, she loved the dress, but she didn’t like the idea of him buying it for her.

  She took independence to stupid heights, he thought. So the dress was expensive? So were his computers and the technology he loved to spend money on.

  His last computer had cost him three times what he’d paid for the dress...

  ‘Stop sulking and order a drink,’ he told her, and grinned as her pert nose lifted in the air. He smiled up at the redheaded waitress, placed their orders and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Thank you for the dress,’ she said primly, politeness on a knife-edge. ‘And the shoes.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get you out of it,’ he said, just to rattle her cage.

  ‘Your chances of doing so are diminishing rapidly,’ Rowan retorted, but her lips twitched with humour. ‘Do you really like the dress or did you just want to stop shopping?’

  ‘Both,’ Seb admitted, funeral-director-mournful. ‘The things you make me do, Brat.’

  ‘Talking of that...’ Rowan gestured to the huge electronic advertising board to the left of them. ‘I saw a sign advertising an antiques fair and night market in Scarborough tonight. We could go take a look when we’re finished eating.’

  ‘Yeah...no. I’d rather eat jellyfish. Besides, I have a houseful of antiques and you’re broke.’ Seb took the beer the waitress had placed on the table and drained half the glass in one swallow.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Rowan grumbled. ‘And I’m not broke. I’m financially constrained. Asset-rich and cash-poor. We don’t have to buy—we could just look.’