The Good Father. Tara Quinn Taylor
Taking a perverse pleasure as she jumped when he came up beside her table, Brett pulled out a chair.
A glass of water sat in front of her.
Not wine.
Good.
“Have you ordered?” he asked.
God, she looked good. Great. Better than ever. How long had it been since he’d seen her? A year? Two?
Four years, three months, one week and two days. Give or take a week, his mind, its usual relentless self, reminded him. He hadn’t kept count. Not even he was that anal. No, he’d lain in bed the other night—wide awake when he’d needed to be well rested for his meeting the following morning—and completely relived that last time. She’d been clearing her things out of the home they’d bought in Santa Barbara after he’d sold the dot-com.
He’d lain in bed and counted how long ago that had been.
And marveled at how far he’d come since then...
“You look good, Brett.” Her smile, oh, God, that smile. He had no idea if she’d ever answered his question about ordering.
And a waitress was approaching.
“We’ll have a bottle of wine,” he blurted. Just a small bottle. He named the one. It went well with...
What the hell. He liked it. And knew she did, too.
“I don’t...” Ella was shaking her head.
He pretended not to see. “And bring us the bread-and-cheese plate,” he continued, naming a popular Donovan’s appetizer.
Bread, wine...and time. Just enough to deal with this situation. And not a second more.
“Would you like two glasses with that?” the waitress, someone he didn’t recognize, asked.
“Yes.”
Ella didn’t argue. Brett relaxed just a tad.
And the woman left.
* * *
CHLOE WASN’T EXPECTING her anytime soon. Ella had called her sister-in-law before leaving the hospital to let her know she was working late and had no idea when she’d be home. Chloe had said she’d fix Cody fish sticks for dinner. She’d taken him to the complex park that afternoon. Had met another mother there with her toddler. A little girl.
She’d sounded more relaxed than Ella had heard her since she’d brought Chloe to Santa Raquel to stay with her.
“I didn’t need any wine,” she said now. But she lied. She did need it. If she was going to get through this meeting without throwing herself at her ex-husband’s chest and begging him to hold her.
The temptation was made worse by the fact that she knew he’d do it if she asked. And then he’d let her go.
Because that was Brett’s way.
And she’d fall apart again.
Because that was what being with him did to her.
“Just one glass,” he said.
She nodded. Saving her strength, her arguments, for what mattered.
“The view is lovely.” She stared at the ocean. Awkward. But he was the one who’d chosen their meeting place. And the one who’d ordered—requiring any serious conversation to wait until they’d been served.
“When they first built this place it was a warehouse.”
“With a view?”
He shook his head. “No, this wall of windows was put in when it was converted to a restaurant.”
Who cared? Who cared? Who cared? She glanced to the side. Looking out into the room.
Where was that wine?
More important, the waitress who needed to deliver it so that they could be left alone.
“You’re wearing the same cologne.” She’d picked it out. After he’d sold the dot-com and they’d had their first taste of money. They’d gone into an expensive department store and smelled what had seemed like a million different scents. She’d chosen one for him. He’d chosen one for her. They’d bought the home in Santa Barbara. He’d put plans for The Lemonade Stand in motion. And started his nonprofit policing business...
“You’re not.”
Not what? Oh. Wearing the same cologne...
It had been one of the last things to go after the divorce was final. She hadn’t been able to bear giving it up. And then later, hadn’t been able to stand the scent. It reminded her too much of him.
Another sideways glance. Still no waitress... Wait, yes, there she was, at a table across the way, taking an order.
“Your hair is shorter.” His legs were as long and perfect, his suit fit him to perfection and that dimple just above his jawline still turned her on.
“Yours isn’t.” Did his voice have a bit of an edge? She stared at him. Wishing, as she had so many times in the past, that she could get through to him.
Their hearts had always been connected, but he closed his mind to her when it came to his most inner sanctum.
No waitress yet. No wine or bread.
She couldn’t wait anymore. “I’ve moved to Santa Raquel.”
“I know.” Kind of hard to pick curtness out of two words. But she needed it to be there. Needed to know that he was emotionally affected by her choice to invade his home territory...
Ella pulled herself up straighter. No. She needed Brett to be...Brett. Self-sufficient and capable. If he had any needs, if she was privy to them, she’d be compelled to try to meet them. And end up heartbroken when she failed.
“Here you go.” The voice startled her. As did the arm that reached between Ella and Brett, putting first one then the other wineglass down in front of them. All that time waiting, and Ella hadn’t even seen the waitress coming.
An unopened wine bottle was all that remained on the tray the woman held and, taking it, she set the tray down on a vacant table behind them, held out the bottle for Brett to examine, and at his nod, pulled a corkscrew out of her pocket and turned it into the bottle.
Ella watched every move. Cataloged them all. Putting every ounce of energy she had into collecting her thoughts, which would help enforce her emotional barriers against this man, and get on with the life she was currently living.
Brett was given a sip of wine to taste. He approved it. And Ella’s glass was filled to the halfway mark. Without waiting for him, waiting for the toast that had been a tradition with them, she took an unladylike gulp. Stopping short of chugging the remaining liquid in her glass.
Another staff person arrived with a variety of house-made breads and gourmet cheeses arranged on a silver platter. He moved the salt and pepper, and an unlit candle on the white tablecloth, and set the platter down. A small white china plate appeared in front of her.
Then another in front of Brett. Her Brett. Sitting right across from her again. As he had for several precious years.
And it was all too much for her. The romantic restaurant. The wine. The town and new job and new life. A woman sitting in a shelter because the man she loved had beaten her...
Feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, Ella clasped her hands in her lap, stared out at a ship on the ocean and told herself to breathe.
RATHER THAN HELPING, the glass of wine only made things worse. So Brett helped himself to a little more. Two was his limit whether he was driving or not, so the second was going to have to do the trick.