Jill Shalvis - The Street Where She Lives

She’d go on with her life, maybe take it in a new direction…

The phone rang, drawing her out of the reverie and firmly into the present.

“Doll!” Gwen Ariani, her agent, spoke in her rough voice that was the result of smoking for thirty years. “How’s it going?”

Her blank easel mocked her. “It’s not.”

“No? Well, it’s soon yet. You still have an entire month before you have to start cranking out again. Thank God you’d worked so far ahead of yourself, huh?”

“Gwen…” Rachel closed her eyes and admitted what she’d been wanting to admit for a good long time now. “I don’t know if I want to ‘crank’ out the strip again. I’m thinking about ending Gracie.”

“Hold on, doll. Clearly, I’m losing my hearing.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then I’m having a heart attack.”

“I just wanted to start something new.”

“Another strip?”

“No.” Rachel ran a finger over the new laptop she’d had delivered. “I’m thinking of starting over. Completely over. And writing instead of drawing.”

Dead silence for a long beat. “You mean, walk away from the biggest cash cow of your life? Can’t you just write a little on the side now and then?”

Rachel had expected resistance. Gracie made them all a lot of money. “I’m not talking a little hobby, Gwen. I’m thinking of writing a book.”

“You’re still on meds, right?”

“No.”

“Come on, Rachel, people don’t walk away from a gig like this. You only draw one strip a week, for God’s sake. Hello! Cakewalk!”

From under the closed studio door came a slip of paper. Eyes narrowed, Rachel moved slowly, using her cane. “I’m sorry you don’t understand, Gwen, but-” She unfolded the typed sheet of paper and silently read the note. “It’s time for a truce, past time. Meet me in the gardens at eight. Dinner on me.”

Rachel frowned. Ben wanted a truce? What did that mean, exactly? That he’d go away? She hadn’t known the man to give in on anything in his life.

But a truce…

“Rachel?”

She fingered the note. “Gwen, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait-”

“I’m sorry, I’ll call you next week.” She hung up and stared at the words on the paper again, wondering what on earth that man was up to.

BEN WAS ALSO looking at a note, one that had been slipped under his door. “It’s time for a truce, past time. Meet me in the gardens at eight. Dinner on me.”

Rachel wanted a truce? That was new to him. She certainly hadn’t shown a weakening in those ten-foot walls she wore around her like a cloak. Nope, whenever he wanted in, he was forced to bash them down one brick at a time. A touch seemed to work, as did kissing her.

But those things were far more dangerous to him than to her, and besides, he wearied of the constant battle.

Now this, a truce. Did he want one? Hell, no.

Would he go to the garden and stare at her beautiful face? Hell, yes.

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK that night Rachel opened the sliding glass door to the back garden. It had been an interesting afternoon. Gwen had called back twice, trying not to show her panic over the impending loss of Gracie. Their online server had gone down for several hours sending Emily into a tailspin over the lack of e-mail. Adam had called wanting to take her out to a new downtown dinner theater. Mel was acting pissy about God knew what. The puppy was going to be the death of her if she so much as chewed one more thing. And her doctor had told her she’d be a little longer on the casts.

All in all, a shitty day. But at least Melanie had taken Emily out for a movie and the puppy was sleeping. A few moments of peace. Maybe. She made her careful way outside, and at the sight before her, all her thoughts scattered like the light evening wind.

Candles burned everywhere, on the brick path, hanging from the trees, on the table that had been dressed up with her fancy linens and best china. And sitting at the table, looking at her with those dark eyes and sexy mouth curved in the slightest of a smile, was Ben.

Uh-oh. Thinking about resisting him and everything he made her feel was one thing when he wasn’t actually in front of her, but Ben in the flesh was something else entirely. Her heart clutched, her stomach quivered. Her palms went damp. The entire visceral reaction was more than a little disturbing.

Had she forgotten that this man, and this man alone, had once destroyed her? Had she forgotten he already had one foot out the door, and that when he left it would likely be another thirteen years before she saw him again?

He stood up and came toward her, wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt beneath an open, long-sleeved, blue chambray shirt. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

He took her hand and guided her to the table. She eyed her best china, the three daisies in a small vase in the center of the table, the utter care that had gone into the setting and then realized he was studying her. “What?”

“You look beautiful,” he said so simply she wanted to believe him. Wanted a lot of things, actually.

“Ben…about earlier. I’m sorry about getting mad over the McDonald’s bribe. It’s just that I’m used to handling her all by myself, and-”

“You handle everything by yourself.”

“I didn’t-” She let out a breath and blinked at him. “What?”

“You handle everything by yourself-your injuries, your house, your hopes and dreams and fears. Your daughter.”

“She’s your daughter, too.”

“I know that, I’m just not always sure you know it.”

Whoa. This didn’t sound like a truce to her. “Ben-”

“Look, all I want to say is, don’t apologize for something you’re not really sorry for.”

“I…okay.” She blew out a careful breath. “You’re right.”

“And be honest. You like routine, you like to get your way and when I wasn’t here, you had both whenever you wanted it.”

“Yes,” she agreed tightly. “And when you’re gone, things will go back to normal. They’ll have to. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spoil Emily while you were here.”

He let out a little laugh. “You act like I’m already half gone.”

“Aren’t you?”

Still standing, they stared at each other, at the same old impasse. The thirteen years might not have happened at all, Rachel thought bitterly, and wondered how she’d ever let herself dream things might be different this time, even if those dreams had only been in the deep, dark of the night. “You could try to deny it,” she whispered, horrified at what she was revealing by even saying it, but unwilling to hold back.

He stared at her for a beat, then grimaced. Shoving his hands through his hair, he turned in a slow circle, then faced her again. “Rachel.” Just that, just her name, in a voice as tortured as her insides felt.

“Forget it,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Just forget it.”

“You know I had to leave back then. I had the offer of a lifetime. You know that. But I never meant to do it without you, it never occurred to me that I’d have to. That you’d send me away.”

She knew her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Knowing that her heart was in her voice, she said, “And it never occurred to you that I had to stay, every bit as much as you had to go.”

“Rach,” he whispered again and stepped closer. He slid his fingers along her jaw, beneath the straw hat she wore over her extremely short hair. His thumb gently glided along her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Me, too,” she said softly, and meant it. So sorry.

He let out a slow breath. “So.”

“So,” she repeated, and had to let out a little smile.

His returning smile stole her breath. He hitched his head toward the table. “Think we can manage?”

“We can try.”

“Good.” He slipped his arm around her bad side, gently pulling her snug against him so that as they turned toward the table and started walking, he was her cane.

“What’s cooking?” she asked, trying not to think about how hard he felt from shoulder to thigh, how warm. How positively solid. She concentrated on something else instead-the itching beneath the cast, the residual heat of the day.

“Well, now.” He tipped his head down to hers, his mouth curving into a smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He sat her down, scooted her chair in for her then moved to his side of the table. Shrugging out of his long-sleeved shirt, he set it over the back of his chair and sat as well. “Hungry?” Before she could answer, he pulled the lid off the steaming platter. Mac and cheese.

Not that Rachel wasn’t grateful for any meal that she didn’t have to cook, but she knew Ben’s culinary skills and had to admit to surprise over the simplistic menu.

“Looks great,” he said, and smiled one of his killer smiles.

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Didn’t it look great before?”

“Before?”

“When you cooked it, Ben.”

His smile froze a little. “But I didn’t cook it.”

“But…I didn’t either.”

“Sure you did. I got your note.” He pulled it out of the pocket of the shirt on the back of his chair. The piece of paper looked suspiciously like hers.

She stared at it in disbelief, then pulled out hers and handed it to him.

After reading it, he tossed his head back and laughed.

Rachel, who didn’t think this was funny in the least, sat back. Her daughter had struck again.

Ben just laughed some more. “You have to admit, she got us.”

“Oh, she got us. And I’m going to get her.”

“How can you not find this funny?”

That was simple. Everything in her life was out of her control, including this, and she deeply resented that. With a shiver, she imagined what could have happened tonight if the truth hadn’t been discovered, if she’d continued to believe Ben had set this all up himself. She shivered again, and with a frown Ben stood up and grabbed his shirt from the back of his chair. “Here,” he said, and draped it over her shoulders.