Chapter Eighteen

Somehow, Bridget found the energy to drag her thong up, push herself into a sitting position, and face the camera. Faking casualness she was far from feeling, she blew her bangs off her forehead. “Told you it wouldn’t work.”

Archer’s low laugh rumbled out of her phone, tired enough to tell her she wasn’t the only one who’d given it her all. “Yeah. What a complete waste of time. Send the blondes back in on your way out.”

He could be so flipping funny sometimes. They’d always had a lot of laughs—

No. Not going there. Mentally slamming that door, she reached for her bra. “Har. Har. Are you booting me already?”

“Stay as long as you like. I’m enjoying your company, regardless of our lackluster results with long-distance sex. I’ve been meaning to get you up to the house.”

She found her tank top and pulled it on, trying to ignore the “enjoying your company” comment. He’d enjoyed the orgasm, and so had she. No need to pretty it up. “Fortress, more like. I think you went overboard on the security. Most people around here don’t even lock their doors. Captivity isn’t really a hive of criminal activity.”

“I don’t know. Someone threatened to break a window out of my house earlier today.”

Smiling at that, she crawled off the bed to retrieve her shirt from the floor.

“I’m not always around. When I’m not fulfilling my true passion of serving as Captivity Air’s temporary pilot, Skyline takes up a lot of my time. I travel frequently. I wanted good security because I like to protect the things I care about.”

That sounded reasonable, but she knew Archer wasn’t really so much about things. He liked his toys, of course—the boat, the plane—these possessions didn’t surprise her, but he also didn’t keep them at the house. Which made her curious. “What’s here that you care about?”

“At the moment, you.”

Her chest tightened. Quickly, she tugged her jeans on. “‘Moment’ being the operative word.”

“I think we’ve already discussed how much I’d like to make it permanent.”

“And I think I told you that’s not going to happen.”

“You told me you needed your own space. That bedroom you passed on your way to this one? That’s all yours if you want it. Make it your office, your game room, your personal retreat…whatever you need. If you don’t like that room, there are a few other options.”

“Archer, I’m not moving in with you.” And yet she was down to three weeks until Trace and Izzy returned and had made zero progress in her search for a place to move. No wonder this conversation worked her nerves. “Also, I don’t need protecting.”

“Says the woman with a broken tailbone.”

“You had a little something to do with that.” She shoved her foot into her boot. “Which means, thus far in my life, the only person I’ve needed protection from is you.” After shoving her other foot into its boot, she stood and grabbed her phone off the bed, desperately tempted to end the call.

“Actually, you do need some protection.”

All hints of amusement left his voice. He suddenly sounded serious, but she was already in fight-or-flight mode. Wanting to get off camera, she stalked to what she presumed was the master bathroom. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“You walked in your sleep last night.”

She stalled in the middle of his huge, gray-and-white modern marvel of a bathroom, caught her reflection in the big mirror over the double sinks. “I did what?” Cold fingers skipped down her spine.

“I guess I drifted off for a few minutes. I woke to find you standing at the door to the deck—the open door—having a one-sided conversation with nobody. I led you back to bed, tucked you in, and waited around for a while to make sure you stayed there. I also locked the door, and the front door, on my way out.”

The woman reflected in the mirror suddenly seemed like a stranger. “I-I don’t remember any of this.”

“You were asleep the entire time. I’m worried that if I hadn’t been there, you would have walked out onto the deck. I don’t want that to happen. I can’t be there tonight. If you stay at my place, I can still keep an eye on you.”

She wedged the phone between her shoulder and her ear and washed her hands. “I can’t stay here.” Absolutely not. Not even with him gone.

“Sure, you can.”

Still staring at her reflection, she shook her head. Bridget in the mirror did the same. She ran a hand through her hair. Mirror Bridget did, too. Reassured she retained at least some control over her container, she dried her hands and wandered into a spacious walk-in closet. More of an organizational work of art, really, with dark wood supporting hanging racks, enclosed cabinets, and rows of shelves and shoe caddies. It was twice the size he needed, judging by the fact that it was half empty. “You don’t have to worry about this. I’ll lock my doors, but most nights when it’s just Key and me, he sleeps wherever I sleep. He’d wake me if I was about to take a header off the deck.”

“Or down the stairs? Locked exterior doors won’t save you from interior hazards.”

Clearly, this had been weighing on him. “Or the stairs.” Though maybe she’d sleep on the living room sofa tonight, just to be on the safe side. Christ, was she going to have to child-proof the house and treat her sleep-self like a hapless toddler? And what the heck had she uttered out loud last night during her one-sided conversation? Skimming her hand along a row of his hanging shirts, she gave in to the need to ask. “What did I say?”

“I didn’t hear most of it. You weren’t super-intelligible.”

Good.

“I think you were dreaming about Shay again, though. You said his name.”

She dropped her hand and stopped walking. Don’t ask. Do not ask. He’ll know you’re losing your shit. “You didn’t…uh…see anything, did you?”

Dammit.

“See anything like what?”

She closed her eyes and scrubbed her hand over her forehead. “I don’t know. Nothing. Forget I asked.”

He released a breath loud enough for her to hear his exasperation over the phone, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “It’s okay to grieve, you know. It’s also okay to talk to someone who specializes in grief counseling if you—”

“I’m fine. Completely fine.” Struggling with responsibility. Struggling with uncomfortable emotions triggered by the sudden reappearance of a certain stress-inducing someone in her life. Recovering from a broken bone resulting directly from said struggles. Struggling with guilt over Shay’s death. Sleepwalking. Having conversations with him. “Never better.”

“Baby…”

Needing movement, she pivoted and ended up facing shelves of folded sweaters. Feeling surrounded and trapped by all things Archer, she started to turn away. As she did, one of the folded items snagged her attention. Her eyes narrowed.

“Hey…” She lifted the gray sweatshirt and shook it out. Her Stanford hoodie. There were the thumb holes she’d worked into the wrist seams, and the missing hood pulls because she didn’t like the strings blowing in her face when they rode in his convertible. Yes, it had belonged to him, originally, but she’d commandeered it early on in their time together and he’d let her make it her own. How many hours had she spent snuggled in the thing? She brought it to her face and inhaled. It smelled like laundry detergent and him. “You thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Taking the sweatshirt with her, she marched back to his bedroom, faced the camera, and held the shirt up. “This is mine.”

“No. Technically, it’s mine. One of my favorites, in fact.”

She lowered the shirt, hugged it to her, and scowled at the camera. “You gave it to me.”

“You took it.”

“Well, guess what? I’m taking it again.” She couldn’t say why him having it bothered her so much, but it did. She would have been less disturbed to find he’d kept a pair of her underwear or a picture of her naked. Something less personal. The girl who’d worn this sweatshirt had been deliriously happy. Delusionally happy. She’d trusted completely and loved completely. That a tangible reminder of that girl still existed, and he possessed it, made her feel like he had a piece of her. A piece she needed back. “I’m taking it,” she repeated.

“You just keep justifying my home security.” Some undercurrent in his easy tone told her she ought to watch her step. “If you want to keep it, it’s going to cost you.”

And there it was. “Cost me why? It’s mine.” To be clear, she poked her finger at her own chest.

“It’s sitting on my shelf, in my closet, of my house. I’m happy to give it to you, if you come with me on an overnight to Los Angeles in a couple weeks. I’ve got a family thing and I need a plus one.”

“A family thing?” Meeting his parents and sister? Something inside her cringed at the thought and sent out single-word warnings like “awkward” and “complicated.” Why muddy things up with family introductions now?

“Sort of a family business thing. I have a board meeting to attend in the afternoon, which you’re not on the hook for. You can lounge around the pool at my condo, go to the spa, hit the beach. Whatever you feel like. There’s a board dinner in the evening, which is where you come in.”

“Why do you need me for any of it?” Her better judgment urged her to decline, but…her hands tightened on the soft, thick cotton.

“Because I’m not in a bubble anymore, and neither are you.”

“You want to show Daddy you’re your own man, with your own successful life?” The words left a bitter taste on her tongue, even as she tried to convince herself that’s all it amounted to. “So I’d be some sort of trophy on your arm?”

“You’d make a hell of a trophy, Bridge, but no. I want him to see what’s most important to me.”

Most important? Her? Though her heart trembled at the notion, she knew better. Four years ago, he’d chosen his father over her without a backward glance. “Ha. I don’t know about that. I do know if you’re feeling the need to prove something to your father, you’re probably not your own man.”

“Those are my terms,” he replied, completely ignoring her barb. “You’ll have to decide if it’s worth it to you. You can let me know tomorrow when I get back.”

She opened her mouth to say no, but looking at the relic of herself from a different time, the word wouldn’t come.

“In the meantime, put my sweatshirt back where you found it.”

It felt wrong. No, it felt punishing, returning to his closet, folding the shirt, and leaving it on the shelf. Since the closet was a camera-free zone, she let her hands linger over it, smoothing the fabric, remembering how secure and special it had once made her feel.

“Where’s the cat food?” she asked into her phone to push past the thickness trying to gather in her throat. Getting teary over an old sweatshirt he’d kept for unknown reasons was not something she intended to do. At the end of the day, there was nothing inherently special about a mass-produced product of high-grade cotton. A smart woman would let it go.

“Downstairs in the mudroom. Bridget, are you okay?”

“I’m always okay.” Determined to make it so, she walked out of his closet, his bathroom, through his bedroom, and down the hall. She continued quickly past “her” room and forbade herself to take a second look. Following his directions, she made her way to the mudroom. As she passed through the living room and retrieved her jacket, her photos on the far wall pulled at her. She resisted the impulse to run over, tear them down, and take them with her—remove every trace of herself from his space. Reclaim these parts of her she’d never known were gone.

But to do it would make her look crazy. Instead, she did what she’d come to do, got the kitten chow, and returned to the front door to let herself out.

“Thanks for looking after Wally for me,” he said.

“No problem. She’s a sweetheart.” Her voice conveyed more than a little sarcasm.

He laughed. “That’s one word for her. She’s still getting used to her new reality. Deciding who she can trust. She’s safe with me, but I don’t think she’s ready to believe it and let her guard down. Luckily, I’m a patient man.”

Why did she get the funny feeling he wasn’t talking about a skittish kitten anymore? “Some things you take on at your own risk.” Happy with those parting words, she reached for the doorknob. Just as she closed her hand around it, the lock engaged.

“Hey. Not funny.”

“Want to know why I kept the sweatshirt?”

How could one simple question unleash warring armies of panic and curiosity inside her? Panic had the upper hand in this battle, but she kept her voice even as she replied. “No. I want to go home. Unlock the door.”

“First night we met, remember? There must have been a hundred people at that party on the rooftop deck of my apartment building to kick off the fall semester, but all I could see was you. Some frat asshat challenged you to race a lap in the pool. That’s when I learned you couldn’t walk away from a challenge. You just jumped the fuck in, swam the lap, and climbed out at least a length ahead of that fool. You didn’t give a shit about your hair or your clothes. Didn’t need to. You were the most riveting person on that deck.”

“I think my wet T-shirt accounted for the fascination,” she interjected, determined to dull down the starry shine of the memory. Determined to have the last word. The sound of his door lock disengaging made her wonder if she’d succeeded.

“That factored,” he admitted, apparently unperturbed, “but it was the swagger and don’t-give-a-shit that drew me in. I had to meet you. Talk to you. I pushed my way through the crowd to get to you, to peel that sweatshirt off me and put it over you. To tell every other guy at the party, ‘She’s mine.’”

Had it really been like that for him? The instant connection? His possessive streak shouldn’t have made her heart stumble around in her chest like a swooning debutant—not anymore—especially since he’d severed their connection three years later, without suffering anything close to the breakdown she’d endured. That lowering experience was the thing she needed to keep front and center in her mind. She wasn’t the girl he remembered. She wasn’t cut out for what he thought he wanted from her. “I’m mine, Archer. Always was. Always will be. Just because we’re exchanging the occasional orgasm these days doesn’t change the fundamental path of my life.” It couldn’t. She couldn’t let it. Wouldn’t open herself to that kind of pain again. New Bridget wasn’t reckless or immature—broken tailbone notwithstanding. If anything, that proved her point. New Bridget understood what she wanted from Archer, and what she didn’t. She would not make the same mistake twice.

“Hmm. It’s a very interesting detour, though, don’t you think? I wonder where it’s going to lead.”

God help her, she wanted to scream. Nobody worked her shit like him. “Nowhere. It’s just sex. Not even that, really. It leads nowhere.”

“Care to make a bet?”

Her better judgment slapped back the dumbass inside her who hated to back down and didn’t know when to quit. “No, thank you.”

“Those stakes feel a little too high, huh?”

“We’re done playing, Archer. I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

“The door’s unlocked,” he reminded her.

Right. Why was she still standing there, having this pointless conversation? “I’m not at the airfield tomorrow.” She walked out the door and shut it behind her. “Come by my place when you’re done with your run and pick up your cat.”

“Will do. Hey, Bridge?”

She paused on his doorstep and dug her keys from her jacket pocket. “What?”

“I’m yours. Whenever you’re ready for me.”

The hand holding her keys shook. He had to stop saying things like that. Or she had to stop letting them weaken her. “All I want from you is my sweatshirt.”

“That would be my sweatshirt. It can be yours. You know what you have to do to get it. See you tomorrow.”

The line went dead before she could get the last word.