the man thought.
The case interested him, though. Cedar-Jones was right. An intricate trail of money-making deals had veered off course, and DiSalvo was being framed. Or he said he was. They always said they were. Usually they weren’t as innocent as they claimed, but there were ways to make them look as though they were. Cedar knew that firsthand. And knew, too, about the people whose palms could be greased, by a lawyer or the accused, to make things disappear. And people who’d roll over to keep themselves out of hotter water. It was exactly the kind of case that used to make Cedar salivate. After a quick shower and a ham-and-mustard sandwich, he sat out on his deck, with the ocean in the distance, a glass of milk in hand, his laptop on the table in front of him and his body alive in a way it hadn’t been in too many months.
DiSalvo had sent a shitload of files. Cedar wasn’t going to bed until he’d perused every single one of them.
And maybe not even then.
His father had called on him.
He had work to do.
And a job site to be at in the morning.
Good thing he was used to getting by on minimal sleep.
* * *
HEATHER STOOD AT Charles’s side, a slight step behind him, as they waved goodbye to his friends. Could anyone tell her palms were wet?
Cedar would have known from the arm across her midsection that she was holding back. Holding in. That something was bothering her.
She dropped her arm. Kept waving. Concentrated on the smile on her face. And was caught unawares as Charles turned around and kissed her deeply, his tongue in her mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, as soon as he lifted his head. “I know this wasn’t the evening we planned, but it was perfect in a different kind of way.”
Perfect wasn’t even close to a word she’d have used, but then she’d known what was coming and was sure that had clouded what might otherwise have been a wonderful time.
All except for the conversation about bands, maybe.
“They’re nice people,” she said, stepping away from Charles—wanting another glass of wine, which would require opening a third bottle. Which they had.
Was it too late for him to go along with their original plan of wine on the deck?
“Becky’s a sweetheart,” Charles was saying, following her into the kitchen. “You really liked her?”
Hovering near the wine cooler, Heather smiled at him. “I did. Truly.”
“So you’d be up for going to Chicago to see them?”
She imagined Charles and her together, but not engaged, and smiled again. “Of course.”
It was awkward, just standing there in the kitchen. He might be ready to go to bed. She wasn’t joining him.
She needed some time to figure out the total impact of the feelings assailing her because of her contact with Cedar. She should’ve realized there’d be an initial backlash. She hadn’t seen it coming. And she had to deal with that first.
“Shall we have another glass of wine?” she asked, feeling like a kid asking for permission to stay out past curfew. Which was ridiculous. Charles was the late-night one. “We could sit out on the deck.”
“Sure!” He shrugged, looked happy as he pulled out a bottle of her favorite unoaked chardonnay, while she slid a couple of fresh glasses off the rack mounted above the cooler.
She loved him in this mood, so easy, so supportive. Would it hurt to put off the conversation until later?
Following Charles through the house toward the deck, she considered her options. Her appointment with Carin Landry wasn’t until Wednesday, and she wouldn’t be seeing or speaking with Cedar again until she’d had more than one appointment with the woman. She needed preliminary conversation with her before she could form a list of questions. She could have Charles over to her house for dinner on Tuesday night. After his golf game. Unless he had dinner with the others in his foursome, all doctors.
She’d been thinking about stopping by Lianna’s after work the next day. Her friend hadn’t said no to the weekend in wine country, but she hadn’t said yes, either. She’d sounded decidedly unlike herself. Maybe it was time for Heather to be a friend, rather than just have one...
Charles pulled open the sliding glass door that led to the upper deck at the back of the house. She followed him out. She took a deep breath of air, convinced she could taste a hint of the ocean’s salt in the breeze. Growing up in Santa Raquel had given her what seemed like a biological need for that very special air.
She handed a glass to Charles, exchanged the other empty for the one he’d filled, and stood by the rail waiting for their traditional toast.
“To us,” he said, clinking his now-full glass to hers.
She nodded, mouthed the words and hoped he didn’t notice that they didn’t actually pass her lips. Hoped they’d still be an “us.”
CHARLES SAT ON his usual side of the padded wicker love seat they normally shared. He lifted one leg and rested his ankle on the opposite knee. He seemed ready to sit for hours.
She wasn’t sitting.
“Out with it...” His words were soft. Infused with the caring that had touched her from the moment he’d said hello the summer before.
“What?”
“I’m just wondering when you’re going to tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
Her genuine surprise bothered her. She really hadn’t expected Charles to notice. Shouldn’t she have? Considering that he was the man she intended to spend the rest of her life with?
Current necessary conversation aside, if Charles would wait for her, she’d marry him.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” she admitted, turning to face him, but not joining him on the love seat.
He couldn’t avoid seeing the difference. She always sat next to him.
“Seems like now’s the time.” He was holding his wine in one hand, letting it rest against the arm of the love seat.
She took a sip of hers, and then set it on the railing beside her. Her situation was clear to her—how to express it in a way that would hurt him least was not.
“I’m struggling,” she started. And stopped.
“Obviously.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. Nor did he seem angry. “I’m here to help.”
Oh, God. She wanted his help. So badly.
And yet...she didn’t. Something about leaning on Charles just then seemed wrong.
“I
