But, oh, she’d been busy making herself feel needed, hadn’t she? Busy being important and organized. Busy closing new accounts and mending broken ones.
What Shane hadn’t said was, Thank you, Crickitt! August Industries would have been a pile of rubble if you hadn’t stepped in this week while I went all Howard Hughes.
What he said was she “didn’t have to do” what she did. And he was right. She didn’t. Sure, she’d landed new customers. But it was no less than Keena or Angel would have done in her absence. In fact, now that she thought about it—
Her stomach tossed as the simple truth behind why she’d done all those things assaulted her. She’d been trying to prove herself. Prove she was worth loving. Prove she was worth keeping. Had her marriage to Ronald taught her nothing? Was it an exercise in futility? All those years of trying to make him see she was worthy of his love, that she was a good wife, a nurturing future mother of his children…and none of it mattered.
It didn’t matter if she had dinner on the table before she left for work. It didn’t matter if she picked up his dry cleaning, or bought his favorite kind of toothpaste. It didn’t matter when she lost ten pounds or gained back five. Ronald didn’t love her regardless.
Foolishly, she’d vied for Shane’s love in the same way. She was no more capable of making Shane love her than she was Ronald. She saw that now. A quote sprang to mind, the one about repeating the same action and expecting different results. The very definition of—
“Insanity,” she whispered.
“There you are!” Henry Townsend’s brusque voice cut into her thoughts. “A bottle of hundred-year-old Scotch waits.”
“But for us girls,” Hildy said, taking Crickitt’s hand, “champagne.” She lifted Shane’s arm and placed Crickitt’s hand in his. “Escort this beautiful young lady.” She gestured to a hut-like tiki bar on the far side of the pool before grasping Henry’s arm and joining their guests.
Shane stood, keeping hold of Crickitt’s hand. She was wishing for this earlier, but not now, not with the look of compliance on his face. She didn’t want to be who Shane settled for. She wanted to be wanted. She needed to be wanted.
Shane started in the direction of the bar, his fingers loose around hers.
“Chilly out here,” she said, using the excuse to pull her hand away, breaking his grip easily. She rubbed her arms with her palms for effect.
Shane didn’t move to warm her, to hold her. He didn’t so much as look at her. The closer they got to the bar, the wider the distance grew between them. And when they sat, the seats were several feet apart with strangers in between.
* * *
A man halfway down the bar flirted with Crickitt, tipping his Scotch glass in her direction as he cajoled her into taking a sip. She accepted his challenge, wrinkling her nose in a final show of apprehension before emptying the contents down her throat. She slammed the glass on the bar, earning a round of applause. Shane could see she was fighting the whiskey burning a trail down her throat, but she kept smiling. He loved her for it.
Damn.
It almost made him laugh.
He’d purposely avoided relationships so he wouldn’t fall in love and get hurt. And even though he and Crickitt made no proclamations about their future, here he sat. In love and hurt.
And the thing that stopped him from jumping up, dragging her away from Johnny Big Neck over there and kissing her senseless was how much he loved her.
He hadn’t been fair. Not to her. He’d been looking out for himself for so long, it didn’t occur to him Crickitt may not appreciate the crumbs he offered. Not that he’d classify what happened between them as crumbs. Thinking back to the last time he made love to her, he was hyperaware of how he’d done everything to show her how he felt about her. Everything but say it.
But how could he? He’d been in denial, wasn’t sure if the truth had even registered in his waking consciousness. Until he’d nearly lost it. Boy, he could see the truth now, so clearly. How hard he’d fallen, and how hard he’d fought to keep from admitting it.
Idiot.
He glared at the man at the end of the bar, the ugly green-eyed monster twitching to life inside of him.
Shane wondered what would have happened if instead of trying to control his and Crickitt’s relationship, he’d let it take its course. Would they have built a future together? A family? Would he walk through the front door and announce, “Honey, I’m home!” like a 50s-era sitcom, Crickitt at the stove, stirring a vat of fragrant pasta sauce?