Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch Page 11

  “Someone tried to break into the house.”

  His face darkened. “Where are the kids?”

  “Spending the night as Kel’s.”

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “Justin does because Sam called him.” His eyes narrowed at my use of Dr. Johnson’s first name. “We decided to let Kelly sleep, with the babies and all—”

  Rob stood and pushed his hands through his hair. “What babies?”

  “I—” My voice faltered. He hadn’t been MIA for long, but God he’d missed so much. “Kel is pregnant with twins.”

  “Holy shit,” he muttered, pacing the room. “That’s—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That was my reaction as well. Three kids under four.”

  “Gross.”

  I snorted and lay back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. My feet were throbbing more by the second. I wanted painkillers—oral ones this time, because fuck needles—and to sleep for about a decade.

  I wanted to wake up and have my life back to normal.

  I wanted to wake up and have Rob back.

  Talk about gross, I thought, mentally kicking myself in the ass. Get it together, woman.

  Gentle fingers on my forehead, pushing back locks of hair, stroking the skin behind my ear softly. God, I loved that. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re not seriously asking me that question, are you?”

  Dammit, now tears were leaking out of the corners of my eyes. I’d been strong. I’d held it together, but one flipping touch from Rob, and I was sobbing like a toddler denied an ice cream cone.

  I needed his touch, craved his affection, and yet it had nearly destroyed me.

  “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. Of course not.” Dry humor laced his tone, but I wasn’t feeling very amused.

  When he slipped his arm under my shoulders, preparing to pull me into a hug, I squirmed away. “Not here,” I murmured. “I can’t. Just not right now.”

  “But you’ll let Sam comfort you?” he snapped.

  My eyes shot to his, angry and hot. I needed him away from me. I needed him not so close. If he were sweet and kind, if he brushed my tears from my cheeks and held me like he used to, I’d forgive him for everything. I’d forget about these last few months. I’d force the doubts and fury and hurt into the back of my mind, lock the door, and throw away the key. I’d move on and never deal with the issues destroying our relationship from the inside out.

  And eventually we’d be right back to where we started.

  So I said something to get that distance. Even though it nearly killed me to do so. “Sam’s comfort doesn’t come with strings.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Rob burst out. He turned away, shoulders stiff. “You’re fucking kidding me.” His hands came up, gripped the back of his head. “How is this my life?”

  Haley tentatively walked into the room, discharge papers in hand. “Ready to go home?”

  “I don’t know,” I said softly. “I really don’t know.”

  But I wasn’t talking to her. I was talking to Rob.

  And he knew it.

  26

  “I need a shower,” I said, taking one hobbling step toward the house.

  “Wait.” Rob closed the door behind me, scooping up the plastic bag with my purse and other belongings inside it. “I’ll—”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Another step. Fuck monkeys, it hurt.

  “Let me—”

  “I’ve got it,” I snapped. “I’m not weak.”

  “I never said you were.” But Rob didn’t argue further, just walked past me and into the house.

  I took one more step, nearly crying with the pain, and wondering why in the heck I was insisting on playing the martyr. Not that it mattered, I thought. Rob was gone again. I leaned against the hood of the car, tentatively placed my right foot forward. Red-hot pain sliced through me. “Son of a—”

  Maybe crawling would be better.

  The door leading into the house was wrenched open, a stool holding the plank of wood back.

  Rob marched out, fury in his eyes. His cheeks flushed, his hair a mess. He had the look of a man who’d been pushed too far.

  I’d pushed him too far.

  My lips parted. A tendril of heat tightened in my stomach. My fingers curled, seeking purchase on the smooth metal of the car.

  What the hell, body? This was not the time.

  He didn’t say anything. Not a single word. Not one sound came from his throat.

  Instead, he closed the space between us in a matter of heartbeats. His mouth was very close to mine, hot breath puffed on my cheek, my lips. It smelled of the cinnamon gum Rob liked, glazing my tongue, making me yearn for more of the spice against my mouth.

  I remembered the first time Rob kissed me. We were all fumbling hands, heat, and teenage desire.

  And he had chewed that cinnamon gum.

  I’d inhaled the scent, let it soak deep inside me.

  Then, just like now, that piece of wholly, intrinsically Rob centered me.

  “I . . .”

  “Not. One. More. Word.” One arm snaked behind my shoulders, the other slipped behind my knees.

  He lifted.

  One second I was using the car as a crutch, the next I was in his arms, cuddled close to his chest.

  Rob had the best chest for cuddling, firm and muscular but not too hard. I didn’t want to snuggle with granite. I wanted give. I wanted a mix of soft and rigid . . .

  Well, at least on his chest I did. Elsewhere I preferred hard all the way.

  The absurd thought made me laugh.

  I clamped a hand over my mouth when Rob glared down at me.

  “What is it?” he gritted out.

  “Nothing,” I said, but in his arms I felt as though I were floating through a fluffy cloud.

  Or maybe being carried on the back of a swan. Flap. Flap. Flap. We went up the stairs.

  “I want a shower,” I said when he set me on the bed.

  “It’s already warming up.”

  “Mmm,” I said and grabbed for the hem of my shirt, yanking it up and over my head. Rob had seen it all anyway. My sweats were next. I shoved them down, only slowing when I inched them over my feet so as to not disturb the bandages wrapped around them. My underwear and bra were the last to hit the floor.

  I frowned down at my feet. “I’m not supposed to get them wet, am I?”

  He cleared his throat, eyes drifting down my body in a way that I might have thought was desire, if he wasn’t seemingly interested in a woman like Celeste. A woman who was supposedly all curves and sex appeal and red lipstick and—

  “No,” he said. “The doctor recommended forty-eight hours. I’ll grab a bag. We can wrap your feet in it and top it with a towel. Should be good enough for a quick rinse.”

  I laid back on the bed, hardly noticing when Rob left. It was hard to concentrate on anything when I was so comfortable. The bed felt like clouds.

  More clouds.

  I frowned.

  I don’t think I’d ever compared a surface to clouds and now I’d done it twice in as many minutes.

  “Got some,” Rob said, coming back into the room with two zip-top bags and a handful of rubber bands.

  “Mmm,” I said and spread my arms on the duvet. “This is like silk. No.” I giggled. “Like clouds.”

  Rob shook his head. “You’d make a terrible drug addict. They gave you a half tablet of oxycodone and you’re high.”

  “I’m not high,” I said, brows pulling down. “This really is as soft as clouds.”

  “How many times have you thought about clouds in the last five minutes?”

  I frowned, and he laughed.

  “I guarantee it’s been at least five.” He circled my ankle and tugged me toward the end of the bed. “You always fixate on one word when you’re drunk—though it’s not usually clouds, that must be a perk of the good drugs.”

  “I don’t fixate on words—�
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  “Awesome-sauce? Spectacular? Ginormous?” He raised a brow. “Any of those strike up a memory in that pretty mind of yours?”

  I crossed my arms. “No.”

  “Oh, Miss, you’re unbelievable.” He wrapped the bags and rubber bands around my feet then lifted me from the bed. “You’re also the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  My breath caught. Clouds were pushed from my mind.

  “What did you say?” I asked, hesitant. Surely I’d heard wrong. He hadn’t—

  Rob didn’t use words like beautiful. Not to describe me.

  “Feet out,” he said instead of answering, setting me on the shower floor and adjusting the spray so that warm water splashed down my back. My feet remained outside the door. “Here.” Gentle hands tucked a towel around my legs. “I know it isn’t the warmest shower, but it’s better than nothing, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I said softly, knowing in my heart of hearts I wasn’t talking about the shower.

  “Hair?”

  I nodded.

  He reached up for the bottles of shampoo and conditioner then helped me wet my hair and wash it. Surreal was the only way to describe this scenario. My head felt full of clouds, and that wasn’t the drugs talking. Any side effect of the oxycodone had disappeared at Rob’s words.

  His hands massaged my hair and shielded my eyes from the suds as he rinsed it clean.

  I’d never felt so taken care of. I’d never felt so cherished.

  How was that possible when everything was so broken?

  He helped me from the shower and to the stool at my vanity. I hated going to bed with my hair wet, and apparently Rob remembered that since he grabbed my blow dryer and comb from the cabinet.

  Gentle strokes unknotted the tangles before he stood and gestured to the blow dryer. “I’m helpless with that thing, but I’ll grab you some pajamas.”

  “Rob?” I asked as he moved to the closet.

  He turned back. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

  Silence. Nothing except his eyes on mine, fathomless, his expression incomprehensible.

  After a long minute, my eyes dropped to the blow dryer, and I flipped the switch, filling the room with the whooshing noise of air.

  But I could have sworn Rob said something, and it sounded an awful lot like, “Yes, Miss. I really do.”

  27

  I didn’t do anything fancy with my hair, just blasted the strands until most of the moisture was gone, and when I switched the blow dryer off Rob was back at my side. A long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants in hand.

  It was my favorite set, both silky soft and very warm, and very welcome because I was feeling chilled after the whole open-door-shower-situation.

  “Ready?” he asked after he’d helped me dress.

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  Arms around me, a warm chest next to my ear. The bed beneath me, cool sheets, a hot husband . . . who pulled back and tucked the covers around me.

  He was leaving.

  “Don’t,” I said before I could stop the word and reached out to grab Rob’s arm. I guessed those drugs hadn’t completely worn off because normally I wouldn’t have asked. I never wanted to come across as needy and, dammit, I knew it was important to rely on yourself, first and foremost.

  But, the truth was, I didn’t want Rob to go.

  I wanted my husband next to me. Even if it was all just pretend.

  “Please,” I murmured.

  Someone had broken into the house, Rocco was hurt a second time because of me, my feet were beginning to sting again, and . . . I was so damned lonely.

  He pulled away. Slipped from my grip as easily as if it were nothing.

  My throat tightened, tears filled my eyes, and I slammed them shut, not wanting them to slip free, not wanting him to see.

  It didn’t matter.

  They slid through my defenses, wet my cheeks, dripping down to soak the cotton of my pillowcase.

  Then the bed dipped.

  I sucked in a breath. “I—”

  “Not tonight,” Rob said, wrapping me in his embrace, turning me gently so that my face was pressed against his chest. “Just let me hold you tonight.”

  My only answer was to scoot closer.

  I shot to waking a few hours later. Early morning light trickled through the window of my bedroom, and the house was still.

  But something had woken me.

  I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to calm the racing organ as I sat up and listened.

  Then I heard it.

  Rob’s voice.

  It was hushed, barely a masculine rumble.

  I glanced at the door, saw it wasn’t quite closed. I could just make out the silhouette of one arm raised to his ear. He was on the phone.

  My eyes flicked to his nightstand, to his cell on the polished wooden surface.

  He was talking on that phone.

  And we were right back to reality.

  “Celeste.” Rob’s pleading voice raised enough for me to hear it clearly. “Please don’t do this.”

  Pain knifed through me.

  And dammit I was tired of this man hurting me. I was on a perpetual merry-go-round of pain and really freaking sick of it.

  “Celeste— Stop. Listen. You mean too much to me to—”

  Fuck. This. Shit.

  I threw the covers back and stood.

  Then promptly collapsed to the floor in a pile of silk and throbbing limbs. I was an idiot for many things, least of all was forgetting about the fact that my feet were stitched together like Frankenstein’s face.

  “Moron,” I muttered through clenched teeth, flipping over to my hands and knees and crawling my way into the bathroom.

  “Please think this through,” Rob said just as I reached the end of the carpet and the beginning of the bathroom’s freezing cold tile. I’d loved the pale gray shade until I was actually pulling myself across the glossy surface. Nose distance from it, I thought it was really quite ugly.

  Or maybe that was my heart talking.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” my husband said to another woman just as I closed and locked the bathroom door.

  I wriggled my way to my robe and wrestled it on before sitting on the step leading up into our bathtub.

  Clean lines, gray and sky blue, double sinks, separate bath and shower, walk-in closet. Cozy white bath mats. A vanity with a gorgeous stool. Fluffy bath sheets . . . and not those tiny towels that hardly covered anything.

  The bathroom was a representation of everything I’d ever wanted.

  Right?

  Rob and I had done nearly all of the work ourselves.

  I remembered how proud I’d felt of the space.

  We’d done it.

  We.

  That we was gone now.

  Plink. A tear dripped down my cheek, dropped to the marble step. Followed by another. And another. And—

  “Ugh,” I growled, so beyond tired of crying. I was just done.

  Done with it all.

  There was a knock at the door. “Miss?”

  I ignored Rob, instead turning on both bath taps to high, letting the sound of the rushing water drown him out.

  “Melissa!” I heard him shout.

  “I’m fine!” I shouted back.

  “Why’s the door locked?”

  I didn’t respond, rotating back to the tub and feeling the water. A bath suddenly sounded like a fabulous idea. I adjusted the temperature, flicked the lever to engage the plug, and began wrestling off my robe and pajamas.

  The doorknob rattled. “Let me in.”

  I snorted. Unlikely.

  “Melissa.”

  “I. Can’t. Hear. You,” I said lifting myself to the top of the tub before executing some kind of fabulous swing-my-leg-over-with-a-triceps-dip. “Thank you Pilates videos,” I murmured.

  Thunk.

  The door shook in its frame.

  “What?” My eyes swiveled toward the pane of wood. Was he really trying—?

&
nbsp; Thunk.

  Another impact. Another shudder.

  “I’m fine!” I yelled, not wanting to be down another door.

  Rob was either taking his turn to ignore me, or he hadn’t heard me because his only answer was another jar against the door. Except this one was followed by a crash as the wood splintered and the lock gave way.

  My husband stood, chest heaving, in the doorway. He stepped over the threshold, crunching splinters of wood beneath bare feet as he walked toward me. He wore a pair of old jeans that were as soft as butter, but his eyes were hard and angry.

  “What the hell were you doing with the door locked?” he snapped. “You could have hurt yourself, and I wouldn’t have been able to help.”

  I forced my eyes away, studying my toes as I leaned back in the tub. I could almost pretend he wasn’t there with the noise of the water drowning out his footsteps.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t drown out his anger.

  That was a pulsing cloud filling the room, weighing down on my chest, my heart.

  I was hurting, I was worn down, I was . . . done.

  Rob wrenched the taps off, reached across the tub to get right in my face.

  “What were you thinking?”

  His hair was mussed, twin tracks present from him running his hands through it. His face was slightly flushed, with just the hint of pink on his cheekbones. Hot breath, tinted with cinnamon teased my lips.

  It did nothing for me.

  It did absolutely . . . everything.

  But I couldn’t do this anymore.

  “I want a divorce.”

  Rob stared at me for a heartbeat.

  Just a heartbeat with those scorching black eyes before his mouth was on mine.

  28

  Rob wanted to strangle all of the women in his life.

  Least of which his wife.

  What was she thinking, walking on her feet? Trying to lift herself into the tub. She could have slipped and cracked her fucking head open, and then where would they be?

  “I want a divorce.”

  His fingers dug fiercely into the granite surrounding the bath, so tightly that he was surprised the stone didn’t crack under his grip. What the hell was wrong with her?