Kept Page 2
He had to return. No, he had to leave Darcie. She couldn’t live like this forever. He had to make a choice. It was long past time for that.
Her door clacked open, and Mark’s footsteps sounded.
Miska pulled herself up, wiped her cheeks just in case. She faced him, fighting the tension in her jaw. “How’s Darcie?”
He studied his phone. “She’s fine.”
“Not pregnant again, huh?”
He met her eyes.
“But you’ll keep trying, right? That’s good.”
“Miska—”
She smacked the granite. “It’s been a year, Mark. A year of you waffling on whether you’re going to commit to me or not. To your wife or not. You need to decide.”
He pulled the cap off and eyed it, mouth tight. “Is this an ultimatum?”
“No.” Of course he loved her. He would choose her over Darcie once he thought it through. “Nothing’s keeping you with Darcie except your wedding band. If she were your girlfriend, you’d have been done with her as soon as you found out she’d cheated.”
He said nothing, just watched her.
He would choose her, wouldn’t he? He and Darcie—he’d said they were done. “Mark, we can’t even go outside these four walls without you freaking out over being seen together. How do you expect—”
“Maybe you need to choose. Either take me like this or don’t take me at all.”
She shook her head, her voice locked in her throat. He couldn’t mean it. “You said—” She pressed her fingers against her mouth. “When I found out about Darcie, you said the marriage was dead already. That you’d give it a few months.”
But twelve months wasn’t a few. What an idiot she was to let it drag on this long.
She turned her back to him. Did he really expect her to keep waiting? For what? To see if his wife got pregnant? What kind of disgusting relationship was this?
Mark’s hands settled on her shoulders.
Miska flinched, but he said nothing, did nothing. She swallowed, the weight of his hands increasing. What kind of a woman was she? She hugged herself, her hands sliding up to her shoulders and knocking his fingers away. He turned her, and she folded into herself, nose tucked into the crook of her elbow.
“Miska. Baby.”
A tear slipped free and vanished down her arm. She squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t what she’d planned to be—or do. This was not who she was.
Mark tugged her arms free and pulled her close.
She pressed her face against the soft cotton T-shirt and took him in—his faint cologne, his broad chest, the feel of his arms tight around her. Was she strong enough to risk losing him? Could she survive without him?
His cheek rested on top of her head, and he toyed with the ends of her curls. “Miska, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Then stay.”
“I need more time. I promise. Just a few more months.”
She pulled back enough to see his eyes. “When?”
“A few—”
“When, Mark?”
“Will you trust me?”
“Haven’t I?” Even after he’d lied? “Give me an end date. July? August? When?”
He searched her face, eyes softening. His mouth worked, and finally he spoke. “The end of August. By then…” He shook his head.
Four months of waiting and wondering. So many days home with Darcie. So few here with her. But she’d take it. “I’ll wait through August. And not a day more.”
Mark nodded, releasing her.
She took a step back, arms wrapped around her middle. He adjusted his hat and tucked his phone, wallet, and keys into his pockets.
So he was still leaving early.
He picked up his duffel bag and settled the strap onto his shoulder. He pushed the bag behind his back, then stood beside the island and fingered the counter’s edge.
When he looked up, his smile was heartbreakingly tender. “You know if I could do things over…”
He’d have married her. That’s what he’d said when she’d confronted him about the wife he’d failed to mention. His words had melted her. She’d known he’d choose her soon.
But he hadn’t.
If she could go back to that day, she’d throw him out of her condo before her heart was too far gone to think straight, before he kept her a prisoner in this messed-up relationship.
But it was too late. She was vested in Mark, in the beauty he brought her each time his team came to Chicago. There had never been anyone like him before, and there could never be anyone like him again.
As she walked him to the door and whispered good-bye, she vowed to do everything in her power to make Mark choose her. Everything.
Darcie’d had her chance.
Now it was Miska’s turn.
*****
Dillan Foster pressed the lobby button as the elevator doors closed on his view of the baseball player and woman retracing their steps.
Behind him, Garrett’s head thumped against the elevator’s paneled interior. His brother chuckled. “Wow, that was fun.”
Dillan shot him a look. “If by fun, you mean awkward.”
“Come on, dude. It’s not every day you find your neighbor’s messing around with a pro athlete. He wasn’t happy about being seen here, was he?”
“Can you blame him?”
“I don’t know—she’s pretty hot. I wouldn’t complain.”
Typical Garrett. “You remember you’re engaged, right?”
“Uh, yeah. But the eyes still work, you know?”
Yes, he knew. And Garrett was right. The woman was hot. Stunning. Long black curls, silky skin, the perfect shape— Dillan glanced at his brother.
Garrett grinned back. “Good to see your eyes still work. I wonder sometimes.”
“He’s married—and not to her.”
“How do you know?”
“Remember last spring when he threw that perfect game? Remember his wife was there afterward and you said she looked just like Tracy?”
“Oh, right.” Garrett straightened. “She was something. That guy knows how to pick ’em.”
The doors dinged open.
Dillan grunted and walked out.
The last pile of boxes sat at the end of six bronzed Art Deco elevators. Tracy, Garrett’s fiancée, leaned against the wall, safeguarding boxes while she messed with her phone.
Garrett spread his arms. “Tracy, my love.”
She smiled and looked up.
Garrett wrapped her in his arms.
At least Garrett had picked his fiancée right. A guy couldn’t do much better—unless a quieter version was out there.
Dillan ran a hand over his hair. For the next five months he’d get an up-close view of their relationship. Garrett’s suggestion that Dillan move in with him until the wedding, rent-free, had seemed perfect at the time. He could handle anything for five months, right? And by the time he moved out and Tracy moved in, he’d have enough to buy a fixer-upper of his own. How bad could it be? He picked up his boxes of books and called an elevator. Today he had a really sick feeling he’d find out.
“One last trip up, some unpacking, and we can eat.” Garrett filled Tracy’s arms and then his own with boxes. “Or maybe we can knock over the celebrity couple again. What do you think, Dill?”
“What couple?” Tracy flashed him a grin. “Do we have famous neighbors?”
An elevator opened. Dillan stepped inside and elbowed number eighteen. “Just a ballplayer having a fling with our neighbor.”
“Oh.” Tracy’s face fell. “Poor girl. I can’t imagine how she must feel.”
Poor girl—right. “Her name’s Miska.” He focused on the elevator’s buttons. Why had he volunteered that?
“Miska? That’s different. But pretty. What’s she like?”
Different. Pretty. He replayed their meeting. The woman’s soft hand in his, her big dark eyes with all that makeup women wore. Her hair falling around her shoulders, toned ar
ms bare beside the snug, white shirt—
“Dillan?”
He could see how Scheider could get lost in a woman like her, a woman so opposite the blonde beauty at home. But he couldn’t remember anything past how she looked. Had she been angry they’d been caught? Ashamed?
Did she even care?
As the elevator slowed, he banished the mental picture. “Didn’t have time to tell.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet her. Maybe you guys are next door to her for a reason. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Garrett followed her off the elevator, shaking his head.
For once Dillan agreed with him. She was just a neighbor—a neighbor he’d never see again five months from now and probably wouldn’t see much in between. What reason could there be for living next door to her? Because clearly she was a temptress, a woman who made men lose their minds and souls. Mark Scheider had to know all about that.
Inside the condo, Garrett and Tracy carried their boxes to the living room while Dillan entered the smallest bedroom by the front door, the room that would be his office until the church addition was finished. Next time he moved his not-so-small library, he’d get a dolly. He lowered the boxes and let them go inches above the ground.
They caught his big toe.
The instant he closed his eyes against the pain, the exotic beauty of the woman next door filled his vision. He jerked his foot from beneath the boxes and grabbed his toes with one hand while he leaned against the wall with the other. Great. Too late. She was already in his mind.
God, help.
Garrett would laugh at him, roll his eyes, make some snide remark. But Dillan had seen where his brother’s life had taken him. He remembered perfectly the shock and anger they’d all felt, remembered Mom’s tears and Dad’s stony grief. Saw firsthand the pitiful looks people at church sent his parents’ backs—and probably his—before Garrett returned from the East Coast in shame. He had no idea how deeply his choices had affected them. But Dillan did. He’d lived through the nightmare of wondering if Garrett would be arrested or not.
Of course to hear Garrett tell it, he was a different man.
Nope. Not after that elevator conversation. Not with the way he talked lately, full of innuendos and double meanings. With each one, Dillan found himself stiffening, then catching the glance his parents shot each other. They had to feel like he did, that the old Garrett, the one he said he’d left back in New England, had followed him home and lingered just outside their vision, waiting for the right moment to mess with them again.
Dillan lowered his foot and wiggled his toes. Then again, why would someone like Tracy fall for him if he hadn’t changed? That had to mean something.
From the other end of the condo, Garrett’s muffled voice floated into the room. Tracy laughed. Dillan dug into the top box, pulling out commentaries and youth curriculum. He stacked them on his desk, ignoring the sudden quiet.
That woman’s figure flashed before him.
He popped open the bottom of the empty box and flattened it. The ripped packing tape clung to his hand, and he yanked it loose and flung the box at his doorway. It banged against the thick, white molding and flopped to the ground.
“Dude. Don’t be damaging my walls.”
Dillan closed his eyes. He loved his brother. Really, he did. In a distant, hope-things-work-out-for-you-knucklehead kind of way. Right now, though, all he wanted was to escape to Grant Park and explore the lakefront and brand-spanking-new greenery. Anything to get away from Garrett.
Garrett, who had it all.
Chapter Two
Miska woke Friday to the sun painting her ceiling and walls in golden tones. She lay in bed as the gold faded to cream, wishing the week were over and she was already rid of the depression that hit every time Mark left. She had a new novel to edit for Melissa, her old boss in New York, but she knew better than to start it today.
Not when she felt so empty. So lost. Not when she felt such insane relief that Mom wasn’t around to know about her relationship with Mark—and then hated herself for the very thought.
What she wouldn’t give to hear Mom chew her out right now.
A run should cheer her up. She forced herself out of bed and pulled on black yoga pants and a teal shirt and hoodie. She tugged her curls into a messy bun, then brushed her teeth. Like Mom always said, a girl never knew when she’d run into her perfect man. With the way things ended with Mark, she wasn’t taking any chances.
Outside, an icy breeze prickled her skin. She crossed quiet streets and found her stride beneath the freshly leafed trees she’d admired from her condo. The trees opened up, and the majesty of Buckingham Fountain spread before her. The center jet sat low and quiet, water tumbling over the edge of each basin and spraying from the mouths of greened copper seahorses. After six months of a dried-up fountain, she couldn’t get enough of the water. It breathed life into her, washing her emotions clean.
Maybe she’d be back to her old self in just one day. Wouldn’t that be something?
A gust off the lake pressed her pants against her thighs. The last of the tulips waved. In the park, everything made sense. The compromises she’d made—she understood them all when she stood by the fountain or ran beside the lake. Out here, in the baby green of spring, life could be—would be—perfect.
Fatigue setting in, she started for home.
A freakishly tall man jogged toward her, his dark hair slightly messy as if he’d just gotten up. She studied the toasted skyline behind him, then glanced his way.
He was almost beside her, going the opposite direction, but his gaze was on her. As he passed, she realized who he was.
The guy who’d flattened Mark.
She twisted to look over her shoulder, only to see that he’d done the same. He opened his mouth to speak—then wiped out on the sidewalk.
She jerked to a stop, hand flying to her mouth.
The man rolled into sitting position and dabbed at his knees before checking his palms. He looked up, mouth twisted into a frustrated smile, cheeks pink. “You gonna help me up?”
“Me?” She laughed, relieved that he was all right. “After yesterday, isn’t this karma?”
He chuckled and climbed to his feet. “I don’t know about karma.”
One knee was skinned and red. Blood trickled down the other.
She cringed as she walked closer. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Watch it.” He pointed to the ground, and Miska halted. “That crack there took me down.”
“You sure it was the crack?”
He shrugged. “Either that or you, right? I saw you coming but wasn’t sure if it was you.”
“Do I look that different without makeup?”
“Actually, no.” He looked at the trees beyond her.
She cocked her head.
His gaze dropped to hers. “It’s Miska, right?”
“Yes. Sorry. I don’t remember your name.”
“Dillan.”
Right.
He jerked his chin toward their building. “Looks like you’re heading back.”
“I am. You run every day?”
“Four, five days a week. But living here…” He looked around. “I should take advantage of this while I can.”
“You sound like you won’t be here long.”
“A few months. I’m staying with my brother and saving up for a house.”
A house. She wrinkled her nose. “Let me guess. Suburbs?”
His smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “You say it like the suburbs are evil.”
That had been her experience, although the city held the same problems, if not worse. “I’m a city girl. I decided years ago that I’d live downtown.”
“And here you are.”
“Here I am.” She returned his smile. How nicely it softened his face. What did he think of her, especially after yesterday with Mark? He’d been so quiet then. Was he friendly today because she might be a way to get to a famous athlete?
So he loved the fountain too. Suddenly she found herself hoping she’d been awake enough when she’d brushed her teeth. “Enjoy your run. Don’t trip.” She flashed him a smirk as she turned toward home.
“I told you,” he called after her. “It was that crack.”
She held up her hand in acknowledgment. Liar.
*****
Inside her condo she refilled her water bottle and guzzled it as she paced through her living room and kitchen, cooling down. She checked her phone. Nothing from Mark—just a text from her half-sister Adrienne, asking if she was up.
She replied, then showered and dressed. She spread her Devacurl cream through her curls, scrunched them, and opened her makeup bag.
A thick envelope rested there.
Two gift cards lay inside, one for Jewel-Osco, her usual grocery store, and another for Peapod, the grocery delivery service. She checked the amounts Mark had scrawled on them. Three thousand dollars at Jewel. Two thousand at Peapod.
She bit her lip. All that money—that had to be enough for the rest of the year. No, probably longer than that. A lot longer.
A slip of paper in the envelope caught her eye. Mark had written a note in his broad, messy scrawl.
Hope this makes things easier for you. Save the Peapod for when you’re on a deadline. Or getting ready for me.
The note ended with his name and a winking smiley face.
She fingered the gift cards. Months and months without having to pay for food—she was that much closer to financial freedom because of his thoughtfulness.
Her phone rang in the kitchen.
Miska hurried to it.
The area code said Chicago—Adrienne was probably calling from her office. Miska answered. “Hey, girl.”
“Oh. Umm…” A man cleared his throat. “I was trying to reach Miska Tomlinson.”