Unfinished Seductions Page 7

  Elliot still isn’t seeing it, but he will once I’ve explained it all. “Remember when Fuchs came after January?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  I uncross my legs and lean in. “Fuchs plays dirty. Yeah, I’d love to sue him into nothingness, but face it, that won’t work. We sue and he just takes down the pictures and writes off the legal fees, which are pocket change to him. Then TidBytes goes on with their fucking rumor campaigns we can’t fight, and then what?”

  Elliot’s wearing his you’re-right-and-that-pisses-me-off face. “I’ll admit that makes a certain kind of sense.”

  I roll my eyes. For all his insistence on logic and reason, Elliot can argue any side of a position and often does just to be contrary. I sense him winding up to do that right now.

  Elliot stabs a finger at me. “But you don’t know anything about blogs.” His finger swings to the closed office door. “And neither does she.”

  “We’ll hire people.”

  His breath hisses out like steam from a geyser. He works his jaw and looks up toward the ceiling. “I think… I think maybe seeing Callie again has—”

  “Stop.” My tone is cold, colder than I’ve been with him since we were kids. “You’re my brother and I love you… but she’s my wife.”

  Elliot isn’t fazed. “She left you. Jesus, Logan, you were a fucking wreck!”

  My skin goes tight and cold as I remember those long months without her. He’s right. They all tried to snap me out of it—more projects to manage, birthdays on Alcatraz, introducing me to every single woman they knew—but nothing worked.

  Nothing but seeing Callie again.

  Now that I have her back, I’m never letting her go again.

  “The TidBytes stuff fucked with her head,” I say, more casual than I feel. “Now that she’s back, things will be fine. She wants to do this website thing—fine, I’ll give her a website. If it means fucking up Fuchs’s schemes too, awesome.” I set my palm on the desk and press, the closest I’ll come to begging him. “So do the LLC stuff. Please.”

  “I don’t know if you actually believe what you’re saying.” Elliot steeples his fingers, pulls a harsh breath in. “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  Hell. That’s the problem with arguing with your brother—he can pull out emotional gut punches like this.

  I stand up and reach across the desk to clasp his shoulder. “Everything will be fine this time, baby bro. I’ll make sure of it.”

  His expression goes sour because he hates being called a baby or bro. “All right. If you say so.”

  I settle back in the chair, confident he’s done with the mushy stuff. “The hard part was convincing her to come back. Now that’s done, it’s easy from here.”

  Elliot shakes his head. He’s not convinced, but he’ll let the argument slide. He probably thinks he secretly won it or something. “Fine. I’ll do the LLC. But remember, suing remains an option.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say dryly, because Elliot will probably remind me of it every damn day. I snap my fingers, remembering. “Oh, and you’ll love this—Minerva Dyne came herself to convince Callie to sell the shares.”

  Elliot’s stance tightens like a big cat smelling blood. “She did? What did she say?”

  “I wasn’t there, but from what Callie said, Minerva tried to make it sound like they were doing her a favor taking the shares off her hands.”

  If I had been there, Minerva would have had an earful to carry back to her boss. As it is, I’ll have to call Fuchs for a little chat. Explain to him what’s going to happen if he or one of his lackeys come within fifty feet of my wife ever again.

  “Motherfucker.” Elliot hisses. “I can’t believe that bastard was listening on her phone.”

  My stomach swoops, but I hold my expression still. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.” There are other explanations for how Fuchs found her; fixing her phone isn’t going to be enough to keep her safe. “Somehow he already knew where she was. If he had someone watching her, as soon as I showed up, then left all pissed off, they guessed what was up.”

  I almost wish I had caught whoever was following Callie. I’d beat the shit out of him, then use his confession to nail Fuchs. That fucking asshole.

  “Mmm.” Elliot’s rubbing his chin. “Maybe. But that’s a lot of effort.”

  “If he’s willing to plant stories to strain my marriage in the hope of getting our shares, do you really think he’d stop at having Callie followed? Or listening in on her phone?”

  Elliot pokes at Callie’s phone, still sitting on his desk. “Do you think he’s recording now?”

  “No. I pulled out the battery this morning.” Although he could’ve been tapping our first conversation, when I gave her the divorce papers. My hand curls into a fist as I imagine that sack of shit listening in on that painful, intimate moment.

  Thank God I pulled the battery before Callie came up with the website idea. I don’t want Fuchs to know about our scheme. I want this to hit him with the force of a Mack truck blindsiding him when our site launches. Just like he blindsided me.

  “I’ll get the phone to January right away,” Elliot says.

  “Thanks.” I’m not one hundred percent convinced Fuchs spied on Callie through it, but I’ll still be relieved when it’s fixed. “Don’t forget the LLC stuff. I’ll announce it to all the guys at the Monday partners’ meeting.”

  Elliot’s mouth flattens. “Listen, Logan, I know everything seems great now, but just… be safe.”

  “What, like she’ll kill me in my sleep?” I toss off the joke because I’m sick of Elliot doubting us.

  He doesn’t find it funny. “Seriously, if she leaves again…” She’s not getting a third chance from me, his tone says. Hell, his attitude since we arrived says he’s hardly giving her a second chance.

  My breath catches. If she leaves again…

  “I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen this time,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel. I get up and head for the door. I’ve kept Callie waiting long enough.

  “Really? How?”

  I turn, my hand on the doorknob. “She brought her cat with her.”

  That makes Elliot’s jaw drop. “First, when did she get a cat? And second, how does that prove anything?”

  I can’t answer Elliot with logic—I only know deep in my gut that Callie’s bringing along the cat means something. Yeah, she made a big fuss about not being able to get him out of the car, but that was bullshit. She wanted the cat to come.

  And she wanted to come with me.

  “Someday, baby bro, you’ll understand women. And then you’ll understand what I mean by the cat.”

  I shut the door while he’s still spluttering about how I’m not making any damn sense and he knows plenty about women. I’m smiling as I cut him off.

  Chapter 11

  He hasn’t changed a thing about the house.

  Walking into our shared home again has me trembling. I expected some things to be different and out of place and others to be painfully familiar.

  After four months away, I didn’t expect every last detail to be exactly the same.

  I shouldn’t be so surprised since Logan isn’t the kind of guy to rearrange all the furniture, but when I say everything is the same, everything is the same.

  The day before I left, there were some persimmons in a bowl on the kitchen table—the bowl is still filled with persimmons, fresh and ripe. Logan doesn’t even like them.

  The fridge is filled with the same foods I used to buy, although I doubt Logan has been cooking. My favorite throw is waiting on the couch, and my hair ties are still sitting on the side table. Meowthra wriggles out of my arms and hops onto the sofa, sniffing at the hair ties. He bites one, chewing for a moment, then drops it and curls up on the throw blanket.

  Well, he’s settling in nicely.

  “I’ll be right back,” Logan says tightly, disappearing into his bedroom.

  We technically have separate bedroo
ms, although in the early days of our marriage, I slept in his bed. As I saw him less and less though, I ended up in my room more often than not.

  I go to my bedroom, already knowing what will be there. Nothing in my closet has been touched, although my things have all been dusted recently.

  Logan never gave up hope I’d come back. He kept everything ready for the day I’d walk back in.

  I look over the clothes hanging on the rods, the racks and racks of shoes, and the wall of purses. I might have gone a little crazy buying clothes when we first married, but I’ve always loved all kinds of design, including fashion design. Finally I could afford all the beautiful, stylish clothes I always longed for.

  They beckon to me, calling to me to throw away the ratty sweater I’m wearing and put them on, to wrap myself in their luxurious elegance. I know that if I do, I’ll immediately feel like a million dollars. There’s nothing like a great outfit to make a woman feel awesome.

  But I’m not ready for those clothes from my old life yet. Instead, I tuck myself deeper into my sweater and head out of the closet. There’s something else I want to look for.

  In the bathroom, I kneel on the marble floor and reach into the very back of my bathroom cabinet, past the hair spray and curling irons and blow-dryers, my hand closing on the small box hidden there. The edges cut into my palm, the box flexing under my grip.

  It’s the pregnancy test, the one I was going to take with Logan. The one I hid when I decided I was going to leave him. The design is pretty bland—white and blue stripes, the brand name big and bold, with smaller script touting the advanced science that went into the test. But I suppose the excitement of a pregnancy test comes from the test itself rather than the box.

  The two tests inside rattle together; the box is still intact, never opened.

  I don’t need it, so I don’t know why I had to go find it, but I did. It was an urge I couldn’t ignore, to seek out that reminder of why I was so desperate to flee.

  “Callie?”

  My heart slams into my throat and I almost drop the box. I shove the test back into its hiding spot right before Logan walks in.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  I shake my head and shut the cabinet door. He hasn’t seen the box, but I’m still shaky. “Just poking into stuff.”

  “I’ve got to go to work. I’ve been gone too long.”

  Of course. I know that he has to go in, even though we just came from there, and I don’t want him glued to my side, but the old hurt still flares. I put a blank expression on my face. “Sure. I’m going to start on some graphics. We’ll save some money on designs at least.”

  He doesn’t even smile. His mouth is tight, his eyes narrow, like he’s expecting me to bolt at any minute. Strangely, I don’t have the urge to flee. I really do want to sit down and do some graphics work even if my stomach won’t stop somersaulting.

  This is my home, and yet it’s not. This is my husband, and yet he’s not. I feel like I’ve come through the looking glass. It’ll take me a few days to get used to the right hand being the left.

  “I’ll see you when you get home,” I say. I don’t ask when that will be, and I’m proud of my willpower.

  He stares a moment longer, then his hand snags my arm, tugging me into him. His mouth is on mine before I can even blink, his kiss like a brand. His lips move slow and sure against mine, like he’s reminding me this is where I belong.

  It feels right. So right that I kiss him back. The pull between us was always dazzling, dizzying, and it still is.

  When he pulls back, there’s a question in his eyes, clouding the navy blue of his irises. God, to see such uncertainty in a man like him…

  “I’ll be here,” I say, my voice thick. “Don’t worry.”

  He exhales, then releases my arm. “Call me if you need anything. There’s a temporary phone in your office—I had it delivered.”

  Then he’s gone.

  I end up rubbing my arm for a long time after, trying not to think about how he didn’t say how long he’d be gone. I didn’t ask, so I shouldn’t have expected an answer.

  Finally I force myself to move and go do some work.

  My office is also just as I left it. Logan made sure I’d have everything I need here—top-of-the-line graphics tablets, supersized high-def monitors, the fastest computers, and he even made sure the walls were painted a neutral color and the light was just so. If you’re judging a color sample on a screen, those things are important, although most people don’t know it.

  Logan did though.

  After a while, this office started to feel like a bad joke. I wasn’t doing any design work, so why would I even need it?

  But we didn’t need the space—in this house, we have more than enough—and it felt wrong to tear apart what Logan built for me. But it also felt like he built it for an older version of Callie, one who ceased to exist once I became his wife.

  Well, I’ll need it now. I don’t feel like the old Callie, but at least I’ll be doing her work.

  I plop down into the ergonomic chair, done up in custom purple leather that had been Pantone’s color of the year. I mentioned it to Logan as a color I really loved, so he had the chair made specially for me.

  “Since everything else has to be colorless for your work, I can at least make the chair pretty,” he said.

  It really is a gorgeous color, deep, with a pop that makes my eyes widen. And it’s the most comfortable chair I’ve ever had.

  I take in the desk, which is mostly empty except for my graphics tablet and the phone Logan left. Of course the phone is the latest top-of-the-line model from Pixio, worth almost a thousand dollars. And it’s supposed to be temporary.

  “Hypatia,” I call to the empty air.

  “Welcome home.” A robot voice responds from the speakers in the ceiling. “How may I help you, Calliope?”

  Hypatia is Logan’s electronic butler. She’s the computer who runs the thermostat, the TV, the locks, the lighting, and everything else in our super-wired home. Logan let me name her and programmed her to always use my full name.

  “Could you play some…?” I tap my chin, trying to decide what music fits my odd mood. “Some Beethoven.”

  Yes, some angsty Romantic symphonies are exactly what I need, all fire and bombast and rising tension. And then a heartbreaking drop.

  Hypatia cues up the Third Symphony, and I pick up my stylus and graphics tablet. The weight feels strange in my hand after so long. But also right, like my hand wants to relearn these things.

  I put the stylus to the screen and start sketching.

  Chapter 12

  I try to breathe as I walk up to my front door, but my lungs won’t let me.

  Let her be here. Let her be here.

  Callie’s car has been delivered and is sitting in the garage, so she hasn’t driven anywhere. But she could have walked down the hill, caught a bus, called a taxi, an Uber—there are any number of ways she could have left.

  I won’t know for certain until I’m inside and I see her.

  It’s past midnight. I wanted to be home earlier, but I couldn’t get away. Elliot kept asking me about the LLC, I had a million and one emails to answer from anxious founders looking for my guidance, Dev wanted to meet about a prospectus he’d gotten, and…

  And the hours slipped away until the day was over, but my workload wasn’t. I never even found the time to tell everyone what happened with Callie. Mark and Finn weren’t in the office—they had outside lives apparently—Paul was out at another meeting, Elliot already knew, and Dev didn’t care.

  So I’ll have to tell them all tomorrow at the partners’ meeting. Along with my—our plan to fight Fuchs. Again.

  But first I need to make sure she hasn’t left. Again.

  Maybe that’s why I didn’t make an effort to contact the guys who were out of the office. I don’t want to face them tomorrow if she’s gone and I told them she was here.

  No, that’s not right. They’re my brot
hers; they’d always be on my side. I wouldn’t want to face myself, knowing that Fuchs’s lies were too strong for her to overcome. Knowing that seeing our life together again wasn’t enough to convince her to stay.

  The door lock clicks as I walk up, the electronics in it recognizing the fob on my keys.

  “Welcome home,” Hypatia says as I walk in, the lights in the foyer automatically coming up.

  “Is—” I stop myself before I ask my computer if my wife is home.

  “Yes?” Hypatia says, eternally patient.

  “Nothing.”

  I toss my jacket, briefcase, and keys on the end table in the entry. I don’t see any sign of Callie yet. Except…

  My nose twitches. Is that roast chicken?

  It’s been so long since I’ve smelled anything cooking in my kitchen I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating. I don’t cook, so I haven’t even walked into the kitchen since Callie left. I made sure the housekeeper kept the kitchen stocked with exactly what Callie had there when she left. But I never bothered to check that it was done.

  The lights come up in the kitchen and living room as I walk in, flooding the space with illumination.

  “Logan?” Callie’s head pops up from the sofa, long strands of hair tangled around her shoulders and arms. She pushes it out of her face as she blinks sleepily. “You’re home.”

  Jesus. She waited up for me. She’s never done that before. Guilt twists hard through me. “You should have gone to bed. You’re exhausted.”

  “Yeah,” she says idly. “I made some chicken and rice.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I was going to.” She yawns again, covering it with her long fingers. Which are stained with ink.

  Fucking A. She waited for me to eat and then she fell asleep on the couch, and judging by her fingers, she was probably working all day too. “You have to eat. And sleep. You can’t do this to yourself.”

  Her hand drops, and she stares steadily at me. “But you can do it to yourself?”

  “That’s not the point.” Christ, not this again. I wasted two days of work finding her. I’ve got to fit those two days back into my schedule now since the work sure as shit didn’t stop while I was gone.