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The problem with fantasies, they weren't true, and he'd been forced to burst her bubble before he did something silly—like trust her as he'd trusted his mother.
'What did he do? Tell me.' She clicked her fingers in front of his face to snap him out of his musings, and as he looked into her luminous blue eyes, a small part of him wished he'd indulged her fantasy.
Where would they be today if he had? Happily married with a brood of ruffians? Sharing confidences and dreams? Spending every night wrapped in each other's arms, recreating the magic, the passion, that haunted him to this day? He could've had one hell of a life.
But he'd made his choices, his sacrifices, and, considering the successful hotelier he'd become, life wasn't all bad.
‘I’m thinking about the good old days,' he said, trying to distract her. He didn't want to talk about her father, not now, not ever.
'Good old days? Which ones?’ She rolled her eyes. 'The days when you tied my plaits to the bus seat, or the days when you plucked my lunch right out of my hands, or the days when you threw my pet rock collection into the river?'
He smiled at the memories, remembering how he'd used to tease her mercilessly and how she'd given as good as she'd got. She'd been a little firebrand back then, her red hair a definite symbol of a trigger temper.
And a symbol of a simmering passion he'd been lucky enough to unleash.
Man, had she pushed his buttons back then and he hoped he'd outgrown it, whatever it was. He didn't have time for emotions in this marriage. It was business, pure and simple.
He had more important matters to consider, such as building his profile with investors, expanding into new cities, and upping profit margins.
'You loved every minute of it. Remember that time I put a toad in your bag?'
She snickered, a smile twitching at the corners of her glossed lips. 'Oh yeah, I really loved that. Not.’
'How about the garlic I rubbed into your boy band T-shirt?
Her lips twitched more. 'You were a jerk.'
'What about the shed incident?'
'Which one?' Her lips curved into a small, secretive smile and he clenched his hands into fists and thrust them into his pockets to prevent them reaching for her. 'The time you had me shovelling manure or the time you opened your mouth and poured the verbal variety on me so I'd fall into your arms?'
'Ouch.’ He clutched at his heart. 'You haven't changed a bit, Red. That hurt.'
'And you haven't changed a bit either, still shovelling it in the hope to distract me. Now, can we get back to the topic of my father?'
She’d always seen through his tough-guy act, reducing him to a love-struck schmuck around her.
Correction, lust-struck schmuck.
Big difference there. He'd never loved Brittany. Liked her, lusted after her, but never dared love her.
He didn't do love.
Love equalled loss and loneliness and pain, emotions he could do without.
Folding his arms, he leaned back in the rickety chair. If he couldn't deflect her attention, he'd have to give her some snippet of the truth to placate her before they tackled more important matters, like the question of their impending nuptials.
'You know how much your dad hated any guy who came near you. Why dredge this up now?'
She fiddled with the edge of her short skirt, her fingers plucking at it. The only other time he’d seen her this nervous before was on the night she'd asked him to go away with her, the night he'd made the final break.
Until yesterday, he'd convinced himself he'd made the right decision. Women were unpredictable and erratic and couldn't be depended on. Then Brittany Lloyd walked back into his life, making him re-evaluate his choice and think a whole lot of 'what-ifs'.
What if he'd gone away with her?
What if they'd made a life together?
What if they fell in love and lived happily ever after?
