Page 15 of For Her Own Good

“Was?”

“Yes. Maeve and I were married for six years, but then we split up. Nothing dramatic, it was about as amicable as these things can be. She’s a lovely woman, I think you’d like her.”

“And you split up, why?”

It’s not really any of my business, but if he wanted me to back off, he would say. He is, after all, the person who taught me about boundaries. He shrugs and takes a swig of his Bourbon and Blood that the server brought by, along with my Fabiola.

“I thought Maeve would be happier with someone who wasn’t me, and she’s not the adulterous or polyamorous type. It wasn’t a bad marriage, but I thought she deserved better.”

“What about you?” I take a sip of my drink before I say anything else, like “Are you dating anyone?” Lowry looks at the flatware on the table, and the crease between his brows deepens.

“I don’t know that I could ask for anyone better than Maeve.”

That’s a kick in the teeth, which is, again, ridiculous and not at all fair.Not a date. He’s not interested in me romantically. He’s not saying these things to make it clear that he’d never want to be with me, he’s saying them because it’s never even occurred to him that wecouldbe.

“You must have loved her very much.”

“I did. I do. We still talk often. She had some opinions about me coming back to Boston.”

“And what were those?”

He looks at me, and there’s a… I can’t quite put my finger on what it might be. It’s not a sheen or glimmer or anything poetic like that, but there is an intensity that makes my heart beat faster, makes a certain kind of feeling crop up in my breasts, my pelvis. Men have looked at me like this before, or at least I think they have. This feels like when they want me.

In my fantasy life, Lowry would let the brogue fly, his voice going low and gravelly when he’d say, “First and foremost that I was foolish for coming back for a woman I had no reason to believe wanted me. You. I came back for you.”

And then he’d rush my side of the table to heft me up on the white-linen-covered surface before laying me out like I was his dinner, like I would be better sustenance than anything a chef’s tasting menu could offer.

My disturbingly vivid erotic daydream is interrupted by what Lowryactuallysays: “That it was foolish for me to come back here. That I had a good life and a good career in Chicago and moving halfway across the country seemed impulsive and ill-advised.”

I suppose someone could have said that about him moving to Chicago in the first place, but I won’t poke him with that. At the moment. “Those sound like pretty good reasons to stay put. Why did you come back?”

There it is again, that look. That look that gives me sillier ideas than I’ve ever dared to have about him.

“I…”

The waitress chooses that extremely inconvenient moment to set down our salads in front of us. When she’s departed with our dinner orders and a request for a bottle of wine since both Lowry and I are nearly through with our cocktails, I search his face again. Is he going to—

“And how’s your romantic life?”

Apparently not.

* * *

Lowry

Maeve was right. I’m a fool. And I swear I didn’t ask Starla to dinner as a date. I was genuinely curious about how she is and it’s my own goddamn fault I find her utterly captivating. She’s been beautiful the times I’ve seen her lately, but the way that skirt hugs her round bum and her lush thighs… Well, it’s a wonder I haven’t had to use my napkin to wipe away the drool. The sweater with the little ruffle at the waist shows off her slight hourglass shape and how bountiful her breasts are is icing on this lust-worthy cake.

I’ve dug myself into a deep hole by letting her ask whatever she’d like, and by it taking a turn toward my love life, which I suppose is to be expected. I did after all volunteer that I’d been married and that usually leads to some questions. Now I’ve gone and turned the tables on her because I couldn’t tell her that Iamhere for her. Not that I had any intention of letting it get this far. At all. I could’ve been in the same city and if we’d happened to run into each other at Harbinson, then we would have. If she’d continued to give me a hard pass on spending time together, I would have respected that. Did.

But I don’t think I can explain to her—or anyone else for that matter—why precisely I felt compelled to return here. All I know is that after I’d come here four months ago when her father had died, it felt right to return. To be in the city she loves, calls home, to be near her even if I didn’t see her, even if I never talked to her. I would be here if shedidever need me and that would be enough.

It’s rather daft, I know, and I would urge a patient who came to me with this kind of—such an ugly word but I suppose it’s deserved—obsessionto examine their motivations and try their best to get over it and move on. The inconvenient thing is that I thought I had and then all of my willpower, all of my good sense, crumbled when Jameson Patrick died.

Starla blinks at my abrupt question. “My romantic life? Pretty much nonexistent. I date occasionally, but nothing’s been serious for years. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Partners take up time and energy, and I know probably sooner rather than later they’re going to make me feel like shit, so why bother?”

That’s rather harsh and my heart aches for her. Would I be happy if she were doe-eyed in love with some dashing fellow who fulfilled her every need? No, I’d be jealous as the day is long. But I’d also be happy for her. She deserves that.

“And I swear to god if you say Not All Men, I’m going to kick your shin under the table.”

---