And for a while . . . for a while, she mused, they had complemented each other.
But mostly theyâd fought like a pair of mad dogs.
When they werenât fighting, they were falling into bed. When they werenât fighting or falling into bed or working on a common project they . . . baffled each other, she supposed.
It had been ridiculous for them to get married. She could see that now. What had seemed romantic, exciting and sexy in eloping like a couple of crazy teenagers had turned into stark reality. And marriage had become a battlefield with each of them drawing lines the other had been dead set on crossing.
Of course, his lines had been absurd, while hers had been rational. But that was neither here nor there.
They hadnât been able to keep their hands off each other, she remembered. And her body still remembered, poignantly, the feel of those hands.
But then, it had been painfully apparent that Jacob Graystoneâs hands hadnât been particularly selective where they wandered. The bastard.
That brunette in Colorado had been the last straw. Busty, baby-voiced Veronica. The bitch.
And when sheâd confronted him with her conclusions, when sheâd accused him in plain, simple terms of being a rat-bastard cheater, he hadnât had the courtesyâhe hadnât had the balls , she corrected as her temper spikedâto confirm or deny.
What had he called her? Oh yeah. Her mouth thinned as she heard the hot slap of his words in her head.
A childish, tight-assed, hysterical female.
Sheâd never been sure which part of that phrase most pissed her off, but it had coated her vision with red. The rest of the argument was a huge, boiling blur. All she clearly remembered was demanding a divorceâthe first sensible thing sheâd done since laying eyes on him. And demanding he get the hell out, and off the project, or she would.
Had he fought for her? Hell no. Had he begged her forgiveness, pledged his love and fidelity? Not a chance.
Heâd walked. And soâha ha, what a coincidenceâhad the busty brunette.
Still steaming from the memory, Callie stepped out of the shower, grabbed one of the thin, tiny towels the motel provided. Then closed a hand around the ring she wore on a chain around her neck.
Sheâd taken the wedding ring offâyanked it off, she recalledâas soon as sheâd received the divorce papers for her signature. Sheâd very nearly heaved it into the Platte River, where sheâd been working.
But she hadnât been able to. She hadnât been able to let it go as sheâd told herself sheâd let Jacob go.
He was, in her life, her only failure.
She told herself she wore the ring to remind herself not to fail again.
She pulled off the chain, tossed it on the dresser. If he saw it, heâd think sheâd never gotten over him. Or something equally conceited.
She wasnât going to think about him anymore. Sheâd work with him but that didnât mean sheâd spend a minute of her free time thinking about him.
Jacob Graystone had been a personal mistake, a personal failure. And sheâd moved on.
He certainly had. Their little world was incestuous enough for her to have heard how quickly heâd dived back into the single-guy dating pool to do the backstroke.
Rich, amateur diggers, that was his style, she thought as she yanked out fresh jeans. Rich, amateur diggers with big breasts and empty heads. Someone who looked good on his arm and made him feel intellectually superior.
Thatâs what he wanted.
âScrew him,â she muttered and dragged on jeans and a shirt.
She was going to see if Rosie wanted to hunt up a meal, and she wasnât going to give Graystone another thought.
She pulled open the door and nearly plowed into the woman who was standing outside it.
âSorry.â Callie jammed the room key in her pocket. âCan I help you with
But mostly theyâd fought like a pair of mad dogs.
When they werenât fighting, they were falling into bed. When they werenât fighting or falling into bed or working on a common project they . . . baffled each other, she supposed.
It had been ridiculous for them to get married. She could see that now. What had seemed romantic, exciting and sexy in eloping like a couple of crazy teenagers had turned into stark reality. And marriage had become a battlefield with each of them drawing lines the other had been dead set on crossing.
Of course, his lines had been absurd, while hers had been rational. But that was neither here nor there.
They hadnât been able to keep their hands off each other, she remembered. And her body still remembered, poignantly, the feel of those hands.
But then, it had been painfully apparent that Jacob Graystoneâs hands hadnât been particularly selective where they wandered. The bastard.
That brunette in Colorado had been the last straw. Busty, baby-voiced Veronica. The bitch.
And when sheâd confronted him with her conclusions, when sheâd accused him in plain, simple terms of being a rat-bastard cheater, he hadnât had the courtesyâhe hadnât had the balls , she corrected as her temper spikedâto confirm or deny.
What had he called her? Oh yeah. Her mouth thinned as she heard the hot slap of his words in her head.
A childish, tight-assed, hysterical female.
Sheâd never been sure which part of that phrase most pissed her off, but it had coated her vision with red. The rest of the argument was a huge, boiling blur. All she clearly remembered was demanding a divorceâthe first sensible thing sheâd done since laying eyes on him. And demanding he get the hell out, and off the project, or she would.
Had he fought for her? Hell no. Had he begged her forgiveness, pledged his love and fidelity? Not a chance.
Heâd walked. And soâha ha, what a coincidenceâhad the busty brunette.
Still steaming from the memory, Callie stepped out of the shower, grabbed one of the thin, tiny towels the motel provided. Then closed a hand around the ring she wore on a chain around her neck.
Sheâd taken the wedding ring offâyanked it off, she recalledâas soon as sheâd received the divorce papers for her signature. Sheâd very nearly heaved it into the Platte River, where sheâd been working.
But she hadnât been able to. She hadnât been able to let it go as sheâd told herself sheâd let Jacob go.
He was, in her life, her only failure.
She told herself she wore the ring to remind herself not to fail again.
She pulled off the chain, tossed it on the dresser. If he saw it, heâd think sheâd never gotten over him. Or something equally conceited.
She wasnât going to think about him anymore. Sheâd work with him but that didnât mean sheâd spend a minute of her free time thinking about him.
Jacob Graystone had been a personal mistake, a personal failure. And sheâd moved on.
He certainly had. Their little world was incestuous enough for her to have heard how quickly heâd dived back into the single-guy dating pool to do the backstroke.
Rich, amateur diggers, that was his style, she thought as she yanked out fresh jeans. Rich, amateur diggers with big breasts and empty heads. Someone who looked good on his arm and made him feel intellectually superior.
Thatâs what he wanted.
âScrew him,â she muttered and dragged on jeans and a shirt.
She was going to see if Rosie wanted to hunt up a meal, and she wasnât going to give Graystone another thought.
She pulled open the door and nearly plowed into the woman who was standing outside it.
âSorry.â Callie jammed the room key in her pocket. âCan I help you with
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