because curiosity killed the cat and I’m ten times worse. “Come here.”
“What is it, Mom?”
I sit beside her, and she takes my hands. It reminds me eerily of Hawk in the bathtub, taking my hands to ask me to hold him.
“You’re beautiful, honey. You’re intelligent, and educated, and amazing. I hope what happened between me and your dad, this divorce, didn’t affect you negatively. Because it didn’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean you can’t have a fabulous relationship, get married, have a happy life with your partner.” She wrinkles her nose. “That what you call it nowadays, is it? Partner.”
“Mom.” I try in vain to disentangle my hands from hers. She’s strong. “It’s not that. Hawk and I were never meant to be together.”
“How do you know that if you don’t give him a chance?”
“I gave him lots of chances, Mom,” I mumble, finally wrenching my hands free. “He doesn’t want a relationship. And I don’t really know him well enough to know if I want one, either. With him, I mean.”
Her eyes, so eerily similar to mine, fill up. “You have feelings for him. I can tell from the way you talk about him, from the way you say his name.”
Damn. And here I thought I felt nothing anymore.
“Everything will be okay, love,” she says and claps her hands, putting on a bright smile. “I know. Let’s go get a mani-pedi together. And shop. It will make us both feel so much better.”
So I let her take me along and pretend to have fun, because otherwise I’d have to admit to myself that my heart is aching.
***
It’s late next week, long after Mom has left back to New York and I’ve returned to the grind of classes and assignments, when I receive a call from an unknown number.
I’m in the process of getting a coffee from the cafeteria at school, so I let the call go to voicemail and pay for my drink, then grab the Styrofoam cup and head toward my parked car.
My phone rings again.
Crap.
Rooting around in my purse where you can find anything from expired candy to usb sticks and a broken flashlight, I finally locate my phone and connect the damn call.
“Yeah?”
“Layla Green?” The voice is deep, deeper than Hawk’s, and definitely masculine.
“Who is this?”
“Layla, Hawk needs you. Why aren’t you with him?”
What the hell? “What are you talking about?” I mutter. “Hawk doesn’t need me. And again, who are you?”
“Rook. A friend.”
“Funny. He never talked about you.”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
Jesus. “Look, Hawk and I aren’t together. We just fuck.”
“You mean you’re fucking around with him.”
I shrug. I’m in a funk. Might as well let this guy think that. “How the hell did you get my number?”
“I borrowed Hawk’s cell. Look…” He sighs. “If he means anything to you at all, come see him. He’s at the James Hollister. By Patterson Park.”
“What’s that?”
“A high-end private clinic. He and his damn bike got into some sort of accident a few days ago. He’s okay, but he hit his head pretty hard and they’re keeping him in for observation.”
Oh God. I’m standing there frozen, the cell clutched in my hand.
Accident? “I didn’t know—”
“I’ll leave your name at the reception desk,” he says briskly and disconnects.
Just when I thought I had Hawk and my feelings for him figured out, he twists my heart all over again.
***
The grounds of the clinic are spotless. Bright green lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges, and a white building with huge glass windows and a massive entrance, the five broad steps leading to it sparkling in the watery sunlight.
A man is sitting behind the immaculate white desk, and in his pale blue suit, with his brown hair swept over his forehead and dark-rimmed glasses, he
“What is it, Mom?”
I sit beside her, and she takes my hands. It reminds me eerily of Hawk in the bathtub, taking my hands to ask me to hold him.
“You’re beautiful, honey. You’re intelligent, and educated, and amazing. I hope what happened between me and your dad, this divorce, didn’t affect you negatively. Because it didn’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean you can’t have a fabulous relationship, get married, have a happy life with your partner.” She wrinkles her nose. “That what you call it nowadays, is it? Partner.”
“Mom.” I try in vain to disentangle my hands from hers. She’s strong. “It’s not that. Hawk and I were never meant to be together.”
“How do you know that if you don’t give him a chance?”
“I gave him lots of chances, Mom,” I mumble, finally wrenching my hands free. “He doesn’t want a relationship. And I don’t really know him well enough to know if I want one, either. With him, I mean.”
Her eyes, so eerily similar to mine, fill up. “You have feelings for him. I can tell from the way you talk about him, from the way you say his name.”
Damn. And here I thought I felt nothing anymore.
“Everything will be okay, love,” she says and claps her hands, putting on a bright smile. “I know. Let’s go get a mani-pedi together. And shop. It will make us both feel so much better.”
So I let her take me along and pretend to have fun, because otherwise I’d have to admit to myself that my heart is aching.
***
It’s late next week, long after Mom has left back to New York and I’ve returned to the grind of classes and assignments, when I receive a call from an unknown number.
I’m in the process of getting a coffee from the cafeteria at school, so I let the call go to voicemail and pay for my drink, then grab the Styrofoam cup and head toward my parked car.
My phone rings again.
Crap.
Rooting around in my purse where you can find anything from expired candy to usb sticks and a broken flashlight, I finally locate my phone and connect the damn call.
“Yeah?”
“Layla Green?” The voice is deep, deeper than Hawk’s, and definitely masculine.
“Who is this?”
“Layla, Hawk needs you. Why aren’t you with him?”
What the hell? “What are you talking about?” I mutter. “Hawk doesn’t need me. And again, who are you?”
“Rook. A friend.”
“Funny. He never talked about you.”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
Jesus. “Look, Hawk and I aren’t together. We just fuck.”
“You mean you’re fucking around with him.”
I shrug. I’m in a funk. Might as well let this guy think that. “How the hell did you get my number?”
“I borrowed Hawk’s cell. Look…” He sighs. “If he means anything to you at all, come see him. He’s at the James Hollister. By Patterson Park.”
“What’s that?”
“A high-end private clinic. He and his damn bike got into some sort of accident a few days ago. He’s okay, but he hit his head pretty hard and they’re keeping him in for observation.”
Oh God. I’m standing there frozen, the cell clutched in my hand.
Accident? “I didn’t know—”
“I’ll leave your name at the reception desk,” he says briskly and disconnects.
Just when I thought I had Hawk and my feelings for him figured out, he twists my heart all over again.
***
The grounds of the clinic are spotless. Bright green lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges, and a white building with huge glass windows and a massive entrance, the five broad steps leading to it sparkling in the watery sunlight.
A man is sitting behind the immaculate white desk, and in his pale blue suit, with his brown hair swept over his forehead and dark-rimmed glasses, he
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