Bait (Wake, #1)(99)

I was impressed. I bet she had people wanting to visit all the time for the lavish spare bathroom alone.

He sat on the edge of the tub, I still straddled him, and he reached behind us turning on the oversized faucet. When his eyes met mine again I found the same smolder there that I remembered.

“Lift your arms. Unless you want to take a soak with your clothes on. And that’s okay. You are a married woman now,” he said in a joking voice, but it soured me.

Instantly, the thoughts in my head spun. They were familiar, too. The jabs.

I focused on a place on the wall, but I still raised my arms as he'd instructed. My body always did do exactly what he commanded of it. Some things never changed.

He took my shirt off but didn't let his eyes roam my flesh, instead they searched mine looking for the extra script to my inner dialog. He read me well.

“Hey, honeybee.” His voice was laced with remorse. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He cupped my cheeks and rained kisses all over my face. Repeating, “I'm sorry.” Over and over. I felt the shift in his apology. It intensified with his mouth on me.

When he pulled away, his eyes full of emotion, he took a long look into mine. He looked uncertain, which probably mirrored me.

“I'm sorry, too.” I felt a buildup of tears begin to seep from my eyes. “I'm sorry for a lot of things,” I whispered and looked down at his chest.

Casey lifted my head, with shaky hands that were still at the sides of my face, and took a lengthy uneven breath.

“We've both said things, done things, and made mistakes,” he admitted.

He kissed my nose, then pulled back far enough to stare straight into me. “It doesn't mean that they were true, that we wanted to or that we won't do it again. We have right now, honeybee, and as bad as we are—we're good too. You're here. For me. I know you are. That means something. It means a lot.”

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks now, and with the outpouring of them I felt like I wanted to bare my soul.

“I don’t want to be married to him.” Then I sobbed. “I'm staying in California for a while. I don't want to go back, but I have to.” My chest constricted at the thought.

The water in the tub filled and began to lap at my feet that dangled in the basin. He stood, holding me and then turned to sit me on the edge. Casey, kneeling before me, ran a gentle hand down my shoulder and my back, stopping at the latch on the back of my bra. When it was unfastened, he slid the straps down my sides and then pulled it away, tossing it to the floor where my shirt laid.

“Stand up,” he said. “Let's get in this tub and we'll figure it out.”

When our clothes were removed and we were situated inside the large porcelain tub, facing each other again, I almost felt like I could do it. I almost felt like I could say the words.

I wanted him. Not Grant.

I wanted to be Casey's wife.

I wanted all of it. This house. His kids. A life here. But I didn't know how to do either, how to make it all happen or even say the words.

Instead, I asked him something that had been haunting me for over a year. “Why didn’t you ever sleep with me? Why didn’t you ever just stay?” My voice was low and somber, but my question sort of was, too. It always bothered me that he never wanted to wake up with me in his arms.

He reached for a large cup that was positioned on the tub shelf beside us and filled it with warm water. He poured its contents over my head, wetting my hair.

“I never wanted to leave, Blake. I had to.”

“But why?”

As he sunk the cup again to refill, he paused his work to think about what he was about to say.

“Because it hurt too much to wake up with you and then not wake up with you. Does that make any sense?”

His answer did make sense. I remembered that first morning and I ached to feel that with him again. That morning was a gift, and had I known how dear and precious it was, I would have paid attention to every single small detail and laid there with him for hours.

“I understand. I'm sorry I did this to you. To us.” This time I looked back at him, giving him the focus he deserved. Sometimes I felt like I was looking at him, but not allowing myself to see him. It was much too hard not seeing him when I needed to most.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” I didn't mean to sound as desperate as I did; it just came out that way.

He looked torn. Then poured the water over my head.

“Are you really going to stay here?” he asked. I took the cup from him and repeated what he’d done to me, pouring the water over his practically bare head.

“I want to, if that's all right. I know you're going through a lot. I don't want to be something else to add to your stress. I’ll be in San Francisco for a little while. Maybe a month. I don't know about every night, but I know I want to stay tonight.”

Truth.

“What does Grant think about you staying here for so long? Did you have a fight?”

We didn't have a fight, we rarely did, and I’d left before it was possible. If I would have waited for him to get home from work and told him face to face about my trip, I wouldn't have been able to get here as fast.

So I only sent him an email, which was normally how we communicated during the day.

Yes. I emailed my husband that I was leaving for a month. It was cold, heartless even. It felt disgusting, but I did it. Guilt ate at me as I typed it, but ease replaced it when he sent one back like it was the customary way to do that sort of thing.