Chapter Fifteen

Macy

I close the door behind me and pause for a second to catch my breath before I dart to my locker, bending to unlock it, just as the door opens behind me. It's Dawson, and he stares down at me, waiting until I stand up straight again before he moves a little closer, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Why do you keep running away from me?" he says. I hadn't expected that, and I fold my arms, being as defensive as my need for him will allow. Because I need him, no matter what I just said, and what I just did.

"I don't," I say, although all he does is shake his head and move even closer still, which isn't helping.

"You did it this morning, and while I might have been too drunk to stand last night, I can still recall you running out of my room… right after I called you beautiful."

My skin prickles. "Oh, God… you remember that?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't mentioned it. You talked about other things that happened last night… about falling up the stairs and how I shouldn't have had to see you like that, or help you get to bed. But you haven't said a word about that."

"No. Well… to be honest, I was kinda embarrassed."

That's the last thing I wanted to hear, although it's not a surprise. "Great," I whisper and turn away, although he grabs my arm and spins me back around. His grip is firm, but not painful. I noticed that earlier, and while I know he'd let me go if I asked, or if I made a move, I quite like the feeling of having his hands on me…

"Let's just get one thing straight. I wasn't embarrassed about calling you beautiful," he says. "I wasn't even embarrassed about calling you fucking beautiful. It was the circumstances that I found embarrassing. Not you. And not what I said about you." He moves even closer, tipping his head slightly and staring into my eyes. "I've never seen anyone quite like you… with or without your clothes on." He smiles, and I can't help the gasp that leaves my lips. It's not the first time I've seen him smile. To be honest, it's happened quite a lot today, but this feels different. It feels spontaneous.

"Y—You smiled," I say, studying his generous lips and shining eyes.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it. Now, stop changing the subject, and answer my question."

"What question?" I ask, unable to remember why we're standing here, let alone the words that may or may not have passed between us.

"Why did you run?" he says, reminding me. "And I'm not just talking about what happened in the bar a few minutes ago, or this morning, when you bolted out of the apartment. I'm talking about last night as well. What did you think I was gonna do?"

"Nothing," I say instinctively.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Then why did you fly like that? I thought you said you liked me?"

"I do. I like you a lot." There I go again, letting my mouth get carried away with my thoughts. I did it just now when he asked me this same question, and although I didn't mean to say it – then or now – it seems I can't lie to him.

"Then I don't understand." He takes a deep breath. "I'm struggling here, Macy. I don't remember the last time I was sober, but I'm fairly sure my brain didn't work this slowly then. What did I do wrong?"

He's blaming himself, just like he did when Stevie left, and I don't like that. I can't let him do it to himself again. Not over me…

"You didn't do anything wrong," I say, although I quickly realize he's heard all that before, and I put my hand on his arm, pulling it away again when he jumps.

"Put that back," he says.

"I—I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"You didn't. I liked it. In case you haven't noticed, I'm still touching you, so it seems only fair that you should touch me, too." I raise my hand, resting it on his bicep, which flexes to my touch. "That's better," he says, a smile catching at the corners of his lips. "Now… I think you were telling me I didn't do anything wrong?"

"I was. Because you didn't."

"Then why did you run?"

He's not gonna let this go. Which I guess means I'm gonna have to tell him… and hope for the best. Whatever that is.

"When I ran last night," I whisper, letting out a sigh, "it was because I wanted you to say something like that when you were sober."

"Okay." He nods his head. "I can understand that. You probably thought it was the vodka talking, and not me. Except it was me, and it's still me, and you really are fucking beautiful, Macy Potter."

How can I not want him when he says things like that? How can I not love him?

Because it'll hurt like hell when it all goes wrong.

Is that a reason not to love?

Yes!

I stare up at him, unable to speak, and eventually he solves that problem and murmurs, "What about this morning?"

"That was embarrassment."

He nods his head. "Because of what I'd said last night, or because we were standing outside the bathroom, and I wasn't wearing very much?"

"A little of both, I guess."

At least he hasn't mentioned his obvious arousal, which is a relief. This is difficult enough as it is.

"And just now?" he asks. "Why did you run back here?"

"B—Because no matter how much I like you…" or love you… "this is a really bad idea."

"You said that already, but who's it a bad idea for?" he asks.

"Us."

"Why? Is this something to do with my past? With Stevie?"

I shrug my shoulders, wondering if he's just gifted me a way out of having to explain. "Maybe," I say.

"You don't think I'm over her, do you?"

"Do you blame me?" I feel so dishonest. These are my uncertainties, not his, but how can I tell him that?

"No," he says. "We've spent a lot of time talking about her and what she did, and how I felt about it. It's hardly surprising that you'd think I'm still hung up on her."

I feel like we've already covered this, several times over. But I need to know, once and for all. "Are you?" I ask.

He shakes his head slowly from side to side. "No, I'm not. I know this is gonna sound odd, considering what I've been doing to myself for the last couple of years, but I think I've been over her since the day she walked out."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Like I've said before, my pride was hurt that she chose someone else over me, but the biggest problem was accepting that I wasn't good enough for her… or anyone else."

It's my turn to shake my head and I grip his arm a little tighter, not that he seems to notice. "You know that's bullshit, don't you?"

His smile surprises me. "I do now," he says, moving closer. Our bodies are almost touching and I stutter out a breath, feeling it mingle with his as he leans in a little. "I—I'd really like the chance to prove to both of us that I'm enough for you," he says, and closes the gap between us, his lips touching mine in the gentlest of kisses.

I've barely had the chance to get used to the softness of his lips, or his hand on my waist, when he pulls back, and I gaze up at him.

"Y—You are," I whisper, because it needs to be said… although I have to qualify that statement before I get carried away with myself. "Or you would be."

" Would be? Is there something stopping me?" he asks. He hasn't let me go, and to be honest, I don't want him to, even though I know he'll have to.

"Yes. Like I said, this is a really bad idea, Dawson. I knew it would be, right from the start, and I'm sorry… I'm sorry I let things go this far."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says. "But I don't get it. You like me, and I think it's pretty obvious I like you, so…"

"You're my boss," I say, interrupting him as I pull back, releasing myself from his grip. That means letting go of his arm, too, and I regret that… just like I regret having to come clean, which I know I'll have to.

"I know that." He pushes his fingers back through his hair, looking confused. "What's the problem?"

"It's a recipe for disaster."

"Why? What makes you say that?"

"Experience," I murmur, although he obviously hears me and steps closer again. His eyes darken, and I realize I owe him the truth. He clearly wants this as much as I do, but it can't happen, and the very least I can do is explain why. I can't look at him, although he reaches out and places his finger beneath my chin, raising my face until our eyes lock. He seems troubled… maybe even a little lost and I have to wonder… "Do you need a drink before you hear about it?"

He stifles a half-laugh. "Fuck, yes. But I'm not gonna have one." He looks around the room. "If you're gonna tell me your life story, and I'm gonna have to be sober to hear it, can we at least go somewhere more comfortable?"

"Of course." It'll give me time to work out where to start, and what to say.

He takes my hand, leading me out of the room, and although I expect him to return to the bar, he doesn't. He unlocks the door that leads up to his apartment.

"Why are we going up here?" I ask, putting my foot on the first step, but turning to face him.

"Because I said I wanted us to be comfortable."

"I know. But we could be comfortable in the bar, couldn't we?"

"We could. But I just told you I need a drink… and this is the time of night when I'd usually empty a bottle, and maybe start a new one. It's taken me most of the day to feel vaguely human again. I'm still getting accustomed to being sober and how that feels. The last thing I need is to surround myself with temptation."

"You've been surrounded by temptation all day," I say and he pauses for a moment before nodding his head.

"Yeah. In different circumstances. I have a feeling I might not like what I'm about to hear."

"I have a feeling I might not like telling you."

"I'd like to say we could leave it and save ourselves the trouble, but I need to know why you think we can't be together."

"I know we can't be together, Dawson."

"I'll be the judge of that," he says and nods up the stairs.

I turn away and climb up ahead of him, waiting until he's switched on the lights before I move further into the room.

"Take a seat," he says. "I'll get that coffee you didn't want."

"When did I say I didn't want it? If memory serves, I said I couldn't stay for coffee, not that I didn't want to."

He holds up his hands. "Okay. I'm still gonna make it now. I think we both need it."

He's probably right, and while he goes into the kitchen, I make my way to the far end of the room, although I don't sit down. Instead, I wander to the glass doors that lead onto his balcony, and gaze out at the snow-laden rooftops opposite. The sight of them makes me I realize I ought to text my aunt, just in case she's not asleep yet, and I pull out my phone, sending her a quick message. I don't explain why I'm still here, but just tell her I've decided to stop for a coffee with Dawson, and leave it at that. It's unlikely she'll even pick up my message until the morning, and I can explain it all then… somehow.

"Here you are," Dawson says, and I turn to find him standing behind me, holding two cups of coffee. He offers me one and I take it, stepping over to his couch and sitting down. He waits until I'm comfortable, and then sits beside me, leaving a gap between us.

"I just sent a message to my aunt," I say. "She's probably gone to bed already, but I didn't want her to worry." He nods his head as I put my cup on the table in front of us, and he copies me. "At least it hasn't started snowing again yet."

"No… and you're stalling."

"I know I am."

"Why? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then tell me. Explain why you think it's such a bad idea for us to be together."

"Because I've done it before."

"I kinda got that already. And can I guess it didn't end well?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"Give me another," he says, shifting just a little closer.

"I lost everything. And I mean everything."

He nods his head, staring at me, and says, "Tell me what happened."

It's hard to know where to start, but I guess the beginning is the best place. "D—Do you remember when you interviewed me, you asked how I got from working as a web designer in Boston to applying for a job in your bar?"

"Yes. You said it was personal."

"I did. But that wasn't strictly true."

"What was it about, then?" he asks, frowning slightly.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I say, determined to get that out there, before he assumes things are even worse than they already are. "I didn't commit any kind of professional misdemeanor. All I did was let the lines get blurred."

"Between your personal and professional lives?" he says. It's an easy assumption to make, and I nod my head.

"After I finished college and moved back to Boston, it took me a couple months to get a job," I explain. "I interviewed at several places, but they wanted experience, or a different style of designer, or someone with an ‘R' in their name. You know the drill." He nods his head. "Then a placement came up with WJT Design. They were a medium-sized outfit, with some fairly important clients, and I was delighted when Mr. Thornton offered me the job."

"Mr. Thornton? Was he your boss?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"He was my boss's boss. My boss was James Thornton."

"I'm gonna hazard a wild guess that they were related?"

"James was William Thornton's nephew. But it went a little deeper than that. James's parents had died when he was eight, and his uncle had raised him, paid for his education, and given him a job in his company."

"I see. So William employed you, but you worked for James?"

"Yes. He was in charge of my department."

"And what was he like?"

I let out a sigh. "He was a little older than me, but not much, and he was a good boss. He was kinda handsome, too," I say, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

"It's okay," Dawson says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "You don't have to tell me the guy was ugly just to make me feel better. That would be like me pretending Stevie wasn't a beautiful woman. She was…" He leans a little closer. "She just wasn't as beautiful as you."

I smile, my blush deepening, even if I can't think how to reply to him… which means I may as well get back to my story.

"I'd been working there for about six months, and we'd just finished an extensive project that had meant a lot of extra hours. Everyone in the department was exhausted, and as it was a Friday, I think we all just wanted to go home and forget about work for two days. People were already clearing away and shutting down their computers when James came over and asked if I wanted to join him for a drink at a bar down the street from the office. Naturally, I thought he was extending his invitation to everyone, as a way of thanking them for their hard work, so I was surprised when I got there and found it was just the two of us."

"You weren't worried about that?"

"No. I'd spent quite a lot of my six-month tenure quietly admiring James, and it seemed he'd been doing the same. Drinks became dinner…" I let my voice fade, recalling the easy conversation, the hand-holding, the way we gazed into each other's eyes in the candlelight.

"Did dinner become anything else?" Dawson asks. It's a reasonable question, I suppose, and I feel I have to answer, even though I'd rather forget what happened next.

"Not that night," I tell him honestly. "James spent most of the evening talking, or rather moaning, about his uncle and how controlling he'd become. I got the feeling he didn't get to talk about his personal life very much, and I was happy to listen."

"I've already told you this, but you're good at it," Dawson says with a slight smile and I have to smile back. "What happened after that?"

"He called me the next day, even though it was a Saturday. Initially, he apologized for monopolizing the conversation, and then he asked me to go out with him again."

"Did you do more than talk? Or more than listen to him moan about his uncle?"

I nod my head and Dawson copies me, although his actions are more slow… more considered. "This is probably one of those things you might not want to hear, but he was my first."

"Why wouldn't I wanna hear that?" he says, surprising me.

"Oh. I just…" I can't hide my disappointment, but he shakes his head, stopping me mid-sentence.

"Hey… don't overthink my answer," he says. "All I meant was, it had to happen sometime… even if I wish it had been me, and not him."

I suck in a breath, unable to say that I wish it had been him, too. Because saying it won't make it come true, will it? No matter how much I want it.

"The point is, I wondered pretty much straight away if I'd made a terrible mistake."

He sits forward slightly. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that afterwards, he went home. He didn't stay the night, and I didn't hear from him."

"But you worked with him. Surely…"

I shake my head, and he stops talking. "I mean I didn't hear from him on the Sunday. Obviously what we'd done together had meant a lot to me, but he didn't call or text to see how I was, and although I had his number, I felt like he should have been the one checking up on me, not the other way around."

"You were right," he murmurs, and then moves closer still, so our legs are almost touching. "Is that's what's worrying you?" he says. "You think if something happens between us, I'm gonna walk away like he did, and it'll make things difficult at work? Because…"

"No," I say, interrupting him. "Because that's not what happened."

"Oh. What did he do then?"

"He called me into his office on the Monday morning and explained that his uncle had kept him busy on the Sunday, so he hadn't been able to call."

"He couldn't even find five minutes?"

"That's what I asked, but he said it had been impossible, and moaned about the way his uncle monopolized his time. Then he apologized and said he wanted to keep seeing me."

"Can I take it you said yes?"

"You can. Within a few weeks, I was spending most weekends at his place."

"He didn't live with his uncle?"

"No. He had a lovely little apartment close to the office. His uncle had bought it for him when he graduated college, and we'd go there on Friday evenings after we finished work, and I'd stay over until Sunday night."

"Not Monday morning?" Dawson asks, sounding intrigued.

"No. He… He didn't want anyone at the office to know we were together."

"Why? Did the company have rules about things like that?"

"No. There were at least two other couples who worked there that I knew of," I say, recalling how I'd seen them holding hands, and how I'd raised that with James. "I asked him once why it was okay for other people to be openly together at work, and not us."

"What did he say?"

"That they weren't in the same position. They were just colleagues. Neither of them was a head of department, like he was."

"I see," he says, nodding his head. "So he thought it was wrong to be dating someone who worked for him?"

"It seemed that way. Although that didn't stop him. Or me."

"Okay. So you carried on seeing each other?"

"Yes."

"Just spending the weekends at his apartment?" he asks. "He never came to your place?"

"I was still living with my parents, so it wasn't practical for him to spend the night there, but he met them. He spent time with them. They liked him, and he said he liked them. He told me how refreshing it was to know there were parents who supported their children, and let them do what they wanted, instead of dictating to them. Obviously, I knew he was talking about his uncle, not his parents, and I felt sorry for him."

Dawson stares at me for a moment, then lets out a sigh.

"I'm not sure he deserved your sympathy, Macy. Surely, he could have done something about his uncle, if he'd wanted to."

"That's what I said." It's actually a relief to hear him say that. "At the time, I wondered if I was going crazy, or maybe missing something. My parents were backing me up, agreeing with everything I said to James, but he didn't wanna know. He just kept carping on about his uncle, and how he never got to decide anything for himself. To be honest, I was getting fed up with it. I didn't mind listening to his problems. It was the fact that he wouldn't do anything about it. He wouldn't help himself."

"So, what happened?"

"I'd brought a few books and things over to his place during our time together, but there wasn't really anywhere to put them, and I said I'd have to take them back to my mum and dad's, because we were falling over them. He didn't like that. He said it made him feel like I was moving out… or moving on. So I suggested we could always get somewhere bigger… somewhere of our own."

"What did he say to that?"

"I half expected him to say ‘no', and come up with a list of reasons why we couldn't. But he surprised me and said he wanted to. It seemed… It seemed like he was taking the first step away from his uncle, and finally breaking free. I'll admit, it wasn't just the clutter that was getting to me. I thought, if we could find a place of our own, one that had nothing to do with his uncle, then James might loosen up a little. And besides, I was fed up with only being his girlfriend for two days a week, and having to hide it for the rest of the time."

"Did you love him?" Dawson asks.

I expected this question, although I still feel unprepared to answer it.

"I must have done, I suppose."

"Did he love you?"

"He said he did, but that doesn't make it true."

He frowns and leans a little closer. "It does for some men. For some of us, saying those five little words means everything."

"Five little words? Don't you mean three?"

"No. Saying ‘I love you' is okay on one level, but saying ‘I'm in love with you' is something else entirely. It's a whole other world of commitment."

"A commitment James wasn't willing to make," I whisper.

"So, he never said he was in love with you?"

"No."

"Then he was an idiot."

"I think he thought saying ‘I love you' was enough."

Dawson moves his arm as I'm speaking, so it's along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against my neck, which makes me shudder. "Enough? For you?" he says, shaking his head. "There's no such thing." I smile and we stare at each other for a long moment, until he licks his lips and asks, "What did you do? About finding a place together, I mean?"

"We started looking. I thought he'd be okay with me moving in while we searched for somewhere of our own, but he didn't want me to. He kept saying his place was too small, and he didn't want us falling over each other. I wondered if that was an excuse, but he seemed just as keen as I was to find somewhere of our own, and I could kinda understand where he was coming from."

"You could?"

"Yeah. Can't you?"

"Not really. Even before Stevie and I had to cope in just one room up here, we rented the tiniest apartment in the world while we were at college together. It was all we could afford, and it really was minuscule. I used to have to move her makeup out of the way, just so I could shave."

"Every day?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you have a beard now?" I ask, reaching up and touching his jaw with the tips of my fingers. He sucks in a sharp breath, although I don't pull my hand away like I did before.

"No. This is a more recent thing. The point is, I don't believe that not having enough space is a reason not to spend as much time as possible with the person you claim to love."

"Neither do I," I say, letting my hand fall into my lap. "But back then, when we were talking it through, his words made more sense."

"Okay," he says, glancing down at my hand, and then twisting in his seat slightly, so his knee touches my leg, before he takes my hand in his, his thumb grazing across my knuckles, and I feel his fingers caress the back of my neck, just a little more firmly. My stomach lurches, and my heart skips a beat, my body warming to this multitude of touches. I should tell him to stop, shouldn't I? Except I can't… I don't want him to. I want him to keep doing this. This and so much more. "Did you find anywhere?" he asks, distracting me.

"Sorry?"

"Did you find anywhere to live?"

"Oh. Yes, we did. It took a couple of months, but we found the most amazing apartment, with two bedrooms and a beautiful open-plan living space." I glance around. "Actually, it was a little like this, but without the balcony. It was further from the office than James's apartment, but that didn't matter, and the moment we walked in the door, I fell in love with it."

"But he hated it?" he says, guessing at the potential pitfalls.

"No. He liked it too. Maybe not as much as I did, but he liked it. The problem was, the guy who owned it didn't want to rent it out. He wanted to sell it."

"Didn't you know that before you went to view the place?"

I shake my head. "The realtor had said the guy would be open to renting, but that turned out not to be true."

"What did you do?"

"We left again. I was so disappointed, and I think James was a little, too. Later that night, I asked him why we couldn't buy the place. He sat me down and explained that it was four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that as his apartment officially still belonged to his uncle, he couldn't sell it and hope to use the profit to buy somewhere else. That money was his uncle's, and he reasoned it was impossible for us to do anything without a down payment. That was why we needed to rent, because we didn't have any savings… and that's when I told him we did."

"You did what?"

"Have savings."

"You mean, you did?" Dawson says and I nod my head.

"My grandmother had died when I was still at college. She was dad's mom, and she'd left a property, which was sold, and the proceeds divided four ways. My dad and his brother got thirty percent each, and my cousin and I received the rest, split between us. My share was just shy of eighty thousand dollars."

"And yet you still worked your way through college?"

"Yes. My parents had used my dad's share to pay off their mortgage, and they sat me down and explained the importance of not blowing it on anything trivial, but making sure I invested it wisely. I always assumed they had a property in mind, so when this apartment came up, and James and I had the chance to buy it, even they agreed it was a good idea to use my savings for the down payment."

"James didn't have any money of his own?"

"No. Not without asking his uncle for it, and he didn't want to do that. Besides, he earned a lot more than I did. We both knew he was the one who'd be contributing the most toward the mortgage and the bills."

"So, what happened?"

"We looked at the figures, worked it all out, and went back to the realtor with an offer. I was afraid he might say someone else had beaten us to it, but we were in luck. The guy accepted our offer straight away, and to cut a long story short, we bought the place."

"Were you happy?" he asks.

"We never lived there."

Dawson frowns. "Why not?"

"Because James broke up with me the day the deal closed, and two days before we were due to move in."

"What the f—" He stops talking mid-way through his curse, and purses his lips, shaking his head at the same time. "Sorry," he murmurs.

"It's fine. My feelings ran along similar lines."

"Did he give you a reason?"

"Yes. We'd arranged that I'd go to his place, even though it was a Thursday night. My idea had been that we'd celebrate owning our first property together, and also work out what we were gonna do on the Saturday, when we were supposed to be moving in. Most of my things were at my parents' house, but I didn't have any furniture, so my dad had suggested we load up his car and that he'd drive it to the new place, while a moving company was dealing with all of James's belongings. The problem was that James needed to be at his apartment to oversee the removals guys, which meant I needed the keys to the new property, so I could get in there with my dad."

"So it was just about who was gonna be where, and when?"

"Yeah. That and a celebration. Except it wasn't. Because within minutes of me getting there, he told me he'd spoken to his uncle, and that they – the two of them – had decided he was too young to settle down and make commitments, like buying property."

"How old was he?" Dawson asks.

"He was twenty-seven."

"And he thought that was young?"

"Evidently."

"Jesus… I was twenty-three when I married Stevie. I'd already plowed my inheritance into this place, and we were in the process of fixing it up by then."

"Maybe," I say, with a slight smile. "But everyone's different."

"Yeah. I'm getting that now." He returns my smile. I'm growing more used to the way his lips twitch upward, and the sparkle in his eyes, and I have to say, his smiles make him even more handsome… if that were possible. They soften his features, while making him look boyish and mischievous. It's a surprising effect, but I like it… even if I know I shouldn't. "What did you say to him?" he asks, halting my wayward thoughts.

"Although I told you he broke up with me that night, to begin with, it wasn't clear that was what he was doing. I thought he was just pulling out of buying the apartment, and I was livid. We'd talked it through before we'd gone back to see the realtor with our offer, and he'd been as excited as I was. He'd wanted it, too. We'd planned where we were gonna put his furniture, and how we might eventually re-decorate the place together… and yet he was letting his uncle dictate to him, even though that was something he'd always claimed he hated. I couldn't understand any of it, but the thing I couldn't get my head around most of all was why he'd waited until the eleventh hour to change his mind. He'd had more than enough chances, and hadn't taken any of them. Why wait until the apartment was ours before backing out?" I stop talking as I recall the dumbstruck, open-mouthed expression on James's face when I screamed all of that at him. I'd never lost my temper with him before, but I did that day, and it shocked him.

"Did he explain himself?"

"Not really. All he said was his uncle was right. He was too young. He wasn't ready. It was pathetic."

"It sounds it. He sounds it. So, what did you do?"

"I walked out. I told him he might not be old enough to commit to buying a property, but he'd have to grow up damn fast and deal with selling one."

"Nice," Dawson says, his smile widening. "I like your style."

"I was too damn angry to think about style. I just knew I wasn't gonna take responsibility for his actions."