chapter28

"I did the right thing, Mike. Why does it hurt so much?" Julia was crying on Mike's sofa,

still in the puffy jacket and knit hat she'd worn to protect her from the Montana cold. She

had come straight here from the Bozeman airport because she'd needed someone to talk

to. The idea of returning to her empty house to wallow in self-pity was not an option.

Much better to wallow in self-pity here.

As Colin had predicted, she'd had to stay overnight in San Jose and had taken a

flight out that morning. She'd had a two-hour layover in Salt Lake City, most of which

she'd spent mired in misery, fueled by airport junk food and the bad coffee she drank on

the plane.

Now that she was home, she was seriously reconsidering her decision to flee

California. What had Colin thought when he'd realized she was gone? Had she handled

things all wrong? Should she have stayed? And, most importantly: What if Colin Delaney

could have been the love of her life, and she'd thrown all of that away?

"Here." Mike handed her a roll of paper towels he'd retrieved from the kitchen. "I

don't have any Kleenex, so this'll have to do."

She took the paper towels gratefully, tore one off of the roll, then wiped her eyes and

blew her nose. She was being stupid, and that's exactly how Mike was looking at her: as

though she were seriously lacking in any kind of common sense.

"I know it's dumb," she said, holding the wadded-up paper towel in her fist. "I

know. I'm the one who decided to leave. It was my decision. I should just … suck it up.

Because I did the right thing!"

"Did you, now?" Mike was looking at her with his head cocked, using the expression

he most often put into use when one of the guys on his crew had screwed up and Mike

wanted to make him squirm under the pressure of his scrutiny.

"Yes!" Julia threw her hands up in exasperation. "Yes! The thing between me and

Colin was causing problems for everybody! Colin actually got into a fistfight with his

brother! And Drew was so angry, Mike. So angry. I just got him back, and things are so

fragile between us. I can't lose him again."

Mike cocked his head and peered at her. Everything in his expression said he

thought that what she'd said was utter bullshit. "Since when do you let your brother tell

you who to sleep with?"

"Since … since I started sleeping with my brother's cousin! That's when!" She

waved her hands around for emphasis.

"It's not the usual scenario, I'll give you that," Mike said thoughtfully.

"I know!"

She sniffled a little, tore another sheet off of the paper towel roll, and dabbed at her

eyes. Evening was darkening the sky outside Mike's window, shutting down the gloom

of the day.

"I did the right thing," she said, her voice small.

"Uh huh," Mike said. "If you're so sure about that, then why are you crying?"

She didn't look at him. She focused instead on the wadded paper towels in her

hands.

"Because I'm an idiot. That's why." She sniffled again.

"You'll get no argument from me."

She let out a harsh laugh, then shook her head at the folly of getting involved with

someone like Colin Delaney. "It wouldn't have worked anyway," she said. "He's a

billionaire, for God's sake. And I'm just … me. I'm just this … this mess!" She gestured

toward herself, toward the epic disaster that she'd become.

"Well, now you really are being an idiot," he said.

"Hey!"

"Take off your coat," he said as he got up and headed toward the kitchen. "I've got

beer and Doritos."

Colin left Cambria the day after Julia did. He'd claimed that he had to get back to

Southern California to work on the Palm Springs land deal. And that was true, but it was

only part of the story. He'd also left because he was afraid he'd punch Drew McCray in

the face if he didn't.

Colin knew it had been Julia's decision to leave, and he knew that she was an adult

who was responsible for her own choices. But he doubted she'd have made this particular

choice if her brother hadn't given her such a ration of shit.

Drew was at least part of the reason Colin felt the way he did—a substantial part—

and it was hard to look him in the eye without wanting to throttle him. And since

physically attacking Drew would be counterproductive to his own goals of restoring the

man to his rightful family, Colin thought it best to pack his things and go.

"You could always call her. Or, if that doesn't work, go out there and talk to her,"

Sandra had said when Colin announced his intention to return south. She'd stood there

with her hands on her hips, fuzzy slippers on her feet, that challenging look in her eyes.

"I'm not leaving because Julia went home," Colin told her. "I have work I've been

neglecting while I've been up here."

"Boy, you might think I'm stupid, but from where I'm standing, I'm not the one who

doesn't have any God-given sense," she'd groused at him. She'd narrowed her eyes.

"Unless what you two had together was just sex."

"Mom!" If there was one thing that could make this situation worse for Colin, it was

talking to his mother about his sex life.

"Well, was it?" she demanded.

"No. No, it wasn't. At least, it wasn't for me." And there it was … this conversation

was officially more awkward.

"I didn't think so. I guess I know you well enough to read the signs. Well, if you've

got real feelings for the woman, you're a fool if you don't go out there. And I didn't raise

any fools. Except maybe Liam." She'd abruptly turned and scuffed off into the kitchen,

leaving him to wonder exactly what kind of fool he was going to be: the kind who walked

away from a woman he had real feelings for, or the kind who ran partway across the

country for a woman who didn't want him.

He'd decided to be the first kind of fool, because although it was painful, it was a

hell of a lot less humiliating.

He'd left Cambria the morning after Julia's departure, and he'd arrived at his condo

on the waterfront in the Gaslamp Quarter just before dinnertime. He let himself in the

front door, flipped on a light, and dropped his luggage onto the floor with a thump.

The contrast between his parents' house and his condo was stark. Where the ranch

house was warm, a little run-down, and decidedly lived-in, the condo was all cool, clean

lines and modern décor. His decorator had done the place up in black and gray, chrome

and glass. A large-screen TV dominated one wall, and another was floor-to-ceiling glass

looking out over San Diego Bay and the bridge to Coronado Island.

It looked like the cleaning lady had been here while he was gone; the tabletops were

gleaming, and there were fresh vacuum lines in the carpeting.

Too bad she hadn't brought groceries. Colin crossed to the stainless steel

refrigerator, peeked inside, and saw a jar of olives, a carton of milk that had gone bad,

and a bottle of Dijon mustard. And a single bottle of local craft beer.

He twisted open the beer, took it to his sofa, and plopped down with a sigh.

It was fucking lonely here.

And by here, he meant the condo, the neighborhood, the city of San Diego, and the

whole of Southern California. Maybe even the state, the country, the world.

He didn't have friends here; not really. He had people he knew who he sometimes

drank with, or went sailing with, or sat with to watch some game or another that he didn't

really care about. He had hangers-on, people who kept themselves within his orbit

because they thought his wealth might somehow rub off on them. He had women he

dated—the glossed-up Barbies. But he didn't have family here. He didn't have real

friends. He didn't have people he genuinely cared about, and who genuinely cared about

him.

Sure, he'd come here initially to escape his family, so that part was on him. But his

intention had been to create a home for himself somewhere that was outside the Delaney

field of gravity. He'd learned two things: This was a residence, but it wasn't really a

home. And the Delaney field of gravity was so all-consuming he wouldn't be free of it

even if he were on the moon.

He carried his beer into the bathroom, then stripped off his clothes and took a long,

hot shower without bothering to unpack. Afterward, he dressed in sweatpants and a Tshirt

and ordered some food for delivery. While he was waiting for it to come, he

composed a text message for Julia. Then he deleted it. Then he wrote another version.

Then he deleted that.

God, he was a fool. He felt like he had in high school when he'd asked Karen

Stewart to the junior prom, and she'd waited until the day before the dance to tell him she

was going with Eric Romero instead. He felt gutted, as though his insides had been

scooped out and replaced by nothing but self-loathing and regret.

The worst part—the part that made the least sense—was that he'd only known Julia

for a couple of weeks, and they hadn't even really been dating. They'd slept together

once. Once! And yet she had a hold on him that had turned him back into that awkward,

crushed seventeen-year-old who hadn't had a date for the prom.

He tried calling her again—he'd tried several times since he'd gotten the news that

she'd left—and it went straight to voice mail, as it had each time before. He decided to

leave a message this time.

"Julia? Ah … I just … I wanted to make sure you got home safely. Call me."

He sounded pathetic, even to himself.

Love—if that was what this was—sucked.