Brodie gave him the standard spiel and when she was finished, added softly, “I hope I find you someone you can connect with.”
“Are you...connected with anyone?”
She’d opened the door to these questions so she’d give him a little leeway. “It’s complicated.”
“It usually is.”
“I’m seeing a guy. We’re friends. Good friends.”
“You’re not in love with him?”
How could she answer when she wasn’t sure what the answer was? How could she be in love with Kade when what they had was so different from what she had before? Jay had been sunshine and light, easygoing and happy-go-lucky. Kade was powerful, frequently sarcastic and reticent. The two men were galaxies apart. How could she possibly love such wildly differing men?
Was it love or was it just lust?
“What are you thinking about?” Ross asked.
“The difference between love and lust,” Brodie replied.
“Tell me.”
“Love is an intense affection for each other. It takes times to grow.” Like fifteen years. “Lust is based on physical attraction.” Lust was wanting to jump Kade every time he walked into the room. “It can transform into love over time. Love is about how interconnected two people are.”
She and Kade were having a baby together. How much more interconnected could they be? He knew about Jay and her parents. Her great-aunt regularly called his cell for a chat. His friends had become hers, she was far more comfortable in his loft than she was in her own apartment and he’d taken her car to be serviced. She picked up his laundry.
They were interconnected.
Maybe she loved him. But that thought made her feel intensely guilty because this bubbling mess of feelings she had for Kade was deeper and darker and harder and crazier than she’d ever felt for Jay. She had survived his death. She knew without qualification she could not live in a world that did not have Kade in it.
God, this was crazy! What had happened to her? Why was she doing this? She knew what it felt like to love and lose, and what if she allowed herself to delve into this emotion and all he wanted to be was her friend with brilliant benefits? What if he, tomorrow or the next day or the year after that, met the love of his life and decided to move on from her, from them? How would she stand it? How would she cope seeing him and talking to him and co-parenting with him while knowing he left her to sleep in another woman’s bed? That he was holding another woman, loving her, laughing with her?
Brodie was such a fool. This had to stop. She had to pull herself back from the brink, to keep control. Yes, withdrawing from Kade would hurt but it would be nothing compared to what could happen down the line.
She could do this; she had to do this.
“Wow. That was one hell of a trip you took,” Ross said, his expression speculative.
“Sorry.” Brodie picked up her juice and took a long swallow. “What were we talking about?”
“Your fellow and whether you were in love with him.”
“I don’t believe in love.” The words flew out of Brodie’s mouth. Seeing his startled expression, she wished she could take them back. But then, suddenly, it was more important someone listen to what she was saying. Because if she could convince him, then maybe she could convince herself.
“At least not for me. I believe in sex. I believe in friendships, in being independent, in standing on my own two feet. I believe in my career, in forging my own path, in keeping an emotional distance.”
“He’s not the one?”
Brodie made herself meet his eyes, trying to talk herself off the ledge. “I’m having his baby and, admittedly, he’s stuck around but I don’t expect he’ll stay for much longer. Having a baby is a novelty, a whim, and he’ll lose interest. He has a low boredom threshold.”
Oh, God, nothing was further from the truth, and verbalizing those lies didn’t change how she felt about him. They just made her feel nasty and bitchy and guilty, dammit!
Under the table she patted her tummy and silently spoke to her child. “Ignore that, kiddo, your dad is not like that. In fact, the problem is that he is utterly wonderful. I just don’t know how to handle him.”
* * *
Kade stood in front of the six-by-eight-foot oil painting dominating one wall of the gallery and reluctantly admitted his father was a ridiculously talented artist.
He recognized the scene—it was the view from the rickety back porch of a cabin in Pleasant, a town north of Whitehorse. He hadn’t seen the snow-covered mountains, the icy beauty of the scene, he just remembered his skates had been too small and he’d had holes in his parka. And the cupboards had held little more than bread and cereal. His father had just spent the last of his money on more oil paints, a canvas and brushes.