No longer in the mood for something to drink, Brad left her kitchen and wandered to her front room. Memories of all the time they’d spent together here blasted through him as he crossed to the stone hearth. She’d laughed, she’d confided in him, she’d given him her trust.
A photograph caught his attention on the overhead shelf, and he pulled it down. Cassie sat on a man’s lap with her arms looped around his neck. A brilliant smile lighted her face as she laughed in the timeless moment. This must be Chris. The husband who’d supposedly loved her, but painted her in the corner that she’d intended to escape Valentine’s night.
Would she have gone home with another man, had Brad not been there?
He shoved the uncomfortable question aside. It tightened the already present knots in his gut. He squinted at the photograph of her husband. He didn’t like this man. Didn’t like the way he shoved Cassie’s needs beneath a rug, and certainly didn’t like the idea that he’d once heard Cassie cry out in pleasure. Brad gritted his teeth. Her orgasms belonged to him.
Whoa. He blinked as the thought sidelined him. His? Territorial wasn’t his style. He hastily set the photograph back in its spot on the mantle. Cassie didn’t belong to him. Getting tied up about who she slept with was ridiculous. He was leaving tomorrow. They had no future.
Sighing, he glanced around at the house he’d come to feel entirely too comfortable in. He’d done things with her he’d never imagined he might—shoveled a hell of a lot of snow, handled a generator, made fires in the hearth. It had been so easy to fall into domestic routine. Odd, considering he’d never once given a thought to settling down.
And he wasn’t now, he reminded himself.
He needed to tell her, before he dragged this out another day. Then, once he’d come clean and convinced her to forgive his animalistic behavior, he’d spend the rest of what remained of the night showing her how very sorry he was.
Flipping off the light switch, Brad trudged up the stairs. She’d heard him leave the bedroom. Knowing her, she was probably sitting in the bed, waiting for him to return so she could give him a good piece of her mind. Hell, he’d rather she do that than remain locked in infernal silence. At least he’d know what he was up against to plan a counter strategy.
He pushed open the door, and his heart sank to his knees. One mysterious wave of regret after another washed over him. She hadn’t moved, but the slow rise and fall of her shoulders said she slept. She slept while he was beating himself up like an idiot. He couldn’t put his finger on why that bothered him, but it gnawed at his gut like a hungry rat with dull teeth.
With a hard frown, he stalked to her side of the bed, prepared to rouse her out of that blissful slumber and demand she listen to his explanation. But an instant before his hand touched her shoulder, he retracted his arm. This was pointless, wasn’t it? He’d already made flight arrangements when he dropped by his hotel.
She’d fallen asleep angry. All things considered, if he left now, there’d be no hope of winning her forgiveness. They’d break clean, and though she’d hurt for a while, and he’d take the pain he caused her to his grave, they’d both return to their normal lives. She couldn’t become a distraction if he burned this bridge. And he certainly couldn’t be accused, or question himself, about going easy on opposing counsel.
Grimacing inwardly, Brad determined to ignore the lance of regret that stabbed between his ribs and backed quietly away from her side. He took care to dress without disturbing her, then checked the fire to insure the cinders that remained couldn’t escape. When there was nothing left to waste time with, he realized he was hoping she would wake on her own, and muttered a soft oath.
He crossed once more to her side of the bed and withdrew from his back pocket the printout of Miles’s letter and the copy of Randall’s email he’d printed at the hotel. The crinkle of paper as he unfolded them had him cringing, certain she’d sit upright at any minute. Luck was on his side, however, and as he smoothed them against his chest, Cassie didn’t move.
Brad set the damnable things on her nightstand. Bending, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. Then, he fished his phone out of his pocket and headed downstairs to call a cab.