Spellbinder_A Love Story With Magical Interruptions by Melanie Rawn

Author:Melanie Rawn [Rawn, Melanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-06-06T06:00:00+00:00

HE WANDERED AIMLESSLY ABOUT THE living room — looking for something, he couldn’t think what. Then he saw it: the cashmere sweater, blue as her eyes. Must’ve been chilly when she got on the plane—

—to come home to him. To this.

Carefully he picked up the sweater, smoothed it, folded it, buried his face in its feather-softness that smelled of her perfume. He felt like a thief, stealing the fragrance of a woman no longer his.

He surprised himself by doing as he’d been told. Stripped; stuffed soiled clothes into the hamper; stood beneath a blistering shower. After wrapping himself in a towel, he shaved—the electric razor, he didn’t trust his trembling hands with the straight-edge. He had to look at his own face while he shaved. The eyes were familiar, not because they were Evan Lachlan’s eyes—where was the gold in them that she loved so much?—but because they were hollow, stunned, empty. He heard his own voice speaking to people whose eyes had been like this: “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He brushed his teeth until his gums bled, then drank two large glasses of water with vitamins and aspirin. He climbed into pajamas—an old pair, plain blue cotton, not the sumptuous black silk she’d given him for Christmas — and returned to the living room. Picking up the sweater again, he pressed his face against it and inhaled her fragrance. He took it with him into the bedroom, placing it on the bureau before sliding into bed.

Like a good little boy. Waiting for her to come back and make it all better.

Some of the alcoholic fog lifted, and as he lay there in the dark he knew that what he’d said tonight had been the truth. It wasn’t going to get any better.

She loved him. Despite what he had almost done, she was still his as thoroughly as he knew he was hers. She would stay with him if he let her. But he couldn’t let her. He’d made a wreck of things. If she stayed, he’d drag her down with him into this hell of his own making. Or, worse, he’d blindly seek the sweet haven of her arms, and never rise from his knees again—let alone stand on his own.

The life he could have had with her had escaped him before he’d had a chance to live it. He let himself imagine what it might have been like, coming home every night to her and the kids—he could see their red hair and blue eyes, feel their arms around his neck, hear their voices clamoring for Daddy to come see this and read that and please can I have a new bike for my birthday, and Holly was laughing at him as the kids conned him into just one more story before bedtime —

—and then it would be their bedtime, her warm giving body in his arms and her soft hair against his face, and they’d make love slow and tender or fast and frantic, every night

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