Love by Association

“Mind if I join you?” he asked from the archway several feet behind her.

“I heard you leave your room, and I’m still here.”

Helping himself to a shot of warm, perfectly aged whiskey from the sideboard, Colin took a sip and sat next to her.

“What did I do?”

Ironic, considering the thoughts he’d had when he’d first seen her sitting there, that the look she gave him was reminiscent of her pubescent years, when she’d been so certain that she knew everything and he was a dork.

“You aren’t upset about Chantel, are you? You’ve been nagging me for years to open myself up to the possibility of a lasting relationship.” Her words, not his.

But he knew that sometimes you had to be careful what you wished for. That when what you thought you wanted came along, you realized you didn’t really want it at all.

Was she afraid he was going to move Chantel—or someone—into their home and obliterate the peace she’d found here?

Did she fear exposure? Guilt rose within him as he thought about what he’d already told Chantel about Julie.

Just the basics. The legal facts.

Far too much—when he considered the insular way he and Julie had decided to handle the situation.

“Do you dislike Chantel?” he asked. Trying to find his footing with her.

“To the contrary, I like her very much. She seems genuine. More down-to-earth than anyone else you’ve ever dated.”

“So what’s the problem?” She wouldn’t be out there if she wasn’t ready to talk.

“You.” Her gaze pinned him.

“Me?” Colin took a sip of whiskey, wishing his old man was sitting in the chair he now occupied. “What did I do?”

Other than disagree that Patricia Reynolds was spying on her? That Julie even thought it was a possibility concerned him. She’d had occasional instances of paranoia since the rape, but fewer now and never anything that wasn’t directly understandable.

Was Julie getting worse, not better? Was she starting to lose her grasp on reality?

“You disappointed me.”

He knew she was struggling, but her words still penetrated. Deep enough to hurt. “How did I do that?” he asked, finding the patience that had always been within him when it came to her. He’d listen, and then he’d help her see that maybe, just maybe, Patricia Reynolds had an agenda other than Julie. Maybe she had an overactive conscience and was on every committee she could find as a means of giving back to the community commensurate with what her husband took from it.

Spying on them made no sense. Julie had to see that. The commissioner and Smyth had them over a barrel. They’d all signed statements. Julie wouldn’t be charged with slander; there’d be no scandal and no behind-the-scenes or under-the-table innuendoes or backstabbing. Fairbanks and Fairbanks would not have a sudden depletion of clients. To the contrary, the firm would continue to stand strong regardless of the fact that the new CEO was so young—and Julie would never again accuse David Smyth Jr. of having raped her.

There was no way Julie could press rape charges at this point even if she wanted to.

“You say we’re different. That we aren’t users.”

The words came out of left field. Eyes narrowed, Colin studied her, trying to read her mind. Which hadn’t been easy even in easy days.

“We aren’t.”

“You’re using Chantel Johnson, Colin. She’s a decent woman. Sincere. And you’re doing to her just what others have done to us.”

Was this her way to justify the fact that she didn’t like the idea of him pursuing a relationship, after all?

It didn’t make sense. Julie might be reclusive, but just as he’d told Chantel, his sister was also savvy. Strong.

But then, it didn’t make sense that Julie thought Patricia Reynolds was spying on her.

“If you want me to stop seeing her...” He wasn’t sure he could at this point. He damned sure didn’t want to. But if it was what she needed, he’d try to find a way to meet those needs. Somehow.

Or get them both some help.

“No, I don’t want you to stop seeing her!” There was no mistaking the look of outrage in Julie’s gaze. “I want you to admit that you’re using her and apologize for it.”

“What?” Frowning, he stared at her. He was a bit off his mark since meeting Chantel the previous week, but...

“Have you told her that I’ve written some children’s books and that you’re after me to get them published?”

Shit. “No.”

“Have you told her that I’m a writer at all?”

He wanted a sip of whiskey in the worst way, but didn’t dare take it. Not right then. She’d take it as an admission of guilt. “No.”