More Than Want You (More Than Words 1)

she’s free to do whatever—and whomever—she wants.

Why doesn’t someone just stab me now? I’m miserable. I’m contrite. I’m nauseous at the thought of ever seeing her with my brother.

I utterly and completely fucked up. And I’m definitely getting what I deserve.

Since Tuesday night, I’ve practically been living at the office. I hate going home because I see Keeley everywhere—in the kitchen cooking, on my bed looking up at me with welcoming eyes, on the lanai as she waits for me to pleasure her. The place smells like her. I can’t sleep. I’m a goddamn disaster.

What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

As I enter my condo and toss my keys on the bar, I try not to let memories haunt me. I’m only here because tonight is the cleaning staff’s designated evening to scour the office. When they walked in, they looked a little bit like they pitied me. And they avoided me as if I needed a shower. I probably do.

With a sigh, I head to the bathroom and take care of that chore. I put on pajama pants and contemplate what I’m going to choke down for dinner and how I’m going to sleep in the bed still rumpled from the last time I rolled Keeley on those sheets.

As I meander through the living room, I grab the room service menu off the counter. It all sounds like shit. I can hear her in my head talking about sodium and saturated fat and all the stuff I didn’t give much thought to before her. Instead, I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. She’s already washed it. This is the last one.

I bite down into it and remember the last time I ate one, talking to Keeley after work. In some ways, I can still taste her. Her kiss, her caring, her heart.

Jesus, I’m becoming a weeper. I choke down the succulent bite but all the while I’m fighting actual tears. I almost want to know when this feeling will go away. On the other hand I don’t. Once this heartbreak is less sharp, that will mean she’s even further away from me.

I’ve got it bad. I love Keeley. The fact that I fell in love once is a miracle in itself. I don’t expect it to ever happen again.

Maybe that explains why my brother turned into such a miserable asshole after Britta.

Frankly, it makes the fact that he’s most likely boffing the one woman I can’t live without even more infuriating. He knows how terrible having a gaping hole in your heart feels.

I glance at my phone. Nothing. I should stop hoping to hear from her…but I can’t. It’s not quite six thirty. I’ll fill up a few hours with pacing, cursing, wall punching, and regret. But really, what’s after that? I’ll have to face the bed eventually.

Fresh air. Maybe that will help me not want to slit my wrists with rusty spoons. At least now I know why people write so many songs about breaking up and heartache. They’re real and they suck.

The last rays of the day beam through the glass doors leading outside. My lanai beckons, and I head out there.

Immediately, my gaze darts to the beach. I zero in on the rocks where I first had sex with Keeley. Everything was light and fun and easy that night. I wish like fuck I’d taken it—and her—way more seriously before it was too late. Yeah, I could say I’d never come close to really caring about a woman before so I didn’t recognize the symptoms. They crept up on me. Love is a sneaky bastard like that.

I want to rewind time to that night—was it really only twenty-two days ago?—and start over.

But I have to stop wanting what I want when I want it. It doesn’t do me any good now.

I can only go forward…and I’m not sure how.

I breathe in the fresh air and watch the last rays of light disappear. The moon rises. It’s waxing gibbous. Granddad taught me moon phases, along with lots of other fun stuff. Miles Ambrose was good at so many things. He sure did love my grandma before she passed away, too.

Why didn’t I make him my role model and ignore my dumb-shit father? Come to think of it, Granddad always disregarded Barclay Reed.

I guess I had to reach thirty-three to get half as smart as he was.

If he were here, he wouldn’t tell me that feelings were pointless or stupid. He would tell me to feel them…and to figure out how to handle them so I can go about life like a man should—strong, confident, steady. With honor.

I scan the lanai again, absently trying to decide which chair will give me the best view of the sea so I can contemplate. I spot Keeley’s yoga mat. She must have accidentally left it behind.

I peer at the purple rubbery thing standing in the corner. I roll it out. She always claimed that yoga centered her. Not precisely sure what that means, but I have a general idea and it sounds helpful.

Except…I’m staring at the mat with no idea what to do. There are poses, I know. I’m simply not sure what they’re called or how to get into them.

Reaching for my phone, I open an exercise app I subscribe to. I’m usually doing a weight/cardio mixture for men. Now I click the button for yoga. A few seconds later, a woman in a gray tank and matching spandex pants, hair neatly pulled away from her face, is giving me a too-cordial smile I don’t trust. She says her name is Chandra and welcomes me to the beginner’s class.

I have this feeling she’s going to kill me.

Immediately, she starts talking to me about blocks and blankets—huh?—all while assuring me I can do this. I’m physically fit, so I should be able to.

Still, she scares me.

The background music is both exotic and folksy. She tells me to do the easy pose. Thankfully, the visual lets me know she’s sitting cross-legged. Why didn’t she just say that? Then she instructs me to roll my shoulders and shake my head. After that, I’m supposed to put my head over my heart, my heart over my pelvis. What? I already have to contort myself? No, just sit up straighter. Okay. I can do that. I’m good…until she says I’m supposed to come into the moment with “integrity.” What the fuck does that mean? Sighing in irritation, I decide to skip that part and press on.

Mostly because I can see Keeley doing this, which makes me feel weirdly closer to her.

From there, it’s a lot of breathing and a little stretching. I probably need it. I have to admit that the deep inhalations and exhalations are calming my head a little. At least I’m not trying to think about fifty things at once. It’s taking most of my mental energy to figure out how to press my palms together in a prayer pose and lift my sternum to my thumbs. It’s not so awful…until we shift.

Suddenly, I’m sitting on my knees, back on my heels, and curling my toes under my feet. That doesn’t feel good at all. I’m relieved when she instructs me to get into a tabletop position. I follow along, then realize I’m on all fours on my patio, wearing nothing but pajama pants. Any of my neighbors or the vacationers in the unit across the pool can see me round and sway my spine like a cat in heat looking for a good time.

Fuck whatever they think. This is for me. To better understand Keeley.

I’d rather pass on the downward dog stuff. Perched on hands and feet, my body in an inverted V shape, I kinda feel like a canine waiting for some random animal to come sniff my butt. Plus, my shoulders ache from holding up my weight for a few minutes while I stretch my hamstrings and calves like I’m made of rubber. I’m totally relieved when we switch positions again and finally do some standing shit. Warrior poses are more my thing.

Then after a little more breathing and her telling us to take this grounded center through the rest of our day, it’s over. I feel better…and worse. I’m definitely less scattered mentally. But the temporary Zen of focusing on the exercise is fast dissipating. Reality is crashing back in, as is my mental whine about missing Keeley.

With a curse, I roll up the mat and slip inside my condo, grabbing my laptop before I plop on the sofa. Magically, I manage some productivity. I answer a few emails, return a few phone calls to other agents. I even sort through the Stowe presentation for tomorrow morning, adding extra notes and incorporating some of the final research details we received earlier.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I’m still n

ot sure I’ve chosen the right tack. The listing may already be Griff’s. But I can’t control that. I can only do my best, give the Stowes something to think about, and work my ass off the rest of the year.

I’ll go through the motions of this pitch, but I’m not sure I care anymore. For weeks, it’s taken my time and stolen my sanity. And it’s cost me Keeley. Well, I helped, too, but…