Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

off.
    “I know.” I stopped short, fighting back tears. There were a thousand things in my head I wanted to say to him: I miss you, I love you, are you home? Please come back to me. I had no idea where to start. “I’m so glad you called,” I finally said, my voice shaking. There was just silence. At first I thought he had hung up. I looked at my phone, saw that the call was still active. “Cole?” And then I heard his breath catch. He was either crying or trying very hard not to.
    “I don’t know,” he said in a soft, shaky whisper, “why this has to be so hard.”
    And at those words, I lost my own battle to keep my tears at bay.
    “It’s hard for me too, Cole. God, I miss you so much.”
    He took a ragged breath then, and I could almost see him putting his affectation back on, like armor, one piece at a time: the mocking look, the way he cocked his hip out, the way he let his hair fall into his eyes. I was not surprised, when he spoke again, to hear that the cadence of his speech was back. “Sweetie, I need to see you if you can spare a few moments for me.”
    My heart skipped a beat. “Of course. Are you back in town?”
    Please let him say yes.
    “Very briefly.”
    “Do you want to come over?” Please let me hold him one more time.
    “That’s not a good idea.”
    “Cole, I can’t—” I can’t bear to live without you. That’s what I wanted to say, but he interrupted me.
    “Can you meet me at the coffee shop at two? The one near your house, down by the grocery store?”
    “Of course,” I said, feeling confused. Why were we meeting in a coffee shop?
    “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll see you then.”
    I got to the coffee shop before him. The place was empty except for the employees. I ordered for both of us. Cole arrived as they were handing me my drinks. Seeing him again was like a slap to the face.
    The two hot drinks in my hand were the only thing that kept me from grabbing him and holding him tight. That, and the healthy distance he was keeping between us. He kept his head down a little, his hair in his eyes so that I could not read his expression.
    “Chai?” I offered, holding it out to him, and he almost smiled.
    Almost.
    “Thank you.”
    We sat down at a table but neither of us tasted the drinks I had just bought. I was trying to look at every bit of him, like I could take him all in. As if that would somehow ease the pain I felt at the distance between us rather than making it worse. I was trying to get a sense of what he was feeling. Trying to determine if he was as heartbroken as I was. He did not look at me. He kept his eyes on the table.
    “Cole,” I finally said, “I miss you.” I started to reach across the table to where his hand was resting, but he pulled away.
    “Stop,” he said, and I froze, my heart aching in my chest. He took a deep breath. “This isn’t a personal visit, sweetie. It’s a professional one.”
    I could hardly even follow his words. All I could think about was how much it hurt to see him and have him push me away again. “I don’t understand.”
    Another deep breath. He still would not look at me, and his hands were clenched tight together on the table in front of him. I suspected it was to keep me from seeing how much he was shaking, but I could still hear it in his voice. “I want to offer you a job.”
    “A job?” I asked stupidly.
    “I have an accountant. Chester.” He stopped, and he glanced up at me for the first time. It wasn’t direct eye contact. It was only a glance through his hair, but I saw the humor there, along with the strain of trying to act casual. “Actually, his name is Warren Chesterfield, and he hates when I call him Chester.”
    “Which is why you do it.”
    He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know I have money, sweetie, and I’m sure it will not surprise you to learn that I pay no attention to it at all. I have multiple accounts. I don’t know how many. I have a stockbroker. Or maybe I have a few. I’m not clear on that either, to tell you the truth. I believe they make more money for me, although I could be wrong. I give money to certain charities on a regular basis.
    You know that I have several houses and at least one person on staff at each one. My other homes, all but the one here, are rented out as vacation properties at various times of the year, which results in a small amount of income I assume. And of course, I have my mother to support.” He stopped for a minute, and I waited, knowing he