Love Changes Everything (Romance on the Go Book 0) Read online

  He likely wanted to start the divorce first with his own lawyer. Funny how great minds had thought alike. Ha. Ha. She should feel pleased she beat him to the punch but was overcome with tiredness instead. With a glance at the time, she sighed and switched on the ignition, plucking the parking tag from the dash.

  She paid the attendant a hefty amount, using Beckett’s credit card once again, and cruised out of the lot. Her phone chimed intermittently but she let it be, driving single-mindedly to meet Charity.

  ****

  Beckett carefully set the phone down on the nearest flat surface before he chucked it against a wall, only to snatch it up again and dial a saved number. “George?”

  “I assume you located your wife.” His father-in-law’s patronizing tone was likely directed at both him and Grace, but Beckett found himself feeling defensive only for her.

  “I did. Wanted you to know so you wouldn’t worry.”

  “I wasn’t worried. Grace has always done as she’s told and obviously you need to figure that out. Give her clear direction. Set your expectations. That way you won’t be looking for her or have any other issues with your wife.”

  Anger warred with shame as Beck sought an appropriate response, managing not to point out George’s own spouse had defied him in the end. Leaving her daughter to deal with him alone. He clenched his other hand. Had Grace moved from one autocratic household to the other? Indeed she had. He was no better than her father. Worse. Because he paid little to no attention to his wife aside from their physical connection, and yet expected her to follow some sort of nebulous relationship rules. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  George grunted. “You do that.”

  Beck was tempted to call Kamil again, maybe under the pretense of sending over the contract and seek a little input. He threw himself down on the couch, noting how uncomfortable the damn thing was. Grace had accepted all of his designer’s choices, her tentative suggestions dismissed by the older, elegant woman and he hadn’t given her input any regard either. Left it up to the discretion of someone who wasn’t even living in his home. Their home.

  The place was too big for two people, too big for two people and a baby. Even more than one baby. It was austere, unwelcoming with its six bedrooms and barren, vaulted rooms downstairs. Grace hadn’t demurred, though he somehow knew it wasn’t something she would have chosen, but he hadn’t been inclined to think about her likes and dislikes at the time. Even now, he was wondering at his change of heart, second-guessing himself and Kamil’s truths. Like the couch, he felt damned uncomfortable and he didn’t care for the experience.

  It looked as though he’d have to wait until his wife deigned to return home, in any event. Regardless, they were going to have a long talk. She’d said some things that made him uneasy… And there was that weird feeling last night… With a quick shake of his head, he crossed to the sideboard, another must-have according to the designer, and unearthed a bottle of scotch.

  He noted that everything was spotless, free of dust and any smudges, and cast a look around the room. Spending the little time he was at home in the bedroom and attached bath, and sometimes the den, he paid minimal attention to the rest of the place.

  They had no housekeeper, Grace quietly asserting she could keep up with the house, and he hadn’t cared. If they’d entertained, it would have made sense to hire staff, but… But no one came to visit, not for a dinner party or otherwise.

  He tossed back his drink and cursed Kamil for pricking his awakening conscience. Did Grace rattle around in here all day, alone and lonely? He poured another ounce. Probably not. After all, she had that friend. Charity. Who worked during the day.

  But they were going out for dinner. At least that was what Grace said. His eyes narrowed as he stared at his phone. No, he wasn’t going to call Charity and check up on his wife. She likely hung out with her friend most nights of the week, and he wouldn’t know because he was never home until late. She wasn’t out with another man. That wasn’t her.

  Grace had to eat. And come to think of it, he was getting hungry himself. Carrying his drink, he paced to the kitchen and surveyed the contents of the fridge. Pure basics. Milk, cheese, eggs, and a paltry selection of greens. The pantry didn’t offer much else, aside from a box of crackers and some cans of soup. Jesus Christ. No wonder his wife looked as though a stiff breeze could blow her away. She’d clearly stopped cooking when he ignored the meals.

  Making another drink, he toured the house, pausing in the guest rooms, meticulously appointed by the designer, but hardly welcoming, despite Grace’s obvious efforts to introduce some color and soft fabrics. Everything sparkling clean. Did she spend her days dusting and vacuuming? Scrubbing?

  One of them had been converted to an office, and he studied the small laptop on the table by the window, the files neatly stacked beside it. He reached out to open one before allowing his hand to fall away. He’d insisted that Grace respect his privacy, so he would hers. Find out from the source what she did all day, what she was interested in, what was in those folders.

  If he could let the past go, then surely they could build something of a personal connection and she’d return to that adoring, sweet young woman who had welcomed him without artifice. It was what he’d wanted at the time and relished it—and belatedly accepted how precious it actually was. How precious she was. Before he’d stomped on her. He hated feeling like a shit.

  The little room next to the master suite presented a tightly closed door. Beckett forced himself to open it, the knob curiously stiff in his hand. For a moment he thought it was locked, but it was his own reluctance to enter that impeded his touch.

  Stepping inside, he flicked on the light to dispel the gloom cast by the tightly drawn curtains. The cheerful scene mocked his mood, soft yellow walls with teddy bear appliques along the moldings, an area rug designed in playful, concentric circles, a terry-swathed change table, and a small rocking chair setting the tone. He made himself look at the centerpiece, the pure white crib with its printed mattress and fuzzy green blanket tossed over the rail.

  Soft toys were propped along a ledge on one wall, and prints in primary colors decorated the others. He spotted the toy chest in the far corner, knowing that there was a vast number of age-appropriate items tucked away in its depths.

  Grace had embraced her pregnancy, despite his reaction, and this room was the battle she’d won against the designer, won it with dignity and … grace. He’d forgotten, or at best suppressed the memory of how his young wife had carved out a special place for the child she’d conceived, no matter the circumstances of that conception. With his grudging support—or lack thereof.

  And now it stood, mute testimony to a baby never destined to be. Did Grace think of filling it with another child? He thought about what Kamil said. How his focus was on the present without regard for the future. And the present was getting old. Lord knew how it felt to Grace.

  He strode from the nursery, turning off the light and shutting the door behind him. Taking the steps with deliberation, he made his way back to the living room and took the bottle of Scotch over to the coffee table. Giving up all pretense of a casual drink, he filled his glass, over and over. By the time Grace came home, he’d be thoroughly, insensibly drunk, his well-laid plans prior to that fucking talk with Kamil, in shambles. His new one? Stalled.

  Chapter Three

  The restaurant was nearly empty, given how early they were for dinner, but her friend was waiting. Dressed with her usual style in a fitted sundress and sky-high shoes, Charity rushed toward her and gathered her into a hug.

  “You’re too damn skinny,” she scolded, as she stepped back, blinking in the gloom. “Oh, my God. Look at you.”

  “The spa,” Grace murmured.

  “I’ve been trying to get you to lose that ‘just out of high school’ look for some time and you finally did it yourself. You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. You, too.” Charity was a few years older and had used every one of those year
s to build her confidence.

  “I’m dead on my feet. Busy day. So let’s get a glass of wine and order an appy so you can catch me up.”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me,” Grace burst out. “Before.”

  “What? You mean when your father tried to get me to back off? Ha. I came into that hoity-toity school, with all those white faces, and you were the only girl to make an effort to notice me. And it wasn’t like you were an outcast or anything.” Charity motioned her over to the table.

  It was true. Grace wasn’t wildly popular, but something about her let her fit in and get along with everyone, even the mean girls. Most all had money with the exception of a few, like Charity, who were on scholarships, and there was a definite divide between the two.

  “I was behind in grades and you tutored me, as well. I don’t forget things like that.”

  It was an age-old litany and Grace bit back the automatic protest because what her friend said was true. But she didn’t require payback and still thought it shameful so many other girls hadn’t stepped up. “You’re welcome.”

  Charity blinked. “Wow. Listen to you. And here I thought the change was only on the outside. What the hell happened?”

  Grace considered the question, not precisely sure what her answer was. She accepted a glass of red wine from the server, thanking him politely, and took a sip while he set a glass for her friend. She’d never been capable of accepting a compliment, blown away when one was offered, praise being a foreign entity most of her growing up years—and highly suspect.

  Well, school was a bit different. Her teachers touted her grades, something even her father had to accept, though he saw education as being worthless for a mere female. Hence his refusal to support her college applications. She might have found a way to attend on her own when she gained access to her trust fund—except she fell in love. And got knocked up. And then she wasted much of what was left of her energy on trying to forge a connection with Beckett.

  “Grace? Gonna tell me?”

  “Oh.” She took another sip, then pushed the glass away, the taste souring on her tongue. “I’m divorcing Beckett.”

  “I gathered that. What’s he done?” Her friend looked so fierce Grace wanted to tell her everything and let Charity take care of it. Silly, but true.

  “Irreconcilable differences.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We have nothing in common.”

  Charity narrowed her large, almond-shaped eyes. “You had sex in common.”

  Wincing, Grace pleated the cocktail napkin and wished the server would come back for their orders. Summoning her courage and moving past her innate shyness, she said, “We still do, but it doesn’t make up for…”

  Leaning forward, face set in unforgiving lines, her friend said, “Is he beating on you?”

  A huff of laughter scraped up her throat. “The lawyer asked me that too. I must look like the proverbial abused woman.”

  “Well, you’ve always been quiet and shy. Reticent. But that … that light you had… I can’t put it into words, exactly, but you’ve always had this glow of kindness or something. It’s gone. And you flinch.”

  “What?” She stared at her friend. “I do not.”

  Gripping her wine glass, Charity swirled the ruby-red liquid. “You do. Whenever we get together and talk about anything close to your life, you flinch. And your spark’s gone.”

  “I see.” Maybe that dead feeling inside wasn’t so surreal after all. How long had it taken to kill it? She couldn’t count all of the blows…

  “What can I get you ladies?” The handsome young server smiled at her, warmth in his eyes.

  Grace had no idea, still chewing on Charity’s stunning observation. “Chicken Caesar, please. Dressing on the side. No garlic toast.”

  Charity snorted audibly. “I’ll have the filet, medium, twice baked. And her toast.”

  “Thank you. Is there something wrong with your wine?”

  Grace shook her head. “Can you bring some water, please?”

  He flashed her a smile and she blinked at the admiration. “Certainly.”

  She watched him saunter away from the table. He’d be about her age, maybe a year older and definitely had spark. She knew she’d shut down—in self-defense—upon marrying Beckett when he so obviously despised her, but flinch? Did deadened spirit flinch?

  Facing her friend, she said, “He’s never home because he works long hours and then dates other women.”

  Charity didn’t look surprised and Grace—flinched. “Did you know that, Charity?”

  “Honey, I’d have to be blind not to know it. I read the tabloids, subscribe online. Keeps me entertained and serves as a reminder of what not to do, how not to behave. I wondered if you knew but didn’t know how to ask, or tell you.”

  “I knew. I’ve known. For months.” The skin around her lips felt numb and she choked a fake laugh. “He gets it out in the world and at home. I’m married to some kind of a stud horse.”

  “Oh, honey. He’s an asshole.”

  Grace couldn’t disagree, but hadn’t she thought he was perfect and wonderful in the beginning? She hoped she could trust her judgment now. “He certainly changed.”

  “I know. It surprises me. You were so happy and he looked at you as though you were everything in the world to him.”

  “Until he had to don the old ball and chain. Against his will. Beckett can’t stand for anyone to tell him what to do. That was imminently apparent from the moment I met him. He chafed under his father’s rule and was steadily moving to bring the company into the twenty-first century. I found it exciting.” A strong, confident man. Handsome and virile. Everything she dreamed of…

  “So you’re divorcing him for cheating.”

  Having shredded one napkin, she filched Charity’s, nearly spilling the other woman’s drink. “Partly.”

  “Okay…”

  She wasn’t sure if humiliation was good for the soul, but maybe letting it all out would drain the poison and shore up her resolution. “He hates me.”

  “Grace—”

  “I never see him until late at night, almost always. That’s because he rebuffed every effort I made to connect with him, talk with him, anything. And when I persisted… He’s so skilled with words. Like my father. No lectures, just abrupt, derogatory comments that cut me off at the knees. Dismissed.” It was true that people you loved had the ultimate power to wound.

  “Honey.”

  She hung her head and studied her pinky coral manicure, turning her hand to catch the dim light, noting the absence of her rings. Her thumb rubbed idly at the underside of that finger. “It’s even harder because he didn’t use to be like that. Not in the beginning, before I got pregnant. He listened to me, talked with me. He shared. He made me feel special … and beautiful.”

  “I remember how happy you were, newly in love. I didn’t know how bad it got.” Charity grabbed her hand and squeezed.

  “Of course you didn’t. How could I tell you? You’ve always liked me and I didn’t want you to see the real me and lose your good opinion.” Her shame coated her very being.

  “The real you?”

  “The worthless me.”

  “Are you kidding?” Her friend somehow shouted in a whisper. “Are you saying he … that he set out to deliberately make you feel worthless?”

  What did her friend think when she’d compared Beck to her father?

  Charity shut her mouth and breathed heavily through her nose.

  Grace watched anxiously as the other woman’s eyes burned with rage.

  “That fucker. You listen to me, Gracie, and you listen good. If your asshole father couldn’t convince you that you were nothing, then asshole Beckett can’t—”

  “Charity. Hey.” Grace cut her off. “I’m sorry. I sounded like a heroine in a historical romance novel. That’s why I couldn’t tell you before, because it felt like that and I was ashamed. I started to think I was worthless because Beck’s opinion mattered
so much. More than my father’s. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Something changed. I woke up.” Last night, as a matter of fact, in the middle of marital relations. “I know I deserve better and recognized when a cause is useless. And this time I can do something about it.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Charity gulped wine. “Okay.”

  “I was just trying to explain.”

  “You came to your senses in time, Gracie. I swear. You kept saying marriage wasn’t easy but I didn’t know… I mean, I figured he was cheating but you were so in love. It was killing me, being a shitty friend and not telling you, but…”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of other early diners filtering into the space a slight distraction.

  “I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve had nothing but time to think, once I got a little past losing…” She grabbed for her water, the nice young waiter having set it down sometime between her confession and Charity’s diatribe, and slunk away. She would never get past losing her baby, but at least she’d come to think and process clearly. “You know, the older guy sweeps girl off her feet. I understand now it was infatuation—on my part. Beckett was just playing around.”

  “He knocked you up.”

  It sounded as crass coming from Charity’s lips as it did when she thought it. Grace winced. “He did.”

  “Was it some deal about the woman being responsible for birth control?”

  “No. I mean, he asked. Because we were … well, things were pretty interesting and … he didn’t have a condom. Said he didn’t want to presume. That I was different.” She felt her cheeks heat, absurd because her early confession was so much more humiliating.

  In a voice as dry as the Sahara, her friend said, “You were overcome with lust and did the deed.”

  “Yes.” Not exactly. Beckett was overcome with lust, especially since he’d clearly set his sights on removing her from the ranks of virgins, but she was overcome with love. She’d wanted him desperately, secure in that love. Or so she thought. Infatuation seemed more likely, now. “But I was on the Pill, and he promised that he was … clean. That he used condoms with everyone … before.” She fervently hoped that was still the case, although her follow-up doctor visits after losing the baby hadn’t detected any diseases. It was a measure of her cowardice she hadn’t asked…