16 Lighthouse Road - Debbie Macomber [75]
“More wine?” Warren asked, lifting the bottle and replenishing her glass.
Dinner at this five-star Seattle restaurant was in celebration of some multimillion-dollar contract Warren had landed. Such celebrations happened every two or three months.
“Well,” he said, gazing expectantly at her, “what do you think?”
“Think?” Warren didn’t date her for her brains and wasn’t really interested in her opinions. They never talked about her job; in fact, he avoided dealing with her bank.
He blinked hard. “Justine, weren’t you listening?”
“I…I’m afraid it’s the wine. I get kind of sleepy. I’m sorry, darling, what were you saying?” Announcing that another man had been on her mind was not likely to garner his sympathy.
Thoughts of Seth Gunderson consumed her day and night, but she’d have to be a complete moron to drop Warren for a man who lived on a sailboat. Seth infuriated her. He could have slept with her, would have if she’d had any say in the matter. Every time she thought about that night, Justine felt so angry and humiliated, she wanted to bash her head against the wall. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!
In her weakness she’d encouraged him, and that had been a dreadful mistake. Seth believed she was leaving Warren for him. She couldn’t. Warren needed her, and in her own way she needed him.
“I was talking about us,” he repeated.
The conversation was about to become awkward. Justine could feel it.
“Oh, Warren, do you really think this is the time?” She pouted very prettily at him.
“Yes. Tonight’s a celebration.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
He beamed her a smile and leaning across the table, clasped her fingers. Stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, he held her gaze. “You know how I feel about you.”
She did indeed. Justine might be a lot of things, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Move in with me.”
“Oh, Warren.” Two or three times a year he pressured her to make that decision. So far, she’d always managed to change the subject, cajole him out of his insistence on “taking the next step.” Dating Warren was one thing; living with him was an entirely new scorecard. She’d never intended their relationship to go that far.
“Before you answer,” he said, “take a look at this.” He broke eye contact long enough to reach inside his pocket and bring out a jeweler’s velvet case.
“Warren?”
So the pressure was about to intensify. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t willing to surrender her freedom, regardless of what he offered.
“Before I show you this, I want to explain.” He took her hand once again, his eyes serious, then looked down at the table. “You never ask for more than I can give,” he murmured.
By that he meant she accepted his inability to perform sexually. Actually, she didn’t mind, even preferred the lack of a physical relationship. Justine kept his secret; she owed him that. She suspected very few people knew of Warren’s problems. Apparently they were of a kind that a small blue pill wouldn’t help.
“I like my freedom,” she reminded him sweetly, not wanting to offend.
“You can have your freedom, baby.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Sure it would,” he argued. “In fact, you can have your own room if you insist.”
He’d suggested that the last time he’d brought up the subject. She hadn’t been interested then, and she wasn’t now.
“It’s because of your mother, isn’t it?” Warren asked.
“That’s not it.” She knew it would be easy to lay the blame at her mother’s feet. She was a judge, an important member of the community, but Justine was her own woman. What she did with her life shouldn’t be any reflection on her mother’s career.
“You’re turning me down?” He wore the little-boy expression that might have been cute twenty years ago, but at his age left him looking merely pathetic.
“I’m sorry. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Good.” He gave her a wide grin and flipped open the lid of the velvet case.
Justine