by Aly Martinez
“Oh, please, enlighten me, then,” I teased.
She rolled her eyes then once again glanced around us, surveying our possible audience. “That’s a second-date meal,” she hissed. “Tonight, I’ll have the soup and salad.”
I twisted my lips. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she confirmed.
I looked up at the waiter. “She’ll have the chicken parmesan. Bring it out every possible way a person can order it. Pull up another table if need be.”
“Roman, no!” She slapped at my arm, but I caught her hand and intertwined our fingers.
I held her gaze until the waiter walked away, at which point I seductively whispered, “Lissy, yes.”
Her cheeks flushed, and then she gave me the innocent angel back. Her eyes darted to our hands before shyly sliding away. “That’s a ton of food. And trust me, I’m a whack-a-doo. They’ll never get it right.”
That was exactly what I’d hoped. “Then I guess we’ll just have to stay here until they do.”
I’d have given up every possession I owned just to go back in time to that Olive Garden with her.
Even knowing how it would end.
Maybe especially knowing how it would end.
But I’d have given it all for one night where chicken parmesan was our only obstacle.
“Mr. Leblanc,” Detective Rorke prompted, forcing me back to the present.
I closed my eyes and shook the memories off. “Right.” I motioned for Whit to evacuate the seat next to Elisabeth.
He moved swiftly, as though he knew that his future employment depended on it.
Elisabeth scooted her chair to the left, huffing as I followed.
“Okay,” Rorke started, once again digging through his file. “We just have a few questions about Peach City Reproductive Center.” He kept his head down but glanced up from his papers.
“Oh, okay,” Elisabeth said, knotting her hands in her lap. “We, um, did in vitro fertilization there. It was—”
A stabbing pain hit me in the gut. “Is this about a bill?” I asked roughly, cutting her off. “I paid them years ago. If anything is still outstanding, I’ll personally take care of it today.”
Rorke faced me, but he watched Elisabeth from the corner of his eye. “I’m no collections agency, Mr. Leblanc. Ms. Keller, please continue.”
Elisabeth’s sad eyes lifted to his. “It was a good place is all I was going to say.”
He jotted something on the paper in front of him. “And you were under the care of Dr. Fulmer during this time. Is that right?”
“Yes. He was amazing. Very understanding. Caring. Compassionate.”
“And did this procedure with him produce a child? In vitro, I mean?”
Her green eyes fluttered closed as anguish carved her smooth, white skin. “Yes, but—”
I couldn’t take any more. “What is this about?” I barked, desperate to regain the control I’d never had during the actual IVF process. Or in the years that followed, leading up to that very moment when I was being forced to watch Elisabeth relive the most painful experience of our lives.
“Just a few simple questions,” Rorke said, all but dismissing me from the conversation.
I slammed my palm on the table and rose to my feet. “Discussing my son is not simple for anyone in this room but you.”
“Roman!” Elisabeth scolded me for my outburst. But I’d have taken whatever heat she had to offer if it kept her from getting lost in the past.
I remained focused on Rorke. “Either tell me what this is about right fucking now or this interview is over.”
“A son?” His eyes flashed wide, cutting to the mirrored wall before landing back on me.
“Tripp,” Elisabeth breathed, pulling Rorke’s eyes back to her. “He died within an hour of being born.” She looked up and offered me a weak smile. “It’s okay. I can do this.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. She’s reassuring me.
I bit the inside of my cheek and gripped the back of my neck.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled under his breath. “And you didn’t try again?”
“None of our embryos made it to freeze,” she replied.
He once again cursed then steepled his fingers under his chin. “It’s my understanding you can do another cycle for more embryos. How many cycles did you do with Dr. Fulmer?”
I sucked in a sharp breath, and Elisabeth shifted in her chair, crossing then uncrossing her legs.
“We didn’t have the money for another fresh cycle,” she admitted. “We had to clean out our savings and then borrow the rest from my parents to pay for the first one.” She paused and then blurted, “Besides, Roman and I divorced six months after Tripp was born. There was no time. Even if there was money.”
Wasn’t that the damn truth.
Time was never on my side. Only months after our divorce, Rubicon had been created. If only she and I had stuck it out a few more weeks, I could have filled our house with a basketball team of children. She could have stayed pregnant for the rest of her natural life if that’s what she’d wanted, and I would have happily lay on the floor, acting as a human jungle gym for each and every one of those kids, content for the rest of my life knowing I had given her that.
We could have been happy…again.
Fucking time.
“Was he buried?” Rorke asked, hope filling his eyes.
“Easy,” I warned.
Elisabeth answered behind me. “Cremated.”
“Dammit.” Rorke closed his eyes, rubbing them with his thumb and his forefinger before opening them again. “I’m sorry, Ms. Keller, Mr. Leblanc. I’m sure this is a hard topic for both of you, so I’m going to be blunt here. We were unaware your son had passed away. We were hoping…” He stopped and trained his unfocused gaze on the door. “We were hoping to get a DNA sample from your son.”
“Why?” Elisabeth and I asked in unison.
He leaned forward and lifted his pen off the table, tapping it to his chin as he answered. “We have reason to believe that Dr. Fulmer or one of his technicians accepted a bribe and possibly switched embryos in the lab. Your name was brought up during the questioning of a possible witness.”
Elisabeth reacted immediately, reaching up and clamping my hand in hers, squeezing hard as she gasped.
Slowly sinking down to the chair, I rumbled, “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
Rorke continued to explain. “I honestly can’t get into specifics, as we are still looking into all avenues. But we were refused the warrants for DNA on the child in question due to a lack of evidence.”
Elisabeth’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “The child?”
His shoulders rolled forward in defeat, but he nodded. “Yes, there is a possibility one of your embryos survived. But the supposed birth father has denied us all access. We were hoping to take the back door on this one, proving foul play based on your child’s DNA. Then get the warrant once and for all.”
I was vaguely aware of Whitman and Kaplin joining the conversation, tossing Rorke a million different questions laced with legal jargon, but my mind was spinning.
Bribes?
Embryos switched?
A child?
Our child?
It was a Thursday morning. I was supposed to be in a meeting with my marketing team, and instead, I was sitting in a police station, next to my ex-wife, finding out that we might have a child laughing, smiling, and breathing on Earth.
What the fucking hell was going on?
I finally swung my head to Elisabeth. Her face was pale, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Without thought or consideration, I snaked an arm out and looped it around her shoulders, pulling her into my side. She came all too willingly, crashing into my chest just before sobs overtook her.
Chapter Six
Elisabeth
It was dark outside when I woke up on my couch. My heels were gone, but I was still in the same skirt and top I’d pulled on in a hurry that morning.
&nb
sp; Police station.
“Oh God,” I croaked.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten home, but my feet must have moved at some point, even though my mind was still rooted in the middle of that police station.
Embryos switched.
“Oh God,” I croaked.
Then I heard his voice in my kitchen.
“Cancel everything tomorrow and forward all of my calls to Glen. Yeah. No.” Pause. Sigh. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Let’s just play this by ear.”
Roman.
“Oh. God.” I groaned, dragging my body up to the sitting position. My head objected, but I guessed that’s what you got when you cried yourself dry of tears.
A child.
“Oh God,” I breathed, dropping my face into my hands and settling my elbows on my knees.
“You’re awake,” Roman said, stating the obvious.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of his bare feet carrying him my way.
I closed my eyes and smarted, “You’re in my house.”
The couch sank beside me. Then I felt his hand on my back.
His strong, kind, gentle, soothing hand. Damn it. I screwed my eyes shut.
“How ya feeling?”
“Like I woke up in the Twilight Zone.”
He chuckled. “Not far from the truth.”
I scrubbed my face then did my best to smooth my sleep-mussed hair down. “Thanks for, um…bringing me home.”
His hand moved up to the base of my neck, where it squeezed, massaging with his thumb before repeating the process on the other side. I lacked the energy to fight it and a pleasure-filled moan escaped my throat.
He chuckled again. “I ordered takeout.”
His torturous hand continued kneading my neck, leaving me unable to argue. I hadn’t eaten since earlier that morning. Food, even takeout, actually sounded amazing, and my stomach growled in agreement.
However, just as quickly, I lost my appetite.
“What the hell happened today?” I sighed listlessly.
His hand spasmed. Then it stilled for a brief second before continuing. “I don’t know. But my people are looking into it.”
Great.
Roman had people now.
And they were looking into the possibility that a child with my DNA was out there, sharing a world with other people I did not know.
Forget food. I needed to go back to sleep and hopefully wake up in a world that made sense.
“Oh God.” I moaned, finally turning to face him. “Roman,” I started, but the words froze on my tongue when I got my first real look at him—up close and personal.
He was still wearing his suit pants, but he’d shed the jacket and the button-down at some point since we’d arrived home. A simple, white undershirt clung to the hard ridges of his chest, the sleeves stretching mercifully around his thick biceps. I’d been wrong earlier that morning when I’d thought he was still just as gorgeous as he’d always been.
He was better.
And, a few years ago, I hadn’t known that was possible.
He no longer sported the sexy stubble he’d insisted on growing after he’d gotten out of the military. Now, he was clean-shaven, not so much as a five-o’clock shadow marring his handsome face. His once barbershop-buzzed, dark-blond hair now bore the marks of a stylist—trimmed with precision on the sides, leaving the top longer and slightly unruly.
It all looked good on him.
Very good.
But he could look as mouthwateringly beautiful as he wanted to and it wouldn’t change the man inside. And I couldn’t risk getting tangled in the façade again.
Just because Roman was vowing his support right now, having his people look into things, didn’t mean he’d stay to see this clusterfuck through. I’d watched him walk away too many times to willingly sign myself up for that again.
Besides, technically, he had no reason to be there.
And worse, no reason to stay.
During our long journey to have a child, we’d discovered that Roman produced very few sperm, most of which were abnormal. Doctors had been optimistic, saying that intrauterine insemination (IUI) would be our best bet. But, three miscarriages later, they changed their tune. The same day we were told that our last hope was in vitro fertilization (IVF), it was strongly suggested that we use a sperm donor. I did not deal with this news well.
First off, I knew we couldn’t afford IVF. While we lived comfortably, we didn’t have thirty to forty grand just lying around. We’d dropped most of our savings into our house when we’d gotten married and thought nothing of it. There had always been time to worry about savings later. We’d had each other. I’d like to say we were young and dumb. But what we really were was in love and eager to start a life together. A house seemed like the logical first step. We had no idea the financial burdens we’d be facing in the future. But, then again, making a baby with the man you loved was only supposed to cost a night of passion and an orgasm.
Secondly, the idea of having a child using donor sperm felt wrong on so many levels. I had a man I was madly in love with; I wanted his babies. Ones with his silver eyes and his mischievous smile. Little girls with his big heart and his thick lashes. I didn’t just want kids; I wanted his kids.
I stormed out of the doctor’s office that afternoon, pissed at a universe, who’d stolen the future we’d planned together, but I hadn’t made it to my car before I was wrapped in his strong arms. He held my face in his neck while whispering promises that we’d find the money.
But money couldn’t fix us.
A truth Roman had never fully grasped.
In the end, he was the one who insisted we move forward with a sperm donor. He smiled a gorgeous grin and told me, “Biology doesn’t make families, Lissy. Love makes families.”
Four months later, ten of my eggs were fertilized with a donor’s sperm.
And, now, Roman was sitting on my couch, years after love had failed us, with only the biology of it all remaining.
I was the only thing tying him to this mess. I needed to cut him loose of his responsibilities once and for all.
Shifting away from him, I blurted, “I can handle this from here on out. No need for you to get involved.”
His head snapped back. “Excuse me?”
“I just mean…. You know. You can go. I’ll get back in touch with Detective Rorke and handle it from here. This isn’t your problem.”
His hand fell away from my back as he stared at me for several seconds. “This isn’t my problem?”
“Well…no. This is my problem.” I instinctively scooted over an inch, although I wasn’t exactly sure why. Roman would never hurt me, but the pissed-off vibe radiating from his pores was suffocating.
He ominously swayed toward me. “Your problem?” His silver eyes darkened to a frightening shade of charcoal.
I leaned away. “I just meant—”
“Yeah, Lis. Please, tell me what you just meant.”
“I meant…” I carefully studied his face before I found the courage to say, “We aren’t together anymore?” It came out as a question. “I just figured—”
I stopped talking when he moved closer, one hand on the back of the couch, the other on the arm, caging me into the corner.
“Say the words,” he ordered on a pained whisper.
“I think you should leave.”
“Not the words.”
“Back up,” I pleaded, but he got closer. Mere inches separated our bodies—less separated our mouths.
His breath breezed over my skin as he ground out, “Still not the words.”
My pulse spiked at the same time my mouth dried.
He was too close.
Way, way, way too…
I closed my eyes.
He was wearing a different cologne, but the underlying smell of clean soap and shampoo was still my Roman, and the smell assaulted my olfactory senses at full force. But it was the subtle hit of beer on his breath that transported me back in time t
o a moment that seemed as though it had been nearly a million years ago, and it felt as though it had been even longer than that.
After numerous plates of chicken parmesan—all of which were wrong—Roman and I went out dancing at a hole-in-the-wall salsa bar downtown. Neither of us knew how to salsa, but we both made fools of ourselves trying to learn. I proved myself to be a quick study. Roman not so much, but he never quit. He also never took his eyes—or his hands—off me.
On the way home, we stopped at a food cart to pick up a two a.m. snack. Roman was almost as drunk as I was, and neither of us could stop laughing long enough to order.
“Two gyros. Extra Z. Add feta,” he finally got out, blindly waving a twenty at the cashier. He pulled me into his arms and kissed the top of my hair.
“Oh my God, you ordered for me again.” I feigned horror, playfully pushing him away.
He grinned with pride. “Sure did.”
“And what if I don’t like gyros?”
He swayed toward me, gliding his hand up the back of my neck and into my hair. “Everyone likes gyros.”
“Not everyone,” I laughed only to be silenced when he tilted his head down and brushed his nose with mine.
He hadn’t kissed me yet. I wasn’t sure what the hold-up was, because God knows I’d given every signal I could think of—including a few I’d invented on the fly.
He dropped his forehead to mine and stayed close as I silently willed him closer.
When his mouth never made contact, I licked my lips and whispered, “I don’t eat lamb.”
His other arm hooked around my waist to bring our bodies flush. The intoxicating scent of clean sweat and beer invaded my senses. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, holding it in for as long as my lungs would allow, engraining it into my memory so I could never lose it—lose him.
As I exhaled, I felt his breath at my ear.
“It’s a food cart, Lissy. I assure you these are beef.”
It wasn’t a sexy statement by anyone’s standard, but it still made my knees weak.
Pressing my breasts against his chest, I raked my nails up his back. Then I whispered my own unsexy reply, “Oh. Okay, then. I like beef.”
