Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  For once, I don’t complain about the unsolicited touch of my baby bump as my hands naturally fall to his shoulders, though I resist running them through his thick, dark hair because memories can be so treacherous.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ivy,’ he murmurs, his arms banding across the dip of my back. I lift my hand and place it tentatively on his head because it seems we’re both sorry. For so many things. ‘She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?’ It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about June.

  ‘Yes.’ My voice is hoarse from swallowing back tears. ‘She was my grandmother’s best friend. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t around. She sort of stepped in when Gran died.’ Like my surrogate grandmother, I realise for the first time. She’s always been around to hand out love and comfort with a touch of wisdom and sometimes daftness. ‘She’s just the best person.’ Tears fill my eyes; my words wavering at the end. ‘Do . . . do you think she’ll be okay?’

  Dylan’s shoulders tighten, his arms doing the same. ‘I don’t know. I hope so, Edera.’ Eyes full and watery, my tears begin to fall. His use of my name like that—the soft tone?—is like a glimpse into the past. ‘I’ll drive you to the hospital as soon as we can leave.’

  ‘That’s okay. I-I’m okay to drive. I drove over myself this morning. I can drive.’

  ‘You’ve had a tough day.’ His tone is rueful, though not quite contrite. ‘You should rest while you can.’

  ‘I’m sure I can get Kit to take me,’ I reply. Toying with a strand of his dark hair, I barely resist the urge to run my fingers through it when his shoulders stiffen further.

  ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’ He doesn’t articulate his feelings further. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. It’s more in what he doesn’t say as his hands band tighter at the base of my spine.

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper, resting my cheek against his head. His soft hair tickles my face in an echo of the past. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ He doesn’t answer and doesn’t let go. ‘You don’t have to worry or take care of me. This baby; it doesn’t have to change anything.’

  Because it certainly doesn’t change how I love you. Doesn’t make it go away. More the opposite; the thoughts of growing a tiny piece of you inside me brings me comfort, I don’t say.

  ‘Doesn’t change anything,’ he repeats, his tone gravelly. ‘I suppose that’s why you didn’t say? Didn’t tell me, I mean. Kit, did you say?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ I answer, puzzled. ‘Kit is . . . Rory’s brother.’

  ‘And you and Kit.’ A statement, not quite a question. Quite the concession. I laugh—snort—something.

  ‘What’s funny?’ he asks, the lilt of his accent stronger suddenly. He sits straighter, and my arms fall away, though his arms don’t leave my waist. At least, what’s left of my waistline, which these days is barely a dip above my hips.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m Kit’s type,’ I answer, a touch sardonically, even as I recall Fin’s earlier words. Still, whatever floats Kit’s boat, it isn’t me. And for that, I’m glad.

  ‘Then he’s a fool.’ Stormy eyes stare back at me through thick, black lashes, honest and true. I don’t mean to respond, but somehow, I do, words just spilling.

  ‘Says the man who let me go. Oh, God—I’m sorry!’ I make to pull away, mortified at what I’ve said—what I’ve revealed—when his arms bind me tighter to him.

  ‘No, you’re right. I am a fool.’ He huffs a bitter laugh but doesn’t speak again. But this affection—his arms wrapped around me—this must be an olive branch, right? We might never be what we once were, but maybe this is the start of how we can be? How we can be together yet apart. People raising a child. Co-parents. Maybe even friends?

  Only, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over loving him, which will make me a really shitty friend.

  ‘I just don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated now.’ I resist moving, realising he’s about to protest. ‘Please, just listen,’ I add, ‘because I know why you’re here—why you needed to see me.’ I sigh, wishing for a dozen things. A dozen things that I won’t ever have. ‘At least, I think I know, and it’s okay. We were asking for trouble, making those videos, so we’re both to blame. I . . . I think I might have to go and live on Lewis or one of the other outer Hebridean islands—people have hair there, so I’m sure I can make a living. I just don’t think I can face being chased by the tabloids. It was bad enough watching those vultures attacking Fin, and I’m not as strong as she is. Besides, I can probably hide from my family up there. I’ll live in a yurt or something but for no more than a dozen years or so.’

  His laugh is deep and painful. At least, for me. I don’t remember the last time I heard him laugh spontaneously. Sincerely. For me.

  Knickers. I’m going to cry again.

  ‘What about me? Where am I gonna hide?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, pulling away to look at him. ‘Your life is already plastered over the internet all the time.’

  ‘You think it won’t hurt me to know people are watching you—stealing you from me? Knowing I can’t protect you from this?’

  ‘Dylan,’ I say softly. ‘You were going to do this to me if I didn’t show up in LA.’

  ‘Fuck!’ His hands fall away as he pushes to stand, stalking to the other side of the room.

  ‘I was hurt and wanting to hurt. Do you really think I could do that to you?’ I don’t answer, despite the demand in his gaze. My answer wouldn’t be helpful because my answer would be yes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ I say eventually. ‘What matters is moving on, and I’m trying to apologise for not telling you.’ I place my hands on my stomach, an action that still doesn’t feel natural. ‘I would have, I promise you. I was trying to do the right thing, for once, only I wasn’t sure what that was.’

  He steps towards me, reaching for my hands and bowing his head over them. ‘Georgia and I aren’t together.’ I make to pull away, but he manacles my wrists in his long fingers. His head rises, his green gaze solemn and intent on my own. ‘We weren’t ever together, not like you think. She was nothing but a smoke screen.’ My brow furrows as he carries on. ‘I may not always make the best decisions, but believe it or not, I’ve been seeing more of her because of you.’

  ‘Because you know how much I don’t like her?’ I say suddenly, my tone betraying my hurt.

  ‘To hide you. Some calls were made, referencing a relationship I’d had with a hairstylist. Someone was asking questions, digging, and I didn’t want them to find you. There’ve been rumours about this video for a while now even though we’ve tried to keep it under wraps. I got it in my mind I’d give then something else to talk about.’

  ‘So you proposed?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘Fuck, no.’

  ‘But why? Why would you do any of this?’

  ‘Because it’s the one thing you’ve made clear; you didn’t want people to know about me. About our marriage.’ His gaze clearly says what his words don’t. That I hid him from the people I love.

  ‘I’ll do what I have to do to protect you. To protect you both now.’

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you,’ I answer quietly. ‘But I needed to tell my family first.’ The words seem so pathetic, so juvenile, and like the same old excuse.

  ‘And this?’ He places one hand on the swell of my stomach again. ‘What are you going to tell them about this?’

  Time trickles by as he waits for my answer; an answer I have but am hesitant to give. What if he doesn’t want to be part of this? He doesn’t speak further, and he doesn’t move, but he watches me, his gaze guarded. His feelings unclear.

  ‘The truth,’ I eventually answer, silently willing the baby to move—to give Dylan some sign of his presence. Manipulative or what? ‘If you want me to, that is.’

  ‘Is this you giving me an out?’ From one hand to two, he covers the bump named Vlad.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ I affect a small shrug, every nerve ending coming alive as his hands slide to
my hips. I daren’t look up for fear of what I’ll see on his face, or for what he’ll see on mine. I’m so afraid—afraid of his answer. Of rejection.

  Thump . . . thump . . . thump. Time seems to slow to the rhythm of my heart; each of my nerve endings electric—alive—as his hands lift from my hips and drift up to cradle my face. My eyes fall closed as I sense his tall frame leaning toward me, his soft breath reaching my skin a moment before his lips brush my head.

  ‘I want it. I want it all.’

  My throat closes as I slide my hands around his waist. I hug him hard. Tight. I clasp him to me like he’s the anchor to my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Dylan

  It was late by the time we arrived at the hospital in Edinburgh. Travelling and time zones have caught up with me, but powered by espresso these past few hours, I still managed to drive. Carefully. Tired or not, I find I just want to be near Ivy. Want to lighten her load however I can.

  I stayed in the waiting room while Ivy and her friends took turns sitting with Natasha in the room assigned to her grandmother. It seems June suffered a severe stroke and, at one point, went into respiratory arrest. From what I can gather, the medical staff has been reluctant to offer any assurances except to say that she’s stable for now.

  Ivy has a good bunch of friends, and they’re obviously very supportive of each other. Protective, too. I spoke more with Rory in the waiting room, and he’d helped me ward off the nursing staff when I’d been recognised. Ball cap pulled low, I’d used the thick heavy accent again, and he’d appropriately set off laughing at the ridiculousness of being asked for my autograph. An arm slung around the junior nurse’s shoulder, he’d told her I was a computer repairman from Turkmenistan. Good job she wasn’t overly bright. He’s a pretty solid guy, and while his brother may be his double, I’ve found it hard to warm to him. Something’s just a little too perfect to be true about him. He’s too calm. Too reserved. And emotionless doesn’t equal a lack of passion, as far as I’m concerned, but hidden feelings. Emotion simmering beneath the surface. My concern is those feelings might be for Ivy.

  For all our sakes, I hope that’s not the case.

  Ivy’s asleep by the time I pull the rental to a stop outside her salon. Despite protesting she was fine to stay, her pals insisted she go home and rest. I didn’t need to say anything—didn’t need to interject—but was still the recipient of her resentment in the car on the way home. She obviously hates having the pregnancy card pulled and wasn’t at all fooled when house keys were folded into her hand in the waiting room. Get Nat some clothes and stuff. Bring them back tomorrow.

  Yeah, she wasn’t a bit impressed.

  So I got the silent treatment, but I didn’t mind. It’s better than fighting, and it led to her falling asleep. She obviously needed it because it was like someone took her batteries out; she just went out like a light. In the resulting silence, I got to watch her fleetingly and listen to the evenness of her light breaths while I drove. And now, turned fully toward her and sat in the darkened interior, I get to study how she has her hands folded in protection around her stomach. Around our child. I get to watch her without causing her heartache or concern. Without making her wonder about the meaning behind my gaze.

  Angry, happy, sad—she’s always beautiful, but in sleep, something breathtaking about her.

  Because she isn’t trying to be, she just is.

  Her heart-shaped face relaxed and her cupid’s bow mouth slightly open, the dark half-moon of her lashes flutter as she dreams.

  And my thoughts are . . . complex. I want her. I think I’ll always want her but wanting and having aren’t the same. Aren’t always sane. And now, we have another person to consider. Or at least, we will have soon. This morning—yesterday morning?—in the whole entire world, I only had myself to think of. And Ivy, though I tried not to, even if my attempts were as successful as turning back the tide.

  So I sit, and I watch . . . like a creep because it isn’t long before my thoughts turn to the body concealed by her clothes. Dainty feet in blue tennis shoes, creamy legs beneath yoga pants, and under her t-shirt and fleece? Tits shaped like teardrops; tits so perfectly formed, so full and so perfect, they’d incite the gods themselves to tears.

  It’s so fucking hard to sit here and not act on impulse—to refrain from touch—because her scent in these close confines is almost overwhelming.

  Orange blossom perfume and nostalgia.

  I want so badly to reach out and smooth the unruly wisps of hair from her cheek. Reach out and touch the roundness of her. Touch the place that holds our child, skin to skin.

  Feed my thumb into the space between her lips.

  But I won’t.

  I won’t do any of those things because we are complicated enough, she and I. Because we already have too much at stake.

  I’m still watching when her eyes spring open.

  ‘Hey.’ She blinks heavily, her brain obviously on delay. ‘We’re here?’ She stretches a little, pushing her chest out in a way that makes my cock react.

  ‘Yeah—yes.’ I want to look away, but I can’t. Not even when she wipes the back of her hand over the corner of her mouth, seeking drool.

  ‘What’s funny,’ she asks through a yawn.

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  Her rumbled response fills the interior of the car with a boatload of get fucked.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, chuckling. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  And suddenly, neither of us are laughing

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ivy

  My heart beats like a bass drum as I reach the door, feeding the key into the lock while Dylan stands behind me, pulling my bag from the car. The lock disengages, the front door swinging open, but I resist turning, wondering where the weirdness between us has suddenly sprung from. One minute, we seem okay . . . tentatively okay . . . and the next, odd doesn’t seem to cover it.

  His boots scuff against the pavement, and I realise he has both Nat’s bag and mine in his hand, which just goes to prove go home so you can bring Nat some clean clothes tomorrow was a ruse. I’m not annoyed, truth be told; the fight has drained out of me, especially as he stops dead in front.

  So close yet not.

  He looks gorgeous even though sans ball cap, his hair is a mess and tiredness is beginning to show in the shadows around his eyes. Dark and gorgeous and tempting. I don’t know a lot. I don’t know what’s going on between us, or what the future might hold, but I do know if he bends forward to kiss me right now, I’ll totally let him.

  And maybe that’s where the weirdness stems.

  ‘Upstairs?’ Dylan asks; his expression so open it’s almost bland. I nod and step away from the doorway, allowing him to pass and then follow his heavy tread . . . while staring at his arse.

  At the top of the stairs, we shuffle, swapping positions on the small landing so I can unlock the door to my flat. I step back again, my heart speeding up as Dylan steps inside, but my excitement is short lived as he places both bags in the hallway and immediately turns around.

  ‘Looks nice,’ he says, but how could he tell?

  ‘It’s okay,’ I demure. ‘Bigger than the studio.’ The studio apartment we started in.

  For a minute, he looks about to speak, maybe changing his intended words at the last minute. ‘I . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ The door is still open, and he’s heading for it, so I do the only thing I can; I follow to say goodbye. Again.

  ‘What time shall I call in the morning?’ He’s on one side of the threshold, and I’m on the other, but a brick wall may as well be between us. Hands fisted in his pockets, he won’t look at me, but for fleeting glances, his eyes can’t seem to resist.

  ‘I-I’ll be at the hospital.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll take you there.’

  ‘No, I mean I have an appointment.’ As my fingertips touch my stomach, his eyes widen in recognition. Excitement? ‘Then I thought I’d go see h
ow June’s doing . . . and deliver Nat’s clothes.’

  Recognising the twist to my mouth, he ducks his head, but it’s his smile that acknowledges the subterfuge.

  ‘Can I take you? To your appointment, that is?’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Tomorrow, the hospital will be teeming with people. It’s only a matter of time before someone makes a call and you get rumbled.’

  ‘I’ve got my trusty hat.’

  ‘The ball cap?’ I ask doubtfully. He’s as tall as Rory, as striking, and the way he carries himself just screams for attention. Plus, his exotic looks and confident demeanour are pure superstar. ‘I hate to tell you, but it’s not much of a disguise.’ He’s too gorgeous, too striking . . . too many superlatives.

  ‘If you don’t want me to come, you only have to say.’

  God, I could answer that question so many ways. I roll my lips inwards to avoid letting half of them escape.

  ‘Ivy.’ He elongates my name, dragging it over gravel, and then his hands reach out but drop before getting anywhere that counts. ‘I want to be good,’ he whispers, the words sounding pained.

  ‘What happens if I don’t want you to be?’ I murmur to my running shoes.

  His answer is both agonisingly sweet and painful. He whispers that I’m lovely and that he doesn’t want to spoil things, and I don’t hear very much after that as tears seem to rob me of my vision as well as my sense.

  ‘Please, Ivy, this is so much bigger than just you and me now.’ He holds his arms out for me again, his eyes flicking over me quickly, but not so quick as to hide the heat there.

  ‘Just stop,’ I blubber, holding up my hand. ‘I get it—please, just, let’s pretend I didn’t say anything.’ Because being taken in his arms and consoled is rejection still, whichever way you look at it.