by JM Stewart
Besides, her brothers had their own families. Kyle, her youngest brother, had quite literally married the girl next door. They hadn’t even been married a year yet. Being newlyweds and new parents, they enjoyed what little free time they had together.
Chase and Lila had been married for five years now. They lived in the house Becca and her brothers had grown up in. Yeah, okay, so they had room in the old house. She and Allie had stayed with them for a couple of months after she and Jackson separated. The two were trying desperately to conceive, though, and Becca refused to get in the way.
Evan and Malia simply didn’t have the room. Jackson was right on that account. With four kids, which included the new baby, their house had become too cramped. She and Evan were trying to find something bigger but hadn’t yet found anything they could afford on Evan’s salary at the air force base.
No, she and Allie would only be interrupting everyone’s already busy lives, more than they already had. She hated to impose on her family again. How ironic her life had become. She now had to depend on a man she’d sworn never to need again.
“Come on, Mommy.” Allie’s voice called from somewhere inside the house. “The movie’s starting.”
At the sound of Allie’s voice, Becca sighed. There was the major reason she’d let Jackson convince her to stay here. Their daughter. Guilt came along with all the doubts filling her mind today. When she’d left Jackson, she was positive she’d made the right decision. Now? Now her confidence waned, heavily influenced by the way her emotions went haywire every time she saw him.
Growing up, she hadn’t known her father. He split town after her third birthday. She may not remember him, but not having a father had left an emptiness inside of her. Now she often wondered, had she acted selfishly when she’d left Jackson? Had she been so caught up in her own pain that she didn’t think hard enough about what their separation would do to their daughter?
“By the way . . .” Jackson stepped into the hall again. “Since what you have on is all you’ve got for now, feel free to raid my closet for something more suitable to sleep in. We’ll figure out tomorrow when it gets here. You’re smaller than I am, but I might have a few things that would do in a pinch until you can go shopping.”
She blinked, staring at him as his suggestion seeped over her. She’d lost everything tonight. She didn’t even have pajamas to sleep in, let alone clean clothes to put on tomorrow. She’d have no choice but to sleep in one of his shirts. The very thought felt intimate somehow, as if he’d asked her to sleep wrapped in him. Oh, she knew that’s exactly what it would feel like. She’d done it a lot over the years, slept in one of his shirts, because it made her feel closer to him.
She furrowed her brow, her mind spinning in a different direction. “Where is your room?”
“Same place it always was.” He lifted his brows, as if it was the simplest answer in the world.
The information slammed into her brain and set her heart pounding. “You still sleep in our room?”
Why did the thought feel so strange to her? So oddly intimate? Had she kept the house, she would have moved out of their room first thing.
“Why not?” He hitched a shoulder. “I slept there for five years before . . .”
His grin slid from his face, his unspoken words hanging in the air.
. . . before she left him.
Tension rose higher than the tallest mountain between them. A heartbeat later, his expression blanked. Seeing the obvious shift in his emotions made her want to scream. With him, it was always obvious. It was like someone had drawn the blinds over him, and it meant he was shutting her out. As usual.
“A bed’s a bed.” He drew up straight, his voice now more gruff. “I’m used to the room. Simple as that.”
He pivoted and disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving her to stare after him. It was all she could do, because his words replayed through her mind, taunting her. Just a room. Just a bed. Nothing special. Never mind the five years they’d spent making love in that room, in that bed.
Pain shot through her chest faster than she could stop it and tears sprang to her eyes. This, along with the knowledge that he did nothing to stop her when she left, proved what she’d known all along. His mother was right. His mother had told her a long time ago, when they’d announced their engagement, that Jackson had married her because he had to, because she was pregnant with his child. Because his strong sense of honor wouldn’t let him not marry her. Becca had dismissed the cold statement back then, but now, she couldn’t deny the truth of the woman’s words, however rude it was for her to say them. He’d proven it over the years.
Too bad she hadn’t realized sooner. She might have saved herself a lot of heartache.
Drawing what little strength she had left around her, she shook off the wayward emotions and turned her attention to the kitten. Fully awake now, Fred peered at her with soft, understanding eyes, then let out a barely audible mew. She nuzzled the soft little head, taking refuge in his sweetness, before unwrapping him from his makeshift blanket.
“Welcome to your new home, little guy.” When she set him to the floor, he slinked forward and sniffed at the air, slowly checking out his new surroundings.
She went back out to her car for the litter box and cans of cat food she’d picked up from the store on the way there, then set them up in the hallway. She showed him where they were by sticking him in the box, and then made her way to the kitchen. As she walked into the room, butterflies tumbled in her stomach. She halted, feeling too much like a stranger in a house that used to be hers. Jackson stood with his back to her at the island in the center of the room, his head bent as he spooned spaghetti and meatballs out of the Styrofoam container onto a plate.
She must’ve seen him doing something similar at least a thousand times, yet hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop herself from watching. The way he moved, deliberate and precise, always with purpose. The way his shirt shifted with the play of muscles in his back and shoulders.
Her gaze fell on the indentation between his shoulders blades. Her hands itched at her sides, begging her to slip them around his waist and up his chest. She longed to press her cheek there, to relish his warmth and listen to his strong, steady heartbeat. The action used to soothe her. At the end of a rough day, like today, doing so somehow always righted her world. She’d always been one to hold herself up, but tonight, she needed someone. Being here with him only made her yearn for what she’d thought they had, because right then, she felt too alone.
“Did you find anything salvageable in the house?”
His question drew her from her heavy thoughts. She shook her head and forced herself to move into the room, making her way to the kitchen sink. She raised her voice to be heard over the din as she washed her hands. “They wouldn’t let me in, said it would be hours before the house cooled enough to sort through. Kyle told me to go home, said he’d watch over things and call me in the morning. There wasn’t much left, though.”
After drying her hands, she turned to head back to the island, only to stop short just beyond it. Jackson stared at her, a speared meatball hovering halfway to his plate. He drew his brows together, his eyes flitting over her face, uncertainty echoing back at her.
The unchecked emotion in his eyes sent her stomach flip-flopping. Jackson Kade had to be the most confident man she knew. All of her brothers, even bossy Evan, who tended to run his house like a mini military troop, were more on the humble, homey side. As the CEO and owner of an advertising company and from a wealthy family, Jackson always seemed to ooze self-assurance but tapered it with humor. Yet, the longer he stared at her, the more emotion erupted in the depths of his eyes. Gentle sympathy, regret, indecision. Need burned the brightest there and told her that he too sensed how odd her being in the house again was. Which did nothing for the knot in Becca’s stomach.
“I’m sorry.” His quiet voice vibrated with the
awkwardness of the moment.
“Not your fault.” She shrugged and clasped her hands to stem their shaking.
He stared for another moment, as if he had more he wanted to say, then dropped his gaze, depositing the meatball onto his plate.
She took a moment to refocus by closing her eyes and drawing in slow, deep breaths, each one re-centering her chi, her life energy. Exhaling one last breath, she opened her eyes, calmer, more relaxed. More like herself. She squared her shoulders and strode to the island with renewed purpose, determined to make the best of this. Her mother had taught her to be strong. If her mother could work three jobs and go to school to earn her business degree on top of being a single parent, Becca could certainly learn to live with Jackson again. After all, it was only temporary.
When she stopped at the counter beside him, however, his subtle scent hit her, barely detectable over the marinara sauce and garlic but powerful all the same. It had been months since she’d come close enough to him to get a whiff of his exhilarating mix of maleness and warm, musky spices. The scent went to her head in a rush, completely undid her centering exercise, and left her wobbling on the edge again. All the worse, the warmth of his body radiated against her side, begging her to lean into it, into him, for whatever small measure of comfort his embrace used to give her. Except she was all too aware the action hadn’t appeared to mean anything to him. Because she’d just been his wife. He’d married her out of obligation.
He didn’t love her. She’d have to remember that.
She swallowed a sigh. She’d have to get used to being around him again. As she reached for a plate from the small stack in front of him, her hand brushed the top of his knuckles. Merely the lightest caress of skin over warm, silky skin, but everything inside of her jolted, and Jackson went still as stone beside her. His head turned, heat flashing quick and intense through his eyes. Tension rose between them, the air crackling with wants, desires, and things better left unsaid. Yeah, she remembered that, too. The passion that had always seemed so easy between them.
Jackson turned to pick up his plate from the counter. “Did they tell you what started the fire?”
Becca eyed the array of Styrofoam containers lining the counter in front of her. She wasn’t hungry. One container held chicken alfredo, though. It was her favorite. Jackson and Allie liked meatballs, which meant he’d ordered the dish for her. She hated when he acted kind or thoughtful. She’d rather deal with the cocky ad exec who flirted shamelessly with her. She could handle the flirty side of him. The thoughtful father made her long for things they’d never have.
She’d wanted the fairy-tale romance. At one time, she’d thought of him as her white knight. He’d always been tight-lipped, had never really confided in her, but they’d always had the passion. She’d allowed herself to believe passion equated love, because he’d wanted her a lot.
Now she knew the truth. She’d only seen what she wanted to see in him. When work became more important than their relationship. Jackson had opened his advertising firm just before she’d met him, and he was a workaholic, determined to drive his firm to the top. He often worked six days a week, sometimes sixty and seventy hours. He could be thoughtful when he wanted to be, though. Like now. And seeing that side of him only brought her heartache to the surface all over again, because it made her want to hope.
Becca shoved the thoughts away and shook her head as she filled her plate. “When I left, they were still examining the remains.”
Jackson stood silent for so long that she finally glanced over at him. Brow furrowed in irritation, he glared down at his plate, a telltale muscle working in his jaw. After a moment, he turned his glare on her.
“You should’ve taken this house.” He growled the words and pivoted, heading toward the kitchen doorway in long, determined strides.
Becca released a heavy breath. “We’ve had this argument one too many times, Jack. I didn’t want the house.”
He’d wanted her to have it in the divorce settlement. He’d insisted she take the Mercedes, too, so she could get rid of her death trap of a car, as he called it. She’d had her little Ford Escort since she was old enough to drive. When it broke down, either Chase or Evan did the repairs for her. Chase just happened to be good at tinkering, but Evan worked with engines as a part of his job on base. Really, though, the reason she refused to accept the Mercedes had nothing to do with her attachment to her car.
The house and car reminded her too much of Jackson. Of the day the dream had died, and she’d woken to the harsh reality that her marriage wasn’t what she’d wanted it to be. She’d waited a month, hoping he’d try to talk her out of leaving. And when she left the divorce papers for him a month later, he hadn’t called to argue over them once. Hadn’t asked her to come home. Hadn’t acted as if she meant anything to him. He’d simply signed them and sent them back via a courier. She’d learned the hard way exactly what she meant to her husband. An obligation. In the divorce settlement, she didn’t want anything to remind her of how much he didn’t love her.
At the kitchen entrance, Jackson stopped. Several beats of silence passed as he stood staring out into the hallway.
“Neither did I.” His voice came low and harsh in the quiet room. “It’s too big, too quiet. Feels too much like the boarding school houses I stayed in as a child. They used to empty out during the holidays. My parents would go off to some exotic location, leaving me the choice of staying at school or going home alone. Walking through the halls, all I’d hear were my feet echoing off the damn walls.”
Becca froze, so still even her breath halted for a moment. Had she heard him right? In all the time she’d known him, he’d never shared details about his parents or his childhood. He avoided all talk of the subjects. Oh, he’d told her the basics once when they dated. That he was born in Savannah, Georgia, but his parents shipped him off to private schools in the south of France. He spoke French fluently, had demonstrated it to her when they dated.
What she remembered most, though, was the way he’d told her the story. He’d spoken with a blank expression and a monotonous tone, the way Kyle talked about his cases at the precinct. Then Jackson had grown terse and changed the subject. Any time she brought the subject up, he always found a way to dismiss the topic out of hand.
Now, there was emotion in his voice he’d never revealed years ago. The quiet pain moved over him, rounding his shoulders, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought, or perhaps the memories themselves. Watching him, hearing his heartfelt words, tugged at the part of her that still loved him. The part of her who’d always love him.
Because it hurt and it filled her with questions. When she left him, she hoped he’d come after her, that he’d say all those things she needed him to say. That he’d share, period. His life. His heart. That he’d tell her he loved her.
She’d hoped to discover she’d been wrong about him, that he was every bit as scared as she was. Her mother had suggested the notion that maybe Jackson was only doing what he knew, but not once in the month after she left did he come after her. He didn’t beg her to come back, or even tell her he missed her.
Hearing him talk about his childhood now only cracked the ice around her heart, filling her chest with pain and the impossible need.
Jackson drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Frankly, I almost sold this damn house.”
“So why didn’t you?” She forced her feet to remain rooted to their spot on the tiled floor and busied her hands with stirring her pasta. She needed to hear his answer like she needed to draw her next breath.
“Couldn’t.” He glanced back at her, his gaze intent on hers. “It has too much history.”
“History?” She drew her brows together and shook her head, confused. “The only history this house has is . . .”
Theirs. She let her words trail off into the silence as the hidden meaning in his statement slammed into her. Her hands resumed
their trembling, and the fork slipped from her grasp, clanging against her plate. Was he really suggesting that he kept the house for the exact reason she hadn’t wanted it? Because the place contained memories? Their memories?
Memories he either wasn’t ready or willing to release yet.
Which filled her mind with more questions she didn’t know if she wanted the answers to. What else hadn’t he told her over the years? Why tell her this now, when she’d given him a month to do it before she’d finally filed for divorce? When she’d all but begged him to open up to her?
Suddenly, living with him again became more complicated than she’d anticipated. Barely fifteen minutes back in this house with him and already he was throwing her, drawing her in. Because she yearned to voice the impossible questions. But would he answer them? Or shut her out again? She didn’t know if she wanted to find out.
She furrowed her brow, glaring at him. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you give a damn about me or like this house means anything to you. Because we both know I’ll ask the question and you won’t answer. You’ll make excuses or crack a damn joke, and you’ll shut me out, the way you’ve always done, and I’ve had a hell of a day. I’m not in the mood to be toyed with. All I want is to try to relax a little, because tomorrow I’m going to have to go through my nonexistent house and see if there’s anything left of it. I want to eat and shower and sleep. That’s it.”
Not giving him a chance to respond, she picked up her plate and fork and shoved past him through the doorway, striding toward the living room.
Chapter Three
“Daddy.”
A poke in the ribs followed Allie’s whispered plea. Seated on the sofa in the living room an hour and a half later, Jackson jerked away from the tiny finger, which managed to hit a ticklish spot. He peered at his daughter’s upturned face. She sat curled against his side, with Fred, the little orange-and-white striped fur ball, asleep in her lap.
