“Oh.” She pulled herself to a sitting position while keeping the blankets wrapped around her naked body. This couldn’t be the morning-after see-you-around speech, because...well, for one, it wasn’t the morning after. And, more important, Dylan wasn’t like that. Still, she had enough insecurity to ask, “Are you regretting what happened between us?”
“Sex?” His lips curved into a relaxed, teasing smile. “You can say the word, you know.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Are you, Dylan Foster, regretting that we had sex?”
“No, Chelsea Bell, regret is the last thing on my mind right now.” He plumped his pillow and turned to his side, all the while keeping his eyes locked onto hers. “But there is something you should know about me, something I should have shared before now.”
Apprehension slid in, just a trickle of it, but enough to have her clutching the blankets tighter. She went for the same teasing tone he’d used a minute ago, saying, “Oh. I see. The confession finally comes out. You’re the real diamond-and-gold-nugget thief, aren’t you?”
“I wish it were that simple, but this is from my past.” He closed his eyes for a millisecond, as if searching for the correct words. Then, opening them, he said, “I’m divorced, Chelsea. Have been for years, so this isn’t a recent occurrence.”
Okay, now this? She hadn’t seen this coming, but it didn’t threaten her or scare her. People had pasts. They had history. And duh, of course a woman would’ve snapped up Dylan at some point in time. Heck, she was surprised he was single now.
“I’m not upset that you were once married, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Didn’t think you would be upset, but I do think if we’re going to give this a real shot—in our reasonable, rational and logical way, of course—that you should know about this period of my life. It affected me, Chelsea. Changed me by a huge degree.”
Blinking, she nodded. Tried to stay focused on him, on what he needed from her, rather than all the garbage she’d yet to share. Because she knew what he meant. Her past had affected and changed her, also to a huge degree. Maybe when he was done, if she had the strength, she’d try to tell him about her past, as well. That was a really big maybe, though. Huge.
Therefore, in case she couldn’t get to where she’d need to be, she gave both of them an out. “If this is important to you, then I’ll listen. Of course I will. But, Dylan, you should know that it isn’t necessary on my end. I’m fine with leaving the past alone.”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he recovered fast. Nodded. “This feels necessary to me. We just slept together, Chelsea, and I intend to sleep with you again. Keeping these types of secrets from you, the woman who is sharing my bed, seems deceptive. Wrong. And not the best foundation for a successful relationship.”
She liked the first part of what he said, the bit about sleeping with her again, and she liked the last part, about their relationship, but she didn’t know how she felt about the second. Her life had almost demanded the necessity of keeping secrets. In order to feel safe and sane and...normal. Bringing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them. “I don’t see it in quite the same way, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect your side. Because I do.”
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, denser. Lines creased his forehead, and she guessed he was weighing her statement with his own concerns, his own beliefs on what was acceptable and what was not. On what he could live with, if they were to continue.
And dear Lord, did she want to continue.
A long, agonizing minute later, he said, “Well. I suppose that’s fair, if not ideal. At least we know where the other stands.” And then, while she expected he’d warn her before diving headfirst into his story, he didn’t. He just started talking. “I got married young, directly out of high school, to a woman named Elise. I loved her with all the dumb, thick-skulled naïveté only an eighteen-year-old kid can have, and I thought we were meant for each other.”
Chelsea’s heart thudded, hard, as he spoke, as he talked about Elise and who she was when he met her, the way she’d grown up—eerily similar to Chelsea’s upbringing—and then her deceptions. What she’d done to Dylan, to their marriage. The pain she’d brought him.
Oh, he didn’t actually say She stomped on my heart and crushed my soul. But he didn’t have to. She could hear his hurt in the staccato, broken beat of his voice. She could see the haze of his younger self’s pain in the depths of his eyes.
And somewhere along the way, she began to hurt for him. She hurt for the man he once was, the man who’d given his love so freely, so hopefully, only to have it tossed in his face. As if the gift of his love meant nothing. As if he meant nothing.
When this man? He was so not nothing. He was...rather astonishing.
By the time Dylan finished speaking, Chelsea’s hurt had morphed into anger. Of the red-hot, blazing sort. And it was a darn good thing this Elise person lived on the other side of the country, because Chelsea wasn’t altogether sure if Elise lived here in town that she wouldn’t drive there now and...and...tell her how incredibly stupid, how stupendously moronic she was for choosing some other man over Dylan Foster.
Completely. Absolutely. Moronic.
She didn’t have the words to express her hurt, her anger. Her rage, really, at what Dylan had gone through. He’d said it had changed him, had stopped him from really living for most of those years in between then and now. And wasn’t that a horrible waste?
She sighed, rubbed her hands over her face. Yes. Elise was a moron.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Dylan said. “What’s spinning in that head of yours?”
He asked the question in a careful, cautious, tentative way. Due to this, Chelsea chose to go for humor in the hopes of eliciting a laugh. “Honestly? I have a question. Just one.”
“Go for it,” he said, still tentative. “I’ll... Whatever you want to know.”
“Do you have an ax on the premises?”
He gave her a blank look. “What? An ax, you say?”
“Yes. An ax.” She mimicked the motion of chopping down a tree. “Do you have one here or do we need to visit the hardware store before we travel to Maine? It’s high time that I prove I really am an ace with weaponry. Of all sorts.” She offered him her best oh-so-innocent smile and winked. “Axes just happen to be my favorite. So, are you up for a road trip?”
He stared at her, seemingly tongue-tied, for a full ten seconds. She knew this for fact because she counted. Then a roar of laughter burst from his chest. When he stopped, he gave her a broad smile. “You’re something, Chelsea Bell. That was not the reaction I was expecting. Here I tell you my deepest, most agonizing secret, and you find a way to make me laugh.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m making fun of what happened,” she said quickly, just to be sure there weren’t any misunderstandings. “Or that I don’t take this seriously. I do.” She blew out a breath and chose to go with the truth. “I’m madder than hell that you went through such a mess due to a careless and heartless woman. It just irks me, badly, because you deserve...”
And there, she halted her speech. How to say what was in her heart?
“I deserve what?” Dylan prodded.
“The best that life has to offer.”
“So do you, Chelsea,” he said, his voice one notch above a whisper. “So. Do. You.”
“Don’t say that,” she said. “You can’t...say that.”
“Um. Excuse me? I’m entitled to my opinion, and I already said it, and I still stand by it. You deserve the best that life has to offer, Chelsea.”
Sadness, borne of a life that had not delivered her the best—other than her son, the boy who had, in many ways, saved her—had her shaking her head in denial. Tears welled, but she refused to let so much as one of them fall.
She wouldn’t taint what had happened here with Dylan by crying.
“Why is it difficult for you to hear that I believe you deserve an amazing, kick-ass life?
”
“You can’t say that, you can’t possibly think that or believe that, not without knowing more about—” Me, she thought. Without knowing more about the pain that lives inside of me. Of where it comes from. Of how it formed me.
“More about you? Then tell me.” Dylan sat up and held her hand in his. “Give me a crash course or a master class on Chelsea Bell. Either one or somewhere in between.”
With her jaw clamped shut, she lifted her gaze to stare studiously at the ceiling. This—all of this—was so darn complicated. She didn’t talk about her past—not her childhood, not Joel—with anyone. Ever. Doing so, especially with Dylan, would be akin to splitting herself wide-open and saying Here, take a good, long look and tell me what you think. Do you understand me better now? Do you care? Is it okay that I care so much about you?
Oh, God. He’d opened himself for her. Could she do the same for him? If a miracle occurred and she could, and he then responded positively, maybe...just maybe she’d be able to breathe—really breathe—around him. Maybe then she’d be able to move on to how much she loved his eyes. His laugh. His capable, strong...beautiful hands.
Maybe she’d even be able to tell him how, when they were in the park and Henry had asked his heartbreaking question, she had wished, so very much, that Dylan was her little boy’s daddy. Because in so many ways he’d already proven that he was worthy of the title.
“Hey, Chelsea?” Dylan rested his head on the headboard, right next to hers, and joined her in her staring campaign. “Feel like telling me what I’m supposed to be looking at?”
Split herself wide-open and let him in...or not?
“Talk to me, honey,” he said gently. Persuasively. “I’m not altogether certain of what’s going on with you, but I’m right here. I’ll listen if you need an ear. Or, if for some reason, you’re feeling the womanly need to cry...well, I have a shoulder. Two of them, actually.”
Honey. He’d called her honey. And he’d offered her his ear and his shoulder. The yearning to share herself with this man was compelling. Overwhelming. And she came close.
So. Very. Close. But when push came to shove, she couldn’t find the will or the strength or the courage. The risk was too darned high.
What if he left her, like her parents had? As Joel had?
She wasn’t sure she’d remain standing if that happened, because she thought it was entirely possible that she might just love this man. Might? No, she did. She absolutely did. But that wasn’t rational or reasonable, and that was how they’d agreed to move forward. They were just getting started. Dylan had said so himself.
Better to wait, to be sure, before taking a knife to her soul.
She swallowed hard and, forcing a lighthearted laugh, said, “What is it with you and womanly needs? I’m fine, Dylan. Absolutely fine. Just thinking about the most direct way for us to get to Maine. Flying would be best, but I doubt I could carry an ax onto a plane, huh?”
“They’d probably lock you up,” he said, going along with her joke. His voice was strained, though, and...disappointed? Frustrated and sad?
Probably a mix of all three and then some, and she understood. Here, after sharing their bodies in this very bed, he’d shared a piece of his soul. With her. And despite her wishes or her dreams or her hopes, she wasn’t a strong enough woman to reciprocate.
“We should go,” Dylan said, releasing her hand and reaching over the edge of the bed to grab his shirt. “So you can get home to Henry.”
“That would be...good.” She started to do the same, reaching for her pile of clothes on the floor, when Dylan’s phone trilled. Loudly.
He yanked it from his jeans and answered with a gruff “Hey. What’s up? Oh. I don’t know, maybe she has it off. She’s right here, though. One sec.” Dylan half tossed, half slid the cell across the bed toward her. “It’s Haley, for you. She tried to get you on your phone, but said the call wasn’t going through.”
Dang it. A mistake she shouldn’t have made, leaving her phone off when she wasn’t with Henry. Picking up the cell, she said, “What’s going on? Is Henry okay?”
Haley started to talk, in a low, hushed voice, and as each spoken word registered in Chelsea’s brain, her world skidded to a halt and then, piece by piece, shredded apart.
Joel was here. At Haley’s. And he was waiting for her.
* * *
About halfway to Haley’s, Dylan couldn’t keep his temper to himself any longer. He was mad. Royally so. Only problem was, he didn’t know whom the anger was directed at. His brain for being right. His heart for being wrong. Chelsea for not opening up so they could’ve avoided the mess they were about to go into, or, hell, so he could have, at the very least, been prepared.
Or was he rip-roaring ticked off at himself? For falling in love with a woman who refused to give him so much as a toehold into her heart. Because dammit, that was exactly what had happened. He loved her. He loved her son. The number of minutes, hours, days or weeks they’d known each other no longer mattered one friggin’ iota. He loved them.
And that was that.
Could be that he was furious with his sister. She was the one, after all, who’d put the idea in his head that one heart could instantly recognize another. Maybe if she hadn’t yapped so much about her immediate bond, her strong connection to Gavin, Dylan would have kept listening to his brain, kept going on with his easy, predictable, comfortable-as-all-get-out life.
Hell. He kind of figured he was furious with the world at large right about now, and everything and everyone in it, but he’d start with Chelsea and this business about Henry’s father.
“You told me that Henry’s father wasn’t in the picture and that Joel’s phone call was a wrong number,” he said in a growl, stopping at a railroad crossing. Great. Why wouldn’t a train be crossing these tracks at the exact moment he was in an all-fired hurry? “Were both lies?”
“You’re mad,” Chelsea said, her voice quivering with emotion. He almost felt bad, but he reached down deep and kept hold of his temper. “And I get it, but sorry, right now my focus is on Henry and what might be happening. Not on you or your bruised feelings.”
“You were right the first time.” He was worried about Henry, too. Almost sick with it. Via the quick phone conversation, he knew that Haley had smartly gotten the boy upstairs to his room, while Gavin had sequestered Joel on the back porch. Hopefully, that setup wouldn’t have changed any by the time he and Chelsea got there. “I’m mad. Not bruised.”
“All right, fine. Let’s talk about this,” she said tightly. “Yes, I lied about the phone call. I didn’t know how to explain it then, and that seemed the easiest route. However, when you asked about Henry’s father, Joel was not in the picture. Or he mostly wasn’t in the picture. And I certainly couldn’t have predicted this, based on his prior behavior.”
“And that’s what I’m talking about, Chelsea.” The damn train was moving at a snail’s pace. “I don’t know what Joel’s prior behavior was. I don’t know anything about him.”
She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes and he knew, just knew, she was trying real hard to hold it together. Which, yup, made him feel like a total jackass. If he had this ice-cold terror running through his veins over what this Joel person wanted, how must she feel?
Wait. No. She knew Joel. She knew what he was capable of, whether good or bad or somewhere in the middle. He knew nothing. So Dylan’s brain kept circling toward the bad.
Well, hell. Maybe that was the true culprit for the strength of his anger. His boy—his boy—could be in danger, and there wasn’t a lick of anything he could do about it sitting here at these damn railroad tracks waiting for a sluggish train to move.
“Is he dangerous, Chelsea?” Dylan asked, his voice ragged. As soon as the question left his mouth, his temper swirled out the cracked-open window, leaving him with nothing but fear at the horrific possibility. “Is Joel dangerous? Could he potentially hurt Henry?”
“I don’t think so,” she said softly,
tremulously. “I haven’t seen him since three weeks after I told him I was pregnant, when he left me for...well, I don’t know where he went. He moved away from Pueblo. When we were together, he was selfish and immature and...and careless, but no, he never showed signs of violence.”
Dylan didn’t like the “selfish, immature and careless” description at all, especially when connected to Chelsea, but the no-violence part was good. It helped, a little, in calming his dread.
“Wait a minute,” he said, her words taking hold and digging in deep. “He disappeared when you were pregnant, and until that phone call, you hadn’t heard anything from him? Just bam, he left you and his unborn baby alone?”
And just like that, his anger was back, in force.
“He sent me a postcard six—no, seven—months ago. On which he stated he was thinking of me and wanted to say hello. Nothing else before and no, nothing after until he...until he called.” A soft, agonized moan slid from her throat. “I told him I’d call back in a few days, but, Dylan, I didn’t. I just wanted him to disappear again. So I don’t even know why he phoned.”
Longest. Slowest. Train. In. The. World.
“Well, I don’t blame you for that. This man abandoned you and your child for years. Years, Chelsea. Why would you give him the time of day?”
“For Henry. He deserves a father, a good father. And if Joel... If for some reason, he moved back to Pueblo to try to make amends, to be a real father, then I’ve been selfish.”
Selfish? For protecting her son from the idiot who’d walked out on him from before he was even born? No. Dylan didn’t agree with Chelsea on that front. Such a man didn’t deserve Henry, and Henry deserved a helluva lot better. Still, her explanation had put more of the pieces together, and that helped give him a greater understanding.
“So,” he said, “I’m guessing that Joel’s return to Pueblo had something to do with why you moved here, to Steamboat Springs?”
She turned toward him and in a guilt-ridden voice said, “Yes. I...was afraid I’d bump into him somewhere, with Henry, and that Joel would stupidly blurt the truth.” She closed her eyes. Sighed. “That would have been a problem, because all I’ve ever told Henry is that his daddy couldn’t stay with us, but that he’d be there if he could. I...planned on telling him more, as he got older. When he could better understand that the failing was Joel’s. Not his.”
Dylan's Daddy Dilemma (The Colorado Fosters Book 04) Page 17
