Breathless

by Maria Luis

  I tip my face up and meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

  “I need to kiss you.”

  My heart turns into a quick stampede. “Right now?”

  “Yeah.” He shifts over, hooking his hands under my armpits and plopping me down farther back on the couch, so he has room to maneuver his big body next to mine. And then he’s leaning in, his palm going to my neck, gently angling my chin to best receive his kiss.

  I let him. I let him take everything until I’m once again squirming under his body, wanting more, wanting everything. His fingers skate my dress up, up, up the length of my calves, my thighs, my hips. His lips leave mine, carving a path down my neck, my chest, pausing over one nipple and then the other. I pull in a deep breath when he shoves my dress up around my waist, and then blows gently on my belly button.

  “Gorgeous,” he whispers, “you’re fucking gorgeous.”

  Under his stare, his hands, I feel gorgeous.

  Blunt fingers skim the curve of my belly, and his full mouth follows the trail he’s blazed. My head falls back; I give myself up to the sensations of pleasure, of feeling loved, of—

  Nothing.

  Jake pulls back, and I immediately snake a hand around his head, hoping to draw him back to my body.

  “What’s this?”

  I hear the wary note in his voice, then feel his fingers gently trace my scar—and that’s when I know that there’s nothing I can do to stop the impending sense of foreboding that washes over me. It was one thing to evade the truth, but I was stupid to think he’d never notice the rather obvious scar stretching across my lower belly, just above my pelvic bone.

  Or maybe this is what I needed, to be outed completely because I lack the courage to tell him otherwise.

  My breath hitches when Jake leans down and presses his lips to the raised flesh. Blue eyes glitter up at me. “Did you have a C-section?”

  And that’s when I nearly laugh out loud, though it emerges more like a sob. Naturally, his first conclusion would be that I’ve had a child. The irony is sour, sickening, twisting in my belly. I touch my fingers to his lips, wondering if this will be the last time I’ll have the chance to claim them as mine, and then I seal my fate, for better or for worse: “No, Jake. I can’t have children.”

  13

  Claire

  Not to be all dramatic here, but I’m pretty sure I can hear a baby crying next door, Jake’s condo is so eerily quiet. Hell, maybe there isn’t an actual baby. Maybe I’m just imagining it, implanting my version of reality on an imaginary plane of god-knows-what.

  What are you thinking? I want to ask, I want to know, but the words are stuck on my tongue as I stare at him. Say something.

  But I only watch him.

  I watch the way his lashes fall when he glances down to where his thumb caresses the scar from my surgery. His big shoulders are stiff, and I feel the most ridiculous urge to soothe the tight muscles there.

  Then, his husky timbre reaches my ears, the sound a seductive melody, even now. “Why not?”

  I don’t blame him for going for the hard question first. But I can’t . . . I can’t let him touch me while I tell him everything. I can’t think, can’t formulate coherency when he’s using the pad of his thumb to soothe me.

  “Let me . . .” Space is good. I tug my dress down, over my belly and down over my legs. “Can I have something to drink?”

  “Of course.” He pulls back, and I immediately miss his warmth. “Water okay?”

  Wine would be better, but since this is a serious talk . . . “Sure, yeah, that’s fine.”

  I watch his lean body stretch up off the couch and retreat to the kitchen. The cupboards creak open, the faucet turns on, and thirty seconds later, he’s come back to me. Holding out the glass of water and then parking himself on the single-seat sofa opposite me.

  “Tell me everything, Claire.”

  “‘Everything’ is a big word,” I whisper before sipping the water. “I don’t think you’ll want to—”

  Jake’s blue eyes narrow. “Let me be the judge of what I want.” His elbows drop to his thighs, even as his gaze remains fixed on my face. “I want to know everything, Claire, because it’s you.”

  How can one man manage to suck me in so deeply within just six weeks? It seems impossible, honestly. But from the look in his eyes . . . the determination I see swirling there . . . I know he’s not about to step back from this conversation until I’ve spilled my soul to him.

  I take another sip of the water, wishing it was spiked with booze to calm my nerves. “You might hate me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Well, there goes my heart.

  He says those two words with such conviction that I nearly smile—because, let’s be honest, what have I ever done to deserve his complete trust like this? Banter at his parents’ restaurant certainly wouldn’t inspire such devotion—“Let me just take care of that fried drumstick for you, and would you like a side of love with that?”—and I doubt that I can even compete with the women he dates regularly.

  Point blank: I don’t deserve a guy like Jake Matthews, though I sure as hell wish that I did.

  Cupping my glass with two hands, I shift on the couch so that my legs are tucked beneath me and I’m nestled within the cushions. My belly is housing a swarm of butterflies when I say, “I, um . . . You know, I feel like it shouldn’t be hard to just say this when I’ve uttered the word so many times before.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts in what I want to believe is encouragement. “Drink the water and pretend it’s vodka then.”

  God, the man knows me way too well.

  I do exactly as he tells me, take a deep breath, and break down the first wall. “I have Endometriosis. Did you know that one in ten women within the US is likely to get it?”

  When he looks at me blankly, I realize that he has no idea what I’m talking about. Jake, the ever-powerful lawyer, is not a doctor. Dammit. Another deep breath, another sip of my water-that’s-not-booze, and I continue, “It’s a disease.”

  His brows lower, and I hear the note of panic in his voice when he asks, “Like cancer?”

  “No.” I shake my head, then avert my eyes as I shove one hand through my hair. “No, but yes? It’s, ah . . . a condition.” This is more awkward than I’d even imagined. “I guess if we were to break it down scientifically, it’s what happens when the lining of the uterus grows, ah, outside of the uterus. Pretty much, it’s all just screwed up.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs down the length of his throat as he clasps his hands together. Voice pitched low, his blue eyes track a path down to my belly. “So, because of this, you can’t have kids?”

  No. Yes. I don’t want to be having this conversation. I want to run away. I want to be anywhere else than sitting here, in Jake’s living room, under his acute stare. Those blue eyes of his see everything, noting my need to wet my dry lips and the way I keep pulling at my hair.

  The simple truth is that I don’t want Jake to see me as “less than.”

  I stifle the bite of pain that squeezes my hands into fists. Because that feeling of being “less than” has followed me my entire life. I’m not the kid whose parents died in some tragic accident, leaving them with no one; I’m the kid whose parents decided they didn’t want her. Seven years old and living in foster care—Claire Emory Galway certainly thought she’d find a family to love her.

  But then one year passed by, and another, and another, until little Claire Emory Galway wasn’t so little anymore. At fourteen years old, her foster parents finally took pity.

  “We’ll just adopt her,” Hal said, watching his wife over his morning newspaper. “Might as well at this point, right?”

  Might as well, right? Those same words have been echoing in my head for years now.

  “My last name isn’t Holloway.”

  Silence is a scary thing, but at my verbal diarrhea, Jake says nothing. His gaze slips away, lids falling shut as his head drops forward.

  Misery. That
’s what is coursing through me right now and stilling my limbs. Absolute misery.

  Time to fill the silence. “My parents gave me up when I was seven. I was born in York, Maine, and—”

  “Your name.”

  I shiver at the raspy note in his voice. “Claire Galway,” I tell him quietly, “or Claire Emory Galway if you want to be specific.”

  “Right.”

  He doesn’t necessarily sound like he believes me, not that I blame him. The nerves kick up a notch, swirling in my throat and making it hard to swallow past the growing lump of self . . . Do not pity yourself, Claire. Not now; not ever.

  Stiffening my spine, I launch back into my story. It’s what he wanted, right? I tried to warn him that it wasn’t something he’d want to hear. “They put me in foster care, and I ended up with a family, the McClotts. Hal and Judy McClott. They had three of their own children, not to mention four of us foster kids. Chaotic, utterly, absolutely, chaotic. Looking back now, I honestly have no idea how they managed to take care of us.” A ghost of a smile lifts my lips at the memories. “They weren’t the best foster family, but from what I gathered from the other kids, they certainly weren’t the worst either. I wanted to please them, make them happy. I wanted to feel wanted, I guess.”

  “Jesus, Claire.”

  Before I know it, he’s sitting down next to me and skating his hand down my back in a soft caress. “Don’t cry, honey.”

  I’m not—

  With his free hand, the one not petting me like I’m a wounded animal, he brushes the pad of his thumb under my eye. Sure enough, glistening on the tip is a single, watery tear. Dammit. This—my past—isn’t supposed to affect me any longer.

  I’d shed Claire Galway as soon as I’d turned eighteen. When the McClotts adopted me, they’d done so out of pity. But they hadn’t given me their surname. After leaving high school, I’d filed for a legal name change.

  Holloway, Judy’s maiden name.

  She’d been slightly horrified when I told her, despite the fact that she was pretty much the only mother I’d ever known. And even though she’d disapproved, I stuck with Holloway.

  Claire Holloway is a risk-taker. She’s wild and passionate and snarky, and loves adopting other people’s quirks and traits and making them her own. Claire Holloway is everything that Claire Emory Galway had never been.

  Until now.

  Because as I sit in Jake’s arms, the tears betraying me and slipping down my cheeks, I have to wonder how long I can keep going with playing pretend. I’m still that little girl who wanted to feel arms wrapped around her in a hug. And I’m still that same nineteen-year-old who researched her real parents and found them living the glamorous life of the rich and famous. A movie director and an actress. I guess York had been their summer haven, and my birth had put a dent in their plans.

  “I changed my name,” I tell Jake after I’ve shoved the tears into a black box. “I wanted to be someone different, someone with a spine and the ability to speak her mind. I dyed my hair—”

  His hand falters on my back. “I thought you colored it brown because casting agents always pigeon-holed you with your natural blonde hair.”

  “I lied.”

  “Looks like you took your acting role seriously.” His voice is deep, rumbly, but there’s a hint of distrust in it that wasn’t there only two minutes earlier. “What else did you lie about?”

  Nothing and everything all at once. “I didn’t lie about my work,” I say, desperately trying to keep my tone even, strong. “I’m constantly going to casting calls, though they rarely pan out.”

  “Except for the toothpaste commercials.”

  I nod with a halfhearted smile. “Yeah, except for those.”

  “What else?”

  “I didn’t lie about the fact that I needed the job at your family’s restaurant. I didn’t lie about the fact that I wanted to punch you as much as I wanted to kiss you from the very first time that we met.” Once again, his hand falters, but then he’s stroking up and down my spine before diving his fingers into my hair to tangle in the strands. I never want him to stop. “I didn’t lie about the fact that I needed the money, and was willing to go on that awful date tonight at the gala if that’s what had to happen. I didn’t lie about the fact that I wanted to sleep with you . . . and that I still do.”

  “And the kids? Did you lie about that?”

  “Never.” I know that I shouldn’t feel like he’s stabbed me right in the heart with that comment but I do. “Not mentioning my time in foster care is one thing,” I say, “but I wouldn’t lie about the Endometriosis. Unfortunately, my foster parents thought just that, that I was making it all up to get attention. I won’t lie; I wanted the attention. I wanted, for once, Judy or Hal to look at me and see me as one of their kids, but when it came to the pain . . . yeah, that wasn’t a ploy.”

  With a gentle tug, he pulls me into the circle of his arms, so that my back is to his chest. “When did you put a name to the pain?”

  “I was nineteen.” It’d been a year of self-discoveries. “Until then, the McClotts weren’t that big on doctor visits. When I moved out and found my own place down in New York City, I finally went to see someone. Endometriosis, they told me. Long story short, there are some women who have it, who can live with the pain. There are others, like me, who simply can’t. I had my uterus removed a few years ago as a last resort. So, no, I’m not lying about the kids.”

  Suddenly, his hold seems too tight, too confining, and I shift out of his arms to leap up and pace the living room. “I know you said that you want me, Jake, but I don’t feel like you know what that means.”

  This time, he doesn’t jump after me. He leans back against the couch, his muscular arms folding across his chest. “Tell me what it means, then, if you think you know everything.”

  I narrow my eyes at his patronizing tone. “It means that you can’t have kids, Jake.”

  His blue eyes don’t leave me. “Did I ever say that I wanted kids, Claire?”

  My pacing slows. “Well, no.”

  “Why don’t you ask me, so I can tell you what I think?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  He comes to his feet.

  And that’s when I realized that I made a grave, tactical error. Because Jake Matthews is on a mission. His jaw is clenched, his chest muscles tight, his eyes an unholy shade of blue fire. When he speaks . . . Oh, God, this man is going to ruin me. I just know it.

  “I know we didn’t have that sort of relationship before, so that you’d feel comfortable coming to me with all of this.” He steps close, and I tip my chin back. “I’m going to say this once, honey. Only once.”

  Does he expect me to nod?

  I nod, weakly.

  “I don’t give a damn if your name is Holloway or Galway or fucking Doolittle. I don’t even give a damn if your hair is brown or if it’s blonde.” His large hand lands on my arm, the heat of him immediately warming my skin. “I’ve never been the guy who craves children of his own, Claire. That’s not me. If they happen, they happen. If they don’t, then that means I get my wife all to myself forever.”

  “Really?” The word slips from me, and I wish I could snatch it back and shovel it back down my throat. Don’t embarrass yourself. “I mean . . . I see.”

  “Do you?” Jake growls, as his other hand clamps down on my arm, too. “Do you see? I hurt for you, Claire. I hate to think of you sad or hurting, wondering why your deadbeat parents deserted you and no one wanted to adopt you. I hate to think of you in pain for years, wondering why the pain never eased. I hate to think of you alone—”

  “I wasn’t alone-alone,” I croak.

  “No?” His hands slide up to my shoulders. “Where are the McLotts?”

  “In Connecticut, I’d imagine.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with them?”

  I scrunch my nose, trying to pinpoint our last phone call. It’s been so long, though . . . “Over five years, I’d say. They just stopped answe
ring.” I shrug, trying to play it cool.

  Jake bites out a foul curse. “You were alone, Claire. Alone. And I fucking hate that.”

  Reaching up, I place my hand over his, where it still sits on the rounded slope of my shoulder. “It’s fine. I’ve been fine.”

  “It’s not fine. You didn’t deserve that, you didn’t deserve any of that.” Inhaling sharply, he lifts my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles. “But I wouldn’t have you change any of that, if it meant you wouldn’t be the woman standing in front of me now. From the first moment I saw you in that damn chicken suit, I wanted you. Now, knowing everything that you’ve been through, I don’t ever want to let you go.”

  My heart leaps at his words, like a dog being offered a bone. The stupid organ pounds to a rhythm only I can hear: Keepme-keepme-keepme. It’s time to be brave. To take a risk, to be the best of Claire Holloway and Claire Galway. “I don’t want you to let me g—”

  Jake steps back, and I break off.

  His arms fall to his side, loose. “The thing is, honey, I think that you aren’t ready to let your past go yet. You say that you’re okay. That everything is fine. But you’re hurting, still, and I’m not sure that you know what you want. I worry that I kind of . . . bulldozed my way into your life.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A relationship,” he says slowly. “I felt the way you froze under me when I called you mine, Claire. That wasn’t a happy reaction; it was fear. Okay, probably not fear, but you definitely didn’t seem too thrilled to hear me say it.”

  I scoff because, honestly, it’s a load of bullshit. “Jake, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” His voice drops to a low pitch. “Is it ridiculous if I said that I love you?”

  Oh. Oh. I don’t even—I don’t . . . I can’t find the words, if they even exist, to formulate a response. But my heart, oh, my God, it’s fluttering out of control. Fluttering, like I’ve trapped fairies in there and they’re just waiting to make an escape.

  Is it ridiculous if I said that I love you?

  I want him to say those words again and again and again. I never want him to stop saying them because, until this moment, I didn’t even realize how much I wanted to hear them. After all these years.