by Addison Fox
But something pushed him on. Something dark and dangerous and shockingly vulnerable. In a matter of days he’d spilled his guts to her, willingly put his interest in the brewery on hold, and fallen into bed with her almost faster than his dick could keep up.
Yet here she was, pretty as a picture, and still full of secrets.
The questions that had dogged him earlier reared up once more. “Why did you get divorced?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your marriage. Why’d you give up on it?”
“I didn’t give up on it.”
“You’re not married anymore. What would you call it?”
“It wasn’t giving up.” The legs she’d tucked beneath her swung out. “It’s not like I wanted my marriage to end.”
“But it did. You were a part of that. And you haven’t said much about your husband that’s complimentary. Are you happy it’s over?”
“I’m not—” She broke off, her gaze searching his. “It’s not about being happy. It’s about being relieved.”
The demon that had sat on his shoulder ever since she walked back into the house, soaking wet, with his mother, whispered in his ear once more. She knew everything about them, yet he knew nothing about her. He had a right to know.
Didn’t he?
“You don’t talk about it. You hint at it or make comments, but you don’t talk about it.”
“I told you about the baby. What else do you need to know? It was a bad time.”
“So tell me about it.”
Emma laid the notepad on his coffee table and stood up. “There’s nothing to tell. I was married. Now I’m not. Clearly you’ve interpreted that as lack of commitment and a hatred for Cole Bradley.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Hell yes, you’re wrong!” The words exploded with all the force of a cannon before her features twisted up.
And then they crumpled.
Chapter Eighteen
Something hard and violent pressed against her chest, seemingly filling her up to the point of wanting to explode. How dare Nick ask her these things? And what the hell was he about, telling her she’d given up on her marriage? Even if that was the very thought that had accompanied her for the past year, each and every time she laid her head on the pillow.
It shared space with the other thought that had haunted her: that her mother was never getting better, and she’d sat by and let it happen. She’d willingly believed things weren’t so bad with her mother’s health, all the while relieved that she didn’t have to see her suffer.
What did that make her? What kind of monster was she to skip out on her own mother?
Did Nick think she didn’t know those things? That she didn’t live with the reality each and every day? She knew who she was. And she knew where she’d failed miserably.
But she was damned if she was going to sit here and put her cowardice on display.
“You have no right to ask me those things.”
“I have a right to fuck you, but I can’t ask you any questions?”
His quiet words were smooth as silk, but they carried all the strength of a viper strike. Emma moved back as if slapped, the crass words a more painful—if verbal—equivalent.
“Is that what’s been going on since Thursday night? Mindless fucking?”
“You tell me.”
A wash of images clouded her mind, one better than the next. She’d found something with him—found something in the joining of their bodies—but to call it something so vulgar and crude more than diminished it.
It made it something less than.
“It’s time for me to go.”
“Running again?”
“Call it whatever you want. Clearly you’ve come to your own impression of me.”
Her phone went off, the high-pitched whine a distraction in the midst of whatever madness had fallen over both of them. The urge to let it go to voice mail was strong, but the distinctive ring was her father’s.
Ignoring the figure who sat so smug and relaxed on the couch, Emma crossed to the counter where she’d left her purse. Fetching the ringing phone from the bottom of her bag, she answered it. And felt the strength drain from her legs as a woman’s voice came through the line.
“Ms. Bradley. This is Susan Moore from New York Methodist. Are you the daughter of Peter Vandenburg?”
“Yes.”
“Your father has been in an accident.”
Louisa reread the e-mails from Gretchen, searching for some sort of out. The words were straightforward and nasty, but at least she knew what she was dealing with. If Louisa declared her candidacy for borough president, Gretchen would go to the newspapers.
It was that simple and that complicated, all at once.
The house had been quiet since the boys left. She’d been tempted to call Landon a few times, but held off. She wasn’t afraid to talk to him, but she knew how he worked, and knew he needed a bit of time to work things through in his mind.
Her baby. Her thinker.
He’d always been such an old soul. Whether it was a function of what he’d seen as a child or just his makeup, she’d never fully figured out. But he was who he was. Her knight, with a set of morals and a code of honor from a different age. He worked so hard to be good. To live above reproach. And he expected the same from those he loved.
It was Landon who’d warned Nick about the groupies who’d follow him in sports. And it was Landon who’d spent long hours helping Fender set up his billing and invoicing systems so that his shop would be immune to viruses and hacking.
He showed his love in tangible ways, but he also held everyone to a high set of expectations.
Expectations she hadn’t met.
Nick and Fender had standards as well, even if their methods were more understated. Fender approached the world with a growl, his outward demeanor at odds with the work he did behind the scenes to help others.
And Nick.
Her sweet boy, the one who’d given her that small dandelion so many years ago. She’d kept it, just as she’d kept the memory in her heart.
His physicality had always defined him, even as she knew it was only one part of him. She could still remember him, his large frame curled on the couch, struggling through sports almanacs or history books about sports heroes to do his homework. He’d done the same through college, unwilling to let his role as star athlete get him out of taking courses or getting the full benefit from school.
Her boys did her proud. They’d made lives and worked hard. She’d never take that credit away from them, but she also knew she’d played a role. She’d provided the support and the safety and love that gave them wings.
Could she betray that now by not pushing for something she wanted? Something she knew she’d be good at?
Clicking out of her e-mail program, she pulled up the page on the borough website that she’d bookmarked months ago.
APPLICATION FOR CANDIDACY.
The button loomed large on the left-hand navigation bar.
With a sense of anticipation, Louisa clicked the link.
Nick stood at the windows in the intensive-care waiting room, the rain-soaked sky a suitable backdrop for the misery that filled him. He’d ridden with Emma to the hospital, her silence throughout the quiet taxi ride full of all the reproach he felt in his heart. He wasn’t an asshole, and he respected women. He’d never thought of any woman—at any point of his life—as some sort of mindless fuck, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Yet he’d said that to her. Intimated there wasn’t anything between them but the physical. Worse, he’d suggested what they’d shared was something cheap and mindless, no better than animals rutting.
He’d been horrible to Emma. Mean and nasty, with more than a few shots below the belt. The words had spilled out, almost of their own accord, as he wrapped himself up in his own personal misery and spite.
Was he really that ashamed of sharing his past?
Had he come to a point in his life where he was unable
to talk about his father without it leaving some sort of lingering malaise in his gut?
She hadn’t forced his past out of him. More, she hadn’t brought it up since those quiet moments in the park. Where he’d spent his life scared that sharing his past would create an intimacy that could be used against him—by reporters, or friends, or the women he dated—she’d done the opposite. He’d sensed no pity from her, or even a desire to keep probing that closed-over wound.
Her knowing simply was.
The sharp sound of a siren caught his attention, and he stared down at the emergency entrance, where an ambulance raced in beneath the hospital portico. A team of people waited, ready to react, and he watched, fascinated, as they worked in tandem like a beautiful ballet.
Those were the real heroes. The people who helped others, working hard to make lives better. It was a humble reminder on a day he’d spent acting less than heroic.
Or even with basic decency.
“Mr. Kelley?”
The sound of his name pulled him from the window, and he turned to find a woman and her son. He’d noticed them when he walked in, but hadn’t said anything as he took up his spot at the window.
“We’re really sorry to bother you.” The woman glanced down at the boy before her attention returned to Nick. “Would you mind signing your autograph for him? His name’s Justin.”
Nick dropped to a knee before the boy, whose eyes were downcast before tentatively looking up. Where Nick had first estimated the kid was about five or six, a second look had him reassessing. The boy was small, but was likely closer to eight or nine. “Justin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What would you like me to sign?”
“I took this magazine over there.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Um, maybe we can take out a page.”
Nick saw a rack of flyers on the same table as the magazines, as well as a small notetaking station with pens emblazoned with the hospital’s logo. “I’ve got a better idea.”
He got back up and crossed to the flyers, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Sheer delight carried the boy across the waiting room, and he took a seat next to Nick in the chairs that lined the coffee table.
“To Justin.” Nick scrawled on the back of the flyer the words he’d written for years—reach for the stars—then signed his name. For the first time since he’d been drafted, he felt like a phony.
Pushing away the dark thoughts, he focused on the boy. “You doing okay today?”
“I guess. My dad’s in here. He fell off a ladder.”
Nick laid a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “You’re here with your mom?”
“That’s my aunt. My mom’s in his room. We’re . . . um . . . we’re waiting to go in.”
The boy’s aunt moved closer. “We’re sorry to bother you, Mr. Kelley.”
“It’s no bother. I’m waiting for my friend. Her father’s here, too.”
“Is he hurt?”
Nick toyed with sugarcoating his words, but he sensed something in the boy. A desperate need for honesty and to be spoken to like he understood—because he did understand.
How he remembered those days. When the social workers at school had tried to talk above him to each other, or down to him when they finally spoke. Like he somehow didn’t understand what was happening.
Or worse, like he could be shielded from it.
“We’re not sure yet. The doctors think he had a heart attack. They’re checking him out now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too.”
“Justin!” The soft cry that came from the doorway had the boy standing, tears welling in his eyes, before he dashed them away.
“Mom!” He ran to the woman, clinging to her when she opened her arms.
The moment was private, but for whatever reason, Nick couldn’t force himself to look away.
“He’s okay, baby. He’s going to be okay.”
Justin’s aunt took a sharp intake of breath before she joined her family. The trio moved out of the room, but Justin ran back, his smile wide. “Thanks for being so nice to me, Mr. Kelley. I’m really glad I met you today.”
“Me, too.”
Justin ran off to his family leaving Nick to sit there and stare at the empty room. He was glad he’d given the boy some small spot of happiness in the midst of a dark moment, but it seemed so out of place.
So shallow.
The men and women in this building caring for the sick—they were the real heroes. The ones worthy of attention and adulation.
He was just some asshole who knew how to scribble his name on a piece of paper.
Emma watched the rise and fall of her father’s chest, the heavy wheeze of his breath a constant companion to the fear and worry that had settled deep in her bones. The doctors had promised to come back after consulting over his test results, so for the moment she was alone with him.
And the endless racks of machines that somehow seemed essential to keeping him alive.
The details of what had happened were still sketchy, but best as they could tell, he’d had a heart attack while driving the last few miles home. He’d gotten stuck on the Gowanus Expressway, about three miles from their exit.
So close.
The thought beat in time with the beeping machines. He was so very close to home.
No one else had been injured, but he had rear-ended another car and been hit from behind by the person tailing him. The medics had stabilized him, but the very fact that he was in intensive care told Emma all she needed to know.
Why had she ignored this?
She knew he hadn’t looked well. His color had been poor since she got home, but again she’d told herself he was just tired. That he missed her mom and hadn’t figured out how to take care of himself.
One more lie she’d told herself. Like her marriage. Like her mother.
Maybe Nick had been right. About all of it.
“Em?” She glanced up to see her father, his eyes sleepy and confused. “Where am I?”
“You had an accident, Daddy.”
He struggled to sit up, sending off a wave of signals to the machines, and she moved closer, doing her best to calm him. “Shhh, Dad. It’s okay.”
“What happened?” Something small and quiet threaded through his questions, at odds with the belligerence she’d experienced since coming home.
“You had a small accident. A few miles from our exit. Everyone’s okay, and they’re going to get you fixed up.”
“No one was hurt?”
No one except you. The thought hurt—literally hurt—as it pressed against her diaphragm. “It was just a little fender bender.”
He glanced up at the machines before his gaze drifted down at his body. A small tremble drifted across his lips before he turned toward her. “My chest. Is it my chest?”
“Why do you think that?”
“It was tight. It’s been tight.” He lifted his hand, but then dropped it back by his side. “It hurts.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
The machines started beeping again, and she reached for his hand, hoping to calm him down. Before she could do much, a nurse bustled in, his focus on her father. “When did he wake up?”
“A few minutes ago.” The nurse checked various machines before taking something from his pocket and injecting it into her father’s IV.
“Miss, the doctors would like to talk to you. We’re going to keep your father comfortable and sedated for now.” The man’s eyes were gentle and unmistakably kind as he glanced over from the machines at her father’s side. “I’ll stay with him if you’d like.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
She wandered out into the hall and found two of the doctors she’d spoken with earlier. A resident and a cardiologist, as she remembered. Both were kind, if harried, as they had clearly drawn holiday-weekend duty.
“Mrs. Bradley, can we speak with you?”
They escorted her to the waiting room, and it was only when she walk
ed in that she remembered Nick was there.
He’d stayed?
The light outside the window had faded, the early evening sky still filled with clouds. How long had she been at the hospital? And he’d stayed the whole time?
“Nick.”
“Hey there.” He moved closer, but kept his distance. The ugly, hated words that had passed between them earlier—and the raw emotions that went with them—had vanished. Instead, all she saw when she looked at him was understanding. She hadn’t even realized how desperately she needed that easy acceptance until it was right there, staring at her. Comforting her. Simply with her.
“The doctors want to talk to me.”
“I can wait in the hall.”
She extended a hand. “Please stay.”
His fingers wrapped around hers, something firm and solid she could hold on to as they took a seat opposite the doctors.
And as they began talking about scary things like heart attacks, bypasses, and lack of oxygen, Emma held on tight to the only thing that suddenly seemed real.
Exhaustion painted her features, ghostlike in the light of the streetlamps, as their taxi pulled up in front of Emma’s building. It was nearly midnight, the events of the day culminating in a discussion on surgery and a planned operation the following morning. He’d been impressed how she’d held it together, the talk of what was to come a shock to think about.
He’d been even more impressed, as the doctors outlined her father’s course of treatment, by all the things she thought to tell them. Peter’s seeming depression since losing his wife. His poor eating habits. Even his desire to sell the family business. She’d walked through it all, arming them with as much information—both physical and emotional—as she could think of.
Would he and his brothers have been able to do the same? Would any of them even think to? Landon might, but Nick was damn sure he’d have missed those sorts of nuances, and suspected Fender would be the same.
Emotional health?
Hell, he was still getting over the panic of thinking something was physically wrong with his mother. The idea of understanding her mental health just didn’t compute.
