Midwife's Longed-for Baby & the Prince's Cinderella Bride & Bride for the Single Dad (9781488022142)

by Anderson, Caroline; Berlin, Amalie; Taylor, Jennifer

  As soon as she’d heard he was all right, she’d walled those toxic feelings off—spent no time thinking of the days and the hurt she’d buried behind them. Those days had been so packed with terror, guilt, and worry worse even than when she’d left him. Self-preservation demanded zero reflection. So there was no practiced, logical story to tell, just a rush of words and emotions, unfiltered, unordered, far too revealing.

  “By the time his injury and amputation were announced, I was a mess. Happy he was alive, so relieved that I felt guilty over effectively being happy he’d lost his fingers.” Her throat thickened. She reached for her water. Over her glass, she saw the number of eyes focused on her, heard the silence that had fallen, and felt the scorching tears gathering.

  It was too much. She was saying too much. Every part of her wanted to make an excuse, to flee the table. Except the hand tucked into his, and the part of her that wanted him to know that, although she’d left, she’d still been with him in her heart through those dark, dreadful days.

  But she couldn’t look at him.

  “I changed my track the day I heard. I guess I wanted to help people who were going through the same thing he was going through.”

  His quickened breathing told her he’d been affected, as did the slight tremble of his wine glass she saw in her peripheral vision.

  Was that enough? She lowered her head to dab at her eyes, praying for the topic to shift.

  “You wanted to help him, but you couldn’t,” the woman summarized for her, and Anais could only nod, mouth twisting to control her trembling lower lip.

  Quinn lifted her hand. The brush of his lips across her knuckles pulled her watery gaze sideways to him. If she looked at him fully, she’d lose her mind and control of the unpredictable sobbing that had carried her through those days.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WAIT STAFF CIRCLED the table, placing dessert plates before each guest—something fruity in red, white and blue. Quinn couldn’t focus on it. If he could harness the current coming through Anais’s hand now gripping his, he could power the capital.

  He turned more to face her, pretending it was to share a dessert with her when really every ounce of his willpower was engaged in fighting his instinct to spirit her away. Just to hold her. Just to put his arms around her and rock through the pain he still felt vibrating through her.

  He felt the weight of everyone’s gaze now—everyone but her—but he couldn’t blame them. Or her. But he needed to look at her as desperately as her grip said she needed to keep hold of him.

  Mechanically, she went about a few bites of the berry concoction. She ate, but didn’t taste it; her half-bowed head and blank eyes made it clear.

  Before they’d made a dent in the dessert the fireworks display was announced, and guests departed the table for the veranda to the rear gardens. She started too, but Quinn tugged her close enough to wrap an arm around her waist and steer her to the dance floor instead. His obligation to remain through the fireworks display was the only thing keeping him from taking her away with him.

  The lights in the great room fell, to minimize the distraction through the wide veranda windows separating them from the guests outside watching the sky, but the dark also made it feel secluded, almost private.

  “We’re not going out?” she whispered, but turned into his arms as he steered her around the floor.

  “I can see from here,” he said, not wanting to break the spell between them and what it told him.

  She loved him. She’d never stopped loving him. But it felt as if a stiff breeze could blow her away, so he folded her into his arms and rested his cheek against her temple.

  Tilting her head, she whispered by his ear, “Are you okay?”

  Worried about him. More proof.

  “A little overwhelmed,” he admitted, unable to summon a better answer, unable to make a clever or cajoling response, the words aching in his chest. “I didn’t know that about your specialty. I’d wondered, but I should’ve asked. I should’ve sat down with you and just talked, not about all this…just to know. What I missed. We should’ve found time to sit down.”

  He felt her nodding, felt her pull him a little tighter, even felt the regret rolling off her.

  “We’ve never really done much of that. Only when we were dating.”

  The softly spoken words burned. He tried to think about times after they’d eloped when they’d just sat and talked about anything for longer than a few minutes, but he couldn’t. In that moment, swallowing past the lump in his throat, he was glad for the dark, even glad for the way his lungs refused to draw a complete breath—it drove home the part he’d played in the downfall of their marriage—she hadn’t ducked out of conversations he’d started, not once.

  “We’ll do better this time.”

  Her nod expressed her hesitation as much as it could be agreement.

  Yes, she still loved him, but that hadn’t stopped her from leaving the first time. He had to do better.

  “I think you could’ve talked to me about Ratliffe if we’d had that kind of marriage. A relationship you felt safe in.”

  “Maybe.” Her hand slid to the back of his neck and she kneaded as she gave him that single word.

  No matter how long ago it had been, she was still raw. He felt it too, but that same wound had started to heal in him the day he’d found her again, when it started to feel like something he could control.

  “We’ve got a good forty-five minutes right now.” He kissed the side of her neck just as the first flash of sparkling light illuminated the dark room and the music erupted with the loud, alarming bang.

  “Quinn?” She leaned back and the fireworks illuminated her face; eyes wide with concern broke through the wariness that had grabbed him.

  “I’m fine,” he said quickly, then forced himself to relax. “Just startled me.”

  “I didn’t think about the fireworks. Are you sure? We can go. I can…” She paused, her eyes swiveled toward the ceiling as she tried to scheme. “I could faint or something as a cover?”

  Her comical attempt at subterfuge relaxed him further. “I’m really all right. I don’t have PTSD. Just a bit of…inattention to anything that isn’t you right now.”

  Even in the green glow of the skies, he saw her blush. Then he saw her focus on his mouth with a kind of intention that might as well be invitation. Quinn took it, pulling her closer again and brushing his lips over hers. The lingering strawberry from dessert only magnified her natural sweetness, and the sweet ache that had been growing in his chest since her story.

  She’d given them an out and he could happily sink into her kisses, into the soft sighs she rewarded him with as he deepened the exploration of her mouth. When she stroked her tongue past his lips, he tumbled into the mind-blanking bliss that always came when touching her—but this time it came with a little needle of loss.

  They’d been talking. He wanted to talk to her right now more than he wanted to kiss her, even if only just.

  The music accompanying the thundering explosions shifted into loud, enthusiastic twentieth-century rock’n’roll, and he went with it—sealing the deep, toe-curling kisses with a slow, tender one.

  She smiled even before her eyes opened back up and, with it, the heaviness that had crept over them lifted.

  They were still on the dance floor, and he actually felt like dancing.

  He started her swaying, in the way of two people who couldn’t let go of one another and couldn’t spare enough attention to pick their feet off the floor. “Tell me about medical school.”

  “That’ll take much longer than forty-five minutes, unless you narrow it down.”

  “Good point.” He squeezed her again and reformulated the first question. Then, as soon as she’d given a brief answer, he asked another, shooting forward another and another, gatherin
g facts and amusing her by making her slow dance sway through “God Bless America” and “Born in the USA”…

  * * *

  The fireworks display passed in a heartbeat, long before Quinn was done asking questions, the lights inside had come back up and guests once more invaded the alone time he’d had with his wife.

  Faster than could’ve ever been considered diplomatically acceptable, Quinn had whisked Anais to the US Ambassador and made their farewells to a knowing smile blessedly free of rancor for the representative of their host nation who’d failed entirely in all things diplomatic since dessert.

  In the limo on the way to her house, their conversation turned to him. Even though the greed he felt to know more about her railed against it, he fought the desire to redirect—she needed to understand him if she would ever trust him enough to stay.

  They talked about his adventures with Ben, things she’d heard about him via the media through the years, she even had him telling her a childhood story she’d heard before but which still made her laugh.

  “I feel a bit silly offering tea in my living room while we’re both in formalwear,” she said, locking her front door behind them. She hadn’t asked whether he intended to stay the night, and he was glad for it. If he had to make the call right now, he’d say he was staying, and that would force a different conversation. Knowing she still loved him, he could wait for other admissions.

  She kicked off her shoes, getting comfortable.

  “If it helps, I’d be happy to strip down to my skivvies and drink tea. So long as Sharon won’t come downstairs and be horrified to find me in my boxers.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted in tandem with her hand, a half-shrug and a half-grin to his silly offer. “Mom’s gone to Aunt Helen’s for the night to play cards. If she’d been here alone all evening waiting for me, she’d just have worried herself sick. Her heart tends to go out of rhythm when her blood pressure rises.”

  She’d mentioned her mother’s illness a few times, but he’d never asked for specifics. That seemed like something else he should remedy.

  “Is it bad?” He took her hand, even though knowing would make it harder to force Anais’s hand with the wedding—a threat that already felt inconceivable to carry out.

  “It could be much worse than it is,” she said, stepping a little closer so that their arms weren’t stretched to the limit across the space between them, still happy to touch him, something he felt pathetically grateful for. “I’m hopeful that by the time surgery becomes imperative, the procedure will be safer. It’s pretty safe now, but there’s one sneaky, deadly, irreversible complication that hits about one percent of patients, and by the time it’s detected it’s almost always too late. As long as the condition is livable with medication and lifestyle management, I don’t want her to risk it.”

  He could understand that. He’d take that situation with his grandfather in a heartbeat, but getting the old man to come around to the same way of thinking hadn’t yet worked for him. “Sneaky, deadly, irreversible…words you never want associated with a heart procedure.”

  “No.”

  He stepped closer so that she tilted her head back to look up at him. “I didn’t mean to turn the conversation to sad subjects, but I guess we do need to learn how to discuss painful topics too.”

  She nodded, but the frown that crept over her face let him know the instant her thoughts drifted to some other painful subject, and hung there.

  “A kiss for your thoughts,” he prodded.

  “Not money?”

  “Are you kidding? My kisses are far more valuable than money.” To prove it, he dropped his lips to her mouth—fleeting affection. “Play along. I’ve got a fragile ego.”

  “Not unless you’re collecting other people’s egos as pets,” she snorted and then reached for his other hand—the one that she always insisted on holding, even when he tried to maneuver her to his right. Still she didn’t give voice to what was on her mind, just stroked his hand for a moment then, just as quickly, dropped it, freeing hers to slide under his lapels and over his shoulders, easing the jacket down his arms and off.

  Waiting for her to talk was horrible. Especially when, in exchange, he had small delicate hands on his chest, burning through the thin barriers of his clothing. Focus diminishing…

  “The suspense is killing me. I gave you the kiss; you’re supposed to pay up with words now.”

  “I’m helping you get comfortable,” she argued, folding the jacket over one of her arms then reaching for the ridiculous American flag bow tie he’d gotten only for the flamboyant party.

  “I can’t multi-task. I’m either all in this conversation or I’m going to want to enjoy being undressed. That’s it.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ve been avoiding asking you about your tours. I don’t know if you need to talk about them, or if you want to, or if talking would do anything good for either of us.”

  Good for either of us. That part was what stuck out to him. She was a little afraid to ask, but felt compelled nevertheless.

  “I can talk about my tours in a far more civilized manner than when I told you about my hand.” Recalling that conversation put tonight’s revelation in an even harsher light. Guilt bit even through the feel of her gentle touches, and lingered as she hung the jacket in the coat closet.

  He wouldn’t apologize for it again; that would turn the conversation, make it harder for her.

  “Ask, love. Ask me anything.”

  She closed the door and leaned against it, compelling him to come to her when she didn’t return. He could control his need to touch her, but not if she felt far away, if he couldn’t feel her heat and wrap himself in her scent.

  “Why didn’t you come home after you were wounded? I know it was offered, automatic, expected even. You had to fight to remain.” She’d been serving wounded soldiers long enough to have wondered, but he didn’t even have to ask to know she’d had that question in her heart for years.

  It was right there in her furrowed brows—old pain, worry she’d sunk into years ago, something he couldn’t even blame her for anymore.

  He couldn’t blame her, and he didn’t want her to blame herself. She would if he answered.

  After he’d decided to return to active duty, he’d allowed himself to fantasize that she was worrying about him. Pretended she was suffering over him. Even sometimes in the hospital during his recovery, when he recalled the deaths of so many friends and how easily it could’ve been him, he’d pictured her mourning him if it had. All immature ways to handle his grief over losing her, but it had all come from a deep-seated belief that she’d never feel those things, even if the worst had come to pass.

  Knowing it would’ve been all he’d imagined and more made it even harder to say the words.

  “Ask anything except that?” she ventured when he failed to find words.

  “I don’t want us to stop talking.”

  “It’s a conversation-stopper?”

  “Feels like it.”

  The worry was still in her eyes, but she kept on. “We need to learn to discuss painful subjects.”

  His words from only moments before jostled his conscience, despite her not giving them even a hint of mockery.

  “It’s not that I don’t want it to hurt me.” It was the only way he knew to put it.

  Her slow nod and pained expression hit him harder than her silence.

  Continue or not? He couldn’t always trust his instincts when it came to Anais.

  “I’m going to put the kettle on and change. You think about a way to say it,” she directed then just left the room, as if words were so easy. She knew better.

  Though, to be fair, he was probably the one hiding the most right now. She still thought Ratliffe had just taken photos of her—she didn’t have any idea about the video. But
this conversation wasn’t that one. Focus on one trauma at a time.

  Quinn undid the top few buttons of his shirt, then rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and sat on the sofa, but he couldn’t make himself comfortable. If they’d sorted out their relationship already, he’d rip off the formalwear and get comfortable. Hell, he’d rip off all the formalwear, carry her upstairs and kiss every inch of her—especially the inches that made her writhe and moan.

  Where they stood now, stripping down for comfort would be even weirder than late night tea in a tuxedo in her living room.

  And thinking about how uncomfortable he felt was kind of a dodge for thinking about the subject that made him even more uncomfortable.

  He puffed a breath and laid his head back on the sofa cushions.

  There was no gentle, non-accusatory way to put it, which meant it could only end one of two ways: by starting a fight with her, or with her just taking more blame onto herself.

  She wafted back down the stairs in pajamas that looked equal parts comfortable and silly—littered with hearts and, inexplicably, cartoon monkeys. Somehow the baggy tee and shorts made his modified formalwear look like the most ridiculous outfit in the room.

  It was a quick trip to the kitchen and she returned with two steaming mugs and a package of cookies tucked under one arm, but he was still unprepared for the subject.

  “Come up with the right words?” she asked, placing the lot on the table and sitting beside him crossways, giving him no gentle lead-in.

  “No.”

  “Then just say it. However it comes out, that’s how you need to say it. I didn’t have the luxury of rehearsing a painful subject at dinner. It didn’t shut down conversation, but seems to have started it.”

  Just say something.

  He couldn’t stop his hands scrubbing over his face. He hated feeling helpless. “I went back because I thought I’d be going to a new unit with Ben.”

  “You didn’t think he’d want you to be safe, away from the fighting?”