From Good Guy To Groom (The Colorado Fosters #6)

by Tracy Madison

  Sitting straight, Andi pulled herself free and, mostly due to the strong mix of emotions swamping her body, smoothed the skirt of her dress. It gave her something to do. A menial task to focus on, so maybe, just maybe, she could stop feeling so damn much.

  What was she to do? How was she to know?

  “You see too much in me, I think,” she finally said. “And I won’t deny that your mind, body, heart and soul call to me, too. But this...this is too difficult for me to define. It was cloudy before, Ryan, but now I’m...blinded. I can’t see through to the other side.”

  And she refused to be rushed or talked into anything. For both of them, she refused to err in something so vitally important. His heart. Hers. Trust and love and belief.

  “Just jump, baby. I’ll catch you, and together we’ll figure it out.”

  Huh. Just jump? “I can’t do that, Ryan. I... Not now, at least. I think the best decision, the only practical decision, is to...step away. Get some air. Give us both a chance to consider if what we think we feel is real. Or just a figment of our overactive imaginations.”

  “I love you, Andrea,” Ryan said. “I love you more today than I did yesterday, and I will love you more tomorrow than I do right this instant. I have no doubts on this.”

  I love you, too, Ryan. But did she?

  “I need to leave now,” she said. “I need to go somewhere I can think and process and wait for the confusion to fade. Because, Ryan, I can’t see the truth.”

  “Maybe you need to stop searching so hard,” he said, looking tired and drained and so very...defeated. She’d never seen him that way before. “Maybe you need to trust your heart, trust me and, like I said...just jump. I’ll be here, Andrea. When and if you’re ready to take that step. A day, a week, a month or a year. I’ll wait. You’re that important. I’m that sure.”

  He didn’t try to stop her and he didn’t say anything more, but that was Ryan. Living up to his promises, his word. And he’d always said that whatever happened between them was in her control. So she nodded and slipped on her sandals, grabbed her purse and walked out of Ryan Bradshaw’s house. Away from the best man she’d ever known. Would probably ever know.

  A man who had brought her to life again with his patience and kindness and care. A man who had helped her step from the darkness, due to the light that surrounded him.

  The only man she’d ever felt so strongly for.

  And doing so? It hurt. It burned and twisted in her blood, knotted and shredded her stomach, and almost—almost—brought her to her knees. But she didn’t cry. She remained one hundred percent dry-eyed for the drive to her aunt and uncle’s. And for the entire night, as she stared at the ceiling while Ryan’s words repeated themselves, over and over, in her brain.

  I love you, Andrea. Just jump, baby. I’ll catch you.

  Chapter Eleven

  October in Steamboat Springs marked the beginning of the busy ski season, which typically gave Ryan plenty of reasons to smile. He loved to ski and, ever since making his home here, would get out on the slopes whenever the opportunity presented itself. This year, though, he had no interest in his beloved sport. Hell. Truth was, he had no interest in anything.

  The scenery outside his window? He’d stopped seeing and appreciating the breathtaking view. Food had lost its flavor. The rich, wake-up-and-start-the-day smell of brewing coffee no longer appealed or made his mouth water. Most mornings, directly opposite his prior behavior, he hit the snooze a total of three times before dragging his sorry behind out of bed.

  All he saw when he closed his eyes was Andi. All he thought of when he woke was Andi. Sometimes, he thought he saw her when he was out and about. The briefest glimpse of red hair in the distance always sent his heart racing. She—her coconut-lime scent, the milky white skin, the sound of her laugh, the memory of her smile—followed him around. Everywhere.

  Yet, she hadn’t physically been in the state since near the end of August. And, Lord, he missed her with a ferocious ache that never dissipated. It existed in his heart, his soul, his mind and, yup, his body. If he’d needed more proof of his love, the ache of her loss would’ve done the trick.

  But, no, he did not require additional proof.

  At least today was Saturday, which meant he could hole up by himself without forcing smiles or good cheer or conversation. Here, he could be as damn miserable as he chose, thank you very much. And his plan was to do just that: sink to his eyeballs in misery, stay there for a solid twenty-four hours and then...no more of this insanity. She’d left his house that night without so much as a glance over her shoulder on her way out the door. They had a quick, strained conversation before she left Colorado and that was it. They hadn’t talked since.

  So yeah. As of tomorrow, he’d start living again.

  Eventually, the line between real and pretend would fade, and he’d wake one morning a hell of a lot closer to his old self. Until then, he’d forge ahead with the same purpose he always had. Perhaps with the lingering hope that Andi would unexpectedly arrive at some point, having finally reached her place of clarity, ready and willing to jump with the trust that he’d open his arms wide and catch her before she fell. He would always be ready for that moment.

  Ryan rolled to his side and stared at the clock. Considered taking a shower, brushing his teeth, making a late breakfast since it was already ten and...quickly decided he’d rather stay put and close his eyes. Pretend that Andrea was curled next to him, safe and snug and...happy. Yeah. He liked that plan. Seemed a good enough way to spend another hour, maybe two.

  Or the entire friggin’ day.

  Closing his eyes, he pulled in the image, the scent, the feel of the woman he loved and almost instantly felt a modicum of relief. That made it easy to stay right where he was and keep his eyes firmly shut. He might have dozed, he wasn’t sure, but suddenly a blast of noise—a voice and a loud clanking—slammed into his ears with the force of a semi. Oh. Hell. No.

  He did not bother opening his eyes, just yelled, “Go away, Nicole!”

  She kept right on yelling at him to get up. Now. And banging on...well, he’d have to open his eyes to see exactly what was making that obnoxious noise, and that was something he refused to do. Yanking the pillow from the other side of the bed, he shoved it over his face in a weak attempt to block the skull-cracking, brain-bleeding sounds filling his bedroom.

  All at once the deafening roar of noise disappeared. Thank the good Lord. “Nic, I love you,” he said through the pillow, “but I’m pretty sure you just damaged my eardrums, my brain and very possibly a handful of other necessary body parts. Do that again and I’ll—”

  “Obviously, my dear brother, you are even more obstinate that I thought possible,” Nicole said, in a sweet and loving way. Lies. She was here to add to his misery. “I’m moving on to step two of my plan. If you’d like to avoid this step, I suggest you get out of that bed.”

  “Ah. What’s step two?”

  “Roscoe is tied up outside right now, and he’s in such a great mood,” she said with the ego and humor of someone about to get their way. “I just took him for a walk. A nice long one, too, through the woods. And you know how much he adores rolling in the dirt. And he loves you. Why, he’ll probably jump right on the bed and give you all sorts of wet, sticky kisses and—”

  “Damn it,” he muttered, knowing what Nicole knew. She had him. He loved dogs, even loved Roscoe, but that dog was clumsy and exuberant and...apparently covered in mud at this very second. “Why’d you bring Roscoe? Bursting my eardrums not enough for you?”

  “Because he loves you! Almost as much as he loves me.” He felt the bed shift as his sister sat down. “And come on, he’s my ace in the hole. You’ll do whatever I want if I keep Roscoe outside or promise to clean him before bringing him in.”

  Giving up the fight, Ryan pushed the pillow to the side and looked i
nto his sister’s concerned blue eyes. “I’m okay,” he said. “Or I will be. No need for the theatrics.”

  “Okay, sure,” she said. “No more theatrics. How about we talk, instead? Because baby brother, I’ve never seen you like this. And we’re all worried.”

  “It’s called a broken heart, Nic. It happens. They heal, mine will, too.”

  “Yeah, of course, but I think it’s time for the Bradshaw determination to make an appearance. And I have some ideas on the proactive front.” Winking, Nicole held her hand toward him. “Come on, Ry-Ry, go take a shower and I’ll fix us some food. And then we’ll talk, see what we can come up with to win back your love.”

  Hmm. He considered arguing with her, because really, he didn’t want to intrude on Andrea’s life. She knew exactly where he was. Exactly how to get a hold of him. But hell. If he didn’t do as Nicole asked, that darn dog of hers would be rolling around on his bed shortly.

  “Fine,” he said. “But no promises. We’ll have a conversation. I’ll consider your ideas, and then you’ll leave. Whatever I do then is my call. And sis? You’re returning my house key.”

  She stuck out her tongue, as if she were six years old and left him alone. Yeah, she was something, his sister. And while he wouldn’t admit it, regardless of what her so-called ideas were, the merest possibility of having a plan of action reignited his hope.

  Albeit, the thinnest, most frayed strand of hope ever to exist. But, hey, it was there.

  * * *

  Andrea kept her gaze downward as she made her way to the elevator on the fourth floor of Juliana Memorial Hospital. She’d returned to work almost two months ago, but rather than taking her prior position in the trauma department—which had proved too difficult a task to undertake—she had asked for and received a transfer to maternity.

  Honestly, she thought most folks were relieved.

  While waiting for the elevator, Andi stretched her neck to one side and then the other. She’d worked an all-night shift and was ready—more than ready—to crawl into bed and sleep. Where she would think of Ryan. Dream of Ryan. Consider, again, her feelings and why she still found it so difficult to push past that last remaining wall and stop doubting all she felt.

  All that he said he felt. Still felt. For her.

  In the months that had passed since she’d left Steamboat Springs, not a day—often, not an hour—elapsed where Ryan evaded her thoughts. He was just always there, lingering about, almost as if her brain was set on reminding her that he waited. Returning to Rhode Island had been tough. There were so many instances since being home that she’d almost reached out with a phone call or a Facebook message or a text, but her worries pulled her back. Each and every time.

  Until a Saturday evening in early October when he’d written her a short message: I miss you, Andi. You don’t have to reply, but I wanted you to know this. I hope you’re good. Happy. And still feeling alive. I so want you to feel alive. And remember there’s this guy in Colorado who is waiting. Patiently. With his arms wide open.

  She’d replied in an equally short and sweet manner, and before she knew it, they were messaging every day. In less than two weeks, they were talking on the phone, and by week three...she couldn’t wait for those minutes and hours they would steal to be together. And, oh, had they talked. About everything and anything under the sun.

  Except for how she felt. He never asked, and since she hadn’t yet cleared the last shimmer of fog, she kept the topic closed. But she missed him and his smile and his sunlight. The crinkle around his eyes and the line of his jaw. The sensation of being wrapped tight in his embrace and the heat of their kisses. Yes, she missed him to the point of yearning.

  But even now, with Christmas around the corner, she couldn’t quite fall into the season of miracles. Because the idea of jumping with the hope that he’d catch her—metaphorically, of course—still filled her with numbing, freezing uncertainty. And that? It didn’t make sense or hold any logic whatsoever. What she felt for Ryan was not based on the short time frame he’d professionally cared for her. This was no longer a question. This was what she knew.

  No. The love she had for Ryan existed solely because of the unique chemistry they shared. Yet, the words I love you continually stuck in her throat like a wadded-up piece of gluey paper. Her lips would not form the words her heart and soul so wanted her to say.

  The elevator finally reached her floor and the doors swung open. Inside, she pushed the garage-level button and leaned against the wall, breathed. So, with the caregiver-patient problem erased from her worries, what in the hell was the holdup? If only she knew. Or really, if she could somehow deduce the area where the problem resided, she’d take that as a win.

  Absently, Andi rubbed her thigh, trying to relax the tightness, the slight muscle twinge that now only occurred after these all-night shifts. In nearly all ways, she’d regained her strength and mobility and, unless she was fatigued and overtired, didn’t even walk with a limp. A year ago, she’d been...oh. A year? Yanking her phone from her pocket, Andrea stared at the date in shock. How had she not thought of this once all night? Yesterday, she’d remembered.

  One year, to the day, since the shooting. A full twelve months—365 days.

  Apprehension, stark fear, shivered and rolled through her limbs, raising goose bumps and lodging a golf-ball-size lump in her throat. And in a split second of pure understanding, of unhindered self-awareness, Andrea knew what she had to do.

  The only thing she could do.

  Today of all days, she needed to pay tribute to what had occurred. To the pain and the fear and the losses. And while she would rather pull out her hair one strand at a time than proceed forward, she went ahead and pushed the “1” button on the elevator panel. She needed to do this. For herself, for Hugh, for the 911 operator who’d saved her life...and everyone else involved in the tragedy.

  Gathering every ounce of her strength and courage, Andrea straightened her spine—pretended it was formed of steel—and when the elevator doors opened, stepped out and into the hallway that would lead her to the trauma department. And as she walked the path she’d done so very often in the past, she thought about the horror. Her overriding terror and excruciating pain. The stench and the sounds. The people who had died, those who had lived. She thought about him: the man who’d lost his wife, and then shortly after, his sanity. The gunman.

  As she arrived at the wide, double-door entry to the unit, she said a prayer, breathed in as deeply and as fully as possible, imagined Ryan’s hand on her shoulder and, once she’d punched the large silver pad to open the doors, forced her legs to carry her forward. As if of their own accord, they took her to the break room first, where she had sat and joked with Hugh.

  Precious minutes never to be returned.

  Emotion welled behind her eyes. She ignored the burning, heavy pressure and continued on, following the same path she had one year ago. Now, the sounds and scents and terror didn’t require her to call them forth, they were just there. Fresh and alive and real. Present day faded into the background, and suddenly it was as if she had truly stepped back in time.

  Like her nightmare, but different. Because this was her choice. Her decision.

  At the nurses’ station, she gripped the counter and squeezed so tightly her knuckles whitened. A slight pivot to her right showed the spot where she had stood when two bullets tore into her leg and she went down. And, oh, God. There. Right there, straight ahead and on the other end of the long counter that made up the nurses’ station, was...Hugh. Phantom Hugh, brought forth by her memories. Standing in the place he’d last breathed, last smiled.

  And those damn broken tears of hers grew heavier. Stronger. More vicious as her sorrows and regrets and anger merged together, creating a...monster of sorts.

  He looked so good to her aching heart, so she just soaked him in, this kind and intelligent man who had b
een her friend, her best mentor. Gray hair, brushed backward to hide his hated balding spot. Wire-rimmed glasses. Perfectly pressed pants and...a Looney Tunes necktie. How had she forgotten that? Shaking her head, Andi took a careful step forward.

  Just one. If she moved too fast, he might just disappear. And she wasn’t ready to never see him like this again. Alive and real and happy. Oh, he looked so happy. He had a thick-stacked clipboard in his left hand, a pen in his right and, when he saw her, that quirky, lovable smile. She opened her mouth, then and now, to tease him about overburdening the nurses when everything went to hell. One minute, all was calm. The next, bedlam.

  A shot, then another, rang out. And then...Hugh’s stricken expression. The blood pouring from his stomach as he collapsed. As she had on that day one year ago, she ran forward, her only intent to help. To be there for Hugh. Only this time, she wasn’t shot. Pain did not magnify and pulse through her leg. She made it all the way to him. Kneeling down, she reached toward Hugh, already uttering words of encouragement, of care, and he...vanished.

  “No,” she whispered, staring hard at the now-empty floor. “Give me one more chance to do this right. Just one.” But no, nothing. Hugh was gone. Forever gone. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, change the past despite her intense desire to do so. What had happened, happened.

  It was then that her tears, after a year of stubborn, painful silence, finally fell. They ran down her cheeks in a rushing stream, dripped into her mouth and off her jaw, and they kept on coming. A year’s worth of pain being shed all at once. Made sense, she supposed, in a convoluted sort of way. And that was fine. Let the tears fall.

  Andrea leaned against the nurses’ station and didn’t attempt to halt or slow or silence her gulping sobs. She let them out. She gave them control. They crawled from the deepest recesses of her heart and soul, from where the most desperate of her pain resided, and as they did, she reveled in the freedom. The wonderful treasure of being able to cry.

  One of the nurses handed her a box of tissues, which she accepted. And for the next long, long while, Andi did nothing but cry. When she’d expunged the last tear, when her clogged-up emotions from the past twelve months were finally released, another wall dropped and gave way. Bam. Gone. Forever gone. And this, unlike losing Hugh, was a precious gift.