Only His: A Second Chance Romance (Second Chances Book 2)

by Amelia Wilde

  My hands are shaking when I step out of the car, shaking while I press the button to close the garage door, and shaking when I step into the kitchen. Crosby turns away from the stove. The floor behind him is partially patched, though still covered in plastic.

  “What’s wrong, Lace?”

  I burst into tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Crosby

  “It’s one thing when people are sick and you can help them, or they have a cut and you can stop the bleeding, but today—”

  She shakes her head, tears still streaming down her face, not looking up at me.

  The spaghetti starts bubbling over on the stove while she sobs in my arms. Every movement is wrenching to my heart. Lacey has always sobbed silently, suppressing the sound, so the only indication of her anguish is violent shaking.

  I don’t know if it would be worse to hear her.

  When she finally stops crying, she takes in a deep breath, straightens her back, and wipes at her eyes with her sleeves. “I need a shower.”

  The thought of her naked curves being rinsed under the steaming water has my cock at attention, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to push her right now. “Take your time.”

  When she comes back downstairs, I’ve gotten rid of the overcooked spaghetti and the car is running in the driveway, already heating up.

  “Are you leaving?” Lacey’s voice is steady, but a new sheen of tears covers her eyes.

  “Not without you.”

  For the first time since she got home, a little smile flickers on her face. “But—where are we going?”

  “Out to eat.”

  She smiles genuinely this time, wrinkling her nose. “We just had Indian food the other night. We can’t keep—”

  “Lacey O’Collins, are you really going to turn into your mother right now?”

  Lacey used to tease her mom in high school. I wonder if the lady has loosened up on her strict criteria for when it’s acceptable to go out to eat.

  She sticks her tongue out at me, and then her cheeks turn pink. “She did have a point, you know. They didn’t have a ton of money.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Which is exactly why—”

  “Listen.” I step closer to her, taking her hands in mine. “You had a shitty fucking day at the hospital. You came home all shaken up. I ruined the spaghetti.” Her eyes are dark pools of desire hidden behind a curtain of sadness, behind an ache I can only imagine. Does it hurt any less if you signed up to lose people? Judging by Lacey’s eyes, it doesn’t. I didn’t have a chance to save Marci. I could have had one, but—

  “It’s a good night to go out,” I say, breaking my thoughts. “Cinco Amigos is open until eleven.”

  Lacey’s eyes light up. “They are?”

  “Yeah—they’ve been open until eleven for years.”

  “Right.” Her eyes slide out of focus for a second, like she’s remembering. “That’s why we went there on dates.”

  “That, and because the hostess would spy on us for your mom.”

  She laughs, and it’s the best sound in the entire world. “She did not.”

  “Are you kidding? That woman used to call her the second we left. And why do you think they gave us so many baskets of chips?”

  “They never gave us that many chips.”

  I let my mouth drop open like this is the most shocking fucking thing I’ve ever heard. “Have you ever heard of a waitress bringing a sixth basket of chips once you’ve been there for two hours?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You guess right. They were in cahoots with your parents.”

  “Cahoots!” Lacey’s laughter is a giggle that turns into a belly laugh. “Oh, Jesus. You’re funnier than you give yourself credit for.”

  “Who’s funny?” I pretend to be some kind of sullen meathead, then straighten back up. “Grab your coat.”

  This time, Lacey doesn’t hesitate.

  We take her Jeep to Cinco Amigos so we don’t have to listen to all the tools rattling around in the back of my truck, and when we get in the door, it’s like they’re just opening up. The hostess is fresh and bright-eyed and says nothing about the fact that they close in less than an hour. They’ll stay open, too. There are some benefits to living in a small town.

  “Anywhere you guys want to sit,” she says, with a smile, gesturing towards the open tables, and Lacey shifts automatically to head toward the booth we always used to sit at. She stops before we sit down.

  “Is this okay?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  In the booth, she shrugs off her coat and sets the menu aside. Lacey always wants tacos. She doesn’t need the menu. When the basket of chips and bowl of salsa is delivered to us, she grins across the table at me, her eyes still red.

  “You’re serious about that hostess?”

  “The one here tonight?” I crane my neck to see if she’s within listening distance. “No, I’m not that serious. She just brings the menus.”

  “The old hostess, Cros.” Anything. I’ll say anything to get a smile onto her face.

  “I swear.”

  She shakes her head, and then bites into a chip. “I’m going to ask my mom about it when I visit.”

  “You haven’t visited?”

  “I’ve been busy. With the hospital.” She picks up another chip, dips it into the salsa. “With you.”

  The waitress comes over and Lacey orders her usual—the No. 9—and I order fajitas. Because why the hell not?

  Across the table, Lacey leans back against the smooth padding of the booth, and closes her eyes. She looks tired, and a little twist of worry ebbs up in my gut. It’s not fucking great for people to be constantly tired, constantly under pressure.

  “Do you ever think about doing anything else?” The question comes out of my mouth before I can really think about it.

  She sits up, looks at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Other than being a doctor.”

  Lacey eats another chip. “No.”

  “How long do you think you’ll stay with it?”

  “Stay with my career?” She gives me a smile like I’m asking her the dumbest fucking questions in history.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, until I retire.” She laughs a little, like it’s the obvious answer.

  “I don’t know.”

  Lacey looks to her right, then to her left, an exaggerated gaze. “Oh. I do.”

  “It just seems like…” This is a trap, somehow, and I know it. This is not a conversation I should even be having with her, but that spike of worry has expanded to fill the rest of my gut. I have to do something, otherwise this doctor shit could ruin her life. “It just seems like maybe something else would be better for you.” They’re the wrong words, and as soon as they’re out of my mouth, I know it.

  Lacey’s eyes flash with anger. “Does it?” There’s an edge to her voice, and she’s looking at me, her lips pressed into a straight line.

  I can’t stop myself. “Yeah. I don’t want you to end up—”

  “I’ll end up fine, Crosby.” Her tone is sharp. “Don’t you worry.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lacey

  It would be different if Crosby wasn’t the first man to tell me that being a doctor is a tough job, that it’s stressful, that you lose sleep, that maybe it’s not the place for a woman. You’d think, in present-day America, that this kind of shit wouldn’t happen, but it does. Of course it does.

  “Where the hell do you get off?” I want to say, but I pinch my lips closed. I stay silent. I let the anger wash through me, and then I breathe it out.

  I breathe most of it out, but the embers still glow in the center of my chest.

  The silence between us stretches out, grows barbs.

  Don’t patronize me. I know more about this than you do. Fuck off.

  The words rattle around in my mind, but I don’t say a single one. I urge another breath of the anger out.

  Crosby�
�s eyes are locked on the bowl of chips, and his face has turned a strange shade of red. When I register his expression, something inside my heart turns over.

  “I’m a good doctor.”

  He raises his eyes to meet mine, and there’s something behind his expression that makes me think I’ve missed something here, that this is coming from somewhere else. God knows half the shit that’s making me crazy right now is coming from that guy in the ER, not from Crosby. “No, you’re a great doctor.”

  Crosby’s voice is soft, but not apologetic.

  “But?”

  “But what?”

  “But you think I should find a different job.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “What did you say, then?”

  “You’re tired, Lacey. You’re exhausted.”

  “I’m doing my residency. That’s what doing a residency is.”

  Crosby narrows his eyes, deciding something. “I just wanted to know if it’s long-term.”

  “If what is long-term?”

  He puts both hands flat on the table and breathes in through his nose, like he’s trying to hold back a shout. “If you being this tired is long-term.”

  “I imagine it will last about as long as my residency. In private practice, it’ll probably settle down.”

  “Probably?”

  “What’s your problem?” My voice is cutting, and I can’t help it, but I’m in the red zone. It was a damn hard shift today. Damn hard. I don’t know why the hell Crosby is pushing me like this, and out of nowhere. “We’ve been together five minutes, and you think—”

  “I’m thinking about you, Lace. That’s all.”

  “And you’re thinking you know what’s best for me, better than I do.”

  He raises his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “I was asking some questions. Do I not have a right to be worried about you?”

  “As long as you keep your mouth shut.”

  I’ve gone too far, and I know it. The instant the words are out of my mouth, a sick heat fills my chest. Regret.

  The thing I forgot, in the moment, is that this is new, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. We were different people eight years ago. There was a lot of life we hadn’t lived yet, and things have changed since then. The way I feel about Crosby—it stayed the same at the core. At the core, but not along the branches. All of this has been shifting in the wind for eight years.

  “I’m sorry, Cros. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t.”

  I can’t read the expression on his face. His jaw is clenched tight, but his eyes are wide.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s not do this, Lacey.”

  “I know you didn’t mean it.”

  “That’s the thing.” He looks down at the chips again, and one hand curls into a fist. “I fucking meant—” It’s like he can’t get the words arranged in just the right away. “You’re not going to understand.”

  “It’s been a rough day. But I think if you tell me, I can still—”

  He slaps one hand down on the surface of the table. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Jesus. Is that such a God damn crime?”

  There’s a fire blazing in his green eyes that I haven’t seen before, but they’re also swimming in grief. Where is this coming from?

  “Crosby, I’m fine. I’m fine. I can do this. Residency is tough, but in the end, things cool down.”

  “Okay.” He says it through gritted teeth. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  The thought bubbles up before I can stop it, and once it’s at the front of my mind, I can’t shove it back down. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can lose myself in a relationship with Crosby—the Crosby sitting across from me, not the eighteen-year-old with a wise-ass attitude. He was always protective, but this seems like something that’s been eating at him for eight years. Maybe longer.

  I search my memory. Did something happen between us? Is this because of something I said back then, or—

  No. I never said anything. I just accepted the way he was, and he never explained it. Why would he have to? That’s just the way men acted when they were in love, I thought. He cared deeply about me, and his actions never became obsessive, never became dark.

  But there’s a darkness there now.

  Do I have it in me to do this?

  My stomach growls.

  All this doubt—this is because I’m hungry. This is because I’m tired. It has nothing to do with Crosby.

  It has a little to do with Crosby, but we can get through it.

  I hope.

  “Truce?”

  He looks at me, his forehead wrinkling. “What?”

  “Can we call a truce?”

  One corner of his mouth curls up in a half-smile. “You mean to enjoy this nice dinner I brought you to, since you had such a hard day?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  He takes a breath, looks me in the eye across the table. Then, after a moment, he nods. “Yeah.”

  The food comes. In typical Cinco Amigos fashion, it’s a ridiculous amount of food. I plan to eat every single bite on the platter the waitress puts in front of me.

  “Hey.”

  I look up into Crosby’s eyes, and he puts a smile on.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m into you, Lace.”

  My heart heats up. This is something he used to say to me all the time back in high school. It carries the same weight as “I love you.”

  “I’m into you, too.”

  “Good.”

  “Now, let me eat these tacos in peace.”

  He laughs and starts to assemble a fajita, and I pick up the first of the tacos. But I’m not eating in peace.

  I wonder what it will take to feel peaceful again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Crosby

  “Shit.”

  Brett tears up another piece of the kitchen floor. I’m going to finish this thing today. I’ve had three days off.

  After the dinner at Cinco Amigos, I went home to my place.

  Not right away, but in the morning, after Lacey went to the hospital for her shift. I came back to work for a few hours, but I was gone again by the time she got back.

  The text came in at nine-fifteen sharp.

  Did you finally run out of clean clothes? :)

  I felt a fraction of the tension in my shoulders release.

  If I wash these any more, they’ll wear out.

  How’s the house?

  Driveway’s full of snow. Damn snow

  Weird—my driveway’s perfectly clean

  You’re welcome.

  Thank you, handsome.

  It was like everything was fine, but something nagged at me, pressed at me. A truce isn’t a fucking resolution, but what am I going to do? I don’t want to trip Lacey’s alarms and send her running back to the nowhere she was for the last eight years.

  I also can’t hang around forever and watch that job of hers eat her alive.

  Space. The space is good for us.

  Monday I call Brett.

  My hand still hurts if I move it in a certain way, and the last thing I want to do is rip the wound open and have to go back to the damn ER.

  “We’re fixing the floor, Miller, not leaving a hole.”

  He flips me off and dispatches another couple of feet of flooring in minutes.

  Between the two of us, it only takes two hours to take up all of the old flooring and sub flooring, and then another three to lay down the new materials. By the time Brett starts complaining about missing dinner, Lacey has a brand-new floor. This has gone way beyond a repair job, and I don’t give a shit. I want to make sure this thing is never a hazard for her again.

  Once we’ve cleaned up and put away all the tools in our respective trucks, I shake Brett’s hand.

  “Split it with me when you invoice.”

  “You know damn well I will. Tell Addi I said hey.”

&
nbsp; “Will do.”

  He climbs into his truck, then rolls down the window. “Hey, did you hear about that storm?”

  “What storm?” I put air quotes around the word storm. The weather guys are always calling for some damn natural disaster, and it’s almost always three inches that the plow can take care of well before morning rush hour.

  “Tonight or tomorrow, I heard. Don’t go anywhere far. It’s supposed to hit most of the state.”

  “All right, man. I’ll buy some cases of water, all that shit.”

  “Good to know you’ll survive.”

  He rolls up his window, throws the truck in reverse, and drives off.

  I have to decide.

  Do I stay here and wait for Lacey, or do I keep giving her a little space? I’m hoping that by going back to my place, that by texting her like we haven’t been dating for eleven years straight, I’m showing her that I don’t think she’s some kind of weakling. That’s not what I meant at Cinco Amigos.

  It doesn’t matter what I mean. It pushed her buttons, and I’m not interested in going there again right now.

  I turn off all the lights inside, take a final look around, lock and close the door behind me, and drive back to my house.

  The storm doesn’t materialize, but things get busy in the ER.

  That’s what Lacey tells me. The closer we get to Christmas, the more people are fucking themselves up in unexpected ways, sending them straight into the capable hands of my girlfriend.

  Most nights, she texts me when she gets home, and about forty minutes later the messages stop without a goodbye. She falls asleep. She’s God damn exhausted, that’s what she is. I can’t blame her, but every time it happens, I worry a little more. Four years of this, and I don’t know how she’ll still be standing.

  The ER gets busier.

  Lacey stops coming home as much.

  A week goes by, then two.

  Five days before Christmas, she doesn’t come home at all.

  I know because I’m sitting in my truck out by the curb to her house like a fucking stalker. I got worried when she didn’t text me at lunch, or at nine-fifteen, and I’m not some Neanderthal who has to have eyes on his woman every second, but fuck, what if something happened to her and I wasn’t there to put my body in between her and whatever it was?