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

by Amelia Wilde

  I’m at her house before I even think of calling the hospital and asking for Dr. O’Collins.

  “She’s with a patient,” the receptionist says. “Do you want to leave a message?”

  My blood pressure ratchets down a few levels. “No. That’s okay.”

  I wait until eleven, and then I drive back to my house.

  The next evening, she texts me at six o’clock. I’m finishing up a rush job for some woman who got in over her head with drywall installation.

  Come over, I’m home, and I’m sorry I didn’t text you

  I don’t know whether I’m more pissed or more relieved. For a solid minute, it’s a God damn tie.

  Be right there

  I’m out of the house in fifteen minutes, and Lacey opens the door before I can knock.

  She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down, kissing me like it’s been eight years.

  It fucking feels like it.

  After a minute, when the kiss gets too hot for the rest of the neighborhood to witness, she shifts her weight back and draws us in through the front door. I kick the door shut behind us.

  When she breaks the kiss, she’s smiling, but I’m not.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You normally get off at nine.”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “Not last night. Things were so crazy that I couldn’t leave.”

  Something I can’t describe flares up in my gut. “You were at work for almost two days straight.”

  “It happens.” She stands up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “It’s over.”

  I grit my teeth.

  Lacey notices. “Hey.” She pulls me in for another kiss, this one softer, longer, lingering. “It’s really okay.”

  “I worry about you.”

  It’s the only thing I can say, and it’s totally fucking inadequate. My head throbs. I haven’t been to the bar very much lately. I went a couple of times over the past couple weeks, but without Lacey it just seemed like bullshit. Now I’m wishing I’d gone. I really need to unwind.

  Lacey slips my jacket off over my shoulders. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lacey

  The wind howls in my dreams, becomes the whistle of a train that’s barreling through Lockton, only there are no tracks. The hospital is in the direct path of the train. People are coming toward the building and I’m trying to warn them away, but the words stick in my throat. No matter how many times I clear it, I can’t scream over the sound of the whistle, which is constant, omnipresent.

  The train is bearing down on the hospital when something—I don’t know what—jolts me out of the dream and I scramble upright in bed. My lips form the beginning of “wait,” but my voice is still trapped inside my chest. Come on, come on…

  “It’s all right,” Crosby says, his voice soft and soothing. He puts a hand on my arm to steady me, then slowly draws it down to my elbow before he wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me back down to the pillows, folding me into his arms. “It’s okay.”

  “The wind—”

  “A storm. Coming in off the lake.”

  “It’s so loud.”

  “It’ll blow over.”

  He kisses my cheek, and the gesture is so sweet, so unguarded, that it makes all the muscles in my body relax. I want to ask him something else, have something else to say that’s been on my mind, but before I can put a sentence together I’ve fallen asleep again to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

  The storm doesn’t blow over.

  When my alarm goes off at six, the wind is still whipping over the house. I’m too tired to work out. I’m too tired to put my legs over the side of the bed and drag myself downstairs to do a circuit training video like I normally would. I reach over, groggy, and reset the alarm for seven. That will leave me enough time.

  At seven, I reset it for seven forty-five. It’ll be cutting it close, with breakfast and getting dressed, but I’m just so tired, and Crosby’s body is so solid and warm that I don’t care. He hasn’t been around in a while, and I have this nagging feeling that it’s because of the tiff we had at Cinco Amigos. Not that he’s mentioned it.

  I can’t worry about it, though, because every time I reset my alarm, I fall deeply into another dream.

  Crosby is still dead to the world when I finally get up at seven forty-five. I don’t know if he has work plans or not, but he always sets an alarm on his phone and tucks it under his pillow. I don’t have to wake him if he’s not already awake.

  I tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom and close the door softly behind me. It still feels too early. The sun has barely come up over the horizon, and the snow is so thick that it looks like the middle of the night outside.

  I hate it.

  In the shower, I take my time shampooing and conditioning my hair, letting the steaming water run in hot streams down over my shoulders, over my skin. My body still aches from working so long for my last shift. We’re not supposed to work that long, but I knew even in med school that it’s a thing people do. It’s either that or abandon people in their hour of need. I know better than to think I can provide excellent medical care if I get too fatigued, but it’s a case-by-case basis. Crosby has to understand that.

  I hope he does.

  I dry my hair. Any moisture left will freeze when I walk from my car to the hospital, and that’s not how I want to start my day. I apply minimal makeup, and then I head back into the bedroom, creeping back into the walk-in closet. Slacks, shirt, and I’m good to go.

  I wonder if I can sneak out without waking up Crosby.

  I tiptoe back out into the bedroom, glancing at the bed, expecting to see him there.

  The bed is empty.

  My heart jumps in my chest. I swear, he was just here a minute ago.

  Breath caught in my throat, I move quickly down the hall. No lights are on downstairs, and I’m just stepping onto the landing when the front door opens.

  I freeze in place. What the hell is—

  The man coming inside reaches over to the light switch and flicks it on.

  It’s Crosby, of course, practically unrecognizable in a knitted hat and Carhartt jacket with the hood up.

  “Oh, shit,” he says, when he sees me standing there. “Hey.”

  “Hi. You snuck out.”

  “You were in the shower.” He pushes the hood away from his face and shakes his head back and forth. “Listen. You can’t go out there.”

  I laugh, and the muscles in my back ache a little more.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  The smile on my face fades away. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s way worse than they thought, Lace. The roads are total shit. You can’t go out there.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and look at Crosby. Is he serious? He sounds serious. Which is insane.

  “Crosby, I’m not calling in to work.”

  “No, you are.”

  There’s no hint of a joke in his voice, no playfulness, nothing. He’s serious.

  And he’s also wrong.

  I turn on my heel and head into the kitchen, turning on the lights. The floor is gorgeous. I’m going to have to have someone do all the floors, eventually. Behind me, Crosby stomps off his boots on the floor mat.

  I reach into the cupboard and pull out the container of quick oats, then put the kettle on to boil.

  Crosby follows me into the kitchen, bringing the cold with him. I glance over my shoulder and he’s leaning against one of the counters, his eyes on me.

  “You do great work. I’m going to hire you to do the rest of the floors in this house.”

  “It’s too dangerous to drive.”

  This again.

  I put the burner on high and turn to face him. “I’ll drive slowly.”

  “I’m telling you, it is a death trap out there.”

  “It’s not far. I think I’ll risk it.”

  “I won’t let you.�
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  A hot bolt of anger drives its way across my chest. “You won’t let me?”

  Crosby shakes his head.

  I’m not doing this right now.

  “Let me make this really, really clear,” I say, and the sharp edges of my voice threaten to cut even me. “I’m going wherever the hell I please, always, and you’re not going to get in my way.”

  The kettle whistles, the sound high and piercing.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Crosby

  Lacey locks her gaze on mine for one more heavy moment, eyes narrowed and almost black, then turns and lifts the kettle off the burner with one practiced, graceful movement. She brings it over to the bowl with her oatmeal and pours it in.

  Then she reaches up to the cupboard next to the stove and pulls out a tin of tea bags and a mug, puts one over the lip of the cup, and pours water over that, too. I watch as the steam rises from both the bowl and the cup.

  The heat inside my chest comes to a boil. I’m trying my fucking best not to be furious with her, but the fact is, she can’t drive in this. The radio stations are telling everyone to stay off the road, and this time, they damn well mean it. It’s a freak snowstorm, much bigger than they predicted, and the plows can’t keep up.

  Lacey stays silent, her face carefully neutral, while she steeps the tea, stirs the oatmeal, adds brown sugar. When the tea is done steeping, she takes the bag out of the mug, throws it into the garbage, and stirs in sugar with a little milk, every motion deliberate and grating on my nerves.

  When she carries the bowl and the mug into the dining room, along with a spoon, she doesn’t shy away from looking me in the eye.

  I follow her into the dining room, and when she takes her seat, I take one, too.

  “How rude of me,” she says, her voice light. “Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She sets about eating her breakfast with the same excruciating deliberateness, and I lean back in my seat, pretending to be perfectly at ease. I can’t let her go.

  I can’t.

  She eats the bowl of oatmeal and drinks the tea.

  “Do you have any jobs planned for today?”

  “Not anymore. I’m not leaving this house.”

  Lacey nods like this is perfectly reasonable, just not for her.

  When the tea is gone, she carries the dishes to the sink, rinses them, and puts them into the dishwasher.

  Then she goes to the front hallway, puts on her coat, and pats her pockets. “Keys. Wallet.” She doesn’t say “kiss.”

  I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I’m not going to be the kind of asshole who uses my relative size to force my advantage—I fucking hate people who do that—but I can’t let her go. I’ll never be able to live with myself if something happens to her.

  “Will you be around later?”

  Lacey drops the question as casually as ever, but I hear the strain in her voice. Jesus, I loathe this kind of shit. I don’t want to be causing her stress. I don’t want to be causing an argument. But it is fucking treacherous on the roads. The storm is still raging. I cannot let her go.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” She steps over to me, lifting herself up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. Lacey hovers for just another instant. I lean down and kiss her on the lips, but neither of us lingers.

  “Bye, Crosby.”

  She moves toward the garage door, and that’s when something snaps inside of me.

  In two strides, I’ve beaten her there, and I throw my arm across the door like one of those planks in medieval times.

  “Lacey, you can’t fucking drive today. Call the hospital. They’ll say the same thing.”

  “They’ll say I have a job to do. This isn’t your decision, Crosby. Get out of my way.” Her voice is trembling with rage now, and her eyes are black with it. Her hands bunch up into fists.

  “I’m not letting you go.”

  “You don’t have a choice!” Lacey is shouting now. I don’t think she’s ever shouted at me before.

  “I’m trying—I’m trying to help you.” She’s being so damn stubborn, and I can’t figure out why the hell this is such a problem.

  “I am a grown woman,” she says, the words slipping like acid from her tongue. “I’m a grown fucking adult, and I’m going to work now. Get out of my way.”

  “I can’t, Lacey. You’re my girlfriend, and I just want—”

  “Then it’s over.”

  The words echo hollowly through my mind before they finally settle. “What the fuck?”

  “If you’re going to use that against me, then we’re done.”

  “We’re done, just like that. Because I want you to stay here, and stay safe, and you’re insisting on being a stubborn—”

  “Oh, no,” she says, her voice rising. “Not a chance. We’re done, Crosby, we’re so done. All this—” She motions between us. “All this was a mistake. And now it’s over. It’s over for good. Do you get it?”

  I can’t say anything. I can’t say a damn word.

  “Now, since we’re not together and you have no reason to think you can control my life, you can get the hell out of my way.”

  It’s like she’s driven spikes through my head, through my heart, through every muscle. I’m on fire and I’ve fallen through the ice on the lake at the same time.

  You know what? If she wants it like this, then it’s all for the best. I won’t be able to hurt her, and she’ll be free of a burdensome idiot like me, who only wants her to be safe and happy. Jesus, what a prick. I can see why she wants to be rid of me.

  All of it boils up, boils over, and Lacey doesn’t back down. She straightens her back, looks me in the eye, jaw tight and clenched.

  It’s a standoff, but I know right then and there she’ll never back down. This is really it. She’s made up her mind, and there’s nothing more I can do here.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, with the same deliberate attitude she’s been using all morning, I lower my arm from the door. I step away, a foot farther into the kitchen. She’s free as a fucking bird.

  “Go ahead.”

  My voice is splintered, but I don’t fucking care anymore. If Lacey doesn’t give a shit about us, then neither do I. Then this was all a big mistake, and it’s better left in the past, where we can just let it wither away until it’s nothing but a vaguely embarrassing memory.

  She nods, satisfaction shining in her eyes, and then she takes a step toward the garage door. There’s a momentary hesitation, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll really stop her this time, but I don’t. I stay standing right where I am.

  Then Lacey pulls open the door, steps out into the garage, and pulls it closed behind her.

  The garage door opens.

  The car starts.

  The engine revs when she guns it to get over the snow buildup that was near the door. Maybe the car won’t make it and—

  The garage door closes.

  She’s gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lacey

  My hands shake on the steering wheel.

  I broke up with Crosby.

  Holy shit, I broke up with him.

  There’s an aching, tearing in my heart, in my chest, but now is not the time. It’s just not the time, because the weather is terrible, just like Crosby said.

  Ten seconds away from the house, and it’s already disappeared into the snow. I’m definitely going to be late for my shift because at this rate, it’ll take forty-five minutes to go the few miles to the hospital.

  I spent the first mile trying to swallow the painful lump in my throat. He was being such an idiot. He was the one being stubborn, being stupid.

  The further I drive, the more I realize that he wasn’t.

  The roads are awful.

  Halfway to the hospital, I’m desperate to turn around and go home. If nothing else, I want to pull my car over and wait this out, but I’m on the highway and there’s nowhere to pull over. I’m no
t even totally confident that I wouldn’t hit another car whose driver was having the same idea.

  I can’t see a damn thing, can’t see twenty feet in front of me, so I’m crawling along as slowly as I possibly can.

  Is that a truck behind me? Shit, if that’s a semi-truck and it wants to pass me, I’m going to lose it.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, the specific cadence that means my mom is texting me, probably about her latest painting project. Or maybe a warning about the weather. Well, if she’s warning me about the weather, she’s too late. I’m already out in it.

  My heart is pounding so fast that it’s giving me a headache. I don’t want to pull over, but I don’t think I have any choice. I’m just not in control enough to be driving.

  But where the hell am I going to go?

  Anywhere. Anywhere I can see.

  The snow is whiteout heavy. I lean forward over the steering wheel, looking for any kind of landmark, any clue that I’m still even on the road, but there’s nothing but swirling snow. I test the brakes. The wheels get traction, then slide a little. I’m barely moving faster than at a crawl as it is, but in this snow, it feels like a hundred miles an hour.

  My phone buzzes again.

  I see something on the side of the road—white on white, but maybe it’s the shoulder. I have to take a chance because now it’s hard to keep my hands on the wheel.

  I just need a minute to catch my breath.

  That’s all. Just a minute, and then I can drive the rest of the way to the hospital and stay there until the storm blows over and the plows come out.

  Despite the blasting heat, a cold knot solidifies in the pit of my stomach. This is so damn dangerous. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I just listen to Crosby?

  Because you’re a stubborn idiot, that’s why. Because I wanted to prove that even though I’m still swept away by him, that he’s not in control of me. That even if he tries to break my heart again, I won’t let him.