She huffed, crossed her arms over her chest, and asked, “Did your brother say we when he and his wife got pregnant?”
Zing. That got him right in the gut. “There is no talking sense with you, is there?” He threw back the covers, got out of bed. “I wanted to have a civil conversation about what we’d do if you ended up pregnant since you are obviously against the convention of marriage and plan to make any decent guy pay for your loser husband’s past indiscretions.” He yanked on his jeans, grabbed his shirt. “So, I guess the only logical choice is abstinence.”
Humph. “Fine by me.” She pulled the sheet around her in an attempt to cover herself.
“Really, Bree?” He glared at her. “Now you’re going modest on me?”
She looked away, muttered, “I’m chilly.”
Adam tucked in his shirt, fastened his belt. “It’s going to get a lot chillier, trust me on that one.” He grabbed his jacket, snatched up his keys from the dresser. It’s not like he wanted to leave the bed-and-breakfast, but he couldn’t boot Bree out of his room, and he sure as hell wasn’t staying around to listen to more of her I-don’t-need-or-want-a-man nonsense. Now she was going to critique his words? Him, a man who made his living on the proper use of them and had the skill to finesse his way in and out of business deals and personal relationships? A woman with a feigned southern accent who said words like kit and caboodle was going to instruct him on what was and wasn’t appropriate? Didn’t she know when a couple said, “We’re pregnant,” it meant the guy was totally into the relationship, the woman, and the baby? It was a way to honor the woman, not devalue her worth. As if Adam would ever do that to a woman, especially Bree. Could she not tell he cared about what happened to her, wanted to spend more time with her kids?
“Where are you going? It’s almost midnight.”
Did he detect a hint of worry in her voice? Why? Because she thought he’d follow her husband’s example and find a woman who wouldn’t pick out his weaknesses? “I need to clear my head.” That much was true.
“Adam.”
There was definite worry in her voice. “Yes?” She really was a beautiful woman, even when he was so annoyed with her he couldn’t think straight. He was tempted to go to her, pull her into his arms, and kiss away her worry, but he wouldn’t. Doing that would only show her just how much power she had over him and his feelings for her, feelings she didn’t share.
“I’m sorry.” She gripped the sheet with both hands, eyes bright. “I’ve got a lot to sort out, and it’s not fair to take it out on you.”
“I’m not the enemy, Bree.”
She nodded, said in a quiet voice, “I know.”
“Then don’t make me pay for another man’s mistakes.”
* * *
Bree remembered the exact moment she realized she wanted to give love a second chance. From the second she learned the truth about Brody’s death, she’d vowed no man would ever have the power to crush her heart again. And she’d kept that vow: she’d refused invitations for coffee, drinks, dinner, anything and everything that might lead to becoming a couple. Early on, she blamed her disengagements from relationships on her daughters, saying they needed her to guide them through their grief, be both mother and father to them. When the counselor she took them to assured her that the girls would be okay if their mother was adjusted, she felt guilty using them as an excuse and flung herself into the business, leaving no time for adult relationships with the opposite sex.
The plain truth was, Bree was petrified of getting hurt again, saddened and heartbroken that her dreams of the white picket fence had ended in tragedy and betrayal. She couldn’t go through that again, couldn’t risk another man betraying her like that.
And then Adam Brandon stepped into her life, blond and take-your-breath-away gorgeous with class and charm and a soft-spoken manner that made her insides sizzle like bacon in a skillet. Goodness, but she’d fought him, fought the looks, the charm, the kindness, and the muscles—not Brody muscles, but toned and tanned and sleek. Muscles to be traced and tasted…
She’d acted like a ninny, telling him she’d never consider marriage again, period. And why had she gone on and on about the pregnancy and the we versus I? Was she really that ridiculous and immature? What had been the point? To prove to him she didn’t need anyone, especially a man? There’d been hurt on his face and then anger when she’d smacked him with the comment about his brother—another idiotic statement she’d had no business making. Had she been trying to drive him away? When he snatched his keys, she remembered Brody doing that the last time she saw him. It had been late, too, and she’d begged him to stay, but he’d refused, said he needed a drink, although it hadn’t been the drink he needed but the woman waiting for him. The one who didn’t nag him about dirty socks or saying bad words in front of the girls—the one who wasn’t his wife.
Had she driven Adam to a bar and another woman, one who wouldn’t push him away or pretend she didn’t care? As she lay in his bed, the scent of their lovemaking still clinging to her body, she drifted off to sleep and opened her heart to let Adam Brandon fill it.
The rattle of the key in the lock woke her, followed by the creaking door, but she kept her eyes closed, body still. The sharp breath came next, the faltering footsteps, and then nothing. What was he doing? He must have thought she’d be gone. Was he trying to figure out why she was still here, or worse, how to get rid of her? He moved toward her, stopped when he was next to the bed. If she inched her eyes open, she might be able to see what he was doing, but if he were staring at her, then he’d know she were awake. Bree kept her breathing even, eyes closed. Lips brushed her forehead, trailed along her temple, the smell of whiskey mixing with his kisses. Her body tingled and burned, but she remained still. “Bree,” he sighed against her neck, eased onto the bed, and pulled her to him.
Bree lay with his arm wrapped around her, waiting for him to say more, do more, but he didn’t. All she needed was a tiny opening and she’d admit the truth: she wanted a chance with him. She inched an eye open, spotted the blue fabric of his shirt, the movement of his broad chest. His breath fell out soft and even. Was he asleep? Another peek said he was. Bree snuggled against him, placed a soft kiss on his chest. “I missed you,” she whispered into the fabric, seconds before she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
When she woke the next morning, the bed was empty and he was gone. She’d felt so close to him last night, like they were heart to heart, soul to soul. He’d been in a deep sleep, but he’d never let go of her, and she’d pressed her naked body as close as she could, not minding the brush of his jeans against her skin. She’d have preferred no clothes, but that would have involved trying to get him out of his shirt and jeans, maybe waking him, and she hadn’t wanted to do that, hadn’t wanted to do anything to disturb the peace she felt. There’d be enough time for talk in the morning, except there wasn’t because Adam wasn’t here. He was off somewhere and oh please, do not let him wish to be rid of her. Do not let the reason for his absence be that. Remorse squeezed her heart, twisted until it ached. She’d make it up to him; all she needed was a chance. Bree dragged a hand through her hair, threw back the covers, and padded to the bathroom. A shower would wake her up and give her time to think. Mama used to say Bree did her best thinking in the shower and that was the only reason she and Daddy let her use so much water. Hadn’t she figured out a way to get them to extend her curfew? And what about the time she told her parents she was sleeping at Tess’s house but they went with Brody to a party in Renova? Yes, indeed, a shower cleared her head and let her zero in on the problem and the solution.
Right now the problem was fear. Yup, big, old, fat fear squeezing her insides so tight she thought she might double over a time or two. She knew exactly why she was afraid and he even had a name: Adam Brandon. Bree lifted her face to the showerhead, let the water spray her eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth. The man was not going to settle with sleepovers and “see you next Thursday night” as if what they shared didn’t
mean anything, even though she’d told him she did not want a relationship. She was so full of talk, but what would she do if he agreed? What if he said, Fine, I’m perfectly fine with that, or Let’s meet once a month and spend the weekend together? No hope that what they shared would ever go any further, say, like a more permanent relationship. A sharp pain pinched her belly. Permanent as in a commitment like marriage? Goodness gracious, could she do that?
She’d been down that long, twisted road that ended with a cliff. But what if this time were different? Could it be? How would she know if she didn’t give him a chance? Could she do that? Did she want a man in her life, one who wasn’t the girls’ father, carving the Thanksgiving turkey, drinking hot chocolate as they decorated the Christmas tree? Waking up in the same bed every morning? Bree grabbed the soap, lathered up. If she fought through her fear and let herself trust Adam, that could lead to a world of heartache. That warm voice and gentle touch would pull her in and spin her around until she grew dizzy, and when she stopped spinning, she’d be head-over-heels, knee-deep and sucking-for-a-clean-breath in love. The water beat on her chest, her belly, lower still. Love. The truth found its way to her brain seconds after she stepped out of the shower. It didn’t matter what she did or didn’t want. It was already too late. Bree loved Adam Brandon. For better or worse, he’d stolen her heart. Now, she just had to tell him.
She thought she’d have longer than a few minutes between realizing she loved him to telling him her discovery, but when she opened the bathroom door, he sat in the chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting on his belly, eyes staring straight at her. There was something about that look that made her fidget and not in a good way. It was like he could see straight into her brain, something Brody had never been able to do. That man hadn’t been able to understand her even when she spelled it out for him.
“Hi.” She knotted the bathrobe and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear.
“Hey.”
He didn’t move toward her like he usually did when she stepped out of the bathroom in his robe, nothing underneath but lots of kissable bare skin. He’d enjoyed kissing that skin, tracing the dips and curves. But not today. None of that was happening if the frown on his face and the coolness in his eyes told the tale. It was up to her to take the first step, and that would be an apology—for everything. Bree moved toward him, stopped when she was an arm’s reach away. “I’m sorry for how I acted. There’s never an excuse for bad behavior, and mine was worse than bad.” She bit her lower lip, skittered a glance at him. “You don’t deserve it. You’re a good man and any woman would be delirious to have you look at her twice, let alone want a relationship with her.” Bree cleared her throat, waited for a comment. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat again. Was he not going to say anything? Maybe, It’s okay, I forgive you, or I understand, you were confused. But no, he just kept staring, but there was that tiny twitch on the right side of his jaw, the same twitch she’d seen Nate Desantro get when he was not happy about something. Well, it looked like it was up to her to continue the conversation until Adam decided to join in, which she hoped would be soon. “I truly am sorry.” She clasped her hands together, licked her lips. “I behaved badly.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, those beautiful lips a thin line of “not happy.” “You already said that.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did the man want from her? She huffed, planted her bare feet in front of him, and tried very hard not to scowl. “What do you want me to say? That I was an idiot? That I am scared to death to have a relationship with you but that it doesn’t matter because I already care too much and no matter how hard I fight it, we are in a relationship and I do care?”
“That’s a start.”
Had his expression softened a bit? Hard to tell and that did pull a scowl from her lips that she made no attempt to hide. That’s what drove her batty: being unable to tell what somebody who meant so much to her was thinking or feeling. “Okay. We’re in a relationship. And I do care.” He rubbed his jaw, settled back into the chair. And said nothing. “Really, Adam? You have nothing to say?” Men were the most ridiculous creatures at times. Was he trying to prove a point?
“This isn’t about forcing you to do or say anything that isn’t in your heart. I know you care.” He shrugged, burned her with a you’re-mine-and-you-know-it look and said, “I’m tired of the games and the indecision, tired of you sneaking out of my bed at 2:00 a.m. so the poor babysitter can go home.”
“She doesn’t mind. Rachel’s a college student and says she’s up half the night anyway.”
“That’s not the point, Bree. I mind. It isn’t right. The secrecy, the pretending, all of it.” He sighed. “It shouldn’t be this hard, and if it is, maybe we’re not right for each other, and I’d rather know that now than prolong the inevitable.”
Prolong the inevitable, as in a breakup that was bound to happen? Did he really believe that? A chill swirled through her, settled in her chest. She’d been so determined to keep her emotional distance that she didn’t think about how that might be hurting him. Bree darted a glance at his face, took in the strain around his mouth, the absence of those dimples she loved to trace, the paleness beneath his tan. He didn’t deserve her fear or indecision. If she wasn’t going to commit, she had to let him go. Bree inched forward, touched his hand. She couldn’t let him go. She stepped between his long legs, knelt, and laid her head in his lap. “I love you,” she whispered, easing her arms around his waist. “I love you, Adam Brandon.”
“Bree?”
“Hmm?” She sniffed, buried her face in the washed-out fabric of his jeans. If God had granted her this second chance, she would take it. She would not be afraid any longer.
“Look at me, Bree.”
She lifted her head, didn’t try to fight the tears. “Silly tears.”
“Yeah.” He swiped them away. “Silly tears.” His eyes glittered like stars dotting a black sky. “Come here.” He helped Bree onto his lap and she snuggled again his chest.
Such perfect and utter peace. She could stay like this forever, or at least for the next hour. Bree closed her eyes and matched his breathing. So calming. So safe. Adam stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. “I’m not going to hurt you, Bree. You can trust me.” He paused, pulled her closer. “I love you.”
13
Robert stood in the bedroom, his voice soft, hesitant. “You don’t mind putting your hair up or wearing that dress?”
“Of course not. I’d shave my head and wear hospital scrubs if it meant a chance to meet your mother.” Natalie smiled at him and glanced in the full-length mirror. She’d pulled her hair back from her face and gathered it in a tight ponytail. No ribbons, no barrettes, nothing. The dress Robert had chosen was shapeless and at least two sizes larger than Natalie wore, with a tiny belt and a high-necked collar. Ugh. Not very attractive. No heels either, just basic flats in matte black. Again, not a fashion statement. No earrings, a “sensible” watch that she learned meant no sparkle, no color, no texture. Just black. Or tan. He’d purchased a small gold cross and asked that she wear it on the outside of her dress. Robert had told her his mother was a bit strange, eccentric was the word he used, and very religious. Maybe that’s why he’d asked that she limit her makeup to mascara and a pale pink lipstick. That was almost as bad as asking a chocoholic to swear off chocolate, but she’d done it, because finally, after all this time, she was going to meet Marjorie Trimble.
Robert’s mother was the last obstacle before the engagement ring. He could have asked her to wear a sack and she’d have done it. One night with his mother, maybe another, two tops, and Natalie was positive he’d propose. Hadn’t they spent months talking about the proposal? Her insides fluttered at the thought of marrying Robert. Such a kind and gentle man who absolutely worshipped her. What more could she want, except to one day carry his children and enjoy a home surrounded by a family that loved her, accepted her for who she was, not what she had been.
Robert cleared his throat and Natalie swung her gaze to his. “You look beautiful.” He took her hands, kissed one, then the other. “I’m a very lucky man.”
“Yes, you are.” She leaned in, kissed him on the mouth. “Now let’s go meet your mother.”
He pulled back, his kind eyes filled with worry. “I told you my mother’s very proper, old school.”
“I know, I know.” Natalie hid a smile, kept the humor from her voice. “No swearing, no touching, no snarky comments.” Nobody could be more difficult than Lydia Servetti, not even Marjorie Trimble.
Two hours later, Natalie was quite certain there was no one breathing who could be more difficult than Robert’s mother. The woman sat at the head of the long, linen-covered dining room table, her beady eyes studying Natalie from behind thick glasses. Thin and bony with gnarled fingers and more wrinkles than a grape left in the hot sun for five days. If there was a shred of kindness in the woman, Natalie couldn’t find it: not in the expression, the words, the gestures. Not even when speaking with her son. Robert had called her prim and set in her ways, but he’d neglected to mention that her ways resembled a dictator’s and he was her servant.
He’d also neglected to mention that she had no idea Natalie was his girlfriend or that she gave manicures, pedicures, and facials for a living. Natalie slid her boyfriend a look from across the table, but he didn’t return it because he was busy cutting his mother’s chicken.
“Smaller pieces, Robert. You know I could choke.”
“Yes, Mother.” He proceeded to cut the pieces in half, scraping the plate with each cut.
Marjorie eyed Natalie, squinted. “Robert says you keep books in a hair salon.”
Not exactly. She did add up the daily receipts and take the deposit to the bank, but that wasn’t exactly “keeping the books.” Still, Robert said his mother might warm to her faster if Natalie didn’t mention the nails and facials. Why not, she’d wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Yes, ma’am.”
A Family Affair: The Wish: Truth in Lies, Book 9 Page 16