Worth the Wait (McKinney/Walker #1)

by Claudia Connor

  MIA SIGHED AND SLOWLY came back to herself, feeling heavy and weightless at the same time. Her breathing slowed, the sound of the water in the distance returned. Nick had rolled so that she lay half across him. His jeans were on, but his chest was bare, as was hers.

  His eyes were closed, and she traced her fingers lightly over his face, his lips. Gorgeous like a dark pirate with the mouth of an angel. His jaw was slightly shadowed even though she knew he would have shaved that morning. She traced his cheekbones, his brows, noted his long, dark lashes.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  He made a deep sound in his throat like he disagreed. She sighed again, loving that he was relaxed, that she had something to do with it. She stretched her hand over his wide chest, down his muscled arm, then back up.

  She felt his heart beating under her palm. Her hand slid lower over defined ridges that she hadn’t had the courage to explore before now. Both nearly naked in the woods, having just done the deed for the first time. Her first time ever, which he instinctively knew even though she hadn’t said it outright. When it came to her, Nick just knew things.

  Her hand continued a slow exploration, grazing the line of hair that led under his jeans. When she started to slip under the edge, he groaned, covered her hand, and brought it up to his lips. He kissed each of her fingers then twined them with his. She smiled at the gesture, then more when he brought their joined hands to the center of his chest.

  Even though they’d held hands like this just a few minutes ago, it was different now that they’d made love, and they would walk out of the woods differently than when they’d gone in. She’d never hear a waterfall and not remember this day. Never shuffle her feet through fall leaves and the scent of earth and not think of Nick.

  “Your hands are big,” she said, pressing her open palm against his, smiling at the way he could curl his fingers over the tips of hers. His big hands that bore such strength but were gentle enough to touch her like she was spun glass. And the way those hands and fingers had touched her… her body still felt hot. Some places burned. She smiled to herself, felt her cheeks flush. “Everything is big.”

  “Your hands are so small.” He brought her hand down and looked at her. “Everything about you is small.”

  She shivered at the look in his deep, brown eyes. For all the glorious male beauty of his body, it was his eyes that caught her. Made all the air back up in her lungs and her heart feel stuck in her throat.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” She blushed and looked away. “I mean… it hurt, a little, but it was perfect.”

  “I’m sorry.” He touched her face. “I hate the thought of hurting you. It won’t hurt as much next time.”

  Heat bloomed and spread at the thought of next time.

  She buried her nose in his neck, inhaling the scent she loved so much—not cologne, just a faint aftershave and, most of the time, something of Hannah, baby shampoo and graham crackers. It all rolled and wrapped up and became Nick. “You know, my parents specifically told me not to fall in love with a boy in Virginia.”

  “And did you?”

  She rose up and over him to meet his eyes. “Very much.”

  He touched her cheek, held back the long strands of her hair that fell around them. “Are you sorry?”

  “Not even a little. Volim te,” she said slowly, in her grandmother’s native tongue.

  “Ah. She speaks. Now tell me what it means.”

  “It means I love you, Nick Walker.”

  His mouth curved in a slow smile, and he caught the back of her head. “I love you, too,” he said against her lips. “I loved you yesterday. I’ll love you tomorrow. Every day.”

  Her heart swelled hearing what he’d already shown her in a thousand ways. Her lips parted and the kiss deepened, a kind of sealing on the words, a promise.

  And after that, there was never a question, never a thought. They just were. Nick and Mia. Always.

  Chapter 6

  Present day…

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, MIA SAT behind her desk, going through her appointment schedule. She’d just finished up a session with the empty nester, their third in two weeks. She smiled, thinking of the progress they’d made. Having the husband in, thinking of new activities they could do together, had helped. It also helped him understand her feelings and her need for a new purpose.

  He seemed kind and very much in love with his wife. The way he took her hand to both give and receive comfort. They were coming back to each other.

  She rearranged some things to accommodate the husband’s travel schedule then closed her book. With no more appointments, she had nothing left to do but go home to her quiet house. It was a fifteen-minute drive without traffic, and she spent the time flipping through radio stations. Her small two-bedroom sat on a quaint street where mostly young families lived. While her garage door opened, she waved to a man and woman walking a dog. After she pulled in and cut off the engine, she sat for a second.

  Like her patient, the sudden and immediate void of things to do didn’t free up energy. It left her feeling tired. Going from so much to do, she never seemed to have time to get to it all, so little every minute she was at home dragged like hours.

  Her dad had always said you could tell a lot about who lived in a house by looking in their garage. Messy or neat. Active or not. Sports or other hobbies. Kids or no kids and their ages. Was it the man’s domain or a free-for-all? Were the items used, or did they gather cobwebs?

  In her case, her father would have been very wrong. She’d only been in this house for a year or so—not long enough to collect loads of clutter, and she was only one person. But there was enough. A navy stroller sat neat and tidy just beside her driver’s-side door. The oversized bag she’d used for the park hung on a lone hook.

  With a resigned sigh, she gathered her purse and went in through the attached door to the kitchen. A mass-produced oil painting hung on the main wall, and a fuzzy white rug lay under the coffee table. Bright-red throw pillows and a cream blanket graced the neutral couch. Her matching chair and ottoman made a cozy reading spot by the window. She saw it all as she dropped her purse and keys on the counter. But more, she saw what wasn’t there.

  There was no basket of plastic stacking rings and board books. No jumpy seat rimmed with toys to keep a crawling baby out of trouble while she made dinner. And the smells…it just smelled like a house. A quiet, candle-scented house for one. The silence of it could be deafening.

  She heated up what was left of her single-serve baked ziti from the night before. She went through the movements without thought like she was repeating an act in a play. She got out the frozen bread from the freezer, broke off a piece. Thirty seconds in the microwave then a minute in the oven on broil.

  She punched the television remote on her way out of the room to kill the silence. Then she sped down the short hallway, knowing she had exactly enough time to strip out of her skirt, top, and bra and pull on yoga pants and a pajama shirt before the bread burned.

  Like every other night, she ate with the plate in her lap, in front of the TV. She’d almost finished catching up on four seasons of another cable show. It didn’t take her long. She watched them one after the other, with her single servings of food in her otherwise-silent home.

  Kind of pathetic really. She should get a dog. She would get a dog… she’d go to the shelter. She’d been about to get a dog just before she’d gotten the call that had changed her life.

  “We have a baby for you. A newborn baby girl.”

  In an instant, she’d forgotten all about getting a dog. The day Savannah had been placed in her arms had been the best day of her life. It had changed her, made her a mother, expanded her heart to love in ways she hadn’t even known. And then eight months later, she’d gotten another call that would change her.

  “The biological mother is contesting the adoption.”

  No. She hadn’t been able to get even that one word out, listening in horror, the sound of her puls
e in her ears, her greatest fear coming true. She listened, asked questions, but the questions hadn’t mattered any more than the answers. Not the legalese or the explanations. Who’d signed or when or underage or coercion. None of it mattered.

  She’d had nine months with her. How could you love someone so much in just nine months? But she’d loved Savannah beyond anything imaginable after one day.

  She might have fought it, dragged it out, ripping Savannah back and forth, even though the lawyer for the adoption agency said the biological mother had a much stronger case. Still, she could have hung on a year, maybe two. But how much worse would it have been then? For her, but mostly for Savannah.

  She hadn’t done any of the things she would advise her patients to do. Hadn’t given away any baby things, though she had moved them from the main room. She hadn’t taken down the crib or found a new use for the small second bedroom. She hadn’t let go. She couldn’t let go.

  She understood grief, knew people dealing with grief moved at their own pace, so she was giving herself time. It wasn’t working even when she pretended it was. Her pain was growing like a cancer.

  The memories were like still shots in her mind. First smile. First cereal. Rolling over. Sitting up.

  And now there was just this terrible void. How was Savannah? How big was she? That’s what cut the deepest, what made her pulse race and her heart bleed. The not knowing.

  She tried to picture her bigger, older, with more teeth. Tried to picture her being held and loved by another, but when it came to her child, picturing wasn’t knowing. Savannah’s biological mother had agreed to keep her updated through the adoption agency. She’d received exactly one photo—only one—with a note simply stating, She’s doing good.

  That was seven months ago. Savannah, her baby, one day there, the next day gone, and to where? Was it hot? Cold? Was she warm enough? Even knowing she was driving herself crazy didn’t make her stop. Like sprinting in the wrong direction and still you couldn’t make yourself pull back, turn around.

  She grabbed her cell and dialed the adoption agency’s lawyer. She’d been calling for weeks with no reply, but still, she waited for the option to leave another message.

  “Hi, this is Mia James. I was calling to see if I could get information on an adoption. On a…” She struggled for wording. “On the child that I adopted.” She didn’t say “the one that was taken from me.” She didn’t trust her voice for that. “I’ve called three times this week, and I’d appreciate it if Mr. Stamper would call me back. Thank you.”

  She hung up, thinking she should have been more forceful, should have said all that she was thinking and had planned to say. Like, If you don’t call me back I’m going to come to your office and demand some answers. I’ll drive the six hours if I have to, but you’re not going to leave me hanging like this. Just thinking it brought angry, frustrated tears to her eyes.

  Minutes later, she stared at the rocking glider in the empty nursery, not even realizing she’d walked down the hall. She did it often, paused to stare into the empty room she had to pass on the way to her own.

  Framed Peter Rabbit prints hung on pale-blue walls. The dark-wood furniture—a crib, a changing table, and a tall bookshelf—all sat exactly as they had been. Sometimes it seemed all her happiness was bottled up in this room.

  She moved in slowly and silently to sit in the glider. If the happiness was there, why couldn’t she feel it? Nights were the hardest. The memories of evening baths and slow rocking were still so fresh. She crossed her empty arms over her chest and rocked.

  Savannah wasn’t dead, Mia reminded herself. She wasn’t really gone. But it was a loss, and she felt the pain of it in every cell of her body. She tried to imagine Savannah happy and playing, growing and being rocked by another. Hot tears burned her eyes, dripped into her lap. No surprise. They were common and frequent whether she tortured herself in here or went straight to bed. It didn’t make much difference.

  She rubbed her hands over the pale-yellow chenille fabric she’d had the baby store rush order for her. She’d rocked Savannah in this nursery, in this very chair, on her first night home. Every night. Then on that last night, all night. Rocked and kissed and sang “Pretty Little Horses” until she was hoarse and her throat felt like shards of glass.

  She told herself she only wanted the information they’d promised. God, how she’d pored over that photo she’d gotten. Savannah’s baby-soft hair was a little longer; the golden curls were fuller. But were her eyes red? Had she been crying? She rarely cried. Did they know what to do when she did? What she liked? Had she cried that day she’d been returned to her biological parents?

  She’d come to hate that term, biological, with such passion.

  It had all been so methodical, so carefully orchestrated and civil. She’d handed her baby over to a social worker in one room then was escorted out of the building before her daughter’s real mother was to arrive and receive her baby.

  There had been a delay, a blessing and a curse, giving her additional seconds to hold her for the last time. Then more waiting because the biologicals weren’t even there. Her heart was ripped from her body, and they weren’t even there, waiting.

  She felt as if she were breaking apart bit by bit. It was the same when she’d lost Nick, trying to live without him those first nights. Many nights. Weeks. Months. She’d gotten through it. Gotten over it. Savannah was different, but she’d survive.

  Savannah’s baby book was on the shelf above the rack still filled with dresses she’d worn and bigger sizes Mia had bought for the future. She started to reach for the book, knowing she would pore over it. She would cry herself into a puffy-eyed headache.

  At the last second, she grabbed a large decorative box serving as a bookend. She couldn’t say for sure why she’d put it in this room. Maybe because with Savannah in her life, it could finally be a happy box that held happy memories with hundreds of photos she’d saved over the years. Photos of her with Nick, others of the three of them: herself and Nick and Hannah. Ticket stubs and small seemingly unremarkable moments, but added together made something grand.

  She sat on the floor and removed the lid. There were drawings Hannah had made for her and birthday cards with flowers and puppies added to the inside with crayon. Mia laid each one carefully on the carpet next to her. She pulled out a picture Hannah’s first-grade teacher had taken of the two of them together at Hannah’s Author Tea.

  She went through each picture, smiling at the memories. Happy times, she thought. Good times. But the brighter the light, the more pronounced the shadows. How differently she’d pictured her life back then. All their plans and certainty. Losing Savannah had left a hole, but Nick and all that they’d lost had left one years before that.

  She closed her eyes, fighting against the pull of sadness. Not healthy. Not productive. She put all the pictures and memorabilia back in the box, replaced the lid on the past, and slid it into the floor of the closet. The silence of the house was so loud. The sound of being alone.

  I really need to get a dog.

  * * *

  NICK FOUGHT HIS WAY through Monday’s early-afternoon traffic to the hospital. The only reason he wasn’t risking life and limb to get there was that Hannah had called him from the ER herself. She’d had a pretty bad panic attack, but she was fine. That’s all she would say, over and over: “I’m fine.” It should have helped.

  The nightmare he’d been flung into hearing the words Hannah and hospital in the same sentence had flung him back to a time when Hannah wasn’t able to say she was fine. Or anything else.

  This is not then.

  His fingers choked the steering wheel then pounded against it. He knew something like this was going to happen, fucking knew it. Why couldn’t she just listen to him? He drummed his hand against the steering wheel again.

  But she wasn’t hurt. Not physically, hadn’t been in an accident. He’d seen things on the job that had given him plenty of bad moments, seen the dark side of human nature,
had worked with people who’d been killed on the job. But nothing gutted him like the memories of his sister’s pain. So no, he didn’t want her to spread her wings. Not if there was a risk she could be hurt again. A panic attack? So bad she’d gone to the hospital? If this had anything to do with Stephen Fucking McKinney, he was going to kill him.

  An hour later, Nick sat with Hannah, trying to rein in his worry and deal with exactly what had happened. He tried his best to listen and hear his sister telling him she was okay. When he couldn’t sit still any longer, he went in search of the doctor. If they weren’t keeping her, he wanted her out of there. And if she needed to be there, then they sure as hell should be doing something.

  He hated hospitals, felt like he was coming out of his skin just being inside these sterile white walls with the white floors and quiet staff who always knew more about the people you loved than you did. He sought out a doctor with no luck—not surprising—then hit the bathroom. He wasn’t gone more than fifteen minutes, but when he returned, Hannah wasn’t alone.

  He almost stumbled, caught himself, then froze when he saw the back of a woman sitting at Hannah’s bedside. It didn’t matter that almost a decade had passed. He would have known that dark hair anywhere. It belonged to the other piece of his heart. The one who’d left him. His breath left him on one word. “Mia.”

  Chapter 7

  NICK.

  Mia heard before she saw. Just his voice. Just the one word. So strange the way the mind wove sound with emotion. It hit her hard and fast, and a shiver ran through her. She closed her eyes for a beat, thankful he couldn’t see her face.