by Anna Paige
“With no family to ask for bone marrow, the odds were slim that we’d find a donor but we kept hoping. I tried to find a way to track down my birth family but it was a dead end. I reached out to Amelia’s father’s family, but they thought I was trying to get a sample of his DNA so I could prove paternity and press assault charges or sue for support.”
The sound of a wooden mixing spoon slamming onto the counter was so sudden and loud that I yelped, hand cupping my aching head.
Spencer didn’t turn. He placed both palms flat on the counter, shoulders bunched so high they nearly touched his ears as he practically growled. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. How in the hell could someone be that callous? How could they stand back and do nothing while a child died? Jesus fucking Christ.” He blew out a breath and stood there for a moment, stewing. I knew the feeling well.
“I said the same thing. The guy’s mother snottily pointed out that some people matter and some don’t. Then the line went dead. Two days later, after repeated unanswered calls from me, they changed the number.” I suddenly wanted to make my coffee Irish. Very Irish.
Spencer turned and met my eye, his tone deadly. “All I need is his name. Two little words. I haven’t pushed you to tell me anything and I won’t start now, but I will tell you that if you can give me those two words, I’ll make goddamn sure he never hurts anyone again.”
Tears threatened, and not for the first time that morning. The look in his eyes left no question that he was serious. All I had to do was give him a name and he would avenge something that happened ten years ago to a woman he barely knew.
The notion was so touching, I nearly lost it.
I had to fight to clear my throat, swallowing down a surge of emotion. “Thank you. I mean that. But I’m not interested in revenge, not anymore. I’m a firm believer that what goes around comes around. Karma will catch up to him, if it hasn’t already. He’s no longer relevant to my life because I don’t allow it.” The strength in my voice surprised even me. “Despite what his icy-hearted mother thinks, I’m better than him. I don’t hurt people, even the ones that probably deserve it.”
Spencer only nodded, the look on his face a combination of respect and disappointment. He’d been spoiling for a fight.
I forced myself to see the story through, feeling compelled to pour out my heart to this wonderful, bossy, protective man. “He was a star athlete, from an affluent family with political aspirations. When everything happened back in college, I was made to understand that any charges against him, any scandal at all, would be met with a level of retaliation against which I couldn’t win. I was reminded at every turn that I’d be wasting my time to cry rape. It was senior year, I was barely showing by graduation so I kept to myself and never said a word against him. Derek didn’t believe me, was convinced I’d been whoring around and was trying to lie my way out of it so he’d stay and help me raise another man’s kid.” I blew out a harsh breath. “So he left. And I was on my own for it all, even losing her. I still wonder if one of my biological parents or someone from her father’s side could have saved her. That’s the hardest part.”
As if reading my mind, Spencer reached up and snared my cup, adding a couple shots of Scotch and handing it back, smiling through clenched teeth. “Hair of the dog. I’d join you but I’m driving us today.” He took a skillet from the hanging rack and moved to the stove.
“Thanks. I needed that.” I sipped for a while and watched him move around my kitchen like he did it every day. My kitchen was usually my domain but I wasn’t as unnerved as I would have thought at seeing someone else in it. “Amelia loved to cook with me,” I told him, visions of cake batter spattered counters and frosting fights making me smile. “She was the best sous chef I ever had.”
I stood—carefully, to avoid another wave of dizziness—and padded over to the entry table in the foyer, looking for my favorite picture of her. I snagged it and a small photo book before returning to the counter. I turned the photo so Spencer could see. “This is Amelia’s third birthday.” I waited for him to wipe his hands on a dish towel and step over. “Ali helped us bake the cake—lemon cake with cream cheese frosting because Amelia loved all things yellow—we made a huge mess. There was batter on the ceiling, on the walls, in our hair.” I laughed at the memory as he took hold of the framed photo with a smile.
“She looked just like you. Absolutely beautiful.” He looked up at me with kind eyes. “I wish I could have met her.”
That lump in my throat was back, forcing me to swallow. I thumbed through the photo book and pointed to a picture of her in her yellow princess dress, one she wore until it was barely holding together. “She always told everyone that she loved yellow because it was the color of her mommy’s hair. I tried to explain the word blonde to her but she wasn’t the least bit interested. To her, it was yellow. Or yeddow, as she pronounced it.” I smiled softly and flipped through the album, nodding again as Spencer looked on.
“Here she is playing dress up with Ali. Amelia loved to do makeup and Ali never passed up a chance for a makeover.” In the photo, Amelia’s hospital bed had been transformed into a beauty counter, covered with every possible shade of blush, eyeshadow, and lipstick. There were brushes and sponges everywhere. Sitting alongside the bed, Ali had green eye shadow from her lids to an inch above her brows, lipstick smeared nearly up to her nose, and the biggest damn smile I’d ever seen. It was adorable.
Spencer burst out laughing at the sight and pointed for me to keep flipping, casting a quick glance at the stove to prevent our breakfast from scorching. “Show me some of you getting a makeover. I bet those are priceless.”
I slammed the book shut. “Uh-uh, buster. I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, thank you. You’ll have to see my glamour shots another time.”
He smirked at me slyly. “If they’re anything like what I saw in that shower, I look forward to it.”
I groaned and let my head fall into my hands, embarrassed but thankful for the topic change. I knew he’d done it on purpose to bail me out. “Dammit. I tried to cover everything,” I muttered in defeat.
His hand gripped my wrist, tugging gently until I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “I was just messing with you, sweetheart. I didn’t see anything like that and what little of you I did see was absolutely flawless, so stop being so self-conscious. You’re beautiful.”
He kept his hold on my wrist, firm but not aggressive. As he watched me, his thumb rubbed back and forth across my pulse point, making my whole arm tingle.
I somehow smiled through my embarrassment. “Thank you. It was more a matter of mortification in general at having to be hauled out of the shower.” The truth was, I didn’t have issues with self-esteem. I knew what my body looked like and I supposed some people would see it as flawless. It was the flawlessness that I had a problem with, but that was my issue, not his, and he had no way of knowing about my odd hang-up.
“Would it make you feel better to know that I was hauled out of a shower once myself?” He smiled.
I considered a moment. “Maybe. Depends on the circumstances.”
He walked over to attend the omelets. “I was shit-faced after my twenty-first birthday party and somehow ended up passing out, fully clothed, in the shower. I was visiting my parents, so technically it was their shower. Dad went to get ready for work the next morning and there I was, huddled in the far corner of the shower, soaked to the skin and being drenched with ice-cold water that I’d left on the night before.” He chuckled as he expertly flipped and folded the omelet. “Dad was pissed. I mean really pissed. He dragged me out by my feet—still in my brand new hundred-dollar cross-trainers by the way—and let my head hit every bump between there and the garage. He left me on the concrete floor to dry out and went about his regular routine.”
I laughed at the picture in my mind of Spencer curled up on the garage floor. “So, he just left you there?”
He nodded. “Yep. Until he got ready to leave. He walked right by me on the w
ay to his car, cussed me for the lack of hot water, and crawled in. Then he hit the button to open the garage door behind him and laid on the horn while the bumper was still about six inches from my head.” He cringed at the memory. “He didn’t let up until he was halfway down the block.”
I nearly fell off my chair laughing. The resulting cranial agony was totally worth it.
“You see, chuckles? Could have been worse. At least I was gentle.” He placed my plate in front of me and grinned.
I carefully extracted a steaming forkful of my breakfast and scoffed. “Not the same thing. You were dressed and there was no real embarrassment. Call me when some hottie has to peel your clumsy, naked ass off the shower floor.”
He wiggled his brows wickedly. “Did you just imply that you think I’m hot?”
I never chewed a mouthful of food so slowly in my life. And damned if he wasn’t content to wait me out forever.
When I had the next bite nearly to my lips, pretending for all the world that he wasn’t waiting for my answer, he once again snagged my wrist.
I looked at my fork and did one of those long slow blinks that accompany the mustering of courage but he took pity on me and spoke before I could form the words.
“I was just messing with you, sweetheart.” He laughed softly and released me. “And—for the record—you’re rather hot yourself. Now, quit your blushing and finish the gourmet breakfast I worked so hard to prepare. You still need to get ready and we have to meet Ali’s mom shortly.”
How did he keep doing that? One minute he’s calling me sweetheart and making my heart skip, and the next he’s pulling that ‘I’m in charge’ voice that makes me want to kick him in the shins.
Maybe if I feigned dizziness I could get him close enough to take a shot at him.
Then again, maybe it was better if I kept him as far away as possible. At least until I could drown out the pounding in my head long enough to convince myself he was bad for me.
I watched him quietly eating his breakfast, casting occasional glances my way, still worried about my injuries. His dark eyes were unusually kind when he looked at me. I wanted so much to... No. I couldn’t.
He’d hurt me if I let him.
Just like all the others.
Wouldn’t he?
Spencer
I STOOD OUTSIDE Talia’s bedroom door while she dressed. After breakfast, she’d still been a little unsteady on her feet, so I insisted on staying close. She’d balked initially, but eventually gave in when she realized I wasn’t backing down. She went into her room and was mostly silent until a series of thumps drew me closer to the door, calling out to her in the still air. She huffed and answered back, “I’m fine. Stupid hanger didn’t want to let go of my favorite jeans. I won the battle, though, so don’t come busting in. I’ve got it.”
I snickered at her affronted tone. “Maybe you should keep talking so I don’t rush in to save you and catch you half-naked or something.”
“Pfft. Like that would be any worse than what you’ve already seen today.” More rustling sounds. “So, the way I see it, I’ve spilled my guts to you at least twice and to my booze-addled recollection, you have yet to share anything equally personal. How about you do the talking and I’ll throw out the occasional ‘uh huh’ to let you know I’m still alive in here? Deal?”
Well, shit. I’d hoped to avoid any more heavy topics for the remainder of the day. No such luck. “Depends. What exactly do you want to know? I mean, if you’re looking to even things up, I can strip down and lay on the shower floor. How’s that? Just remember to lift with your legs, not your back.”
She giggled. “Sorry, chuckles. That’s not what I had in mind.”
“Hey, wait. You’re chuckles, remember?” I teased.
“Nope. I’m sweetheart, but nice try with the distraction. Now spill it, Spence. I know you have a story. Everyone does.”
I blew out a breath and tugged at my wrinkled shirt, flattening it across my chest with my palm. “I’m kind of boring, really. Just ask Clay.”
“Nope. I’m asking you. Let’s start with your status. Girlfriend? FWB? Neither? Both?” Her voice echoed oddly through the door as she moved around the room beyond.
“Neither. Divorced.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say that was a while ago? You can’t have been completely on your own since then.” She sounded doubtful, as if there were no way that were true.
“‘Fraid so. I’ve been too busy with work to even notice, really.” A total lie. I’d noticed. I just tried my best to ignore it.
She was quiet for a while, hopefully busy dressing and not standing there gaping at the closed door with slack-jawed consternation. “I guess I can understand that,” she hedged. “I’m not exactly a social butterfly either. I’m usually at the restaurant every day.”
I nodded to myself. “I’m usually at the office or in meetings or scouting job sites. It’s exhausting but I thrive on it.”
“Was it like that even when you were married? I mean, did you still work so much even when you had someone to go home to?”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you sweetheart?” I had to give her points for bravery.
“Not with the guy who—after less than twenty-four hours—knows most of my life story and what I look like in a towel. Sorry, not sorry.” Her tone was teasing but she still expected an answer. And she really did look great in a towel, so I sort of owed her for that, not to mention how forthcoming she’d been with her own background.
“Point taken. To answer your question—no. I didn’t work as much back then. Most of the time we were just as busy as we are now, but I didn’t take the work home with me. Once I left the office it was just her and me.” I tried to disconnect the memory from the words and nearly succeeded.
My mind flashed to quiet nights on the couch, watching movies and laughing. It had been so easy, so comfortable. So false. Just the thought of it all set my teeth on edge. God, I’d been so stupid.
“So, what happened?” There was a moment of soft rattling, the sound of a makeup bag being rifled through. Not that she needed it.
I took a deep breath and contemplated returning to the kitchen to finish off her Irish coffee. “Different life goals.”
She made a tsking sound. “You’ll have to do better than that. And shouldn’t you have discussed your goals with each other before tying the knot?”
“We did. Her goals changed.” I thought about that a minute and shook my head, not that Talia could see. “Or maybe the problem was she lied about her goals from the beginning and I was too gullible to realize it.”
“I can’t picture you as gullible. I’m betting you were just blinded by love, but I don’t know what exactly happened, so it’s just speculation on my part.”
I really didn’t want to go into it, not on the heels of her revelation about Amelia, but I felt compelled to give her the truth. She’d done the same for me. “We started trying to get pregnant on our one-year anniversary. There was this huge feeling of anticipation once the decision was made. It was amazing. She was so excited to be a mom and I couldn’t wait for the time to come when I would walk in from work and see her there, belly swollen with my child—to know that I’d helped create a whole new person who I could guide and protect, a little boy or girl who looked like me. I’ve wanted to be a dad for as long as I can remember.”
I shuffled back and forth on my feet, nervous energy called forth by the topic of conversation. “We planned out everything from names, to nurseries, to preschools, but every month we were disappointed. Ivey—that’s her name—became discouraged after a while and we began talking about fertility treatments. We started the treatments and every month was the same as before. She got more withdrawn with each negative test, and nothing I did made it any better.”
Talia made a soft sympathetic sound but said nothing.
“After nearly a year of the drugs, Ivey started having seizures. It scared the living shit out of me. The doctors couldn’t explain it and
she refused to stop taking the drugs, even though I begged her to. I told her she was more important and that it wasn’t worth her life but she wouldn’t be reasoned with.”
“So, was that the reason for the split?”
I leaned my back against the doorjamb and sighed, sliding down to sit on the floor. “No, not at all. The problem was that after two months of her randomly falling into fucking convulsions and me begging her not to die on me, I found out the reason for the seizures.” My jaw clenched and I spoke through gritted teeth. “She’d secretly been getting the birth control shot all along and it was reacting with the other medications. She didn’t want a baby, she just wanted me to think she did. She would rather die than have a baby. That’s what she told me when I confronted her.” I could still hear her voice in my ears, like a goddamn gavel slamming down. Case closed. “She only agreed to try for children to appease me while she slowly siphoned off money from our savings and made plans to leave.”
The door swung open and Talia peered out at me, saying nothing as her eyes took in my rigid stance and clenched fists. I jumped to my feet and folded my arms over my chest, trying to look unaffected.
Her eyes shone with emotion as she walked out and turned to stand in front of me, pulling my arms away from my chest. “She’d rather die than have a child and I’d gladly give my life if I could get mine back.” She stepped into me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, hugging me tightly to her. “You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that, Spencer.” She whispered into my neck.
I returned her embrace and buried my nose in her golden hair, breathing in her scent and feeling the tension in my body slowly ebb. “Neither did you, sweetheart. Neither did you.”