by Nina Lane
“Fancy meeting you here,” I remark, resting my hand on his chest. “I was beginning to think you were camping out up in the tower.”
He lifts my hand from his chest and rubs his thumb over the scar, now faded to a thin, white line, that crosses my palm. He presses his lips against it, sending a warm current clear up my arm.
Tension coils through him—but it’s not the hot, anticipatory tension that always precedes our lovemaking. Instead it’s something darker.
I curl my fingers into my palm, hiding the faint evidence of the knife cut that Dean will always feel guilty about. Even if I carry plenty of blame for instigating the chain of events that led to me cutting open my own hand.
I lean closer to him, nudging my breasts against his arm. He smells clean and soapy, and a tiny drop of water still clings to his neck from his damp hair. I flick my tongue out to lick up the drop, feeling the responding shudder that courses through him.
I stroke his chest again, teasing my fingers over the ridges of his abdomen, down past the flat plane of his belly and below the sheet. He’s wearing drawstring pajama pants, and I wiggle my hand beneath the waistband. He doesn’t turn toward me the way he usually does, but he doesn’t try to stop me either.
My sex is starting to pulse. I slide my hand lower to touch the warm, silky skin of his cock.
“Come on, Dean,” I whisper, closing my hand around his shaft. “Make me feel good.”
A heavy breath escapes him as he brings his hand up to the back of my head, guiding my mouth to his. Stars explode inside me when our lips meet in a hot, gentle kiss that is both like the thousands of kisses we’ve shared before and yet somehow entirely different.
I open my mouth on a moan, letting him in, loving the sweep of his tongue over mine. Heat travels through me, flickering over my veins. Dean’s cock stiffens in my hand, the warm, pulsing flesh making me clench my thighs with anticipation.
“Take these off,” I say, tugging ineffectually at his pants.
He pushes them off and drops them to the floor, then pulls my nightgown over my head. His eyes darken with lust as he rakes his gaze over my naked body—my full breasts and all the hollows and curves he knows so well.
“You are so damned incredible,” he murmurs, cupping my breasts in his hands and rubbing his thumbs gently over my nipples.
A spool of lust begins to unwind inside me, and my sex dampens in response to my husband’s erotic ministrations. I lift my face to his, aching for his kiss. He eases me back against the pillows and brings his mouth to mine. The heat of his body covers me, his hard chest pressing against my breasts. I wind my legs around his thighs and surrender to his sweeping kiss, the stroke of his tongue, the growing urgency coiling through his muscles.
Bliss.
The word dances through my mind like a dandelion fluff on the breeze. I murmur his name, driving my fingers into his thick hair and holding him to me. Arousal courses through my blood. I part my legs wider, urging him to settle between them. His erection nudges against my thigh, the feel of the smooth, damp head ratcheting up my arousal.
“Oh, God, Dean,” I whisper, stroking my palm down his gorgeous chest. “I’m already hot.”
“You’ve always been hot.” A wicked glint flashes in his eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs to finger my pussy. “Ah fuck, hot and wet too. You’re killing me here, Mrs. West. I was trying to go slow.”
“You don’t have to go slow.” I wiggle underneath him, aching to feel his big cock thrusting into me, swift and possessive. “I’m ready.”
He reaches down to grasp his shaft and position it right at my slit. A tremble of anticipation rocks through me. I pull him down to me, driving my tongue into his mouth as his hard, pulsing shaft slides into me with delicious—
A gasp tears from my throat. Pain shoots through my left breast, a stinging burn like a flame. My whole body stiffens in sudden defense.
“What?” Dean jerks away from me, his hands going up. “What’s wrong?”
I force in a breath and sit up, clutching my breast.
“Liv, what happened?” Alarm edges his voice.
Stay calm, I tell myself. I look at my breast, half expecting to see a burn or a cut, but it looks the same as always. I put my hand out to Dean.
“It’s… it’s okay. Just a twinge.”
“That was more than a twinge.” He starts to move closer, then backs away, like he’s scared to touch me again. “Do you want me to call Dr. Anderson?”
I shake my head, hating that this fucking disease—and the mention of my doctor—have ruined much-needed intimacy with my husband.
“No, it’s getting better. Sometimes there are just random pains.” The words sound hollow. I pat the bed beside me and try to smile. “Come back here. It’s fine, really.”
He hesitates, and I see his urge to hurry to the computer to find an explanation, even though we already know cancer is the explanation.
“Dean, I’m fine. Please come back to bed.”
Finally he lies back down beside me, though he’s still tense and the desire between us has evaporated. He pulls me to him with caution, as if he’s still afraid he’ll hurt me by touching me. Never before has my husband been afraid of touching me.
We’re both silent. I stare at the ceiling. The physical pain has ebbed, but my heart aches.
Dean and I have learned so much through all the storms we’ve weathered in the past. We know how to stand together. So why now, of all times in the world, does it feel like we’re starting to fall apart?
Again?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
OLIVIA
December 14
“NEXT MONDAY?”
Acid boils into my chest. I tighten my grip on the phone.
“Yes,” the nurse replies. “December nineteenth. Dr. Turner wanted us to let you know he has a cancellation, so there’s an opening Monday at nine. We can schedule your surgery for that time.”
“What… what if I don’t take it?”
“Then you’ll have to keep your original appointment for after the holidays.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Monday is six days from now. As much as I want answers, this surgery could result in terrifying answers that unleash a firestorm of new questions. Terrifying questions.
Or not. The answers could also be good ones, insofar as anything related to cancer can be good. Or they could be inconclusive, that weird gray area where no one really knows what to do next.
But whatever the results, having the surgery sooner means the Christmas I was planning will be colored with worry. And Dr. Nolan told me I’ll need to have all my paperwork in order, like advanced care and next-of-kin directives. Dean has always ensured our family documents are up to date and rock-solid, but now we might actually have to use them.
And what about other stuff, the details that aren’t part of any legal paperwork? What if something goes wrong or they discover the cancer has spread and it’s worse than they originally thought…
“Mrs. West?” the nurse says. “Dr. Turner strongly recommends you have the surgery on Monday. You’ll need to be at the hospital by seven, and the surgery will take place at nine.”
My heart is beating too fast. I swallow and manage to say, “I… uh, can I call you back?”
“Yes, but please let me know as soon as you can. You’ll have to come in for the pre-surgical appointment on Friday. We have a three o’clock opening, if that works for you.”
“All right. I’ll call you back within the hour.”
I hang up the phone slowly and stare at the calendar. On Mondays, I’m scheduled to volunteer at Writer’s Workshop in Nicholas’s classroom. Bella has swimming lessons after school. Monday nights we usually have homemade pizza for dinner, and I need to make sure we have all the ingredients.
I pick up the phone to call Dean and tell hi
m about the surgery opening, but then I realize he’s in a lecture right now. I check his calendar on my phone. Lecture, then a meeting at the downtown public library, then office hours.
I grab my satchel and car keys and head to the Wonderland Café. After putting on my apron, I start to refill trays of truffles for the cold case.
Surgery next week?
My sense of foreboding deepens. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that the surgery is going to tell us something we don’t want to know.
“Liv, Archer just pulled up in back.” Allie pushes through the kitchen doors. “Is he here to check out the water damage on the floor?”
“Yes, I’ve talked to him about it already.” I go through the kitchen to meet Archer in the back parking lot, smiling at the sight of the dog Patch sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, his tongue lolling out.
“I guess you found him a new owner,” I remark as Archer comes around from the driver’s side.
He stops and glances at the dog. “Why do you say that?”
“His new owner’s name must be Archer West.”
Archer gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s not my fault he got attached to me.”
“Is he sleeping at the foot of your bed yet?” I ask.
“Kelsey still doesn’t want him in the house, but because it’s so cold out she lets him sleep in the laundry room. Only a few short steps from the kitchen.”
“I’ll bet you could make a deal with her,” I suggest. “Find the dog a new home in exchange for her hand in marriage.”
“I don’t just want her hand in marriage, Liv,” Archer replies. “I want her whole body and soul in marriage.”
I can’t help smiling. “Good one.”
Archer goes upstairs to the Wicked Witch’s Castle Room while I put the rest of the truffles into the cold case and check on a few customers. It’s our lunch rush, so the place is full, the noise of chatter and laughter rising into the air.
Upstairs, Archer is hunched down, examining the warped area of the hardwood floor near the wait station.
“Since the boards are still buckled, I should pull them up,” he tells me. “Dry out the subfloor, then replace the boards. I should be able to match the varnish pretty well, but it won’t be exact.”
“That’s fine, thanks.” I collect a few empty glasses and put them on a tray. “Do you think you can do it soon?”
“Sure, I’ll pick up the supplies on my way home.” He pushes to his feet. “I’m working at the garage tomorrow, but will you be here on Friday?”
“I don’t know. I might have—” an appointment so a surgeon can cut the cancer out of my breast.
My fingers suddenly clench on the tray, and it tilts. Two glasses slide off the edge and crash to the floor in a spray of splintered glass.
“Shit.” The curse breaks from me.
A few customers glance in our direction. I shove the tray onto the counter. My hands are shaking. I drop to my knees and start picking up the pieces of glass.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Archer grabs a trash can and crouches beside me, a crease between his eyebrows.
No, it’s not. It’s not okay.
There are light years of distance between me and okay.
My heart starts beating too fast. My lungs constrict. I struggle to pull in a breath and can’t. Panic encroaches, the black, suffocating cloud I thought I’d eradicated years ago. Cold stabs into me, needles of ice poking my bones.
“Liv?” Archer takes hold of my elbow, his face hazy in my blurred vision. “What…?”
“I can’t…” I try to force the words out with what little breath I have left. My throat closes over on a choked gasp.
Archer’s expression darkens with concern. He lets go of me and grabs his cell phone. Past the fear roaring in my ears, I hear his voice saying, “Dean.”
Faint relief curls through me as I remember that Dean has a meeting at the library, so he’s not far from me right now. But the relief doesn’t loosen the tightness gripping my chest. I can’t breathe.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Black spots swim in front of my eyes. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
Allie’s voice. A glass of water appears in my line of sight, but I can’t even reach for it. Archer is speaking again, his hands moving under my arms to help me stand. I’m shaking too hard.
I pull away from him and press my hands to the floor, the shards of glass like sand under my palms. I try to press harder with some vague notion that the pain will help.
The world spins. Dizziness fills my head. I can’t breathe.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right now.
“Liv.”
Dean’s deep voice washes over me. I feel the pressure of his hands as he grasps my shoulders and guides me into a sitting position. His arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest, into the V of his legs.
“Breathe,” he orders. “With me. Count of three. One… two… three.”
Even with him here, I can’t do it. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. I choke in a thin, shallow breath, one that will only keep me alive for another few seconds. I’m shaking so violently my teeth rattle.
“Stay with me, Liv,” Dean says, his voice a low, calm stream of reassurance. “You can do this. Try again. One, two…”
His chest moves with deep breaths against my back, in rhythm with his count. I clench my fists together, squeeze my eyes shut, and fight with everything I have left to make my lungs obey the screaming inside my head.
“Liv.” Dean tightens his grip, locking me against his body. “I need you to breathe. Listen to me. I need you to breathe.”
Something in that command penetrates the black fog. Dean’s legs are on either side of me. I manage to unclench my fists and put my hands on his thighs to grip the denim of his jeans. My palms sting. I start to feel the security of the hardwood floor beneath me, the solidity of my husband behind me.
“One,” Dean orders, his chest moving again against my back. “Two. Three. One. Two. Three.”
Impossibly, something loosens ever so slightly in my lungs. When Dean inhales, I choke down a shallow rush of air. He exhales. So do I.
Inhale. A bit deeper, this time. My vision starts to regain focus. Exhale.
“Good girl,” Dean says. “Again. One, two, three.”
We breathe together. It feels like an eternity. Count of five. Count of ten. Dean’s body heat begins to ease the cold. My heart rate slows. My lungs ache, but the constriction lessens until I’m able to breathe without pain.
I don’t know how long we sit there. Dean’s arms stay locked around me, his chest moving against my back in rhythm with every breath I take.
Slowly, I become aware that we’re still sitting on the floor of the café, noise rising from downstairs, but the room around us oddly quiet.
Oh, no.
No.
I open my eyes, blinking to clear my vision. Archer, Allie, and Sheryl are hovering near the door. One of them must have asked the customers to leave the room because the tables are empty. But I don’t know how many people witnessed my descent into panic. No one except Dean has ever seen me through a full-fledged attack.
Tears flood my eyes. Dean loosens his grip on me and gets to his feet, then reaches down to help me stand. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anyone.
“Liv, are you all right?” Sheryl hurries forward with another glass of water, her eyes dark with worry and her face pale.
Although I nod, I’m still shaking enough that I know I won’t be able to hold the glass. Dean takes it from Sheryl and turns, shielding me with his body as he lifts the glass to my mouth.
I take a couple of sips and force my gaze to his. His expression is a mask of pain and concern.
“Get me out of here,” I whisper.
He nods, t
urning to put the glass on a table. He’s saying something to the others, but I don’t bother to listen.
Tears of embarrassment and anger crawl up my chest and clog my throat. I manage to stave them off until we get into the car, then I press my face to my knees and surrender to the sobs that leave my throat raw and my body aching.
Dean puts his hand on the back of my neck and doesn’t move until the crushing storm has passed. I take a deep breath and straighten, pulling myself together.
“Let me see.” He takes my hands, turning my palms upward.
A few pinpricks of red mar my palms from the cut glass. Dean lifts my hands closer, picking a few tiny pieces of glass out. He brushes his fingers over my palms, his touch soft as cotton.
“What was it?” he asks gently.
“I… the surgeon’s nurse called me earlier.” My voice sounds very far away, faint and thin. “She said Dr. Turner had a cancellation, and they can fit me in for the surgery on Monday.”
His grip on my wrist tightens. “That’s good news, Liv.”
But nothing good ever triggers a panic attack. Only suffocating fear, the sense of being trapped, unable to get out…
“I knew you would say that.”
“It makes sense to get it done as soon as possible,” Dean says. “Once the surgery is over and we get the pathology report, we can make a plan for further treatment.”
We.
Since the day we met, it’s always been we and us. Everything we’ve been through has pulled us closer together. But this time, I’m the only one who has the sick, dreadful sense that the surgery will tell me something I don’t want to know.
A weight presses down on me. I have a strange flashback to the only Christmas I remember with my father, preserved in a single photograph of him and me. I was seven, and he’s sitting beside me, both of us smiling as I hold a big, stuffed bear with a red ribbon around its neck.
“What did you tell the nurse?” Dean asks.
“That I would call her back.”