Wyatt (Lane Brothers #1)

by Kristina Weaver

  That had been two days ago. Now, as well as having to dodge Vincent’s probing and nagging about the wedding—which I’m not one hundred percent sure is even going to happen—I have to listen to Parker rib me about my lack of willpower.

  “You shut up. You left me alone to fend for myself while you went to play with some business guy’s balls all night,” I volley back, keeping my amusement to myself when I hear him splutter his indignation.

  “That is going to be a very lucrative deal, I’ll have you know. I had to speak to him. I tried a few months back, and his company wasn’t interested, so I couldn’t exactly turn him down. I’m still wondering what made Eberson change his mind.”

  Oh, I think I have a very good idea what—who—had made the man change his mind, but I keep it to myself and instead pretend to listen when Parker starts going off about profit margins and expanding his portfolio.

  As if he even needs more money.

  “So how’s the painting coming along? Your first piece of the new series is still mine?”

  “Fine. And yes, a promise is a promise, even if you didn’t deliver your end of the deal,” I muse, eyeing the new landscape I’m doing with a critical eye.

  It’s one for my soon-to-be—maybe—husband, and I’m not sure if the storm clouds I’ve added are the right shade. Dammit, painting dark shit is harder than I’d thought, but they suit my seesawing moods perfectly.

  “What are you talking about? Blake made his move, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but he still hasn’t said anything about love,” I gripe.

  Those fucking clouds are bugging the crap outta me, and if I can’t fix them I’ll have to remove the whole half of this piece and start again.

  “Have you?”

  “What?”

  “Have you told him you love him yet? No, I already know the answer to that. Of course you haven’t,” he sighs, and I can just about see him roll his eyes and shake his head dismally.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what, Sis?” he finally asks, and I hear his tone grow more gentle. “He’ll either reciprocate your feelings, or he won’t, and then you’ll know and you can make your choice accordingly.”

  That is the best, most logical advice he’s given me since we became closer friends, and I wholeheartedly agree. Now I just have to find the balls to do it.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Telling imaginary Vincent that I love him is a lot easier than telling the real man. I mean, I’ve already said it once, and look where that got me, so I’m a little gun shy about blurting it all out and making myself vulnerable again.

  But Parker’s right. I have to be who I’ve always been and lay everything out, honestly and without expectation. I know that sounds impossible because I should have at least some expectation here; Vincent’s on the marriage train, after all, but I have to be as forward about this as I’ve always been, the way I’d been when we met.

  If he doesn’t return my love, I have two choices. I can either accept it and go forward, hoping that one day in the future he’ll give me what I need, or I can take my shit and go.

  Both choices seem abysmal and soul-destroying, but I’ve survived before, and I have no doubt I can again. With this running through my head I concentrate of fixing whatever the hell is wrong with this damned painting, figuring out three hours later that my problem has nothing to do with color or brush stroke: it’s simply that I hate how gloomy the scene appears.

  It reminds me of the one painting I’d done back in Texas when I was feeling so crappy, all dark, angry, and colorless. It had reflected my mood at the time, just as this painting reflects the turmoil I’m feeling.

  Shit. I don’t want this to be what I do. I’ve always been about color and joy, and the fact that this is what’s coming out of me shows me that something’s really not right, even if I don’t know what it is.

  Or maybe I do and I just don’t want to face it.

  “Dove! Where are you?”

  “Up here!” I yell, scrambling to cover the piece before he comes in.

  When he comes bounding in, a wide smile on his face, I gird my loins and wait for whatever he’s going to come up with next. This week, thanks to his wedding plans, has turned into a nightmare, but I kinda don’t have the heart to say anything, not when I’m considering pulling a runaway bride.

  “You look lovely,” he drawls, coming closer to pull me from my perch and into his arms.

  I look down and laugh, taking in my paint-spattered tee and jeans against his immaculate suit.

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Nothing, besides the usual,” he grins, grinding his semi-hard cock against my belly. “I missed you and wanted to see you.”

  Okay, that’s crap. I love his impromptu visits in the middle of the day, but this is plain strange. He usually stops in for a quick hello before running out again; his schedule is way too busy to allow for free afternoons.

  “Thanks, but that’s nonsense. Spill it, Blake.”

  I see his eyes light up, and then he’s swinging me around and kissing me all at once.

  “They have a lead on Brennan! If this pans out we should be in the clear by this time next week. Just think, dove, if they catch him we can start looking at those houses we spoke about.”

  “Correction, Vinny baby, we have not been speaking about houses. You decided we need one of those monstrosity-type mansions for the one kid we’re having. I have no problem with where we currently reside.”

  Plus, I really don’t want to be stuck in the ‘burbs while he swans back to the city every day. I hate the suburbs and the lack of public transport and all-night takeout.

  “But dove, we’ll need the room.”

  I huff and curl my lip, doing my best not to laugh at his forlorn look. Vincent, I have recently discovered, knows that I have a weak spot for his puppy dog faces and has started using this against me.

  “Let’s agree to disagree on that for the moment. I wanna get back to the Eric part. Do you really think they’ll get him?”

  I ask, rather dubiously, only because I’ve been getting crank calls the past two days, nothing serious, just some heavy breathing that could be anyone from the kid next door to an asthmatic who’d dialed the wrong number.

  I haven’t said anything yet because, as smart as I am, I know my guy will just get all paranoid and start locking me away more tightly.

  It’s creepy though, and if it continues I’m gonna have to say something. If they catch Eric, maybe I won’t have to, and can thereby avoid an hour-long lecture about sharing.

  As if Vincent has any room to talk.

  “We can hope. If they do, we can move forward. Oh, by the way, the doctor had a cancellation this afternoon. We can go in at four. That’s what I actually came home for.”

  “Awesome!” I yell, already halfway out the door and on the way to the bathroom. “It’s almost three. I should get ready.”

  ***

  You know how when you go to the fair and play one of those ball games? The one where you try to hit the pins down in the hopes of winning that ultimate prize of a giant teddy bear or equally hideous shocking pink flamingo?

  Finding out I was pregnant had been like playing one of those games: thrilling and hopeful and every good excited feeling wrapped into one. I’d felt that way, reveling in the idea that when the baby comes I’ll be winning something that is against the odds, like an honest to God accomplishment or something.

  Now as I lie on the examination table with the cool gel slipping the ultrasound wand over my belly, I just feel like the carny manning the game station has been using superglue on all my pins.

  “We should discuss what to do from here.”

  That’s all the doctor says before leaving the room to give us time.

  I laugh bitterly and continue to stare up at the white ceiling, my emotions seesawing between anger and weariness.

  “Dove.”

  I hear the sadness and the need to comfort in his voice, and I finally
turn my head to meet his eyes, my own gaze rueful.

  “I guess it was too good to be true anyway.”

  The baby, or what we’d thought was a baby, is nothing more than a fertilized egg currently trapped in one of my fallopian tubes. Ectopic pregnancies apparently are not as rare as one might think, according to Doctor Barrows, but I have to go in for a procedure to get ‘it’, as the doctor had so tactlessly called my kid, removed.

  “I’m…disappointed,” I say, watching his pale face tighten into that familiar mask.

  “It will be all right, dove. Barrows said there’s no reason you can’t get pregnant again. We’re lucky to have caught it this early before something bad happened to you.”

  Like getting all excited about a baby and then learning that I can’t possibly carry it to full term without dying?

  “We should call him back in and talk about this.”

  I know he’d prefer to talk, to assure me that these things happen and that everything will be okay, but I just can’t. I need action now, not hours to sit and stare at the weary disappointment written all over his expressionless face.

  And…I need to get to grips with the fact that instead of soul-crushing sadness I’m just relieved that this didn’t go any further, to the point of actual attachment before I’d have to let go of an actual baby.

  Sounds harsh, I know, but I’m comforting myself with the fact that the egg isn’t a full baby yet. I have to, or I’ll probably break down and get all hysterical.

  So much for this being the day of new beginnings, I think, remembering that I was going to declare myself and demand answers from Vincent. Instead of getting a new start and the happiness I’ve been lacking, I now have to face a ‘procedure’, and, ironically, the crushing disappointment of realizing that Vincent and I no longer have to get married.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Only time can heal wounds. At least, that’s what my dead Grammy Elsa had always said. I’d been six at the time and hadn’t quite understood her reasoning because, of course, I’d been a smart ass and taken it literally, telling her in an imperious voice that she was wrong. Band aids and stitches are what heal you, and medicine, of course.

  Now I know what she’d meant, and I still don’t believe her, because instead of feeling like shit four days after my procedure, I feel great from nothing other than the affectionate support that Vincent has given me.

  I must be heartless to have gotten over a failed pregnancy this quickly, or so I keep telling myself, but instead of moping around, pining for a baby I never truly had, I am spending the day sightseeing with the man I love.

  “You’re looking better, dove. You’ve got your color back,” he says, pulling me down to laze on the grass surrounding the Statue of Liberty.

  “I feel better, babe,” I say honestly, picking at my half eaten egg salad sandwich.

  The tour guide starts rounding everyone up for a last hem and haw about the landmark, and I lace our fingers together as we amble over, listening with only half an ear.

  I’ve enjoyed this time together and the reprieve he’s given me after everything, but it’s high time that I stopped being such a baby and started facing some of my issues.

  Number one: I need clarification on the whole love thing.

  Number two: I want to know if he still intends for us to get married, something I am now fully on board with and quite excited about. If it happens.

  Number three: Eric fucking Brennan needs to be removed from my life immediately, before I lose my shit—the crank calls started again after I’d come out of the hospital, so I know someone’s definitely watching me.

  Number four: I need to get back to painting my happy shit again, and for that to happen I need to be happy.

  Number five: I absolutely do not want to live in some pretentious piece of shit mansion in the ‘burbs, and I won’t compromise, even if things work out and we stay together and have another kid.

  That set, I continue to stroll around as he listens attentively to everything being said by the tour guide.

  Two hours later, just as we get home, my cell rings, and this time when I answer it I know exactly what to say.

  “Leave me alone, asshole.”

  Vincent frowns at me before grabbing the phone, his grimace pronounced when he puts it to his ear only to find the line dead.

  “Cecelia.”

  That one word, spoken in that tone, is a warning that I take seriously. Vincent never uses my given name, or even ‘Sissy’, for that matter, unless he’s genuinely annoyed.

  “Come on into the living room, Vin. We need to talk,” I say over my shoulder as I waltz in and immediately walk over to the bar, grabbing two beers, just in case.

  He accepts his, grimacing—Vincent likes English beer, and not the ‘watered down American variety’—and spears me with a look.

  “I have a few things to say, so let me finish before you go all Vincent on me. One, I want to know whether you love me at all. See, I love you, and I really want that sentiment returned before we can go any further. Two, I want to know if, now that we’re not having a baby, you still intend to marry me. Three, you need to quit talking about moving. Four, yes, that was probably Eric calling, since I’ve been getting crank calls for well over a week now. And lastly, five, if you don’t really love me, please, just let me go so I can go on with my life.”

  When I finally wind down enough to look back at him without hyperventilating, it’s to see him laughing silently at me, his full lipped mouth spread so wide I can count his teeth without trouble.

  “I’ve always appreciated your lack of guile, dove. Have I told you that lately?” he asks on a laugh, his body language going loose and relaxed as he leans back in his chair and sips his beer.

  “Good, because I’m not into playing any more mind games. Now answer the damn question. Do you or do you not love me?”

  “Of course,” he answers, seeming offended. “Do you think I fly across the country only to endure hours of interrogation from your brother just for laughs? I’ll have you know—”

  He doesn’t get any further because I’m in his arms and kissing him to death, my mouth grinning so hugely it’s hard to kiss without our teeth clacking together.

  “You could have said something, Vincent,” I say later, after some really intense love making—oral only for the time being, thanks to Doctor Barrows. “I’ve been all wound up and miserable. I even painted a gloomy landscape!” I accuse, slapping his chest.

  He chuckles and pulls me back to his chest, his fingers running through my hair in a comforting caress that lulls me.

  “I haven’t answered any of your other questions, so let’s clear a few more things up before you fall asleep, dove. Yes, I love you, wholly and completely. Of course we’re still getting married; that’s never been up for debate. We won’t move if you don’t want to, and though those leads on Brennan did not pan out, I will find him, even if I have to do it myself.”

  I fall asleep a few minutes later after a toe-tingling kiss, a smile on my face and the sudden idea for a new piece swirling at the edges of my consciousness.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “Oh, my God. Who elected me to walk down the aisle in lieu of a bridesmaid?”

  I giggle at Parker and turn away from the mirror to see him sprawled across the sofa in the little room I’ve been allowed to use to get ready for the ceremony.

  Mama and Daddy have flown in for the little service and the wedding breakfast, along with Justin and Bee. While I still consider Bee a friend, I haven’t been that up to a reconciliation, so that’s left Parker as my only pal, and thus his recent designation of bridesman, my take on the modern manmaid.

  He’s dressed in a white tux, his only consideration to my color scheme a bright yellow rose, pinned rakishly to his lapel.

  “Me,” I say, giggling when he scowls and eyes the bouquet I’ve gotten him.

  “Can I at least ditch the flowers? Jesus, Sis, if your wedding pictures leak to the press I’ll be a
laughingstock.”

  “Nope. I want you strolling your sexy ass down that aisle holding those flowers as if you were born a freaking queen. This is my day,” I warn, my eyes daring him to naysay me.

  It’s something I have to do. Not because I’m some sort of sadistic bitch or anything, hell no, that designation belongs fully with Julia, the woman I’ve convinced to attend my wedding in the hopes of setting Parker up with his long lost love.

  Her reception had not been warm till I’d let it slip that Parker was performing bridesman duty. That she’d loved, a lot. To the point that I’d had to listen to her chuckle for a full two minutes before she’d whammied me.

  If Parker carried a bouquet, she’d be there with bells on. And she’d go so far as to give ‘the asshat’ a chance to convince her of his worth.

  The things I’ll do for love are just plain weird, so I’d agreed and spent the next two days bullying Parker into accepting the inevitable. He’s gonna walk me to my guy, carrying yellow roses like a pro, or I’m gonna drag him there by the roots of his hair.

  “Christ. Fine. But you’re gonna owe me big for this,” he mutters, glaring at the roses with a baleful sneer. “You sure you’re ready for this? If you’re not, there’s no shame in pulling a runner.”

  “No. God. I’ve told you a million times, I want to get married to Vincent. Now quit your griping and come fix my train.”

  My dress is a simple off the shoulder gown that pools in loving layers at my pump-clad feet. It reminds me of those dresses from the medieval period, only it has no sleeves, and it’s got a short lace train that trails at the back.

  “Sooorry! I just don’t see what the rush is, not that—” he breaks off suddenly and looks away, his face so guilty.

  “Calm down, Meryl Streep,” I say when he starts babbling apologies. “I’m not gonna have a nervous breakdown just because you mentioned it. I’m fine,” I assure him, checking my hair one last time. “But yes, we were getting married before because of it, and when that…didn’t work out, well…” I say with a shrug. “We still love each other and want to get married.”