* * *
You know what my plans are...
The words pounded through Connor’s skull as relentlessly as a jackhammer, over and over again, until now, hours after Megan had ended the call, he felt the reverberation of them through every cell in his body.
He’d known from the start Megan had a path laid out for her future. A family without the complications of a marriage or a man. And he’d been fine with it. Because he believed it would never come to pass.
He was supposed to have time. Time to win her back. Time to figure a work-around Megan wouldn’t be able to resist.
She’d fallen in love with him. Which meant she was capable of the one thing that, previously lacking, had led her to consider artificial insemination.
She’d fallen in love with him. So she was supposed to believe it would happen with someone else. Eventually. And wait.
Only now she was going to go through with it.
Nothing’s changed...
Uh-huh. Not one damn thing. Except he was physically sick to his stomach thinking about Megan with another man’s child. Thinking about that unbreakable connection, that intimacy of union—even if the donor never knew she existed, the idea alone was enough to put him into a near rage.
And what about all the months to come? Her relationship with her mom was tenuous at best. Who was going to be there to help her through the tough times? The times when she was sick, weak, hungry...or scared.
Hell. He hated that almost more than he hated the idea of some piece of another man mingling with the very essence of who she was.
His mother hadn’t talked a lot about what it was like raising him on her own. She hadn’t wanted him to feel like a burden. But he could remember a night when she’d been crying, talking to his father. Asking him if he’d any idea what it was like for her—waking up in labor by herself. Not understanding what was happening. Having to get to the hospital and spend all those hours waiting for a man who had made promise after promise, but never came to her. A man who let her deliver his child, scared and alone, while he’d hosted a Christmas party with his wife.
Megan wouldn’t even have the hope someone might come.
Damn it, why couldn’t she just let him be with her?
Pushing out of his chair, he walked over to the bar and poured a glass of scotch, threw it back in the hopes the burn would dull the gut-wrenching ache with all the what-ifs and why-couldn’ts constantly swirling around Megan’s name in his belly.
It didn’t help. So he poured another, figuring if he couldn’t kill the pain in his gut, maybe he’d at least be able to numb the pounding in his head.
An hour later, he was thinking more clearly than he ever had before. Pushing the empty bottle aside, he reached for his phone.
“I need you...”
* * *
Connor woke with what felt like the better half of a landfill in his eyes and the near certainty that somehow through the course of the night he’d ended up on a cruise—the gentle rock and loll of the space around him doing things he didn’t entirely love to his stomach. Only, then the mattress beneath him sagged with a shift of weight that wasn’t his own.
Not. Alone.
Elation ripped through him as he tried to pry his eyelids open, experienced a stab of pain at the intrusion of light and clamped them closed again.
It didn’t matter.
If he wasn’t alone, then somehow, someway, he’d gotten Megan back into his bed. God bless whatever he’d been drinking last night.
Blindly reaching across the sheets, he encircled the first warmth he encountered and pulled it close. Or tried to, except—
“I don’t know what you heard,” said the octaves-too-low voice from considerably too close, “but I’m not that kind of girl.”
Jeff.
This time Connor wrenched his eyes open, forcing them to withstand the searing pain of daylight and the utterly confusing sight of his hand wrapped around Jeff’s jeans-clad thigh, where it rested atop the comforter on his bed.
His bed.
Not a cruise ship.
So what was with the sudden, violent pitch— Oh, hell!
“Yep. Bucket’s right over the side, champ,” Jeff stated, using his leg to shove him in the opposite direction. “Knock yourself out.”
Thirty minutes later, Connor was showered and dressed. Minty freshness doing its best to disguise the funky aftermath of a night misspent.
What had he been thinking?
Dragging himself into the kitchen, Connor dropped into a chair at the table and hazarded a glance at Jeff, who was cooking steak and eggs, a smug smile on his smug face.
“Not to suggest I wasn’t thrilled to find you in my bed this morning, but what are you doing here?”
A smug flip of the spatula. Damn him.
“My phone’s on the table. There’s a voice mail that gets the ball rolling, but I think the texts cover the gist of it pretty well. See for yourself.”
The churning mess that was his stomach solidified into a lead ball. Oh, hell. Thumbing through the messages, the lead ball grew with each exchange.
8:42 p.m....REED: Need you to go to Denver w me.
8:46 p.m....JEFF: In meeting. Give me 1 hr.
8:53 p.m....REED: No can do. Want wife back. Going now. Think I cn talk her into it wth sperm.
Hell. Please don’t let him have called her.
8:53 p.m....JEFF: R U drinking?
8:55 p.m....REED: Have wht she wants. Solllid plan. Better than hers.
8:56 p.m....JEFF: Leaving now. Wait 4 me.
9:02 p.m....REED: Don’t worry botu it.
9:02 p.m....JEFF: WAIT 4 ME
9:04 p.m....JEFF: PICK UP YOUR PHONE
9:57 p.m....JEFF: You should stop for drink @ that bar in terminal with the big olives B4 flight
10:22 p.m....REED: Hey, UR at the bar. You look pissed.
Connor looked up at his friend. His very best friend in the entire world. “How did you do it?”
“Luck mostly. And some cash. Called your car service and got a guy ready to block your driveway—just in case. I know you don’t drink and drive, but, well, you weren’t exactly yourself. When you called for a ride, he was already there. Drove you to the airport, the very long way. Meanwhile, I took the chopper down and picked you up at the bar.”
“And you stayed with me...in my bed...to make sure I didn’t drown in my own puke?” Pushing a hand through his hair, he shook his head. This was a low like he’d never expected to see.
“Yeah, but mostly to keep you from calling Megan, dumbass. By the way, your phone met with a bit of bad luck when a meat tenderizer fell on it last night. Sorry.”
Jeff slid a plate of steak and eggs in front of him and dropped into Megan’s chair at the table, diving into a plate of his own. “So what’s the deal?” he asked around a bite of eggs.
Nothing’s changed...
“She’s planning to get pregnant.”
“Ah, and you thought you’d help her out. Right. Only, I’m wondering, if she didn’t want you to get her pregnant before, then where did you think your swimmers were going to get you last night?”
“If I had to guess, I probably figured I could talk her into reconsidering. Make her see what I could offer her. What she was giving up.”
“And that would be the material comforts. Financial security?”
Connor grunted. “At least someone sees it.”
“Yeah, I see something. But I’m not sure it’s the same thing as you.”
He wasn’t in the mood to decipher hidden meaning or subtle subtexts. “Spit it out.”
Jeff shook his head, the lines between his brows drawing together. “Ask yourself this, Connor—what is it that’s got your manties in such a twist? I mean, really...what is it about Megan you don’t want to lose?”
Connor opened his mouth to answer, ready to explain about how right they were together. How easy it was. Only, suddenly, he could see the past few months with a clarity he’d never had before, and
a tension, different than the one he’d already become so intimate with, slid down his spine.
Their marriage had been a train wreck from about the word go.
His bride so soused she woke up the next morning unable to remember his name, let alone why she’d agreed to marry him.
She’d been a hassle from the start. The kind of work he never invested in relationships. She’d taken time. She’d taken romancing. She’d kept him on his toes, kept him working, kept him guessing. She’d infuriated and confused him.
And he’d relished every minute of it.
It didn’t make sense.
In retrospect, Megan had basically brought every complication and frustration indicative of the love relationships he claimed to loathe to the table, and had him all but begging her to give him more.
She affected him like no one he’d ever met. And even knowing what kind of chaos she’d delivered upon his life...the idea of not having her in it was killing him.
Staring back at Jeff’s smug, smug face, he nodded. “Okay. I think I’ve got it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SIX HOURS LATER, Connor tore down the stairs, patting his pockets as he went.
Wallet? Check.
Keys? Check.
Ring box? Burning a hole in his jacket pocket. Check.
A rushed glance at his watch and his adrenaline spiked. He could do this.
The flight left in forty minutes and he’d be on that plane even if it meant buying the damn airline to ensure it. And once he got to Denver— His stomach took a dive as a thousand scenarios flooded his mind...only one of which would bring about the happily-ever-after he’d only hours before come to terms with wanting.
Shoving all outcomes but that one from his mind, he grasped the knob from the front door and—
Ticket! He hadn’t printed the damn thing out, and after his phone’s tragic demise, he needed the paper.
Internet station in the kitchen!
Sprinting down the hall, he almost bit it skidding around the corner.
He needed to get there.
Needed to be with his wife.
Needed to tell her it could work between them. And not because of the reasons he’d been laying on her from the start, but because of all the reasons he’d figured out once she left. All the things he realized he couldn’t bear to live without.
Flipping open the computer, the black screen flashed to life, bringing up a background with a picture of the two of them at a charity dinner from the month before.
They were laughing. His fingers playing with a bit of her hair as they stared into each other’s eyes.
And the way he was looking at her...how the hell had he missed it?
He’d have to wait for the plane to figure it out. There wasn’t time now.
Bringing up the browser, he distractedly noted Megan’s email was still open from the last time she’d used the machine. About to open a new tab for the airline, he paused as one of the boldfaced messages caught his eye and the preview shattered his plans.
It was from the sperm bank, dated five days prior.
Subject: Per your inquiry, Donor #43409089RS1 available for immediate pickup.
* * *
Megan had brought this on herself.
Blinking down at her tablet, perched on the pass-through counter dividing her kitchen and living room, she sat, a silent observer to the video chat that was Gail, Jodie and Tina’s rally of support.
“Oh, and you’re really surprised he got away?”
What had she been thinking?
“Shut it. You saw the way he looked at her during the reception.”
“Shut it? Nice talk, Tina.”
Well, she’d been hoping a triple dose of misery in the form of this fingernails-down-a-blackboard bickering might distract her from the misery that had begun in her heart and then slowly, steadily spread until it had overtaken every part of her being.
No such luck.
Where was a white-chocolate martini when she needed one? A white-chocolate martini of birdbath proportions with a garden hose–size Crazy Straw to expedite consumption.
“Are you joking?” Tina leaned around Gail to scowl at Jodie.
Not that she’d be able to drink it, even if one materialized out of thin air. The thought alone had her belly kicking up rebellion enough she had to close her eyes and draw several deep breaths through her nose.
Besides, God only knew what kind of mess she’d wake up in if she followed the cocktail path to avoidance again. A mess of sheets and covers...and Connor’s legs tangled with her own?
No.
She wasn’t supposed to want that. Had to stop wanting that. Or at the very least, stop fantasizing about ways in which to make it happen.
“You want nice talk? How about—”
“Girls,” Gail cut in. “This is about Megan. Her life is beyond tatters. Again. Another failed relationship. This time a marriage. Granted, we all know about the hasty courtship and may have had our own theories about the probability of success—”
Jodie gasped, hand flying up to not quite cover the smile riding her lips. “Gail!”
But Megan’s cousin simply ducked her head a pinch, holding out her hands as if to say, We were all thinking it.
At which point the three began a rapid-fire exchange rife with theories, speculations, the more pathetic bullet points from Megan’s romantic past, a tangent about Jodie buying a pair of shoes out from under Tina, something about a sweater in high school...a boy from middle school...the Laura Ingalls Wilder books from first grade...
She might have cut them off, but the sad truth was she simply didn’t care. That instant of weakness with the forbidden fantasies had opened the door to something worse—something far more devastating.
Memories. Broken bits and pieces of what had actually been. Connor...I love it when you get my name right... I’ve got you. What I want is to keep you... Everything, Megan... So this marriage thing...it’s working out for you? You’re a fantasy... I don’t want to be goddamn friends...
Oh, it hurt so bad.
“Great, Jodie. See what you did—she’s crying—”
“Me?”
“Oh, no, Megan, honey, don’t cry. So maybe the whole love thing isn’t for you. So what? Think about something happy.”
“Yes! Think about your little sperm-bank baby!”
Megan shook her head and wiped her thumbs beneath her eyes, hating her apparent inability to keep the tears at bay.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Someday. Maybe. “I just need a drink.”
Pushing up from the stool where she’d been seated, she circled around to the sink and poured a glass of water. Thought of the way Connor had so often shown up in her office with a cold drink or some healthy snack. The way he’d been so thoughtful and attentive to her, most of all when she’d managed to forget to be attentive to herself.
He’d been aware of her on a level no one ever had before.
But it hadn’t been love.
How ironic that her inability to fall in love had been the destruction of every other relationship she’d had. And actually finding it, the destruction with Connor.
Why now?
Why couldn’t she have been the wife he needed her to be?
Three swift knocks sounded at her door, thankfully drawing her out of that downward spiral of self-destructive thought.
Her eyes swung to the door, her heart tripping in her chest until she realized the security door hadn’t buzzed. Mrs. Gandle from 2C had probably signed for another package.
Chastising herself for that stupid surge of hope, she walked to the door and swung it open—
“Connor?” she choked out, shaking her head in disbelief at the scowling man standing at her door, a plastic shopping bag hanging from one hand.
“No security chain?” he demanded, his outrage potent and possessive. “First some little old lady downstairs holds the door open for me, letting me march right in, and then you open the door without even
checking who’s out here? Megan, this is a decent neighborhood, but what the hell?”
She shook her head, too stunned to register anything beyond the fact that Connor was here.
He’d come back.
Again.
* * *
Connor shoved his free hand through his hair, acutely aware of the ass he was making of himself and yet unable to walk away as he should.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.
He opened his mouth to answer, but then all he could do was stare. Soaking in the sight of her smattering of freckles and gorgeous mouth he hadn’t seen smile for too damn long.
Her face seemed thinner and he didn’t like the shadows beneath her eyes, and yet no one had ever been so beautiful as she was right then.
Clearing his throat, he looked down into the eyes that had been haunting him for weeks, and then to the hand that had come to rest defensively across her belly.
“Why did I wait so long?” he asked himself, keenly aware of the futility of the question.
Megan blinked, confusion and hurt and a thousand other things shining too bright in those beautiful eyes. And then resolve. “You need to stop this, Connor. What you’re doing, calling, showing up. It’s—” she swallowed, looking as though even that simple act took monumental effort “—it’s hurting me.”
He hated knowing it was the truth. Wishing he’d been smart enough from the start to make it so neither one of them would have had to go through this kind of pain. “I’m sorry.”
“Then leave,” she whispered. A single fat tear spilled over her bottom lid, and his heart twisted with a pain he’d never experienced before. “Please. I can’t be what you wanted me to be. I’ll never be able to be that for you. Let me go.”
“No.” He shook his head solemnly. “I tried. I did. But I can’t.”
“You have to—”
“I’ll never let you go!” The words had ripped past his throat before he’d had the thought to temper them. But they were the truth.