Page 100 of The Unwanted Wife

"We’re in London; what could happen to me?" she scoffs.

"I know it seems crazy to you. But I’d just come back from war. I’d lost my best friend, my teammates. I couldn’t just go back to being a civilian and discard the alertness that had kept me alive. I’m a soldier. That never goes away. I simply directed all of that vigilance into making sure you were okay."

For a few seconds, there’s silence. She stares at me, and I hold her gaze.

Yes, I’ve done many things wrong. Maybe I’ve gone about this entire situation the wrong way. Maybe I should have come right out and told her everything when I walked into her bakery. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t take the risk that she’d hate me for not being there for her brother. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t let her walk away from me.

And now? I know I could still lose her. I know she might never forgive me, but I know I have to come clean. Now, she remembers everything. Now, she’s in a stronger place than she was before. Now I know Arthur’s acknowledged her as part of the Davenport family, and that she’ll get the monthly allowance all Davenports are eligible for. Now I know she’ll be looked after, no matter what happens between us, or to the Davenport Group of companies. Now, she knows that… "I love you"—I kiss her hand, then look up into her face—"and I always will, even if you never do."

A tear rolls down her cheek, and plops onto mine. "Oh, Nate, why does everything have to be so complicated?"

52

Skylar

"And then you asked him to leave?" Zoey slides a cup of hot chocolate across the table. She called me, saw my face, and told me she was coming over to the apartment. I didn’t protest. Not when I felt so lonely.

"I told him I need a little time to figure things out. I just need to get my head around everything he revealed."

I’m strangely dry-eyed. You’d think I’d be in tears, maybe hysterical, because I found out my brother is dead.

All those conversations I had with him on the phone, the messages I exchanged with him, the fact I saw him like he was real… Clearly, it was my imagination working overtime. It felt so real. Which, if I’m being honest, scares the crap out of me. How could my mind play tricks on me like that?

And yet, when I think about it, maybe a part of me knew I was talking to someone who wasn’t alive anymore. Maybe I knew my brain was trying to fill in the blanks in my life with images of Ben. That I was holding conversations with him as if he were alive, as a way of coping. And now, I can’t. And I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I’m embarrassed. How can I trust anything I see anymore without wondering if my brain is trying to shield me from some kind of trauma?

I glance at the phone I placed next to me on the table. It’s been silent since he left. Not that I’ve been expecting him to call me. Okay, maybe I am. But why should he when I’m the one who told him to leave? I told him I needed some space to consider everything. I need a little time.

His features had closed, but not before I saw the anguish in his eyes. Then he nodded. He told me he wasn’t going to rush me into anything, that I have to decide what’s best for me. He understood I’d need to digest everything. He also told me he’ll always be there for me, but that almost makes it worse. How can he be so patient, so calm, when it feels like everything around me is collapsing? Like one part of my life is over, and I’m on the precipice of something huge.

I take a sip of the chocolate, and the bitter-sweet taste of the cocoa coats my tongue. The fragrance of cinnamon fills my nose. The depth of nutmeg, the pungent tang of cardamom, the aromatic warmth of vanilla and cloves—all of it thaws the ice in my veins. "This is good," I murmur.

"It should be; it’s your recipe." She laughs.

"Of course it is." Another of my little inventions. "Chocolate Cinnamon Hero. That’s what the mix is called."

"A good name, considering we want all our alphaholes to be cinnamon rolls at heart,” she agrees.

"As is Nate.” I swirl the spicy chocolate around my tongue. “He’s growly on the outside like crisp dough that crackles on your tongue, and tender on the inside like the gooey center of a cinnamon roll."

"So you aren’t pissed with him?”

“I think I am. But not because he couldn’t protect my brother. I know he feels guilty about what happened to Ben, which is understandable, but Ben knew what he was getting into. It was a mission and"—I bite the inside of my cheek—"if anything had happened to Nate, I’d be a hundred times more heartbroken. I’m a terrible sister for thinking that."

"You’re human." Zoey raises her own chocolate drink to her mouth and takes a sip. "And so is he. And love is messy, like the mixture of one of your experimental desserts. You put in all the ingredients, but before you bake it, it’s just a lump of spiked dough sitting in a bowl. Until you bake it, you don’t know how it’s going to taste, or look, or if it will rise the way you want it to."

"Wow, that’s a very good analogy." I look at her with admiration.

"I know, right?" She seems taken aback. "I suppose there’s a reason I’m an editor. I forget sometimes—I’m good with words.” She laughs.

I take another sip of chocolate and lick the mixture from my lips. "I am upset that he didn’t tell me about my brother, but I also understand why he didn’t. It’s not like I made it easy for him. And… I don’t think I could have coped with it if he’d come out and told me."

She nods.

"But I’m upset that he didn’t just tell me he loved me?—"

"He did; you told me so."

"I mean, that he didn’t come out and tell me he loved me and he wanted to marry me when he first came back to the bakery."

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