Page 478 of The Christmas Wife

Mira

"Let me through, that’s my wife in there," Eddie’s angry voice reaches us.

Dr. Kincaid and I exchange glances, but before he can say anything, my husband barges into the examination room. It’s a tiny room with just enough space for the exam table and the doctor—who is not a small man—and with Eddie’s big body in the space, it seems to shrink even further in size. He walks over to me and rakes his gaze down my features. I’m the one on the exam table, but he’s the one who looks pale, like he may be about to faint.

There are dark circles under his eyes, hollows under his cheekbones, and he’s lost weight. Just enough to make him look leaner, meaner, and hungrier than when I last saw him. And god, I’ve missed him so much. It took everything within me not to reach for the phone and call him over the last two weeks.

I left to give myself space to think, and I knew the only way I could work through my thoughts was if I focused on myself.I threw all of my efforts into the new preschool—worked on the curriculum, the staffing requirements, health and nutrition plans for the children. We decided to revamp everything and start from scratch, doing things a bit differently this time. I was in my element, and the fact I'm building something that is, in part, my own, makes me almost giddy with happiness. I feel fulfilled, for the first time in my life. But I also miss him.

It doesn't matter that he stalked me, was obsessed with me, and used my circumstances to steer me into marrying him. No matter what he’s been through, no matter the mistakes he’s made, I missed my husband. And when the motorcyclist hit me this morning and I crumpled to the road, my only thought was that if I died then, it would be without telling him how I feel about him. That I love him and want to spend every moment with him. Apparently, it took my life flashing in front of my eyes for me to realize he's in my corner. He's my ride or die. He's the man for me.

He takes my hand in his, then brings it up and kisses my knuckles. "Wife, you’re, okay?"

"I’m okay, honestly. The motorcycle just brushed me."

"You were hit by a motorcycle?" He sways.

"I’m fine; nothing is hurt."

"You have scratches on your cheek." He surveys my features. And when he brings his fingers to the bandage on my forehead, his fingers tremble. "Your poor face."

"It’s nothing, really."

"It’s not nothing." The skin around his lips tightens. "And your legs--" He looks down at the expanse left uncovered by my skirt.

"I know, I have a few scratches there, and a wound on my knee, for which I had to receive a couple of stitches, but really, I’m fine."

"Fuck!" He drags his fingers through his hair. "Stitches? You had to have stitches?"

"Just two," the doctor says in a dry voice.

"Don’t make it out to be less than what it was." He turns and points a finger at the doctor. "You’re supposed to make it all better. Instead, you’re standing there doing nothing."

"I’m a doctor, not a magician," Dr. Kincaid protests. "Also, she’s a little shaken, but the wounds are minimal. The man who ran into her called for an ambulance right away. In fact, he’s waiting outside, and?—"

"He’s waiting outside?" My husband pivots and stalks toward the door, but the doctor steps in his path. "Easy, Tiger. Accidents happen."

"Not with her, they don’t," my husband growls.

"It would have been a lot worse if he’d gone on his way without bringing her in," the doctor says in a soothing voice.

"That’s no excuse."

"That’s true." He hesitates. "All I’m saying is, don’t go out there and beat him up. And not in a hospital, for chrissakes."

"Alright then, I’m going to drag him out and smash his face in, and?—"

"Fleabag!"

He stiffens. Is it because I used the safe word? I’ve never used it, but it seemed like the only way to stop him. But I didn’t expect to see the shock on his face when he turns to face me.

"Wife?" He swallows. "Did you just?—"

"Say fleabag?" I nod. "Didn’t see any other way of stopping you. It was my fault. Honestly. I was in my own world and crossed when the pedestrian cross sign was red. It wasmyfault."

He draws in a breath, then slowly walks back to me. He takes my hand in his again and holds my gaze. "I’m sorry, I lost my temper. Seeing you hurt and helpless is more than I can bear. I’ve been berating myself ever since Weston called me and toldme you were in hospital. It’s a good thing I was with Baron when I got the call, or I might not have made it here."

I stare. "You were with Baron?"

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