Page 46 of The Man I Love

Tears blurred his vision and for the first time in his adult life, he didn’t try to hide them from his father––because somewhere in a room not too far away Liam was fighting for his life. That was all that mattered. Liam’s system wasweak, recovering from a surgery so like the one that had flattened Tristan on his back. “Go,” he repeated.

His father nodded, his eyes red rimmed and filled with pain. “Okay.”

Tristan realized at that moment that his dad had walked through fire to get to this point. The evidence was etched into his face—like permanent scars that told his story. Yet his journey wasn’t over, and the embers still blazed like burning coal—because the barest breeze would set them blazing again.

His father flexed his jaw, then turned to leave the room but hesitated at the door. “One more thing.” His father’s voice was rough, and he paused for a long time before he spoke again. “She didn’t plan it,” he said.“I gave her no choice. If you’re going to be angry with anyone, be angry with me.”

19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

February

Six Months Earlier

New York

Cool water ranthrough Samantha’s fingers as she washed the dishes in the studio sink. She was eight weeks pregnant, confirmed yesterday through an internal ultrasound. Renee had made the appointment with her own obstetrician, then held Sam’s hand as she cried all over again, seeing the baby’s heartbeat flutter on the sonogram screen for the first time.

Emotions ran so deep that her head felt fuzzy, but somehow, she dried her tears and went back to her apartment. She then made at least twenty different phone calls, planning for her future. Their future. But not even one had been to Tristan.

She would rectify that today.

It had been twenty-four hours since then, and she felt stronger now. In just a few months, they would have a baby to provide for—a whole human being who would depend on them for everything.

Mr. Covington had been the one to calm her nerves, reassuring her with news of The Gallery's success. She’d sold nearly half her pieces, and buzz was still circulating about the rest.

Samantha turned off the faucet now, which seemed to drain what little energy she had left and dried her hands on a nearby towel. She yanked her shirt over her belly, and walked to the kitchen, where she pulled two slices of bread out of the bag and placed them on the counter. Nausea plagued her on a daily basis, but shehadto eat.

BOOM!

She jumped.

BOOM. BOOM!

“What the…”

“You can’t go up there. STOP! You can’t! SAMANTHA!”

Samantha spun toward the stairwell, just as Tristan’s large form appeared at the top step. Margaret followed quickly behind him with a wooden dowel high above her head as she barreled into his back.

Time stopped. Samantha blinked, and the room grew silent.

His expression was crazed, almost feral—and it looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Margaret raised the stick overhead, as though she might hit him.

“NO!” Samantha yelled. “Stop!” She stepped into the light, feeling the warmth of the sun hit her face through the window. “Don’t hurt him,” she whispered.

He stood still, dominating the stairwell with his size, which seemed to cage him in like a wild animal.

Margaret lowered the stick. “I tried to stop him,” she said. “I tried?—”

But Samantha only shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Tristan stepped closer, moving into the sunlight that illuminated his features. It was the first time she’d seen him since The Gallery opening, and the first thing she noticed was the dark hollows under his eyes. She inhaled sharply. Her own reflection probably bore the same exhaustion, yet her chest tightened, her body aching at the sight of him like this.

Thefatherof her unborn child. The beautiful, broken, frustrating man who she loved more than anything.

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