Page 10 of Anything For This Love

My mouth falls open in stunned disbelief.His parents aren’t living together? Why?“I didn’t realize they were separated.”

He winces and pain flashes in his eyes. “They aren’t technically separated, not in the legal sense, but she’s been staying in their condo in the city. The night I found out,” he begins, swallowing thickly before continuing, discomfort creasing his brow. “The night she confessed what she’d done to us, my father asked her to leave. He was furious with her. I didn’t find out about this until later, since I took off and wouldn’t answer any of their calls for a while.”

It all makes sense now. Evelyn’s visit to my house, her teary apology. She’d been given the boot and wanted her lifestyle back. At the time, I believed she was sincere, but now I doubt she even knows what that word means. My hands curl into fists beneath the table. Even through my anger, I realize I should be thankful she stepped in. It made me realize I was being unfair to Jacob and needed to stop holding what she’d done against him.

“It makes sense now that she came to my house to apologize.”

Sadness and disappointment cross his face, dimming his normally vibrant blue eyes. “I’d like to think she meant everything she said.” He leaves it at that, his wan expression and downturned lips advertising his doubt like a billboard sign. Pain slices through me, a sharp ache landing in my chest.

“I’m so sorry. That was insensitive. I know you must be hurting.” It kills me to know his family is in turmoil. They don’t deserve this. Jacob doesn’t deserve this.

“It’s okay. You’re probably right. Unfortunately, this attention probably won’t go away for a while.”

He’s right. It’s just the beginning.

Chapter Four

Jacob

WatchingAbby drive away from my house the next afternoon is harder than I expected. We spent the entire weekend together, and other than trips to the bathroom, she was never out of my sight. A spike of anxiety spears through me. What if she doesn’t come back? Now I know how she felt two and a half years ago when she watched me pull out of her driveway as she stood in the gravel sobbing.

When I walk back inside, the emptiness seems to expand; I feel the loss of Abby’s presence in every room of my home. Her warm, sweet scent lingers, but the lilt of her voice and cadence of her laughter are gone. Pushing my melancholy aside, I go upstairs and jump in the shower, begrudgingly scrubbing away the last traces of Abby from my skin. I’d leave it there all evening if I didn’t have somewhere to be. I’m having dinner back home with my father tonight, and I don’t really want to go smelling like sex.

Once out of the shower, I dress in my usual khakis and button down, collared shirt. My mother has always insisted we dress nice for Sunday dinner, even though it was usually just the four of us, now three since Logan’s away at college. Occasionally, one of Dad’s colleagues and their family join us, and the Greysons are no stranger to our table, but I’m certain there will be no extra guests this evening. Good thing, because I need to talk to my father about what happened last night. That man at the restaurant taking pictures of Abby and me is a big problem. The last thing I want is for the press to start hounding her. I don’t want them digging into our relationship, and I definitely don’t want them getting near my daughter.

I arrive back at my childhood home early, hoping to talk to Dad before we eat. Punching the code in at the back gate, I head to the patio off the kitchen, hoping to score a dinner roll to snack on before I talk to Dad. I slide the door open and step inside, aiming straight for the breadbasket.

“Hey Marta,” I greet our cook, swiping a buttery roll that rivals that of any restaurant.

“You better not stuff yourself full of bread before dinner,” she warns playfully, shaking her spoon at me. “I’m making your favorite.”

“Stuffed pork chops and garlic mashed potatoes?” She nods her head, giving me a wide, satisfied smile. “Don’t play with my emotions. You know how I feel about that dish,” I tease. Her stuffed pork chops should win awards.

She takes a step back and opens the oven. I lean forward to peer inside, and sure enough, there’s a baking dish full of my favorite recipe of hers.

“You spoil me.” Leaving the kitchen, I go in search of my father. As I stroll down the hallway, the low murmur of voices drifts from the study and I follow the sound. My mother’s familiar cadence stops me in my tracks.

What the hell is she doing here?

“We need to make the announcement. The other candidates are already gaining steam, but I know some of their supporters would gladly get behind you,” my mother, ever the political strategist, pleads.

“Now is not the time. Our family is in shambles. I cannot head a successful presidential campaign with so much turmoil in my personal life. I won’t do it,” my father replies, standing his ground.

My mother starts to argue, launching into her rebuttal, but he cuts her off. “How can I run the White House when my own house isn’t even in order?”

I finally shake myself from my shock and reach for the door, throwing it open and storming inside. Two sets of eyes snap to me and all conversation stops.

“What’sshedoing here?” I grit out, scowling at my father.

“Jacob,” my mother pleads, taking a step toward me.

“Don’t,” I warn, letting my cold, angry gaze land on her.

“Jacob, your mother and I are discussing something important.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Please just talk to me,” my mother continues.

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