Page 29 of The Secrets We Built Together

When was the last time someone had made Xander coffee? When did we last make sure that he was okay? That he didn't need us as much as we needed him. Was anyone checking in with him? Asking what they could do to make things easier for him. Checking how he felt about moving his life here.

I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be the one who made sure Xander Farrington was taken care of for once. That he wanted this life he seemed to have been maneuvered into building here.

Xander had stayed away from Willowbrook for so long and only came home to see his brothers. To meet the nephew he'd never known about. And somehow in all that, he'd never left. Now he was investing in his brother's ranch, and building a new medical practice to help Booker realize a dream that had been on the verge of disappearing. But was it what he actually wanted, or was this Xander coming to the rescue again and this time doing it at the cost of what he wanted out of life.

Maybe it was just the magic of Willowbrook. It wasn't that long ago that I'd driven into this town helping out Delaney and then decided I never wanted to leave.

Xander and I weren't really that different in that respect.

The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. Xander glanced over his shoulder, caught me watching him, and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" he asked, a half-smile playing on his lips.

I shook my head slightly, not quite ready to examine these new feelings too closely. "Nothing," I said. "Just... thank you."

His smile widened, genuine and warm, creasing those lines around his eyes. "What are friends for?"

Friends.

Was that what we were? It didn't seem like enough of a word for what was happening between us, for what he was doing for me and Amelia. For the way my heart had just skipped when he smiled.

But it was a start.

Chapter 11

Xander

Imeasured the coffee with a precision that bordered on obsessive, grateful for the familiar ritual to focus on instead of the woman behind me. My hands were steady—they'd been steady for eleven months now—but my mind was spinning trying to keep up with the emotions of the situation and the need to somehow fix it for her.

I'd seen plenty of tears in my career—delivered tragic news more times than I could count—but watching her break down had activated something primal in me. A need to fix it. To make it stop. To take whatever was hurting her and destroy it with the hands I'd spent my life fixing things with.

Which was exactly the kind of thinking that had landed me here in the first place, wasn't it? The doctor who couldn't save everyone, drowning his helplessness in a bottle until there was no career, no reputation, nothing left to show for all the years of brutal hard work.

I poured water into the machine and hit the brew button, risking a glance back at Blake. She'd composed herself, but the hollowness in her eyes remained. That look of someone staring down impossible odds. I knew that look intimately—had seen it in my own mirror during those first brutal days of sobriety when the mountain seemed too steep to climb.

"You okay?" I asked, even though it was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't.

She nodded anyway. The universal lie we all clung to in times like this. When the world was finally starting to break us.

The image of Ethan leaning in close to Blake earlier, his hand on her arm, his eyes too warm and concerned, flashed through my mind. Sheriff Perfect with his badge and his earnestness and his disgustingly functional life choices. The way he'd looked at her, like he was ready to ride in on his white horse and solve all her problems.

It had annoyed me. More than it should have.

I'd much preferred when Blake was just Delaney's friend, the artist with the sharp tongue who seemed to take particular pleasure in needling me. Making her outrageous suggestions in some attempt to make me blush like a child. The woman who gave that playful smile whenever I walked into a room, who challenged me when I thought I knew better. The one I should safely keep at arm's length.

But now there was this—her vulnerability, her raw determination to keep this child, the way she'd felt in my arms when she finally let go and cried. It complicated things.Shecomplicated things.

"I don't know what to do," Blake said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Delaney and Trace offered to take Amelia. They'd be amazing parents—they already are to Cade—and Amelia would be part of a real family."

I turned, leaning against the counter. "But?"

"ButIwant to be the one to give her a home." Her voice was quiet but fierce. "I want to be the one to show her that she was wanted, that she was loved, that the people who cast her aside were wrong."

The conviction in her voice hit me like a physical blow. I recognized it—the need to rewrite someone else's story because it was too late to change your own.

"You're stronger than any of us give you credit for," I said. "Including yourself."

She shook her head, eyes downcast. "I'm a mess, Xander. I don't have a real job. I don't even have my own place. I might be her aunt but that doesn't really mean anything to the people who get to make the decisions. I—" Her voice cracked. "I'm going to lose her."

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