Page 27 of Everything We Give

“I haven’t. I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Aimee looks at me. “Open another location? Of course. We’ve discussed this. Why would you ask?”

I shrug. “You don’t bake anymore.” And I’m not saying that because I’m addicted to her snickerdoodle cookies. She used to be passionate about baking. A genuine artisan.

A slight smile touches her lips like a brief kiss. “I did like working the kitchen this morning.”

“Then, why aren’t you? You don’t need another location, let alone two. We don’t need the extra money.” But I do need my wife. She’s been distracted all summer, barely taking the time to tuck Caty into bed, let alone sparing me a few moments before she dives into her plans. Until La Fondue last night, we hadn’t had a date in weeks. Make that months.

Aimee motions at the agreements. “It’s a little late to change my mind.”

I fan through the paper stack. “I don’t see any signatures. Look, I’m not trying to change your mind. Just think about it.”

I stand and plant my hands on her shoulders. “You’re pushing toward a deadline you created, Aims. You steer the ship. Slow it down. There’s no rush to get this done.” I knead the knots and she moans, letting her head fall forward.

“That feels amazing.”

“It’s supposed to.” I breathe in her scent. A flurry of images shuffles behind my eyes, each of them involving Aimee and me. Naked. In the office. Door shut and locked, obviously.

And with that thought ...

I completely lose track of what I want to say. Something about us, but without the stress and that constant feeling there’s something unsaid between us. I miss her. I missus.

I skim my mouth along the line of her exposed neck and kiss the base. My hands slip down the side of her ribs and skirt around to her abs. “What were we talking about?”

“Ah ... um ...” Aimee tilts her head to the side, giving me access to the curve of her shoulder. “Something about reconsidering leases and loans.”

“That’s right.” I smile against her skin. “You’ve been wound up since June and—”

Aimee moves out from under my hands so fast I feel a breeze. My balance wobbles. She crosses her office and whirls around, the desk between us. “There you go again, bringing up James.”

“Hey now.” I wave both hands in front of me. “I didn’t say anything about him.”

“You didn’t have to.” She tosses up her hands. “I give up.”

Everything inside me tightens, and not in a good way. “What do you mean you give up?”

“I told you what happened with him, every single detail. You know how I needed to say good-bye to him as the man he is now, not the guy he was in Mexico. Yes, we kissed, and yes, he groped me. He was desperate and lost and had been through hell. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re the one I’ve chosen to spend my life with? What do I need to do to prove to you that it’s you I love? Apologize? I think I’ve apologized enough. But if you need to hear it again, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m not looking for an apology.”

“Then, what do you want from me?”

I grind my teeth and glance away.

“What do you want?” she repeats, sounding desperate herself.

I want James to never contact her again, and I want his paintings off the walls. I want her to drop the pile of agreements on her desk and focus on what she loves—baking—not what she thinks she needs to accomplish: conquer the coffee-serving world. I want to be the best damn husband possible and a dad who sticks around. I want to kick ass on theNational Geographicassignment so that subscribers remember my work for years to come. For my images to be burned in their memories like those on photograph paper.

There’s so much I want, but when my eyes hold hers, I can’t vocalize any of it except ...

“I want to find my mom.”

CHAPTER 8

IAN

---