Page 150 of The Wrong Husband
He shakes his head. "I’ll have the best team from my uncle Quentin’s security agency with me."
"But you’ll be the one actually negotiating with the terrorists."
"I’m the most skilled at it." He cups my cheek. "I’m sorry for putting you through this. But I’m already committed. I can’t back out."
Of course, I understand. Right?"I want to say I’m selfless enough to say, of course, you’re right, and you should do it. And I know you should, but"—I frame his beloved face and look into those startling blue eyes—"Connor, I wish you didn’t have togo." I swallow. "Not that I’ll stop you. I know those children are counting on you."
A tear runs down my cheek. He wipes it away. "I’ll be back so soon. You won't even realize I’m gone.”
Not likely, but I’m going to put on a brave front. I’m going to wish him luck and send him off, and then I’m going to spend every second praying for his safe return.
"Promise me." I take both of his hands in mine and kiss him hard. "Promise me, you’ll come back to me."
52
Phoenix
"Dr. Hamilton?" The receptionist at the doctors’ station in the ER looks at me in surprise. "Don’t you have the day off?"
It’s been ten days since I returned from my cut-short honeymoon. Ten days since my husband left on his mission. And yes, it’s my day off, but rather than stay home and stress about the safety of my husband’s assignment I decided to come into work. No, I don’t plan to continue with this bad habit when my husband is around.
Besides, no way would Connor let me work without taking proper breaks.
Unlike my relationship with my ex, I don’t want to hide my new status. I want the world to know I’m married to Connor.
"It’s Dr. Davenport now,” I remind her.
It feels amazing to say that. Makes me feel closer to Connor to share his surname.
Yes, I worked hard for my career, and now it has his name on it. But if it weren’t for Connor, I wouldn’t have come togrips with my past. It’s thanks to him; I've been able to face the trauma of what happened. I'm a new person.
I’m happy to take his name. It doesn’t take away from my accomplishments or makes me less of a feminist. I’m still me, with all my faults and insecurities. I’m also deeply in love with a man who understands me in a way I never thought another person could.
“Of course, my bad,” she checks the rota, “and I see you asked to be added to the schedule.”
I nod. “I asked to come in today because my husband is away on a work trip. Didn’t want to stay home in an empty apartment.”
Her gaze grows wistful. “Ah, young love.” The phone on her desk rings. With an apologetic look, she reaches for it.
I pivot and head into the triage area. For the next six hours, I’m busy, attending to cases.
A pregnant woman suffering from gas and worried she was miscarrying—which she wasn’t, thankfully. An elderly woman with stomach pain and a diagnosis of gallstones. A man suffering from a panic attack.
Luckily, none of them were of the life and death variety. But they kept me so busy that I didn’t have time to think of my husband, far away in some country where his life is at risk. How do wives and loved ones of those in the military put up with this kind of distance and waiting?
It takes a special kind of person who's resilient enough to go about their day-to-day life and live with such a high degree of uncertainty when someone they care for is putting their life on the line for them and their country. Thankfully, the rush of patients slows down to a trickle, so I’m able to take a breather.
I head down to the staff canteen. It’s also frequented by guests of patients. And not very crowded, for a change.
I grab a coffee and a sandwich, barely noticing what I’ve picked. I head to a table tucked away at the back of the space. The moment I sit, I yank out my phone and check my messages.
There’s one from the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff.
I freeze. My pulse spikes. My vision narrows. Oh my God.Oh my God.
Connor sent off that email with my proposal, but I’ve been so lost in missing him, aching for his voice, his arms, his impossible arrogance, that I almost forgot about it.
I click on the message. My breath shudders out. My eyes skim the first line—then the second.
