Page 57 of Your Second Chance
Because if my plan was to keep her close—to eventually have her in my place, in my life—then I needed to know. What if he showed up one day and took her away? She was so scared of me leaving her, but I was terrified she’d leave me. And that thought,more than anything, made it harder to ignore the unanswered questions.
We paused at the car, and before I held the door open, I grabbed her hand, stopping her. “I need to ask you something heavy.”
“Alright . . .”
“Who is he?” I gestured down to her belly before my eyes went searching hers.
Every time I looked at her belly, I had an inexplicable mix of protectiveness and dread. What kind of man had hurt her enough to make her flinch at the thought of being loved again?
I didn’t need to know every detail of her past, but this part... this part mattered. Not because it defined her, but because it defined how I could show up for her. How I could be what she needed.
What if he found out about the baby and decided he wanted a second chance? She was so tightly wound into my every fucking move that the idea of her leaving—of someone else having the chance to hold her, to be the one she called when things got too heavy—wrecked me.
And yet, I couldn’t demand to know. I couldn’t push her in a way that made her close up. She was fragile, and I’d been patient. I needed to ask, even if the answer scared me.
My hands went up to her curls as I waited for her to respond. Her fingers found their way to the buttons on my coat.
I finally breathed out with an exhale. “Is he someone I would know?”
“Do you watch a lot of American hockey?”
I shook my head, and she shrugged.
“His name is Austin Hart.”
Her last name. Of course.
Without a word, she pulled out her phone, typed something in, and held it up for me to see.
“What—?” My words were cut off as I stared at the screen.
Dozens of articles. Photos. Headlines.
The first article stopped me in my tracks. A headline about Austin Hart caught doing coke off someone’s arse in a bathroom, complete with a grainy photo. When I zoomed in, my stomach twisted—I recognized those tattoos, but mostly I recognized that arse. It wasmyarse. The one I’d memorized that had bumped up against me when I slept yesterday. Mine.
Holy shit. He’d been caught doing blow onher? In a bathroom?
My pulse hammered as questions flooded my mind, but I stayed silent, glancing at Nova. Her face was unreadable.
“Keep scrolling,” she murmured.
I did. It only got worse.
Articles detailing their whirlwind wedding, their messy divorce, and finally a painfully awkward video conference where he admitted to his mistakes. I clicked the link. His voice came through, hollow and apologetic, as he promised to retire, get clean, and head to rehab.
The lump in my throat grew. I couldn’t believe what I was reading, what I was seeing, what she’d lived through. It took a lot to render me speechless, but this? This left me reeling. What the hell was I supposed to say to this?
“It’s too much for you. I told you I’m complicated.”
I shook out of my stupor and handed her the phone back.
“I’m going to take you home,” I said softly.
I wasn’t in the mood to keep having this conversation, because truthfully, it was complicated. Iknewall these things, had accepted them in theory, but seeing them play out so publicly was something else entirely.
She shook her head and turned to open the door and get inside.
I was being a fucking coward.Say something.
