Chapter 27
Jackson
“Do you have the Parkinson file?”
My boss’s question snaps me out of my daze. Dennis leans against my office doorframe as I dig through the files on my desk and hand him the one he wants.
He cocks his head as he walks over to take the thin blue file. “You’re wearing a ridiculous smile, and you haven’t stopped whistling since you came in.”
“That’s right.” My cheek-aching smile returns in full force. “Oh, I’m ahead on the Bishop proposal. I can have that to you in an hour.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That was a complicated proposal.”
“I was a couple of hours early and thought I’d get a head start on it.”
He hums, and his eyes travel over my tidy desk.
It has almost always been cluttered since the day I started working for Dennis several years ago.
Some people like everything in its particular place.
I’ve never been like that. I called it organized chaos, but in reality, I spent more time looking for important papers than I needed to.
Lately, I’ve seen the value in staying focused, being calmer, and keeping my desk—and mind—uncluttered.
Yesterday was life-changing. So life-changing that I barely slept after I left Ellie.
“I take it you had some good news,” he says, pausing in the open doorway.
“Things are going well with Ellie.” He knows that we’ve been spending a lot more time together, preparing for the baby, going to all prenatal appointments together, and he’s happy for me.
“Oh?”
“We’re stopping the divorce. At least for now. We’re going to see a marriage counselor and talk more. And we kissed.”
He beams at me. “That’s great news.”
“It’s still early days,” I say, struggling to contain my smile.
It’s the first step toward officially getting back together.
Neither of us wants to rush into anything.
I want her to be sure that a future with me is truly what she wants, and she needs time to discuss her needs, fears, and wants with someone unbiased so we can work through the residual hurt and pain she has with a marriage counselor.
We talked for nearly an hour at the dining table after I stopped spinning her in the backyard, making plans and discussing our future. Then I kissed her again and left.
“Well, I’m happy for you, though I still think she can do better,” Dennis says with a smile. He lifts the file. “Thanks for this.”
“Thanks, Dennis.”
“For?”
“Pushing me to be a better man and a better husband.”
“It didn’t take that much pushing,” he says gruffly. “You’ve got all the right ingredients inside you, just need a little prodding sometimes to get it out. Take off early once you’ve finished that file.”
Concerned, I sit up. “But I—”
“Or do I need to suspend you again?” he asks dryly.
My mouth snaps shut.
Flashing me a grin, he leaves with the file, and I sit back in my chair.
Truth be told, there isn’t much left to do today. The Bishop proposal should have taken a week to put together. I’m waiting for a couple of clients to get back to me about quotes, but otherwise, my workload is the lightest it’s ever been.
Telling me to go home early wasn’t so much a punishment as a reward. It’s one I intend to take full advantage of.
Smiling, I pick up my cell phone and type out a message:
Hey! The boss is giving me the rest of the day off. What do you say about me taking you out for a late lunch?
ELLIE
He’s suspending you again?
Nope. This is an early release for good behavior.
OK. Don’t rush to the house, I’m still in PJs.
My stupid smile slips off my face.
Everything OK?
Couldn’t sleep last night
Are you in pain? Should I leave now? Do you need the hospital?
Kept thinking about you. The kiss. Us.
Stupid smile returns in full force, my cheeks damn near aching.
Yeah. Me too.
What time? And where for lunch?
Considering my options, I type back:
Casual. The place won’t be fancy. I’ll pick up at 2.
I’ll be ready.
I hesitate. Hoping I’m not making a mistake that will blow up in my face, I type:
I love you.
My finger hovers over the send button.
We talked last night for over an hour. I kissed her. She returned it. I told her I love her, but now that I think about it, she didn’t say it back.
If I send this message and she doesn’t respond…
My mind flashes back to the last time I texted Ellie those same three words.
She never texted back.
What if I freak her out by coming on too strong when we just agreed to take our time with talking and marriage counseling?
No, I need her face-to-face when I say it again, and I need to read her expression.
Deleting the message, I type instead:
I can’t wait.
Me too.
Setting down my phone, I load up my computer and get back to work, determined to complete this file in the next twenty minutes so I can take my beautiful wife out on a date.
She slips out of the house as I cut the engine in the driveway.
A knee-length blue dress skims her curves, drawing attention to her fuller breasts and rounded belly.
She has a denim jacket over it. Her long dark hair is caught up in a loose knot, and with a hint of mascara and a smear of pink lipstick, my wife is so damn beautiful, a lump lodges itself in my throat.
I leave the woman I love wondering whether I had a blow to the head when I do nothing but stare through the open passenger door window.
She glances down as she slows her approach to my car, her fingers smoothing the skirt of her dress. “Is this too much?” she asks hesitantly. “You said casual, but my wardrobe options keep decreasing by the month.”
My mind snaps awake.
Get out of the car and open the door for your wife.
Fumbling with my seatbelt, I’m out and rounding the hood of my car two seconds later.
“You look beautiful. Don’t change. Just… you look beautiful. Sorry for staring.”
My eyes dip, settling on her bare ring finger.
We talked a lot yesterday about the future, marriage counseling, the baby, and stopping the divorce.
We didn’t get to the subject of wedding rings, namely hers, which I have sitting on my nightstand, taunting me, tempting me, reminding me of the wife I took for granted and hurt so badly that I lost her.
I still might. The future isn’t set in stone.
I might do everything right, but what if she can’t forget what I did?
What if I find a new way to mess things up?
Does she want the ring back? She’d have asked for it if she wanted it, right?
Maybe she doesn’t think I have it. Maybe seeing it will be a reminder of one of—if not—the worst day of her life.
Should I sell it? Destroy it? Buy her a new one?
“You’re still staring,” she says softly, cheeks flushing a pretty pink.
I feel like I’m sixteen again on a first date with the beautiful girl I always saw in school, wanted to ask out, but never believed she’d have any interest in a dumb jock like me.
Tongue-tied. Desperate to impress with no idea what the fuck I’m doing. So, I decide to go with honesty.
“I don’t want to mess this up again,” I say.
She nods thoughtfully. “What do your instincts say?”
“To kiss you and lead you to the car where I’ll open the door for you and take you to a place I think you’ll really like.”
Her new smile is so radiant that I bask in her happiness.
“Listen to those instincts,” she says. “They’re not steering you wrong.”
So I kiss my beautiful wife for much longer than I intended, and she leans against me, the rounded curve of her belly nudging my chest.
With a groan, I break the kiss, cradling her face between my palms and resting my forehead against hers. “We have to stop that.”
I love my wife.
I have always found her attractive. We had a healthy sex life, fulfilling for her and me. What I did… hurting her the way I did was never because she didn’t satisfy me or I was no longer fulfilled by her.
I did it because of me.
I was the problem.
My life was lacking in ways I didn’t understand. I was hungry for things I didn’t know I was, and I let my dick lead the way when I should have talked to my wife and seen a therapist after I left the NHL.
When Ellie peers up at me, I let honesty lead the way again.
“I love you, and I want you in ways that I don’t deserve,” I say. “That’s why I can’t keep kissing you like that.”
Her eyes widen, realization replacing her confusion about why I would end a kiss we both enjoyed.
Before I can make her feel more uncomfortable than she already is, I kiss her cheek and step back, intertwining our fingers. “Let’s go to this lunch, huh? We have reservations.”