Chapter Thirty-Eight
Quinn
R emoving the needle from my stomach, I let my shirt fall then discard the syringe. Dr. Maynard’s office called me earlier today and scheduled an appointment to get my insulin pump next week. Even though I was initially wary of it, the thought of having more control over my blood sugar excites me. My levels are better but still not within the range that Dr. Maynard prefers. I pray the pump will fix that problem.
Lois and I plan to meet later for an afternoon coffee since I have a rare day off of work. It’ll be good to get out of the house for a bit. I’ve been trying to distract myself with work and by keeping busy helping Mom, but anytime I’m home, I’m surrounded by all the reminders of Bram. It’s worse when he’s home, which is why I’ve been trying to make myself scarce.
When I’m around him, I just can’t shake the humiliation from that night. It’s making me feel like a caged bird anytime we’re home at the same time. Not to mention I’m extremely weak, and I know if he gave me one lingering look, I’d be putty in his hands. Because as much as I try to regret that night, I just can’t. I only regret that he doesn’t feel the same way.
Sighing, I push away all thoughts of Bram and try to focus on what I need to do today. A growling sounds from my stomach as the smell of pineapple chicken simmering in the slow cooker makes my mouth water. It still has a few hours to cook before supper, so I rummage through the fridge to see what I can have for a snack.
I’ve just pulled out a yogurt and some frozen fruit when the front door opens. My eyes slide to the clock—I know it’s too early for Bram to be home—before I catch the delicious smell of baked peaches.
Mrs. Graham.
Shaking my head and holding back a chuckle, I return the yogurt and berries and turn around just in time to see Mrs. Graham hobble into the kitchen.
“Good afternoon, dear,” she greets me as if it’s normal for her to waltz in here whenever she wants. I guess it technically is since neither Bram nor I have the heart to change the locks. Even if we did, I have a feeling it wouldn’t matter. She’d somehow find a way to get inside.
“Mrs. Graham,” I reply. “What a surprise!”
Glancing over at her, I confirm that she did indeed bring a peach pie. “Here, let me take that. It smells divine.”
She chuckles. “I had a feeling you might be needing a slice of pie right about now.”
I bite back a grin. A feeling? Or the nosey neighbor had been spying on us . . . again? The thought should bother me more, but the pie smells too tantalizing for me to argue.
“That was very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Graham. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll cut us a slice?”
I gather bowls, spoons, and whipped topping and serve us both some of the delicious pie. Lifting the spoon to my mouth, I let out a moan of appreciation as the burst of warm flavors hits my tongue. I don’t know how she makes a sugar-free pie taste this good.
“This is delicious, Mrs. Graham.”
We chat around mouthfuls until we’re both too stuffed to take another bite. Mrs. Graham looks around the kitchen while I wash our bowls out.
“How’s that handsome husband of yours?”
“He’s good,” I reply, hating the note of uncertainty straining my voice.
Her keen gaze meets mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My eyes widen slightly before a chuckle escapes my lips. “Mrs. Graham”— I say, shaking my head— “are you some kind of seer?”
She barks out a laugh. “Honey, I’m nothing but an eighty-year-old woman who has been around long enough to notice things about others.” Pointing her finger at me, she continues. “Like I’m noticing that there’s not as much laughter coming from this place and the lights are going out a lot earlier than they used to.”
Well, that is eerily observant of her. How do I even respond to that? Should I respond? Having her confirm that she’s been spying on us is probably the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Unless the lights are going off for different reasons?” She waggles her eyebrows—or at least tries to. Her face is a mass of wrinkles, so it’s hard to tell.
“Different reasons?” I blink at her a moment before realization dawns on me. “Oh. Oh!” My face flames.
Nope. I take it back. THAT is the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. I am not going to talk about my, umm . . . married life with my nosey old lady neighbor. No matter how many pies she brings me to sweeten the words.
Seriously, it would take a whole lot of pies to sweeten those words.
My nose crinkles in disgust, but I quickly smooth my features. As unnerving as this entire conversation is, I know Mrs. Graham isn’t any kind of threat.
“Well?” she prods.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure what you think you’re seeing, but nothing is going on—”
“And that’s exactly my point!” she interjects with a sweep of her hand. “Why is nothing happening?”
Oh my. I thought my face couldn’t get any hotter, but her blunt words have stoked the flame and my cheeks are so hot I’m pretty sure I’ll never get cold again.
“Dear, you don’t have to be ashamed or embarrassed. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone.” Her tone is soft and compassion shines in her eyes.
“I-I . . . he” —my throat tightens, and I blink back tears as I find myself replying— “he doesn’t want me.” The dam opens and tears stream down my face. I bite my cheek in an attempt to keep the sobs from breaking through.
Mrs. Graham’s face softens, and she comes over, clasping me in a warm, grandmotherly embrace. She lets go and then pats my cheek. “Now, why on earth do you think your husband doesn’t want a pretty thing like you? I’ve seen the way that man looks at you, dear. And it’s not the look of a man who isn’t interested.” She points a gnarly finger at me, a slight smile on her face.
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I shake my head. “No. He’s simply good at pretending when others are around.”
She harrumphs and waves a hand. “I’m not talking about those times. I’ve seen you two taking romantic strolls on the beach or when you’ve come back from an outing together. He watches you. And his smile when he’s doing it”— she raises a dramatic hand to her heart and sighs— “it’s just so romantic.”
Sniffing, I feel another tear tracing down my face. “No. You don’t understand. He-he told me.”
Mrs. Graham frowns, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. “He told you?”
I nod, part of me wishing I could take the words back. How did she manage to get me to open up? Darn pies.
“Your husband told you that he didn’t want you? In those words?”
I start to nod again but stop. Blinking several times, I hesitate before answering. “Well, not in those exact words. But he was very clear.”
“What clear words did he use then?”
Heat fills my face again, and I avert my gaze. I owe this woman nothing, yet my heart aches so much, I can’t seem to keep from spilling all my secrets to her. “I . . . um . . . he”—I pause, closing my eyes and drawing in a deep breath, before releasing it—“he apologized after we were . . . um . . . together.”
The silence is deafening. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. Opening my eyes, I peek to see Mrs. Graham’s reaction. I’m shocked when I’m met with a wide smile stretched across her wrinkly face. Maybe her hearing aids failed and she hadn’t heard me correctly. Does she even wear hearing aids?
It’s more likely I haven’t been clear enough in my description, but I am not going to be clarifying that point with her.
“He’s in love with you,” she states, a twinkle in her eyes.
“That’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Graham, but you’re wrong. I mean, if he was, why did he apologize? Why didn’t he want me?”
Placing a hand on my arm, she replies, “Why don’t you ask him that?”
My heart drops. I was hoping Mrs. Graham had some hidden knowledge into Bram’s head I wasn’t privy to. Instead, it appears she only wants to offer encouragement. It’s sweet of her. But the little slither of hope I felt when she said Bram loved me fizzles out.
The front door opens, causing me to jump, right before I hear Bram’s heavy footsteps heading toward the kitchen. My hand goes to my wet cheeks. Goodness, why does the man always have to come home to find me crying?
“Go on, dear. I’ll stall him for a few minutes,” Mrs. Graham whispers before she slips out of the kitchen.
Her greeting to Bram floats through the kitchen as I hurry to wet a paper towel with cold water. There isn’t time for me to hide the tears, but I can hopefully cover up some of the puffiness. After a couple of minutes, I hear Bram walking Mrs. Graham to the door. I quickly throw away the paper towel and run my fingers through my hair.
Bram strides in and all the air is sucked out of the room as his stormy eyes find me. The way his gaze takes me in with a slow sweep from head to toe has my insides trembling. The spark in his eyes sears each place his gaze lands. He saunters purposefully toward me and my pulse picks up speed.
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I say, “Hey, Bram.”
He’s close enough now that I can smell his signature woodsy scent mingling with fresh mint. Reaching out, he lightly traces a finger down my face.
“Why have you been crying, Q?” His voice comes out in a husky whisper, sending shivers down my spine.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He inches closer, placing his arms on the counter behind me, effectively pinning me in. What is he doing?
His gaze trails my face, landing on my lips before moving slowly back to my eyes with a look so intense it almost takes my breath away.
“Quinn, I have to know.” The words are a hushed whisper. “Do you regret that night?”
My response is swift and firm. “No.”
The next moment, his lips are tangled with mine in a kiss that is full of hunger and desperation. His hands frame my face, and I sink into his touch. In one quick movement, he picks me up and sets me on the counter, barely breaking contact before he kisses me again.
My arms wrap around his neck as his hands grip my waist, digging into my skin in an electrifying touch. We tug each other closer, molding to one another as his mouth explores mine. My fingers grip the back of his hair, earning a groan from him.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that, allowing every emotion we’ve felt over the last few weeks to come out in one heavenly kiss after another. Suddenly, Bram pulls back, both of us breathing hard.
His thumbs come up and he wipes under my eyes. “Sunshine, why are you crying again?”
My hand flies to my face. I hadn’t even realized tears had spilled. I breathe out a half laugh, half sob. “I-I thought you didn’t want me,” I admit, watching his eyes darken.
He cups my face in his large hands, gazing at me. “Oh, Q. There’s nothing I want more, and I’m so sorry that I made you think otherwise.”
“You don’t regret that night?”
“Never,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I didn’t apologize to you because I regretted us being together. I apologized because I was afraid that I’d taken advantage of you at a time when you were vulnerable.”
My mouth drops open. “How . . . wh-why . . . of course, you didn’t take advantage of me, Bram! I practically begged you to stay.”
His lips tug up in the corner, his fingers digging into my hips possessively. “Yes, you did, wife ,” he almost growls the last word, and it lights a fire low in my belly that spreads through my veins.
Smiling, I yank him closer and kiss him again. “Do you want to go for a walk? I have time before Lois picks me up.”
Leaning in, he brushes my hair off my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do right now?” He nips my earlobe, earning a humming sound from me. “Like you said, we have time.” Nipping my ear again, he presses several warm kisses to my neck before slowly dragging his mouth away.
Swatting his arm, I try to get my racing pulse to a normal rhythm. I love whatever this new thing is between us.
“Rein it in,” I say playfully, kissing his cheek. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
“We’ve been married for almost three months, sunshine.” He skims his fingers over my arms, causing gooseflesh to appear. It would be so easy to cave right now. I want to, but—
“We still need to talk before . . .” I let my sentence trail off, but judging by the look he’s giving me, he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
Feigning a dramatic sigh, he brushes a kiss on my forehead. “You’re right. Let me go change first.”
He lifts me off the counter, wrapping his strong arms around me and kissing me thoroughly again. I am not complaining.
Finally, I push him toward the bedroom. “Go on and change. I’m going to grab my shoes.”
In my bedroom, I take a quick look in the mirror, running a hand through my hair. As I slip on my sandals, Bram’s phone rings from the other room, followed by the sound of his voice. I grin to myself and trace a finger along my lips. Bram wants me. The thought almost has me squealing.
Stepping into the hallway, I hear Bram say, “I love her.”
My breath hitches in my throat. Is he talking about us? About me? Warmth spreads throughout my chest, and my grin spreads wide across my face. Then, his next muffled words send me reeling.
“. . . marry the wrong sister.” He’s still speaking, but my head is spinning. I clutch at the wall, the words playing over in my head as my brain fills in the blanks.
Married the wrong sister.
Lois.
A sob threatens to break loose as I rub the ache in my chest. I have to get out of here. Pushing open the French doors, I stumble my way outside, barely noticing the soft breeze and fresh ocean air. I can’t breathe.
How had I been so fooled? Of course, he loves Lois. He’s been friends with her for years. They made sense together.
But why did he marry me?
Why did he kiss me? Sleep with me?
My thoughts tumble over one another as everything clicks into place. I’m second to Lois. He only chose me after Lois came home married.
Nausea washes over me, and it takes everything in me to keep the contents of my stomach. I’ve been duped. Swiping angry tears away, I walk as fast as I can away from the cottage. Away from him.
God, why did You let me marry him when he loves Lois?
The betrayal is like a knife to my heart.
A hissing sound comes from a few feet in front of me, but I don’t look up. My eyes are too full of tears. The cat hisses again when I take another step, this time it’s louder. Deeper.
I freeze, fear infiltrating every one of my senses as I lift my head and force the scream back down my throat.
King Arthur has escaped again.