Chapter 22 I Did This
I DID THIS
BECKETT
“Is she okay?” Luna leans forward, half out of her chair, like she’s about to chase after her sister, but I know I can’t let that happen.
Ashley doesn’t want Luna—or anyone—knowing what’s really going on.
And I still don’t know if I can protect her from myself this year, but I can at least protect her sister from learning the truth.
I can damn well do that.
So I roll with the pregnancy rumor Ashley mentioned earlier.
“She got queasy,” I say, already pushing to my feet. “I’m gonna grab her some crackers or something from the ship’s store.” I force a shrug. “Don’t worry, we’ll see you guys in the morning.”
While the last notes of The Dance fade, I weave through the maze of chairs and slip out of the bar.
I don’t see her. She really will be checking on the boys.
It’s what she does.
Normally, I would follow her, but as much as I love my mother-in-law, it would mean more pretending. That’s the last thing Ashley needs right now.
Just in case, and because I don’t want any holes in our story, I hit the store. Grab crackers. Altoids. A couple candy bars, and head straight back to the stateroom.
She’ll be worried that Luna’s worried. I can smooth that over. That part, at least, I still know how to do. And then… I don’t know.
I guess we’ll sleep. Me on the damn pull out and her on the massive bed.
When I open the door, a breeze from the open balcony stirs the air, stirring up the scent of blue jasmine.
One lamp burns in the room.
And there she is.
Barefoot, heels kicked off, still in that short blue dress—wrinkled now from where she’s collapsed on top of the covers, curled up on her side.
For as long as we’ve been together, Ashley hasn’t changed. Not really. She’s still devastating in a way that’ll always get me. Beautiful. Sexy. Without even trying.
The fabric clings, hitched up on her thighs. Her hair—lighter now, freer—spills across the pillow, catching the lamplight like a halo.
This is the woman who never goes to bed without her routine.
The rituals that mark the days. Five steps to wash her face. Hair brushed smooth. Pillows fluffed until they’re just right.
She’s always been the one who keeps the rest of us standing. The reason everyone else gets to fall apart.
But tonight, the rituals are gone.
And without them, she looks… breakable.
Fragile.
I did this.
I did this to her. Damn it.
I sit my phone on the side table, drape my jacket over the chair, and toe off my shoes, quietly, in case she’s asleep.
Then I ease onto the bed behind her.
For a second, I just watch the rise and fall of her shoulder, the slow rhythm of her breathing. And because this is us, I slide an arm around her waist.
When she exhales—a breathy, uneven sound—it feels like forgiveness even though I know it isn’t.
Her voice comes out small, rough around the edges. “The Dance. It just reminded me…”
“I know.” My lips brush her hair.
“Did Luna—?”
“She’s fine. Just thinks you’re tired.” I manage a weak smile she can’t see. “A woman in your delicate condition and all.”
Ashley groans quietly, and I tighten my arm around her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“We can’t do this,” she says after a long moment. Her voice wavers, and it’s killing me. Ashley’s always been steady.
The tremor in her voice makes my throat burn.
“We can do whatever we want,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her temple. “Just let me hold you.”
Her shoulders shake once before she nods. So I just breathe with her, listening to the sound of the ocean through the balcony doors, the hum of the ship’s engines beneath us.
She doesn’t ask the questions I can’t answer.
And I don’t reach for the half-truths I’ve used in the past.
We just exist there, together, in that fragile truce neither of us names.
I reach back and switch off the light, but when I settle in again, she rolls over to face me.
Her knee hooks over my thigh. Her hand drifts from my shoulders, along my chest. Smooth. Familiar.
“Beckett…”
She says my name—soft, inviting—and it hits me low and hard. The want floods in with a rush of heat and memory and everything we’ve ever been. My body answers before my head can catch up.
Her fingers slide around my ribs and then she presses her hips closer.
But that ignites a twinge of pain, an unfortunate reminder.
I exhale, let it pass, but even without that little wakeup call, I know.
She’s not in a good place right now. She’s feeling more than a little lost, and going there, it would feel like taking advantage…
It would be a mistake. A delusional miscalculation.
I’ve tried fixing things like this before, convinced that closeness could fill in the holes, but… Nothing about this is right. Not yet.
So instead, I tuck her head beneath my chin, kiss her forehead.
She sighs, the tension easing, and her grip loosens just enough to tell me she feels it too.
Other thoughts try to push in—the deal, the pressure, everything waiting for me—but I shut it down.
For the first time in months, I feel like I’m right where I belong. Holding my wife, protecting her.
Like I’m finally moving toward her instead of away.
When I feel her breaths turn even, I kiss her forehead again, leaving my mouth pressed against her skin.
“Love you,” I whisper, because that won’t ever change.
And I need her more than she’ll ever know.