CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bryce
The way her voice wavers when she says she wants me to stay has me turning on the spot.
If someone told me six weeks ago that this woman—the one who took every opportunity to eviscerate me via email—could bring me to heel, I’d have told them to go to hell.
But here we are.
It stung to watch her drive away after the wedding. I should have been thrilled to be rid of her, of her barbs and eye-rolling and disdain… but I wasn’t. After spending only one night together, getting only a glimpse of the real her, I was already halfway gone for this blonde bombshell.
And there’s nothing more frightening than that. Because it’s been a very, very long time since I was gone over a woman…
And after Sarah, getting attached was something I said I’d never do again.
Casual dating, sure. The occasional one-night stand, okay.
But opening myself up to the potential of losing everything again?
No thanks. So, the attachment I’ve felt to Leanne since our night together is something I didn’t anticipate.
So far nothing between us has gone as anticipated, however, and I can only assume with our current predicament that won’t be changing.
Her shoulders slump in relief as she watches me remove my boots, but the wariness in her countenance is still there.
I’ve been around enough injured animals on the ranch to recognize the signs, and humans aren’t that different, so I move carefully toward her, making no attempt to touch her again. No matter how much I’m called to do so.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, and I can’t help but smile at the politeness of the offer. Leanne being polite with me is new.
“I’m okay, blondie,” I say.
She scoffs and rolls her eyes—which only makes me smile wider.
“Can I get you something?” I ask, holding back the impulse to brush my thumb across the brightening color on her cheek.
Her eyes trail toward the bag on the counter, giving me permission to move toward it. I pull each item out, placing them in a line.
She goes to the opposite side of the counter, eyes catching mine. “The ginger ale and crackers I get, but what’s with the peanut butter?”
It’s an innocent question, one that should come with a simple answer, but it’s far from simple.
I clear my throat. “Healthy fat, high calorie, and…” I pause before continuing, not sure how much to divulge about my past right now.
“I knew someone who ate it by the spoonful when she was pregnant.” Intense discomfort twinges behind my ribcage and I avoid rubbing at the spot there, willing the pain to dissipate.
Yeah, that’s definitely a conversation for another day.
Her head tilts and she assesses the bounty in front of her before reaching for a can of ginger ale.
“I’d be careful opening that. They fell off the seat of my truck.”
She raises an eyebrow in my direction and taps the top of the can before gently popping it open with a satisfying hiss.
“Thank you—for this,” she says, lifting the can and taking a sip. She sighs softly when it hits her stomach. I grab the rest of the cans and open her fridge. I’m shocked to find it nearly empty. She shrugs when I turn a questioning look on her. “I haven’t felt well enough to go out.”
“Your sisters or mom haven’t offered to bring you anything?” Despite Leanne’s cool demeanor with me at the wedding, she seemed to have a good relationship with her family. I would’ve thought they’d mobilize for something like this.
“I haven’t told them,” she says, averting her gaze and taking another sip of her ginger ale. “You’re the only person who knows.”
I nod, mulling that over. “When did you find out?”
“Yesterday. I’ve been sick since Monday, and when I wasn’t getting better…” She lets that sentence hang.
She’s been sick since Monday? It’s Saturday… “No wonder you look like you’ve lost weight. Have you been able to keep anything down?”
She shakes her head and sips her soda again. “Not really.”
“And you’ve just been suffering here alone?” The protective instincts I thought were long gone—ones I felt stir that night when she was arguing with her ex—move to the forefront. I hate to think of her being so sick for a week by herself.
Her answer is yet another shrug.
“Jesus, Leanne. What about the doctor? Have you been to the doctor?”
“I called one, but they won’t see me until I’m ten weeks along.”
I vaguely remember that information, but the sickness thing is new to me. Sarah never got sick. “But you’re sick…” I say with barely veiled indignation.
“It’s just morning sickness. It gets better in the afternoons… sort of.” She grimaces, which tells me that isn’t exactly true. “It’ll pass. Or so they say.”
I swear if she shrugs again, I’m going to lose it. She may think she’s playing off how bad she really feels, but I’m not buying it. I’ve seen behind her mask of indifference and nonchalance before, and I can see through it now.
“But you have to be able to eat—” I push.
“Okay listen, I said you could stay. I didn’t say you could berate me like a child who doesn’t know anything,” she snaps. “I’m not stupid. And I called you, didn’t I?”
Yeah, I guess she did. Even if she pretended she didn’t when I called her back. Infuriating woman. And what if I hadn’t? Would she be lying on the floor in her bathroom getting more and more dehydrated by the minute?
I force myself to inhale deeply through my nose, to rein in my own haywire feelings, before expelling the breath. “Yeah, you did.” Her pleased huff helps me relax too. “Okay, why don’t you go sit down and I’ll bring you some crackers and water to go with the soda. Then we can talk, yeah?”
“Fine,” she grumbles, but a tiny smile almost lifts her lips, and I take that as a win.
I eye the decor of her house as she meanders toward the couch.
It’s an open concept space with windows that look out onto a back deck and yard with luscious green grass and trees.
The sectional takes up most of the living room and faces a fireplace, with bookshelves lining the wall behind it.
The kitchen is open to the dining room which is open to the living room.
It’s all one big space, and I’m taken with how light and modern it is.
It’s yet another contrast between us. Her home is mostly white. White walls, white couch, whitewashed wood dining table.
My home is all dark wood beams, dark fixtures, dark leather couches… No matter how many windows I have, it could never have the same feel of this place.
I move through the kitchen looking for plates and cups and find them above the tea kettle.
Armed with crackers and water, I make my way over to where Leanne is snuggled into the corner of the sectional, almost melting into it with a blanket wrapped around her.
She looks small, which for someone who has such a large personality—at least in my experience—is very odd to see.
I set the crackers near her feet and the water on a side table, then take up a place near the arm of the couch, as far away as I can be while still being in her proximity.
She smirks. “Afraid I might bite?” she asks, reaching for a cracker.
“Absolutely,” I offer, because honestly, I never know how she might react. We don’t have a glowing track record of good communication or decision-making skills, so I need to keep my wits about me.
She nods subtly and sips her drink before resting her head against the cushion. Her eyes drift closed and she looks utterly wrecked. Has she been able to get any sleep if she’s feeling this sick?
“I’m not sure what to say,” she whispers, then lifts her head to look me in the eye.
“Let’s start at the beginning then.” I cross my ankle over my knee, settling back into the cushions. “You said, when we were together, that you couldn’t get pregnant—”
“I can’t!” She sits forward and nearly spills her soda. At my raised eyebrows, she slumps back again and sighs. “Or at least, I believed I couldn’t.”
I nod, hoping to encourage her to continue, because I’m going to need more than that to understand what happened here.
“My ex and I, we tried for over a year… and nothing. Not a single pregnancy, not even a failed one.”
I nod again. “This is the ex-fiancé you told me about?”
He’d called her that night—after the rehearsal—and I can’t deny that was the likely impetus for us ending up in bed together. She was hurt and angry and I was there—someone to fill the void. How many times did I do the same thing after I lost Sarah?
“When I finally suggested we go to a fertility specialist to get tested… he left.” She looks like she might get sick again. I feel a little ill myself thinking about this guy, and I know next to nothing about him.
“Did he leave because—” I hold off on completing the sentence, and like I knew she would, she finishes it for me.
“I couldn’t get pregnant? Yeah.” Her tone is clipped and defensive. More pieces of the puzzle that is Leanne fall into place with this admission. “He said I was…”
She gives her head a shake and chews on the inside of her cheek, eyes shut tight. Then, with a short inhale, she tips her head back like she’s steeling herself for the next part. When she finally brings her gaze back to mine, her eyes are resigned and filled with reluctant tears.
Watching this woman cry rips me up from the inside out. I break my own resolve not to touch her, sliding across the couch to draw her into my arms.
Please let me hold you, I silently beg. And it’s as if she heard me, because she does.
“Faulty…” she whispers so quietly into my flannel shirt I almost don’t hear it.
But I do.
It takes me a second to put it together, but when it clicks, I see red.
That motherfucker. I band my arms tighter around her, using my muscles for good instead of what my brain tells me I should use them for, which is rearranging the bastard’s face.
“You are not faulty, Leanne,” I say as resolutely as I can.
“Obviously,” she snarks with a weak and watery chuckle. I feel the vibration of it against my hand that runs along her spine. “One time with you and here we are.”
With that, the tension breaks and my desire to rage at someone I’ve never met lowers to a simmer beneath my skin. “To be fair, it was more than one time,” I reply with a laugh as soft as hers.
See, we can talk. We can be normal with each other. This is good. We can figure this out.
“True, but…”
“No buts—”
“But—”
“No, Leanne. Neither of us was being responsible that night. I can’t fault you for not wanting to get into the details of your fertility in the heat of the moment. I could have pressed for more, but honestly, all I wanted was to be inside you.”
With those words out in the open, the tension in the room moves from being stress-fueled to something akin to crackling desire.
With her in my arms, pressed against my chest, I remember all too well the way we fit together, and regardless of how inappropriate it is to be thinking about that right now… I am.
“Bryce,” Leanne says, and I feel her breath against the underside of my chin, puffing out against my beard. “I need you to let go of me.”
Shit. I’ve pushed her too hard, too far, too fast, just like in the kitchen. She didn’t want me touching her and, yet again, I took her into my arms without thinking of what she might need. I instantly release her, terrified of what I’ll see in her eyes.
Instead of the same panic or coldness though, I see nothing… because she’s barreling down the hallway toward what I assume is the bathroom a moment later.
Goddammit.