Even now, with that same old ache burning a hole in my chest, I wanted to tell him about my Amelia. I took a moment to contemplate the reasons why I was telling him and decided it didn’t matter. I needed this and he wasn’t complaining, so I charged forward before I could change my mind and mentally scurry back into the darkened depths of my pain.
“Amelia was two when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Toddlers usually have bruises from falls and the misadventures typical of someone that age but she kept getting bruises in places that we couldn’t explain. She was always tired, napping more than was normal for a child that age.” I saw those early days in my mind as I spoke, vivid as if it were happening right in front of me. “There were constant visits to the pediatrician, reassurances that I was just not seeing her bumping into things, that maybe she was waking in the night and I didn’t know it or that she was tired because of a growth spurt. All things that made sense but felt wrong in my ears even as they said it. I knew better. I knew something was wrong with my baby and they just kept putting me off as some overprotective, worrywart mother.”
My fists clenched in my lap, so I reached up to grip my mug as a distraction. Spencer saw the motion and nodded to the near-empty cup. I smiled softly and handed it to him to refill, continuing with my story before I lost my nerve. “Anyway, by the time I got anyone to listen, her white blood cell levels were through the roof.”
He sounded angry when he asked, “Why the hell didn’t they listen sooner?”
I shrugged miserably and sipped my coffee. “Because I didn’t know her family history. If I’d known so much hinged on that, I would have lied.” I fought back the lump in my throat. “I just didn’t know.”
“Why couldn’t you give them a family history?”
“Well, I’m adopted—my birth parents are unknown because I was abandoned—so I have no idea what medical history my birth parents have, and Amelia’s father...” How was I supposed to explain that? Shit.
“Derek?”
A jolt of shock punched through me, and I sucked in a breath, the pulsing vein at my temple threatening to explode. “I talked about Derek last night?”
Spencer tried to shrug it off but I could see that my reaction bothered him. “A little, not much. And I’m still not sure what to make of it.” He tilted his head and gave me a half smile. “You were pretty buzzed by the time his name came up.”
“Well, I suppose the least I can do is clarify things, huh?” I let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Only if you want to. I told you, you’re not obligated to tell me anything.” His reassuring tone made this whole thing so much easier. The fact that he was okay with me not talking just made me want to talk more.
I took a deep breath and smoothed my robe, busying my trembling hands. “To answer your original question, no, Derek is not Amelia’s father. He and I were high school sweethearts. Young, optimistic, and determined to stay together even after deciding to attend colleges in different states.” I forced a swallow and dropped my voice a bit. “We hadn’t seen each other for several months when I got pregnant with Amelia.”
“I think I get it,” he said. His voice was angry, his stance rigid.
What the?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was instantly defensive. Did he think I’d cheated, that it was some anonymous hook-up or something?
He held up a hand. “Not what you think. You said something last night that I think explains why you didn’t have the biological father’s medical information to give. You don’t have to talk about that.”
Shit. I scanned my memories trying to remember what I said.
He must have seen the confusion on my face because he said, “You said you’d never willingly cheat on anyone.
Willingly
being the operative word and therefore requiring no further explanation. Okay?” He held my eye and reached out to touch the hand I’d been resting on the countertop. “I’m pretty good at reading between the lines. I didn’t mean to sound angry. Please know it wasn’t intended toward you. Not ever.” I nodded appreciatively and he returned to assembling our omelets, instinctively knowing it was easier for me to talk when he wasn’t looking at me.
“With no family to ask for bone marrow, the odds were slim that we’d find a donor but we kept hoping. I tried to find a way to track down my birth family but it was a dead end. I reached out to Amelia’s father’s family, but they thought I was trying to get a sample of his DNA so I could prove paternity and press assault charges or sue for support.”
The sound of a wooden mixing spoon slamming onto the counter was so sudden and loud that I yelped, hand cupping my aching head.
Spencer didn’t turn. He placed both palms flat on the counter, shoulders bunched so high they nearly touched his ears as he practically growled. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. How in the hell could someone be that callous? How could they stand back and do nothing while a child died? Jesus fucking Christ.” He blew out a breath and stood there for a moment, stewing. I knew the feeling well.
“I said the same thing. The guy’s mother snottily pointed out that some people matter and some don’t. Then the line went dead. Two days later, after repeated unanswered calls from me, they changed the number.” I suddenly wanted to make my coffee Irish. Very Irish.
Spencer turned and met my eye, his tone deadly. “All I need is his name. Two little words. I haven’t pushed you to tell me anything and I won’t start now, but I will tell you that if you can give me those two words, I’ll make goddamn sure he never hurts anyone again.”
Tears threatened, and not for the first time that morning. The look in his eyes left no question that he was serious. All I had to do was give him a name and he would avenge something that happened ten years ago to a woman he barely knew.
The notion was so touching, I nearly lost it.
I had to fight to clear my throat, swallowing down a surge of emotion. “Thank you. I mean that. But I’m not interested in revenge, not anymore. I’m a firm believer that what goes around comes around. Karma will catch up to him, if it hasn’t already. He’s no longer relevant to my life because I don’t allow it.” The strength in my voice surprised even me. “Despite what his icy-hearted mother thinks, I’m better than him. I don’t hurt people, even the ones that probably deserve it.”
Spencer only nodded, the look on his face a combination of respect and disappointment. He’d been spoiling for a fight.
I forced myself to see the story through, feeling compelled to pour out my heart to this wonderful, bossy, protective man. “He was a star athlete, from an affluent family with political aspirations. When everything happened back in college, I was made to understand that any charges against him, any scandal at all, would be met with a level of retaliation against which I couldn’t win. I was reminded at every turn that I’d be wasting my time to cry rape. It was senior year, I was barely showing by graduation so I kept to myself and never said a word against him. Derek didn’t believe me, was convinced I’d been whoring around and was trying to lie my way out of it so he’d stay and help me raise another man’s kid.” I blew out a harsh breath. “So he left. And I was on my own for it all, even losing her. I still wonder if one of my biological parents or someone from her father’s side could have saved her. That’s the hardest part.”
As if reading my mind, Spencer reached up and snared my cup, adding a couple shots of Scotch and handing it back, smiling through clenched teeth. “Hair of the dog. I’d join you but I’m driving us today.” He took a skillet from the hanging rack and moved to the stove.
“Thanks. I needed that.” I sipped for a while and watched him move around my kitchen like he did it every day. My kitchen was usually my domain but I wasn’t as unnerved as I would have thought at seeing someone else in it. “Amelia loved to cook with me,” I told him, visions of cake batter spattered counters and frosting fights making me smile. “She was the best sous chef I ever had.”
I stood—carefully, to avoid another wave of dizziness—and padded over to the entry table in the foyer, looking for my favorite picture of her. I snagged it and a small photo book before returning to the counter. I turned the photo so Spencer could see. “This is Amelia’s third birthday.” I waited for him to wipe his hands on a dish towel and step over. “Ali helped us bake the cake—lemon cake with cream cheese frosting because Amelia loved all things yellow—we made a huge mess. There was batter on the ceiling, on the walls, in our hair.” I laughed at the memory as he took hold of the framed photo with a smile.
“She looked just like you. Absolutely beautiful.” He looked up at me with kind eyes. “I wish I could have met her.”
That lump in my throat was back, forcing me to swallow. I thumbed through the photo book and pointed to a picture of her in her yellow princess dress, one she wore until it was barely holding together. “She always told everyone that she loved yellow because it was the color of her mommy’s hair. I tried to explain the word blonde to her but she wasn’t the least bit interested. To her, it was yellow. Or yeddow, as she pronounced it.” I smiled softly and flipped through the album, nodding again as Spencer looked on.
“Here she is playing dress up with Ali. Amelia loved to do makeup and Ali never passed up a chance for a makeover.” In the photo, Amelia’s hospital bed had been transformed into a beauty counter, covered with every possible shade of blush, eyeshadow, and lipstick. There were brushes and sponges everywhere. Sitting alongside the bed, Ali had green eye shadow from her lids to an inch above her brows, lipstick smeared nearly up to her nose, and the biggest damn smile I’d ever seen. It was adorable.
Spencer burst out laughing at the sight and pointed for me to keep flipping, casting a quick glance at the stove to prevent our breakfast from scorching. “Show me some of you getting a makeover. I bet those are priceless.”
I slammed the book shut. “Uh-uh, buster. I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, thank you. You’ll have to see my glamour shots another time.”
He smirked at me slyly. “If they’re anything like what I saw in that shower, I look forward to it.”
I groaned and let my head fall into my hands, embarrassed but thankful for the topic change. I knew he’d done it on purpose to bail me out. “Dammit. I tried to cover everything,” I muttered in defeat.
His hand gripped my wrist, tugging gently until I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “I was just messing with you, sweetheart. I didn’t see anything like that and what little of you I did see was absolutely flawless, so stop being so self-conscious. You’re beautiful.”
He kept his hold on my wrist, firm but not aggressive. As he watched me, his thumb rubbed back and forth across my pulse point, making my whole arm tingle.
I somehow smiled through my embarrassment. “Thank you. It was more a matter of mortification in general at having to be hauled out of the shower.” The truth was, I didn’t have issues with self-esteem. I knew what my body looked like and I supposed some people would see it as flawless. It was the flawlessness that I had a problem with, but that was my issue, not his, and he had no way of knowing about my odd hang-up.
“Would it make you feel better to know that I was hauled out of a shower once myself?” He smiled.
I considered a moment. “Maybe. Depends on the circumstances.”
He walked over to attend the omelets. “I was shit-faced after my twenty-first birthday party and somehow ended up passing out, fully clothed, in the shower. I was visiting my parents, so technically it was their shower. Dad went to get ready for work the next morning and there I was, huddled in the far corner of the shower, soaked to the skin and being drenched with ice-cold water that I’d left on the night before.” He chuckled as he expertly flipped and folded the omelet. “Dad was pissed. I mean
really
pissed. He dragged me out by my feet—still in my brand new hundred-dollar cross-trainers by the way—and let my head hit every bump between there and the garage. He left me on the concrete floor to dry out and went about his regular routine.”
I laughed at the picture in my mind of Spencer curled up on the garage floor. “So, he just left you there?”
He nodded. “Yep. Until he got ready to leave. He walked right by me on the way to his car, cussed me for the lack of hot water, and crawled in. Then he hit the button to open the garage door behind him and laid on the horn while the bumper was still about six inches from my head.” He cringed at the memory. “He didn’t let up until he was halfway down the block.”
I nearly fell off my chair laughing. The resulting cranial agony was totally worth it.
“You see, chuckles? Could have been worse. At least I was gentle.” He placed my plate in front of me and grinned.
I carefully extracted a steaming forkful of my breakfast and scoffed. “Not the same thing. You were dressed and there was no real embarrassment. Call me when some hottie has to peel your clumsy, naked ass off the shower floor.”
He wiggled his brows wickedly. “Did you just imply that you think I’m hot?”
I never chewed a mouthful of food so slowly in my life. And damned if he wasn’t content to wait me out forever.
When I had the next bite nearly to my lips, pretending for all the world that he wasn’t waiting for my answer, he once again snagged my wrist.
I looked at my fork and did one of those long slow blinks that accompany the mustering of courage but he took pity on me and spoke before I could form the words.
“I was just messing with you, sweetheart.” He laughed softly and released me. “And—for the record—you’re rather hot yourself. Now, quit your blushing and finish the gourmet breakfast I worked so hard to prepare. You still need to get ready and we have to meet Ali’s mom shortly.”
How did he keep doing that? One minute he’s calling me sweetheart and making my heart skip, and the next he’s pulling that ‘I’m in charge’ voice that makes me want to kick him in the shins.
Maybe if I feigned dizziness I could get him close enough to take a shot at him.
Then again, maybe it was better if I kept him as far away as possible. At least until I could drown out the pounding in my head long enough to convince myself he was bad for me.