Page 14

HOLT

I’m blessed.

I get that.

I don’t take getting out of jail and having my name cleared lightly.

But right now? Right now, I’m seriously considering fucking everything up again and possibly landing my ass in jail again .

Because I’m about two damn minutes away from plowing my fist into the face of the guy who’s obviously hitting on my woman.

My pregnant woman.

My future wife.

I take one last glance in the rearview mirror before climbing out and slamming the truck door. My jaw clenches as I cross the parking lot, making my way to one of the sidewalk tables in front of the coffeehouse. Not to mention, I’m already in a bad mood because she’s not at her favorite coffeehouse—the one three doors down from her store. We’re meeting at one that’s near the middle of the university campus and crawling with preppy little college kids, ready to spend Daddy’s money on overpriced drinks. I mean, last I checked, this coffee shop charges a whole two dollars more per smoothie than the other coffee shop. And it’s a smaller cup. And it doesn’t taste anywhere near as good.

Merit’s willing to spend extra money on her weekly smoothie; that just goes to show me how hard she’s still trying to avoid dealing with the loss of her store.

Hopefully, she won’t have to deal with that loss for too much longer.

When she found out I had errands to run in town, she asked if I wanted to meet her here to go over some business with the Foundation. Merit has taken to her new position with The Hill Family Charities like a fish in water. She’d make a wonderful permanent employee; but alas, that would kind of defeat the purpose of the errands I was just running.

As soon as my sneaker steps over the curb, the guy’s laugh assaults me, pounding against my brain like a tom-tom drum on steroids.

“That’s so funny.” He leans across the table, getting too damn close to her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a great storyteller?”

Merit cocks her head, studying him with a small—but cautious—smile and just shrugs.

The summer sun is setting behind her, flaming her redwood hair in more red than brown. And the purple shirt she’s wearing pulls tighter across her large breasts than it did last summer when I first saw her wearing it. She has her chair situated very close to the table, so close her stomach is hidden by the tabletop and her open laptop. That’s the only reason I haven’t ripped this guy’s throat out—I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he must not know she’s pregnant.

With my son.

Her cheeks are tinged pink from the sun, and there’s a very good possibility that a majority of the male population would cash in their 401(k)s just to kiss her lips right now—the way they glisten is so damn mouthwatering.

And considering today was a no-makeup day for Merit, I know the only thing on them is plain old Vaseline. Simple, effective, and cheap.

The douche leans even closer, grazing his hand against hers as it hovers over her mouse. “Well, if no one has told you that, surely they’ve told you how gorgeous you are.”

What. The. Hell.

Merit looks into his eyes, considering if she should answer his question, even though it’s rhetorical and nothing but a shameless flirtation. Don’t get me wrong, what he’s saying is the honest truth, but it’s still him trying to get a piece of tail.

And I think what hurts me even more is the fact that Merit is enjoying this conversation. I can read it on her face. She likes this shitbag fawning all over her. I bet if he asked her out, she’d actually consider it.

Yeah, well, over my dead body.

And then it happens.

He does it.

He commits the carnal sin.

“Meeting a beautiful woman, here, just randomly? That feels like kismet, don’t you think? I’d like to get to know you better,” he says. “Would you like to go out sometime? Any day, any time. You pick.”

I watch in slow motion as her mouth opens to accept another man’s invitation for a date.

In one second flat, I dart from the shadows of the building and descend on their table like I’m the fucking Grim Reaper. “She’s already got a man. She doesn’t need another one.” My voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me. It’s low and strangled.

They immediately turn to me, startled by the intrusion. Merit’s jaw drops, and her eyes dart around, trying to calculate how long I’ve been listening to their little lovefest. He narrows his eyes, sizing up the competition before turning back to Merit. “You’re married?” he asks.

Her eyes balloon, and she shakes her head. Her gaze keeps flickering to mine. “No, absolutely not. I mean…we’re not together. We aren’t even dating.”

I hate those words. They just keep reminding me what a foolish asshole I am.

Not wanting to drag this out—because I selfishly want Merit for myself, plus I’m terrified that she was actually considering a date with this guy—I bluntly say the words that need to be said. “We’re having a baby together.” I pin him with a stare. “She’s having my baby.”

He sits back in his chair, completely shocked. “You’re pregnant?”

Merit’s face turns beet red, making her look like she just ran a marathon in the Sahara. She pushes back from the table, the wrought iron chair scraping against the concrete sidewalk. Once she’s far enough out, she just nods toward her stomach and smooths her hands down the front of her shirt, accentuating her baby bump.

The guy blinks, absorbing the picture in front of him. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. “But you guys aren’t together? You’re available?”

Oh. Hell. No.

This better not be going where I think it’s going.

He doesn’t even give Merit a chance to answer, to nod, to send out a smoke signal; he just dives right back in where he left off. “What about the date? I’d still like to go out with you. I mean, once you pop, you won’t have the kid with you all the time, right? We can still kick it when it’s with him,” he says foolishly, pointing his finger at me to indicate I am ‘him’.

Okay.

There’s so much wrong with this situation, it’s almost comical.

One: Taint LeDouche referred to the miracle of my future wife giving birth as her ‘popping’.

Two: Weasel Dickweed used the term ‘kicking it’ like we’re in middle school.

And three: Pencil Cock Peckerhead called my son an ‘it’.

Guess, my thoughts of the Grim Reaper were warranted.

Before I can make more poor choices and choke the life from this assclown, Merit saves the day by being Merit. Her hands fly across the table, and she knocks his expensive iced coffee drink into his lap. “Whoops,” she says, none too convincingly.

He flies up from his seat, vigorously wiping the brown liquid from his khaki shorts. “What the hell?”

“Please don’t ever refer to my son as ‘it’.” She possessively wraps her hands around her stomach before tilting her head and looking at him with utter pity. “And ‘kicking it’? Seriously, what are you, twelve?”

Growling under his breath, he just turns and walks away, leaving his plastic cup and straw scattered on the ground. We both watch in stunned silence as he crosses the parking lot, hops on an orange Vespa with black flames running down the side, and putters away.

Which would be totally fine if we were in Italy. Or, I’d even grant some leeway at the beach—any beach in America. But we’re in the middle of Alabama.

And it’s orange with black flames.

C’mon, let’s be real, dude.

“Umm. Was that a Vespa?” Merit’s voice flitters through the quiet.

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

She purses her lips into a pout. “Not really a storming-off-in-a-mad-angry-dash kind of vehicle, huh?”

All I have to do is side glance at her, and we both burst out laughing. We laugh so hard I get a stitch in my side. Eventually settling down, I grab his discarded cup, toss it in the trash, and sit in the now vacant chair across from Merit.

Sighing deeply, she turns back to her laptop, acting like she can ignore the fact that she nearly agreed to go on a date with a guy while carrying my baby. Nearly agreed to go on a date with a guy when she belongs to me. She’s making me feel like a damn caveman with jealousy and abandonment issues.

Which I realize is totally uncalled for—if I’m looking at things from a purely objective stance—because my conscience frequently reminds me that I’m the one who ruined our lives.

But I’m not objective. I’m not impartial. I’m not neutral. I’m not fucking Switzerland in this situation. I’m the shot heard around the world.

And I’ll do nothing short of beg, borrow, and steal to get us back on track.

Because I love her. I can’t live without her.

“So, I’d like to discuss the future plans for the Foundation and our timelines for everything.” She flips through her notebook, flashing pages and pages of her to-do list. “I’ve spent the last couple of days researching, and this to-do list is ginormous.”

“Mer, aren’t we gonna talk about what just happened?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You mean do I wanna talk about you being a butthole and trying to insert yourself into my dating life? That’s a hard no.”

I can’t even think straight. My rage and indignation are palpable. “Your dating life? What’s that supposed to mean?”

She fiddles with the straw in the near-empty smoothie cup, swirling the pink froth, around and around. “Okay, so I don’t currently have a dating life. Or a desire to have one. That guy just sat down right before you got here and started flirting. But the fact remains…we aren’t together, Holt. At some point in the future, I’ll wanna be with someone again. You shouldn’t have any say in when that happens or with whom that happens. I mean, unless you see something that could be a threat to our child.”

“A threat to our child?” I toss my hand behind me, jerking to the parking lot where the orange Vespa sat a few minutes ago. “You don’t think a guy like that is a threat to our child? To my son .” I work my jaw back and forth, soaking in the sharp pain of my teeth grinding against each other. “Every man in this world who isn’t me is a fucking threat to my son. To my girl.”

I don’t give her time to react, time to retreat. I reach across the small table and grab her. Wrapping my fingers around her forearm, I flip her hand toward me and trace the pale blue-green lines of the veins in her wrist. She sucks a sharp breath into her lungs. And holds it.

My finger slowly meanders its way down her palm, and to her left ring finger. Where the diamond and ruby engagement ring should be. You know, if I weren’t such a pathetic piece of shit.

Leaning forward, I plant a soft, gentle kiss on her golden skin. I can even feel the small, pounding beat of her heartbeat through the pulse point in her wrist. The comforting rhythm against my lips might very well be the best thing I’ve ever felt. “Mine,” I say, stating the simple truth.

After a moment, she rips her hand away and folds it in her lap. Blinking rapidly, her eyes dart from object to object, refusing to settle on anything for longer than a second, as she struggles to keep her tears from falling. “But I’m not yours, Holt. You locked me out of your heart. Out of your home and out of your life. You buried the key under six feet of dirt. And just because you’ve dug it up, doesn’t mean I wanna take it back. That door may not be something I ever wanna unlock.”

I toss my hat on the table and run my hands through my hair, wishing I could rip the strands out handful by handful—anything to numb the pain I’m feeling. Her face tells me she’s still in love with me, but here she is telling me in her own words that she wants to see other people. Hell, she was about to agree to go on a date with that horrible stranger. All to what? Prove a point? Prove that she’s moved on?

I guess she’s come a long way from the woman in the shoe store who refused to go on a date with anyone.

Refused to go on a date with me.

I wish I knew the right way to beg for forgiveness. I wish I knew what to say and what to do. It seems like every move I make is the wrong one. I’m hitting wall after wall, battering my already bruised heart and soul.

And what about her heart and soul? I’m the one who bruised it. Not some wall. Not some strange man at a coffee shop. Not Delaney. Not Heidi.

Me.

And I need to keep owning up to that.

I had no idea that one human body could experience so many different emotions at one time.

The consequences of my decisions—of my actions—have trapped me in a perpetual state of tug-of-war. I’m constantly battling all of my urges…

The urge to grovel and beg for redemption.

The urge to scream and yell and make her realize that we belong together.

The urge to fight like hell for my woman, for my son, for my family.

The urge to hold her, kiss her, make love to her. Show her with my body what my mouth can’t seem to find the right words to say.

“You wanna date other people? You wanna be with someone who isn’t me?” When she doesn’t say anything, I forge forward. “Because I can’t even fathom being with anyone else. And I acted the way I just did because it rips my heart out of my chest to even think of you being with someone. Having another man’s hands on you? Having another man kiss you, touch you, laugh with you, comfort you? It blinds me with rage and pain and…self-pity. Because I love you, Merit. Completely and undeniably.”

I sit back in my seat and watch as an older couple walk into the store, hand in hand. “I am so sorry for messing everything up. I’m so sorry for accusing you of something you didn’t do, for failing to follow through in my belief of you. I swear it will never, ever happen again. If you just give me a chance.”

I’m not even shocked when a few silent tears start to slide down my cheeks. I guess I should be surprised, but I’m not. I’m man enough to admit I’m a complete and total pussy when it comes to the thought of losing Merit, of losing the life I know we should have together. I quickly wipe my face, hoping she doesn’t think less of me. Or worse, hoping that she doesn’t think I’m putting on a show for sympathy. “I’m too fucking terrified to even think of living my life without you. The thought of you never forgiving me, never saying you love me, it guts me. I…” I drag my finger back and forth across my lips in thought, “I don’t exist without you.”

Her gaze meets mine, and I watch as two of her own tears slide down her cheeks. Just like me, she quickly wipes them away. Taking a moment to read her face, relief courses through me when I see the love there. The love she has for me. And it’s not just the love of being connected to someone through a child; it’s the burning, body-consuming, soul-engulfing love we shared before our world came crashing down.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “Mer, you were actually thinking about saying yes to a date with him. Why?”

“Because of the way he looked at me. He looked at me like I was honest and truthful. Like I was innocent.” She stares at the table, and I hear her foot tapping against the concrete. Tap. Tap. Tap. “I’ll never forget the way you looked at me. That day? When you accused me of framing you? Accused me of wanting your money, accused me of being like Delaney—like every other woman before me? You hated me, Holt. You looked at me with hate in your heart.”

Remembering she’s not the same Merit as before, she lifts her head, facing me head-on. With a steady voice she tosses my own words back at me. “How am I supposed to kiss you, touch you, laugh with you, comfort you…after seeing that look in your eyes?”