Page 61 of Under Your Scars

I’m mortified, and Christian buries his face in my chest and quietly growls before letting out a soft chuckle. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he tells the woman, and she’s out the door a second later. “Sorry. The nurses always come get me when Edwin’s being testy.”

“Edwin? Your godfather?”

He nods. “He’s probably having breakfast. Come meet him.”

I crawl off his lap, and Christian laces his fingers with mine as he leads me leisurely through the mansion. It’s so bright and open in the daytime. We pass by so many bedrooms that I begin to wonder if his parents intended on having more children. I can’t imagine that a family of three needs so much space, but then again, the Reeves legacy is dripping with so much wealth that they might as well spend it. We pass game rooms, libraries, studies, home theaters. Yes, all plural. There’s even a ballroom. I repeat, he has aballroomin his house.

My stomach grumbles as we approach the dining room. I can smell the cinnamon and the bacon from the foyer. When we round the corner, the same nurse that barged in on Christian and I is sitting in a chair next to an absolutely ancient man. His gummy smile and the way his eyes are slightly squinted reminds me of a garden gnome, complete with rosy, plump cheeks. He’s the epitome of a cute old man.

He points to Christian with a bony finger. In a grumbly Irish accent he says, “You’ve got some explaining to do, son.”

“Uh oh,” Christian says, pulling me closer. “I must be in trouble.”

“The nurse said you had a pretty lass over! Why didn’t you introduce us?”

“Edwin.” Christian motions towards me. “This is Elena.”

Edwin stares at me for a long, long time, saying nothing as his eyes stay fixated on my face. After what feels like an eternity, he flashes me an elated grin.

“Helen! Oh, Helen, look! Our boy’s home,” he says to me, pointing at Christian.

“No, Edwin, this isElena,” Christian says lightly. “Remember me telling you about her? About how she beat me at bowling?”

I raise my hand and wave nervous fingers at him. “Hi Edwin.” I cautiously approach him and take a seat at his side. He reaches for my left hand and feels over my ring finger. His face falls into a frown.

“Where’s your wedding ring, Helen?”

Christian opens his mouth to speak, and I suspect he intends to correct his godfather, but I shush him. “I just took it off to do laundry. You know I don’t like getting it wet.”

Edwin’s face lights up. “Isn’t our son handsome? We have to find him a wife. He’s getting old like me.”

I giggle softly to myself and throw Christian a look over my shoulder. “Yes, he’s very handsome, but his wife won’t be half as beautiful as yours. Isn’t that right?”

Edwin smiles again, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “No one will ever be as beautiful as you, my darling.”

I feel something shift in Christian’s mood, like my acceptance and understanding of Edwin’s spotty memory is infuriating. My grandmother had memory problems too, and I learned during her last few years of life that sometimes it’s better to go along with whatever reality they believe in, than risk aggravating them with contradiction. Edwin doesn’t seem like the combative type, but you never know. “Let’s have breakfast,” I suggest as Christian’s gaze on me softens.

Platters of warm French toast, crispy bacon, fresh berries, and a pitcher of hand-squeezed orange juice next to a coffee pot sit on the table ready for us. It seems like way too much food for three people, but maybe they make an excess for all the staff on the property.

Christian takes the liberty of making my plate for me, his mouth quirked up into a wistful smile. “He’s known me since I was born. Raised me after my parents died. Stuck by me while I was a delinquent in school and always came to bail me out of jail.” He chuckles to himself at the memory, and then he lowers his voice enough that someone as old as Edwin can’t possibly hear. “Helen died before I was born. He rarely talked about her when I was growing up. When he started calling every brunette by her name, I knew his memory was slipping.”

My heart swells when he talks about Edwin. It relieves me to see that they have such a good relationship. I can tell by the way he talks, that Edwin considers Christian his son, but I don’t think Christian considers him a father figure.

I suppose it’s hard to call another man ‘dad’ after watching yours get shot.

After he sets my plate in front of me, he makes his way around to the other side of Edwin and hands him a small plastic container with all his pills—at least a dozen of them in a million different colors.

“Take your pills, Edwin,” Christian commands. He grumbles in protest, but swallows each pill with a sip of water in between until they’re all gone. Christian gives him an encouraging pat on the back.

So he’s got a soft spot for old peopleandkids. Talk about dreamy. He’s the perfect man and I swear I can feel my ovaries release a bunch of eggs at the thought of a house full of miniature versions of him.

I shake off the thought. I can’t think about babies when we’ve only just made up. I’m not even sure I want them. I love kids, but I always imagined I’d be the rich aunt that travels the world and only shows up on Christmas with a million gifts for my brother’s adopted kids.

Hell, if Christian really is my future, maybe we’ll just adopt, too. There’s no shortage of kids in need of homes, and this house is plenty big. I hum to myself and try to hide the blush in my cheeks at the thought of a future with him.

Christian has always been open about how he feels about me. It’s almost surreal to know that he’s so wrapped around my finger when I haven’t got much to offer him. I care about him, deeply, and of course I want this to work out. He’s everything I could ask for in a man and he’s already given so much of his heart to me.

I’ve noticed that Christian is intense about everything. It’s like all his emotions are immediately dialed up to eleven. Anger, sadness, frustration, happiness. He feels everything so wholly.