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“Real,” Byron echoed. He nodded. “Yeah. It was that.”
Roxie frowned. “You haven’t told me—what happened to her.”
Hadn’t he? Byron shifted on the cushion. He poured more wine and picked up the glass by the stem. He used the thumb and forefinger of each hand to hold the delicate crystal shoot, spinning it slowly, watching each facet flash in the lamplight. “When Dani was little, she had a heart condition. The doctors fixed it when she was thirteen. Or so they thought. As an adult, she was healthy. Active. She was a photographer, so she was never still—on the job or off. My friend Grim used to call her the Dervish. Nothing slowed her down. Then a few years after the wedding we decided it was time to start a family.”
Byron hesitated again. After a moment, Roxie reached out and touched his knee. He lifted one corner of his mouth, though he wasn’t sure it could be deemed a smile. When he spoke, he was subdued. “After her doctors signed off on it, we tried for a while before it took. She was three and a half months along when she collapsed. She went into a coma and it was four weeks before those same doctors informed me and the rest of her family that she’d never surface.”
Her hand stayed locked on his knee. He was grateful for the silence. He’d heard every condolence known to man. Before the move to Fairhope, it had seemed like he couldn’t go anywhere without hearing how sorry everyone was for his loss. Like his clumsiness in youth, the condolences had awakened his ire. It had taken a while for that ire to simmer and for him to confront Dani’s loss, and even longer for him to learn to wholly live life again.
He cleared his throat. “You know as well as I do that when you’re at the altar pledging your life to someone, it’s just that—your whole life. And even though you both say the words till death, you expect death to come later. Much later. It doesn’t enter your mind that death’s coming for you a mere six years, seven months and twenty-seven days later, or that it’s not you it’s coming for. It’s the person standing next to you, the one you’ve promised to love every day that life gives you. And learning to live without that person... It feels so backwards and wrong. It unravels every bit of who you are.”
“Your whole life,” she echoed. She released a ragged breath. “The baby? They couldn’t save it?”
He took a long glug of wine, shaking his head slightly as he did. As he lowered the glass back to the table, he ignored the bad feeling in his stomach that had grown into a full-on internal wail. “If she’d been further along, maybe. And when she fell...there was some internal damage.” He laid his arm over the back of the sofa. There was a knot in the wood trim. He circled it with the pad of his thumb. “It was a girl. We’d only just stopped arguing over what to call her.” At her questioning brow, he confided, “Maree Frances.”
For a full minute, she said nothing. Thoughtfully, she edged closer. Shifting toward him, she fit into the groove under his arm next to his chest. The wail inside him was on the verge of a banshee scream. The wave of lilacs stopped it from reaching fever pitch, beating it back down where it belonged.
She spoke low, almost inaudibly. “Nothing I tell you could ever be enough to say how sorry I am for what you’ve been through. I can’t imagine...” She sighed and pressed her cheek into his lapel. “So I’m just going to hug you.”
“Okay,” he said. It trembled out of him on a short laugh. It warmed him.
As he’d left the tavern after finishing his shift there, Byron had seen Bertie drop Roxie off. He hadn’t liked the look of him—a knee-jerk and instant assessment. The guy drove a luxury Mercedes but ground the transmission when he shifted into Park. And he wore a three-piece suit that screamed easy money.
Byron had taken a moment, studying Roxie from a distance. He’d felt the warmth gathering over his sternum, remembering the sound of her laugh from earlier in the day. Tinny bells. The best kind.
Then Byron had seen the flash of Bertie’s gold signet ring move too quickly. He’d seen the guy’s arms wind too hard around Roxie. He’d seen his body close in on hers and the hard lip-lock that came close on the heels of the not-so-nice embrace.
That’s not the way, Byron had mused. Not with a woman like Roxie. Slow and smooth was more what a lady of her caliber deserved. Hell, it was what she’d need after everything she’d been through. The warmth over his sternum had hardened into a big, black ball of volcanic rock. The back of his neck had turned to fire as it always did when he felt the old anger, the ire, rising up from the black. He moved in, loosening his tie when Roxie’s quick attempt at a punch failed and Bertie kept coming at her.
Was the choke hold really necessary? she’d asked after.
Byron had seen her fear and embarrassment, and the trampled strength behind it.
Yes, damn it, it had been necessary. A part of him still wished Bertie had taken the second option so Byron could’ve implemented a lesson with his fists.
He noted the place of her hand. Right over his sternum, where the warmth for her had built and shied and then built again. It was the same hand she’d plowed into Fledgewick’s face. The same fist she’d given Byron nearly a year ago. The edge of his mouth curved as he touched it.
“Mm.” She winced. The fingers stiffened under his.
Byron gentled his hold. Gingerly, he turned her knuckles toward the light and saw the bruising. “You should’ve let me hit him.”
“What would that have solved?”
“Nothing. But it would’ve felt damn good.”
“Didn’t feel so great to me.”
“Because you aimed for the face,” Byron explained. “Suppose he’d raised his chin or you’d struck his jaw. Your hand would be flat broken.”
“He was drunk,” Roxie reminded him. “I wanted to sober him up.”
“Next time, aim for the liver.”
“I’m no good at this,” she admitted as he caressed her knuckles. “I miss marriage.”
His hand stilled on hers. “You do?”
“Yes. I miss the security of it. The comfort of knowing that I’m safe from all this, from the uncertainty.”
“But that’s all.” Byron frowned. “Right?”
She paused. “I don’t know.”
Byron tried to read her. “Rox. The man failed you. He knowingly failed you.”
“I know he did.” She tipped her chin up and confronted him with a cool expression. “Trust me. I was there. But we were together so long... I don’t know anything else. You and Dani were together a long time. You said learning to live without her unraveled you.”
“It’s apples and oranges,” he noted.
“I know that, too,” she said, tensing.
“Wait a minute,” he said, straightening. She sat up in response. He took a good look at her. “You’re not still in love with the guy, are you?”
Her mouth parted and her eyes glazed in thought. “I don’t know.” She lifted her hands. They were empty. “I know I hate being alone. I know that when it was good, I loved the relationship, and not just the security of it—I loved the unit we built. I know how much of ourselves we put into it. And I know that Richard’s sorry.”
“He told you that?” he asked. “He got down on his knees and begged?”
“No, he didn’t get on his knees,” Roxie dismissed. “But he did try to say he was sorry. The mess was so fresh, the hurt, I couldn’t listen even if he was sincere.” Before Byron could say anything, she quickly added, “What he did was disgraceful, and I haven’t forgotten how it made me feel. But you said it yourself—you pledge your life to someone. Your whole life.”
“He quit his vows,” he said heatedly. “He quit you the second he jumped on her.” When her eyes rounded in shock, he cursed. “I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry.” He pushed off the couch and left the room, taking his glass into her kitchen. He’d had enough to drink. Under the light of the stove, he rinsed the glass then used the tap filter to fill it. He tipped it up and downed the water quickly.
He was a damn fool.
Byron set the glass on the counter and braced his hands on the edge. Leaning into it, he ducked his head and breathed until he felt the heat in his neck subside. Why was the anger rising again? Was it Richard or was it pride?
Either way, he couldn’t go back to her with ire. Even if it was his pride, she’d been through enough without him piling his bruised ego on the proverbial heap.
The small window above the sink drew his attention. He looked out on the listless bay. The lights of Mobile flickered far beyond the inky black waters broken only by the small bits of light from the tavern and the inn. The watery peaks were brushed with hushed gold filigree.
He did his best to absorb the calm and lulling placidity those waters brought with their small, whispering waves. This was why he’d gravitated to Fairhope in the wake of Dani’s death—the serenity.
Calmer, he eyed the dishcloth beside the sink. He grabbed it, balled it up and ran it under cold water for several seconds. He wrung it out and walked slowly back into the living room, where Roxie sat on the settee.
He extended the rolled-up cloth to her. “Here.”
She narrowed her eyes on it as her hand lifted. Questioning, her gaze rose to his.
“Your hand,” he said. He took her wrist and wrapped the cold cloth around her injured knuckles himself.
She sucked in a breath. A line dug in between her eyes.
After a moment, he asked, “Better?”
She gave a nod. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Do you...do you think that there’s one great love for everyone? Just one?”
Byron lowered back to the settee. He reached up and loosened his tie, still a touch too warm. He thought about Dani. He thought about the doomed attempts at reconnecting with women since. The Strong family creed. “Yeah, I do,” he answered truthfully. “And I believe you shouldn’t settle for anything less than the extraordinary. Not when it comes to the rest of your life.”
She fell silent and contemplative once more.
“Have you talked to Richard about this?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “He’s been away, somewhere. His parents say he’s ‘working on himself.’” She used air quotes. The line was still entrenched between her eyes.
Byron weighed himself. He weighed her, their friendship. “Maybe you should contact him. Talking to him might give you the clarity you need.” When she looked to him, he added, “You don’t seem sure. And you need to be sure, duchess. Absolutely sure.”
She nodded. Her chin lifted. He saw the poise, a shade of the confidence that had drawn him to her in the first place. “I will.” She pressed her lips together. “How will I know if he’s the one, do you think?”
“I only have one frame of reference,” Byron admitted, “but I’m pretty sure when you love someone, you’ll just know it.”
Her mouth tipped down uncertainly again. “But if I love him, really love him, shouldn’t I already know whether or not I want him? Do I really have to see him to be sure? Or is it just—”
It was impulse. Complete and utter impulse. But chances were, he’d never get to do it again.
He leaned in. She stilled. Her mouth stopped moving, her eyes went round. As he lessened the gap, he saw them begin to close. There, he thought.
His hand found its way into the dip of her waist. It stayed there as he nudged her head back by fitting his mouth to hers.
It was simple. It was soft. For him, it was explosive.
He’d known there was something there. He’d known some part of him had wanted some part of her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Like all things unattainable, he’d ignored it.
It must’ve festered. Under cover of his ignorance, his attraction had bred on itself.
It had bred like bunnies. He couldn’t count the stupid bunnies.
He broke away, stifling the protesting noise in his throat. It was his turn to press his lips together. She tasted like raspberries. Knowing that definitely wasn’t going to lower the bunny quotient.
Are you happy now, Strong? He sat back. She stared at him, owl-eyed. She hadn’t moved so much as an inch since he’d leaned in.
So much for their friendship. Byron cleared his throat and raised a brow. “Did that answer your question?”
Her round eyes shifted slightly. “Question?” she repeated in a scant voice.
“Who’re you thinkin’ about right now, duchess?” he asked. “Me or Richard?”
“Richard?” She lowered her face. There was color in it again. Lots of color. “Richard,” she said once more without the question behind it.
He bobbed his head in an indicative nod. “Well, there you have it.” When she didn’t move, he lifted her glass from the table and extended it to her.
She took it. Drinking deep, she nursed the remainder as they sat in heavy silence.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5549d0ae-1a62-5bf0-b18e-3a410d8ec902)
“YOU’RE ALL GOING to hell,” Roxie proclaimed. It was Wednesday morning, a brisk forty degrees. Not even the hearty bay pelicans had ventured out for their morning repast. And here she was chugging up the hill from the Fairhope Pier to the towering bluff that overlooked the Eastern Shore in all its splendor.
Adrian Bracken fell into step beside her, moving marginally faster, dressed in a gray hoodie and black yoga pants. A sun-battered baseball cap crowned her red bob. “This was Liv’s idea. Not mine.”
“Oh,” Roxie said, her voice dropping a level. Her breath was whistling at the back of her throat and her calves were screaming. “There’s a special place in hell for you, Liv.”
The roar of a gas-powered motor crept up behind them. Roxie and Adrian glanced over in unison to the woman behind the wheel of a John Deere Gator. She had one UGG-clad foot propped up beside the steering wheel and a gloved claw wrapped around a chocolate éclair fresh from Briar’s kitchen. “You know,” Olivia Leighton said as she chowed down on the pastry. “If the two of you would stop squawking like seagulls, in all likelihood we’d be back home eating Briar’s quiche by now...” She shrugged and stuffed the rest of the éclair into her mouth. “As it is...”
“Are you even allowed to operate an ATV on the open road?” Adrian wanted to know.
Olivia looked around, nonplussed. “Nobody’s stopped me.” She reached inside the box on the passenger seat for another pastry. “Come on, pick up the pace. I brought Gerald’s Indiana Jones whip and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Roxie groaned, falling behind Adrian a few more paces as the stitch in her side flared up and choked the wind out of her. “I’m sorry your doctor says you can’t run yet because you just squeezed two babies out of you. But we don’t deserve this.”
“Huh,” Olivia said with a smirk. “Bitter and out of shape. I’d feel a mite more friendly if I’d spent the night with a certain supersexy Greek man-cake.”
Roxie stopped, planting her hands on her knees. Not for the first time since waking up to him in her apartment Tuesday morning, she felt the urge to wring Byron’s foolish neck.
She’d insisted he sleep on a pallet in her living room, since they’d finished close to two bottles between them. The next morning he called down to the inn for coffee, meaning both Briar and her husband, Cole, knew that he was at her place early enough to be suspect. They’d informed Adrian and her husband, James. Who then told Olivia, who, of course, blabbed the news to everybody from here to the Flora-Bama. Roxie had half expected the stranger standing next to her at the grocery checkout yesterday to give her a sly thumbs-up. She’d tolerated as much from all three of her wedded friends.
When Roxie finally caught her breath, she lowered to the sidewalk, leaning back on her hands to ease the stitch in her ribs.
“Hey,” Olivia said, the ATV coming to a halt as Adrian ran ahead to catch up with Briar. “Ass, elbows off the concrete. You’re falling behind last week’s time, which I’m sorry to say was shameful enough.”
“Shush,” Roxie said, too tired to raise her voice. She closed her eyes. Breathe. Breathe. “I’m trying not to envision man-cakes or any other type of Greek pastry.”
“Why not?” Olivia asked, studying the éclair in her hand with a smug grin. “You still stuffed from Monday night?”
Roxie shook her head and fought hard not to laugh. At this point, it would hurt. Really hurt. “Nothing happened. In fact, I wish I could go back and make that whole twenty-four-hour period disappear forever.”
Footsteps beat toward them. Roxie looked up to find Adrian returning, her high cheekbones pink from the February nip. “I can’t catch Briar. She’s like the female version of the Flash.”
“My star pupil,” Olivia said fondly, gaze combing the cliff above. Catching sight of the blonde along the sidewalk, she lifted the bullhorn from her lap. Her lurid voice boomed over the park, making Roxie grimace and Adrian plug her ears. “That’s it, cuz! Boot and rally!”
“Wonderful,” Roxie said, reaching for the side of her head. “I am now bitter, out of shape and one-hundred-percent deaf.”
Olivia set the bullhorn down and reached back for the lid of the cooler in the Gator’s cargo bed. She lobbed a bottle of water at Adrian’s head. “Stretch and hydrate.”
Adrian lifted her hands to block the bottle from hitting her square in the face. She bobbled it several times before catching it one-handed.
Roxie lazily watched the bottle meant for her sail clean over her head and bounce onto the grass beyond. “Thank you, Derek Jeter,” she drawled. She retrieved the Dasani, cracked it open and frowned at the clear contents. “I’m thinking about getting back together with him.”
Adrian stopped in the midst of a lunging stretch. “Richard?”
“No. Jose Conseco,” Roxie said condescendingly. “Who else?”
