my arms.
“What I figured.” Marjorie took Henry from me. “I promised him a story, and then I’ll leave.”
She walked away, taking Henry with her to the nursery. I loved how natural she looked with him. I loved how she commanded the house, which of course shouldn’t surprise me. She’d been here many times before. I loved…
I just loved.
I loved everything about Marjorie Steel.
I loved Marjorie Steel.
I quietly made my way to the doorway of the nursery and stood against the wall. Marjorie’s voice was soothing as she read the words of the classic children’s book. I closed my eyes, seeing in my mind Marjorie in the rocking chair, my sweet son in her arms, as she held the book and read to him with care. With love. It wasn’t a long book, so soon her voice petered out, and the soft sounds of her rising and placing Henry in his crib wafted to my ears.
When she strode out of the nursery, I couldn’t help myself.
I grabbed her and kissed her. Hard.
Her lips remained closed, but I licked the seam, probing her to open.
When she did, I plunged inside.
It was a hard kiss, a kiss of need and urgency.
And no sooner had it begun than my mother returned, bustling through the entryway.
Marjorie pushed against me, breaking the kiss. She looked away, wiping her mouth and hurrying toward my mother.
The wiping our kiss from her mouth got to me. She was wiping me away. Not that I could blame her.
“Good, you’re still here,” my mother said to her. “I saw Bryce’s car and thought you might have left.”
“He’s only been home a few minutes. I was reading Henry a story and he dozed off. He’s in his crib.”
“Thank goodness. The poor thing’s been so fussy with that tooth.”
“The teething ring in the freezer helped.”
“You found that? Good.”
“I put another one in there to replace it.”
“You think of everything, Marjorie. You’re going to be an excellent mother someday.”
I sucked in a breath at those words. She was right. Marjorie would be an amazing mother. She loved me, and I loved her. In a perfect world, Marj’s children would also be mine.
If only…
But she deserved a husband and father to her children who wasn’t a shadow of his former self. That would never be me.
“I’ve got dinner ready to go into the oven,” my mother continued. “Green chile enchiladas. Please stay.”
“It sounds delicious, but I can’t.”
“If you say so. Thank you so much for looking after Henry.”
“Anytime. I adore him.” She padded to the front door, avoiding looking toward the hallway where I still stood outside Henry’s room, and she left.
Taking a big chunk of my heart with her.
Chapter Eight
Marjorie
Crying is for girls.
I’d lived by those words my whole life. Growing up on a ranch with a father and three brothers had made those words not only necessary but also a personal philosophy. Crying solved nothing. You have a problem? Find a solution. Don’t wallow in tears. It’s a waste of time.
I sniffed back the tears that wanted so badly to come pouring out of me.
I didn’t just live with men anymore, though. I had Jade, my best friend in the world, and Mel, who argued that crying wasn’t a waste of time. To the contrary, crying released toxins from the body and relieved stress.
It also left you swollen, red, and ugly.
I couldn’t help a scoffing chuckle. Release toxins? My relationship—for lack of a better word—with Bryce was pretty darn toxic. Maybe I needed a good toxin release. Sounded a lot better than a good blubbering cry.
Where, though? If I went back to the house, Talon and the boys would be there. I’d have to hold my tears until I got to my bedroom.
Certainly not on the path to the guesthouse. Bryce could walk out back and see me.
Our ranch was huge. I could go anywhere, but we had hands working around the clock most of the time.
Biggest ranch in Colorado, and I couldn’t find a place to be alone, really alone.
“Damn it!” I said aloud.
I didn’t have my purse with me, just my phone. No tissues, and already the tears were streaming down my cheeks like tiny flowing rivers.
“Stop it,” I said, again out loud. “Crying is for girls.”
I had no choice. I had to go home to get a tissue.
Damn Bryce Simpson. Why had he kissed me? Why had I let him? If he couldn’t give me anything, like he’d said in his letter, if nothing had happened between us, why had