Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,170

why the hell would a guy not want to give a woman like that everything he had?

Never mind. He had her now, and he could take care of it.

If you asked him, though, she just looked tired. Also, he wasn’t positive that doing it again would be good for her, or the baby, either. You bet he was going to be at that doctor’s appointment. He didn’t trust her to ask the embarrassing questions, and he needed answers.

She smiled at him, still soft and sweet, and said, “I want to lie in your bed with you and watch a movie until I fall asleep. If you have a TV up there. If you want to.”

“Ah,” he said. “We cuddling? That it?”

“Well, yeah. I’m trying to be honest here, Harlan.”

She looked so serious, and so damn cute, he had to cuddle her a little right now. “You bet we can do that,” he told her. “You in my bed works for me.”

In the end, it took her twice as long to choose the movie as it did to fall asleep. She didn’t even manage to scoot down in the bed, just conked out then and there, her head on his chest, his arm around her, sitting up against the pillows. He turned off the set, put a hand on her belly in the dark, felt the roundness under his palm, and imagined his baby boy in there. His eyes closed, one little fist clenched, his legs kicking. Sucking his thumb, maybe.

His son.

He whispered, “Pretty safe place in there, little guy. She’ll take good care of you.” And thought about his mom when she’d been pregnant with Annabelle.

One morning, she’d put his hand on her stomach to feel the baby kick. What had he been, twelve?

Probably, looking back, she’d been looking for somebody to share her excitement with. Looking for some sweetness. She’d held her hand over his and said, “She’s lively, huh? I think she’ll be strong, like you.” She’d smiled at him, and he’d been embarrassed, had taken his hand away as soon as he could, muttered an excuse about meeting the guys to play ball, and got out of there.

Now, he cradled his own son, sheltered there so safely, and wished he could have that moment back. That he could tell his mom that she’d been right. That Annabelle had grown up to be strong, and brave, too, and that she was happy. That he was taking care of her, and he’d be doing it from now on. He wanted to tell her that she was having a new grandson, and that he was going to do his best to be the kind of dad she could’ve been proud of. That he’d found a woman who knew how to be a mom, and maybe that was because he’d known, somewhere inside him, what a good mom looked like. Because he’d had one.

But most of all, he wanted to tell her he was sorry.

Why hadn’t she told him, if she was planning to leave? Why hadn’t she asked him to come home while she told his dad? He could have been there. He would have stopped it. He could have helped. Why hadn’t she asked?

Would he have come, though, if she had? Would he really? Would he have driven those ten hours, or would he have thought, I have a game. I’ll see her at Thanksgiving?

He wanted it back. He wanted it back.

His chest ached, and so did his throat. He hadn’t known that grief could hurt like that. That it could be a physical pain, like a jagged black stone in your chest. How scared she must have been, telling his dad she was leaving, and then how terrified. It was like he could feel her fear, and her pain.

He felt the tears rise, and then they spilled over, hot and wet.

The sobs hurt so badly, it was like his chest was ripping open. He lay there and held Jennifer, felt his baby swimming inside her, already wanted, already loved, and cried because he was happy. Because he was having a baby, and his mother would never know. Because she’d died afraid and hurting, and he was never going to be able to make that go away.

Because he hadn’t there to help.

54

Your Own Tao

Harlan jerked awake to the sound of somebody hammering. Who would be hammering? It was dark.

Oh. At his bedroom door. Knocking.

Beside him, Jennifer stirred sleepily, made a little noise, and fell asleep again. And Annabelle’s voice