In Name Only (Pine Falls #2) - Jennifer Peel Page 0,56

preventing you from letting him love you.”

I grabbed my heart as if to block any hope from taking hold. “You have no idea what you’re talking about it.”

“Dani,” he sighed, “I know there is hurt, but it will heal. Though only if you allow it to.”

He was wrong. So wrong. Brock was never going to forgive me, and I was never going to forgive myself.

He shrugged his shoulders, knowing I wasn’t buying his pep talk. “Whether or not you prolong your pain is your choice, but remember . . . your choices don’t affect only you. You and Brock need to be careful. I would announce your joyous news soon, if I were you.” That wasn’t a suggestion. He stood. “Now, let’s get you home so you can get some rest.”

Rest? I wasn’t sure I would ever know what that was again—physically, emotionally, or mentally. Especially when all I could think about the rest of the day were John’s words about love and moving on.

I tried to distract myself by working on organizing and separating the children’s wish lists, double-checking my records to make sure not one child was forgotten. Each organization that had volunteered to donate gifts, whether it was a corporation or church, was given a list of children’s first names accompanied by their wishes and corresponding tags to help ensure the right gift went to the right child. It was a bit daunting and chaotic but worth it. When I dropped off the gifts to their homes each year and saw the hope of a real Christmas in each child’s eyes . . . it was priceless.

How could hope be such a precious gift and so frightening? Even as a child, I had been afraid of hope. It had become easier to believe things would never get better. No disappointment that way. However, I had started Children to Love to give hope where there wasn’t any. How could I continue to provide hope for others when I was shunning it at every turn for myself? Though this was different. Wasn’t it? Brock was just playing his part, wasn’t he?

I rubbed my lower back. It had been aching all afternoon. I shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. If I already had back pain, I wondered how I would feel as I got bigger. I still wasn’t showing. Not even a little bump. John’s words rang in my head that we needed to make an announcement. I knew Brock wasn’t ready for that. We never discussed the baby. In fact, Brock purposely avoided it. It felt as if he believed that if he didn’t think about it, then he could tolerate pretending to be my husband. Was it pretend? Could I dare to hope?

I rubbed my belly. “What do you think, baby?”

My baby. Brant’s baby. Yeah, I think it’s pretty hopeless too.

Chapter Seventeen

“Hey there.”

My eyes fluttered open, trying to focus. Brock filled my view, kneeling next to me. I must have fallen asleep on the couch.

Brock chuckled and removed a Post-it note from my cheek and held it in front of me. “Is this a new way of trying to absorb your to-do list?”

I dreamily smiled, still half-asleep. “If only that would work. What time is it?”

“Eleven.” He smoothed my hair.

“You’re home late.”

“There was an emergency appendectomy that had a few complications.”

“I hope the patient is okay.”

“She should make a full recovery.”

“Good. How was . . . the rest of your day?” I hesitated to ask.

“It was fine. I was fine,” he said, half-exasperated.

I carefully sat up. My back was killing me, but I didn’t draw any attention to it. “I should probably get to bed.”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure.”

Brock moved some of the papers I had fallen asleep on out of the way and sat next to me.

I nervously ran a hand through my sleep-tangled hair.

Brock placed his strong, scarred hand on my thigh and gently began rubbing my leg.

I had to take slow breaths so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. The mix of ecstasy and torture was almost unbearable. “What did you want to talk about?” My voice was ridiculously pitchy, like a twitterpated teen.

He scooted closer, heat rolling off him like the wind in the Sahara Desert. That had nothing, though, on the sexy smile he flashed me before leaning in and nuzzling my neck.

I stiffened. “Wh . . . what are you doing?” I managed to stutter out.

“Do you really need an explanation?” he asked, his voice low, before he softly and repeatedly began