Sandy - Melanie Moreland Page 0,49

agreed, although my tone was odd. “Wonderful.”

“Sandy—”

I cut him off, not liking the solicitous tone in his voice or the edge of hurt it contained. I hated knowing it was me who put that hurt there.

“Jordan, I have to go. My tub will be overflowing. I’ll see you at the office.”

Before he could reply, I hung up.

I stared at the phone, fighting with myself. I wanted to pick it up and call him back. Tell him about the odd feeling I couldn’t shake. Ask him to come get me. He would sit with me and talk it through—help me make sense of the unease and worry I was feeling.

Twice, I picked up the phone, then set it back in the charger.

How could I explain it to Jordan, when I didn’t understand it myself?

I ran a hand over my hair and stood. Maybe a bath was a good idea. Then I would head to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Things would look better in the morning.

I tossed and turned, my sleep fractured and filled with dark, twisted dreams. My bedroom felt oppressive and hot. I flung off the covers and switched on the light, glancing at the clock. It was just after three. I should be asleep, but I felt twitchy and anxious.

I got up and pulled on my robe. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water, needing to feel the cold. I sipped it, wandering around the house, switching on lights as I did. For some reason, I ended up in Max’s office. I rarely went in there, and I stood in the doorway, recalling all the times I had done the same thing—leaning on the doorframe, telling Max to come for dinner, or to leave his book and join me in the garden. Scold him for working too much.

With a sigh, I went in, sitting in the wingback chair across from his desk. It was where I had always sat when I came in to see him. He would look up from whatever he was working on, his eyes twinkling, his gaze welcoming. His desk would be covered in reference books, files, papers, and notes. Often, his laptop sat on a precarious pile of papers, listing to one side, always in danger of ending up on the floor.

“Hello, my girl,” was his standard greeting.

Now, his desk was empty. His laptop shut and set to the side. There were no papers or files—I had spent days sorting and organizing them, sliding them into neat piles and storing them in file boxes. Colin had them since he was fascinated with Max’s work, his thoughts on the medical system, and his wealth of knowledge.

I glanced around the room, wondering what had called me here in the middle of the night. I hadn’t moved or changed much about this room. It had always been Max’s haven, the same way my office had been my own personal space. It was the place we could simply be ourselves and enjoy our own endeavors without the other person.

I drew my knees up to my chest, feeling a wave of emotion. Max was always careful never to stop me from pursuing my own interests. He supported me in everything I chose to do—from working for Bentley, doing some traveling on my own, even the odd hobby I would pick up then discard. He always was there, encouraging and supporting me. Max had been an amazing husband.

A shiver of foreboding went through me. I stared at his desk as three words exploded in my head so clearly, it was as if they were shouted out loud in the room.

You forgot me.

I blinked at the sudden rush of tears, suddenly knowing the reason for my unease and my worry. For the first time since Max died, he hadn’t been on my mind. Instead, Jordan had filled my thoughts and overtaken my feelings all weekend—even longer. The only time I’d thought of Max had been in comparison—the things Jordan did that Max hadn’t.

How Jordan loved to travel. Enjoyed being on the water. The way he hummed and soothed me in the storm. The passion he had reawakened in me.

Not once during the weekend had I thought of Max or our life together. I allowed Jordan to fill up that place of loneliness and replace it with laughter and joy.

I covered my mouth with my hand as a sob escaped me.

I had compared the two men and found my husband lacking.

How could I have