A Winter's Date (18 page)

“I need to show you something . . .”

I’m shuddering. I don’t know him well enough to know how he’ll react. He may leave me, and I wouldn’t blame him—this isn’t the kind of secret I should have kept. But what are the odds? Out of all the people in the world . . . ?

He walks up behind me, snaking his arm around my waist. “Heather? What’s wrong?”

I fumble in my bag and start tossing things, searching for my wallet. My hands shake when I find it, and I can’t even open it. It feels like a thousand pounds in my hands. I can feel my heart beating against my rib cage, and I’m having a hard time calming down.

“Baby? Talk to me, please?” He presses his lips to my shoulder, silently telling me that he loves me.

I turn, and he lets go of me. Before I chicken out, I take his hand and lead him to the couch. I can’t even look at him as I sit on the edge. I force my body to turn and face him, my hands clenching my wallet as I take a huge breath.

“Okay, so I have this picture . . .” I trail off and open my wallet and find it hidden behind my driver’s license. I pull it out and look at the infant in the picture. Before I can say another word, his finger is under my chin, tilting it up and forcing me to look at him. His smile is heartbreaking because I know it won’t be there for long.

“I know, Heather, I’ve seen it. I had to look for your license when you were in the hospital, and I saw it.”

I swallow hard and shake my head.

He pulls me onto his lap and nuzzles my neck. “Is that your mother? I know you miss her, baby.”

My voice is only a whisper when I reply. “No . . . it’s not me.”

I feel his body stiffen, and he pulls away from my neck. The tears that threaten are stinging my eyes, and I can feel his storm brewing.

His voice is tight when he replies, “That’s your baby?”

He moves me off his lap.
God, why is this so hard to tell him.
I can’t even look him in the eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had had a child, Heather?” He sits there and rubs his hand through his hair and over his ridged jaw.

“Dammit, Heather . . . how could you keep that from me?”

I refuse to look up and meet his eyes. I can hear his breathing quicken, and I know for a fact that he’s upset. A tear trails down my cheek, and I shake my head. How could he think it’s mine? Finally, I look up. His face is masked of all emotion as he stares across the room and focuses on anything but me.

“Noah, it’s not my child.”

No, he’s wrong. It’s not mine, but I don’t have the words. I can’t find a single one, so I simply shake my head as I turn the photograph over in my hand and stare at the beautiful handwriting that gives the picture its age,
April 3, 1985
.

“It’s not yours?” he asks, yet his voice sounds accusatory.

“No.” I hand him the photo and wait. I watch him take it, and his eyes roam over the picture.

“Okay, Heather, then tell me who . . .” He stops speaking as soon as he sees the date written in Ellery’s handwriting. He’s silent for the longest time, and I’m praying he doesn’t get up and leave. Surely he’s figured it out now, and maybe I won’t have to say the words.

“How did you get this photograph, Heather?”

I look down at the floor and focus my eyes on my boot, trying to avoid looking up at him while I tell him my secret. “I took it when I was twelve. I was with them for three months before Dani turned eighteen and she was legally able to be my guardian. My parents had just died and they—the Somers—had lost a child years before, a boy, born on April third, 1985. I-I know who your parents are, Noah.”

Guilt floods my blood, and I think I’m going to pass out. I should have told him weeks ago. My heart is pumping the spoken secret through my veins faster than I thought I could ever feel. I can’t breathe, but somehow I manage to look up at him. I think he’s stopped breathing entirely as he tries to absorb everything.

“Your parents were my foster parents, Noah.”

His face is blank and completely devoid of emotion. He sits back against the couch cushions and stares at the wall at the far end of the room. “You know them?”

“I used to. I . . .” His eyes narrow slightly and I can honestly say I have no idea what he’s thinking. “When I left . . . I never went back. I haven’t seen them since Dani got custody of me.”

“Since you were twelve?” I think he’s trying to make sense of all of this information, information that I should have shared with him as soon as I saw that picture of Henry. His smoky voice interrupts my thoughts. “And they know you’re with me?”

I shake my head adamantly. “No. No, I lost touch with them. I haven’t spoken to them since . . .” I trail off, feeling ashamed at how long it’s been.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been second-guessing myself for weeks, and you just . . . fuck.”

He shifts and gets up from the couch. He runs his fingers through his hair, and I watch as his muscles move under his lightweight V-neck. When his fingers reach the back of his neck, he grabs a fistful of the material and pulls it up and over his head.

“I need to shower,” he says quickly and balls the shirt up in his hands as he retreats to the bathroom connected to our bedroom.

I feel like I can’t move. I just watched him walk away from me, and I can’t even summon the courage to go after him. I knew this would happen; Dani even knew it would. She warned me that he would be pissed. I guess that’s why I kept it a secret for so long. I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to make him understand.

I hear the water turn on, and I will myself to stand up. I hobble into the room and shut the door behind me, making sure to lock it because the last thing I want is Dillen barging in here. I slowly take my boot off and then my clothes. I stand and make my way over to the open bathroom door and walk in. I’m exposed, completely.

He needs to know that I didn’t mean for this to hurt him. I just . . . I was in shock, and by the time I got past the shock, I realized I wanted him to have a family, the one he never got to have. I had my parents for twelve years, but he barely had his for a day. Salty tears mar my face as I stand in front of the shower door. I’m trying to avoid applying any weight to my fragile foot when I step inside, holding onto anything I can. His back is turned toward me, and I watch as his muscles stiffen when he realizes I’m close. I swallow my guilt and wrap my arms around his torso.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t move nor does he touch me. I can’t let go of him because I need him. I need him to know that.

“Noah, please? I’m so sorry,” I say over the spray of the water as I lay my forehead against his back. I feel his arms move and his hands grasp my wrists. Relief floods me for the briefest moment until he pulls free from my grip.

When he turns to face me, my eyes meet his; his face is flushed like he’s been physically ill for days. He speaks before I have time to take in the rest of his mood. “I flew across the world for you, Heather. I’ve given up my life to come after you, not once, but twice. Goddammit, Heather. I fucking love you with every damn fiber of my being, but I have never felt . . . Hell. You are the one person I have trusted with every aspect of my life, and you know everything I’ve been through. Why did you feel the need to hide this from me?”

“I . . .” I try to reply but he holds his hand up.

“No, never mind. I don’t want to hear any bullshit. Why you insist on keeping shit from me is beyond my comprehension.”

I blurt out the words, so he doesn’t have time to cut me off this time. “I didn’t know how. How do I tell the man I love that his parents cared for me in the way that they never got to with him?”

I watch as he stares down at me like I just smacked him. I never thought he would take it this way. I search for any sign, any signal, that he would welcome my touch. My touch always calms him . . . but I find nothing. His stance screams anger and frustration toward me.

I feel his heated and heavy gaze move down my body, and he stops when he sees my foot. “What the hell are you thinking, huh? Are you trying to further damage yourself?” He easily removes me from the shower without any injury to my leg.

I don’t move because I’m scared he won’t want to touch me after this. My body weakens when the thought of this possibly being the last time he touches me creeps into my mind like an incoming storm, waiting to inflict its worst and rain down on me. To sting my skin, to hurt me, and tear everything I love away from me because I kept a secret.

Noah sets me down on the bed without drying me off first. I watch his retreating back as he walks out into the living room, naked with cool water droplets covering his gorgeous body. When he comes back he’s got the bottle of Woodford Bourbon to his lips, and his throat is working overtime to down the liquid burn.

I’m nervous. Not for myself, but for him. I remember the last time he drank when he was angry. It didn’t escalate to what could have been, but now . . . it just might. In the back of my mind, I notice that he doesn’t even have an erection. He’s never been in proximity of my naked body and not been affected. The fleeting moment passes when he kicks my boot toward the bed.

“Put it back on,” he says in an icy-cold voice.

He pulls out two towels from the closet and tosses one at me. I can’t tell if he’s mad at me for knowing them or mad at me for keeping this secret from him. My mind is running, trying to place his mood.

“Noah . . . please.”

He pauses as he dries off and picks up the bottle again to drink from it. I know I just bought that bottle and from the two large drinks he’s taken from it, he’s put a substantial dent in it. My eyes sting with tears, knowing what state he’s trying to force himself into. He’d rather be pissed at me than acknowledge how hurt he is. I love this man unconditionally, but I keep hurting him like he’s never been hurt before. It’s not on purpose, I promise myself. I pull the towel around my body as my hands tremble.

I’m still for at least thirty minutes, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling while I can feel his eyes on me. I eventually find the energy and willpower to move up the bed and watch him, as he does the same from a slumped-over position in the seat on the opposite side of the room. The bottle of bourbon sits on the floor next to his feet; it usually takes a mountain to knock my man over, but today, all it took was me.

I move to get up, and his head lifts, but his eyes stay almost closed. I’m cold, not only from lying here in just a towel, but from the dark heaviness that blankets this room. I never put my boot on like I was told, so when I take my first step without it, an excruciating pain travels up my leg. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out—I don’t want him to know. As I reach for my robe, I look over at him.

“Are you going to speak to me at all?” I ask quietly.

“I told you to put your damn boot on.” He completely ignores my question and straightens up in the chair.

My stubborn side rears back and spills from my lips before I have time to filter. “I heard you the first time.”

“Oh yeah? It sure as hell doesn’t look like it. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You have a knack for doing the opposite from what is best for you.”

I don’t pretend that what he said doesn’t sting, but I’m not used to him being like this. “I’ve tried hard to protect myself from feelings, Noah. You have to understand that I just wanted my parents, not anyone else, so I blocked out that part of my life.”

“Apparently you blocked out everything from me too. I’ve fought to get your walls down—since New Year’s Eve—and you refuse to let me in. If you don’t fucking want me in, then stop letting me warm you up and just fucking let go. Break me again. You’ve gotten pretty damn good at it.”

I suck in a sharp breath. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I do want you, Noah . . .”

He snorts and throws his head back in a laugh that isn’t his. “You sure have one fucked-up way of showing it.”

I know he’s drunk, and I know I’ve hurt him, so I can’t blame him for what he says, but I’m completely devastated. I refuse to let any more tears fall in front of him, so I take the painful steps toward the door as I tie my robe around my waist.

“You don’t mean that, Noah.”

“Just like you didn’t mean it when you said you love me, huh?”

I turn, causing another shooting pain to go up my leg, but I ignore it. “I have never lied to you about how much I love you. Not once, and I wouldn’t ever.”

“Yeah? I sure as fuck don’t understand why you’re insistent on keeping all these damn secrets from me.”

Guilt and anger surge through me simultaneously. “Stop it, Noah.”

I look into his eyes and flinch when his drunken smirk hardens his face.

“Stop what? Stop calling you out on shit? I’m sorry you don’t like hearing it. What else do you have hidden from me?”

“Why would I hide anything from you that I thought you could handle?”

“Apparently I can’t handle anything, Heather.”

“Noah, stop it. This is not fair. You don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t give me a fucking chance to understand, Heather. You just keep shit from me like I’m a goddamn child.”

“I’m not hiding anything from you. I’m sorry, Noah. I should have told you as soon as I saw his picture.”

I watch as he stares at me. He doesn’t believe me, and I don’t know what to do to fix this. He takes a long swig from the bottle before setting it down and picking up his phone to listen to Ellery’s message. He turns away from me again.

I stand and watch his muscular back tense up. I want to go to him, but he doesn’t want my touch. I’m on the verge of a breakdown, and if I don’t get out now, he’ll use it against me, I’m sure. He puts down the phone and picks up the bottle of liquor again. I know this isn’t going to end well.

I walk out of the room and shut the door because I don’t think my heart can take it anymore. We’ve been arguing for what seems like hours now. I lie down on the couch and shut my eyes, trying to warm myself up.

I’m startled awake by the apartment door closing, and I sit up quickly, thinking that it’s Noah leaving. Thankfully, Dillen flitters into the room with a day-conquering smile on her face.