The Bridge to a Better Life (20 page)

He held the dress against his chest, his eyes burning now. At the bottom of the chest was their favorite wedding picture, the one he’d added to the chest before sending it over.

Then he spotted the black box and knew it held her engagement ring, the one he’d given to her on bent knee on a warm Saturday afternoon in June after he’d taken her on a picnic in the mountains. Her wedding ring was probably nestled in beside it. He couldn’t touch that little box right now. He knew it would break him completely to see the infinity symbol engraved in the bands, just like the ones he’d had engraved on the bridge. He set her dress on top of it, hiding it from view.

But he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the photo. He drew it out, trembling everywhere now, and traced the outline of her face. Like usual, she’d eschewed fashion trends. She’d left her hair down and curly like he preferred, and instead of going with a sleeveless wedding dress like most brides, she’d chosen one covered in Spanish lace. They were standing in front of the ocean, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz where they’d exchanged vows. In the picture, she had her hand on his cheek, her long lacy sleeves blowing in the breeze. He was gazing into her eyes, his eyes full of love, and his hands gripped her hips to him.

“I love that picture,” she said brightly from behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Take me to bed like you did on our wedding night.”

Her easy touch broke his heart once again. He made himself replace the wedding mementos and reach for the nightshirt he’d dropped to the floor. Thrusting it at her, he rose to his feet.

“Put that on, and then come and eat.”

He had to get out of her room, away from her touch, or he was going to do something he regretted. Like kiss her. Hold her. His willpower was rapidly approaching zero.

As he strode out of the bedroom, he leaned down to pick up Touchdown. If he had something occupying his hands, surely he couldn’t put them on her.

She came out, holding the nightshirt under her eyes like it was some veil and she was the exotic dancer sent to seduce him, which only made Touchdown bark. Pink was singing about the walk of shame now, which seemed appropriate. If he acted on his feelings, he was going to feel a whole heap of shame tomorrow.

“Why are you acting so weird?” she asked, dancing closer to him. “I’ve never seen you this uptight. Why don’t you let me loosen you up?”

He ran to the kitchen and gave Touchdown a treat. When she found him, she was dancing and…yes, weaving more than just a little. He knew he’d have to leave her and hope she’d eventually pass out on her own.

He slid the sandwich toward her. “Eat. Take two aspirin. Drink a glass of water. And go to bed. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

Her face looked as though he’d slapped her, and he cursed. To his shock, tears formed in her eyes.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, all the teasing and seduction stripped from her voice. “You’re scaring me.”

Having experienced his fair share of pain and confusion over the past two years, he understood the emotions shaking her.

“You’re not yourself right now.”

She clutched the nightshirt to her body. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

Not want her? How could she accuse him of that after everything? He crossed over to her and took the nightshirt from her hands. “Raise your arms.”

She did so meekly now, and when it fell over her body, she raised her troubled eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you this mad.”

A sigh gusted out of him as his heart burst. “I’m not mad.” He headed to the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked when he opened it.

Touchdown gave a happy bark and whined and pawed at Blake’s leg like he wanted to go out. “Stay, boy.” At least one of them could watch over her. “I’m going next door. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Dammit, tell me you love me. Right now.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Even if he said the words, she wouldn’t remember. What would it hurt? “I love you. Now eat your sandwich.”

“Uh,” he heard her rasp out and looked over immediately.

Her body was sliding across the kitchen island in a ladylike slump. Should he help her or leave?

“I don’t feel well,” she whispered.

Finally. She was crashing. And right after she’d broken his heart to smithereens again. Touchdown barked as if to remind him of his duty to take care of her, of the vows he’d made to stand with her in sickness and in health. Like he could have forgotten them. He strode back into the house as she started to fall. After catching her in his arms, he lifted her like a small child and carried her to her room.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said, slapping a hand over her mouth.

He made it to her bathroom in time and held her hair as she vomited. He rubbed her back throughout, and when she was finally spent, he rose to fetch a glass of water so she could rinse her mouth out. Her hands were shaking so badly he had to help her hold the glass. He didn’t even bother to hand her a warm cloth—he simply washed her face, trying to be gentle and yet mechanical.

“You poor baby. You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” he asked when she rested her forehead on the toilet seat.

In all the time he’d known her, she’d only been this sick twice before. Once, after celebrating his Super Bowl win. The other time had been on a different vacation. She’d blamed tainted sushi, but he was reasonably sure it had had more to do with the sake she’d drunk with it.

When enough time had passed after her final bout of sickness, he tenderly scooped her up, breaking open more doorways in his heart, and carried her to her bed, where he tucked the covers over her. She immediately crawled over to the right side of the bed.

His heart received the final knock-out punch of the night. She still slept on
her
side of the bed. He’d tried sleeping in the middle after she left, but he’d soon reverted to sleeping on the left. It was the only way he could fall asleep.

“Blake,”
she called gruffly.

“I’m right here,” he rasped out. It was where he felt he belonged.

Her eyes opened, and even though they were bloodshot and filled with pain now, they gazed at him with renewed focus. “Hold me.”

His plans to flee turned to dust. He couldn’t ignore her quiet request. He tucked her in and settled down on top of the covers, making sure to keep enough distance between them. When she cuddled close, he gritted his teeth and locked all his muscles into place so he wouldn’t soften against her.

Then she murmured, “I love you,” and he felt the first tears fall from his eyes.

Natalie awoke to a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as the desert. When she tried to turn over so she could die, she couldn’t. She cracked one eye open and groaned.

Blake.

He was on top of the covers dressed in the most hideous outfit she’d ever seen him wear. Her mind started to turn like a rusty old wagon wheel, sending images from the night before flashing through her mind.

She and Andy going to Hairy’s Irish Pub. Playing darts and pool. Downing shots with the guys.

Oh, God. Tequila was the devil.

And that was all she remembered. Great, another Natalie Show had premiered.

Peeking under the covers to see what she was wearing, if anything, she was somewhat relieved to discover she had on her underwear and a nightshirt. Not surprising really. Blake had never crossed that line before, even though last night must have been hard for him.
Hard.
If she hadn’t been in agony, she might have laughed.

She let her lone eye close. It hurt too much to keep it open. Blake must have taken her home. Had Andy helped? The strong frame next to her stirred, and the bed dipped, making her clutch her stomach.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll go get you some aspirin and water.”

“And tomato juice,” she reminded him.

“Do you want me to add the egg?”

She almost up-chucked right there. “No.”

Even though she suspected he was taking care to inch off the bed, the movement felt as profound as the trembling of the earth under a herd of dashing buffalo. She moaned long and deep as he left the room.

Moments—or an eternity—later, he returned to the room. “Okay, let’s do this,” he said. “You’ll feel better once you get this stuff down.”

He put his hand under her back and neck to raise her, and she bit her lip to still the cartwheels flipping in her stomach. “I hate this part.”

“I know.” His touch was gentle as he settled the rim of the glass against her lips.

She managed the pills and a few sips of both the water and the tomato juice. He helped her lay back down, but she found herself missing his warmth and the sweet touch of his hands, which had helped dispel the dizziness.

“I don’t feel as dizzy when you hold me,” she admitted. At this point, she had no pride.

A hefty sigh gusted out, and then he lay back down beside her. His warmth drew her. His strength anchored her. She nodded off, and when she surfaced, the dizziness was gone. She rolled onto her side and put her hand on his chest, the only place it seemed to fit when they were squashed together this way.

“I must have done a doozy last night,” she murmured, wanting more water to counter the dryness in her mouth, but not daring to move. Her tomato juice might decide to dance an Ole.

“Yes. Jordan is going to have to answer to me later. I can only hope he got as sick as you did.”

Unlikely. He outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds. “Not my best moment.” Well, she’d wanted to forget, and she’d certainly managed to meet that goal.

He grunted in acknowledgment.

“Did I do anything I should regret?” she asked.

“Other than dance around in your underwear to Pink? Nah.”

She almost dove under the covers then and there. “So, I didn’t throw myself at you?”

The muscles in his chest clenched where her hand lay. “I managed to talk you down. You weren’t in your right mind.”

A powerful wave of grief rose up in her. So, she’d managed to hurt him again, using his desire for her against him. She should hide under the covers in shame, after all.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Something patted her hand. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. She could hear the edge in his voice. He’d thrown her nightshirt over her and stayed with her, sleeping on top of the covers like they were teenagers dating, too scared to have sex, but too attracted to stay apart. She suspected there was more to it, but she was too afraid to ask him
how
she’d thrown herself at him.

“I’ll make it up to you.” Her mind couldn’t think beyond the present moment, but she’d think of something when she felt better.

“You don’t have to balance the scales, Nat.”

No, he’d never kept score. Not once during their time together. She’d always loved that about him.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “I need to head home to let the caterers in and deal with the guys.”

“Oh, God, I forgot. Brunch. I am the worst professional on the face of the planet.”

“I…ah…wasn’t sure what to do when your assistant called, so I texted her back and told her to show up without…well…you. I knew you’d be embarrassed if I answered your phone.”

This further evidence of his consideration sent a sweet pang through her chest. She turned her head and forced her eyes open. Ten eighteen. They would be arriving at eleven. “I can help.”

He gently pressed her back down when she tried to rise. “Don’t bother. It’s not like they don’t know what to do. Everything’s ready, right?”

When she nodded, a bolt of pain shot across her temple. She clutched it.

“I’ll check on you later.”

Could he be any sweeter? She felt the urge to curl up into a ball.

“Thanks,” she rasped out instead.

A soft kiss landed on her brow, and his hand stroked the hair from her forehead. “Get some rest.”

The movement in the bed when he left was more akin to a flock of pigeons landing, and sure there was a jolt in her stomach, but not the roll she’d experienced earlier. She nodded off again. By the time she finally managed to crawl out of bed and into the shower, she’d downed the tomato juice and more water. She’d be drinking buckets today. The steam and water helped, and after she dried herself and wrapped herself in a towel, she forced herself to deal with the one thought that now wouldn’t leave her consciousness.

If he’d found her nightshirt, he must have found her secret too.

She walked to her cedar chest and opened the lid. The wedding picture she’d placed inside with her dress was lying at an angle, but the black box holding her rings lay undisturbed.

He had seen these precious mementos and touched them. She sank to a knee and wondered what he’d felt. He’d sent these items over in her hope chest with the note
No one should be without their hope,
but try as she might, she couldn’t force herself to get rid of them.