All in all, it’s a perfect day, marred only by my lingering fears that won’t dissolve no matter how much I try and will them to.
Later, Jamie does the honor of reading to Lara. Her favorite is still Good Night, Sleep Tight, Little Bunnies, and both Damien and I have it memorized. As Jamie takes care of my oldest, I read Goodnight, Gorilla to Anne and then settle her into her crib. I linger, watching her sweet face as she drifts off to sleep, grateful that I have such easy kids. Not that there aren’t tears and crankiness, but today was a tantrum-free day.
And hallelujah for that.
Jamie and I meet up again on the patio, and I keep my phone open to the monitoring app as we settle down for more snacking and chatting. I feel like a teenager at a slumber party again, although that illusion fades when Jamie yawns deeply, then stands up and announces that she’s going to bed. Jamie never crashed when we were teens. She would have considered it a red mark of failure.
When I remind her of this, she just shrugs and shoots me an impish grin. “Yeah, but the reason I’m tired now is that last night Ryan and I fucked like bunnies, and I didn’t get any sleep at all, what with all that goodbye sex.”
“Right,” I say dryly. “I should have known.”
“Coming in?”
I take another sip of my wine and shake my head. “You go on. I’m going to stay out here and watch the stars a bit longer.” I glance once again at my phone, just as I’ve been doing all evening, but there are no emails or texts from Damien.
“The longer he works, the less stressed he’ll be about playing hooky tomorrow,” Jamie says sagely.
I nod, knowing she’s right but still wishing Damien was home with me.
“Night, Nicholas,” she says.
“Night, James,” I return, answering in kind with our childhood nicknames for each other.
She heads back inside for the guest suite, and I look up at the sky, smiling when I see a shooting star streak across the moonless night. Once again, I crave Damien beside me, but this time when I turn to my phone, I hear a rustling come over the speaker. The video component of the monitor isn’t working—I’d meant to fix it today and forgot—but it doesn’t matter. Either our cat, Sunshine, is settling in at the foot of the bed, or Lara has kicked her blanket off.
Since it’s time for me to head up to bed anyway, I get up, then return to our third floor bedroom. We’ve converted the guest room behind it to the girls’ room, and about a month ago we moved Anne’s crib from the master to the room she shares with her sister. That’s where I go now, wanting to check on the girls and the cat before climbing into bed, certain that the sooner I sleep, the sooner Damien will be beside me.
Except he’s already here.
I freeze in the doorway, afraid that he’s heard me. More afraid that my eyes are playing tricks on me. But it’s Damien. He’s sitting in the rocking chair, illuminated by the soft glow of the nightlight, his midnight black hair gleaming. He’s holding Lara in his arms, his hands cupping her sleeping head. And though he’s facing the window, I can see most of him. And I know his face well enough to recognize his expression. Pain. Sadness. Maybe even desperation.
My heart hitches, and I gasp, the noise overly loud in the otherwise silent room.
I lift my fingers to my mouth, as if that will call back the sound, but it’s too late. Damien looks up, and though the pain still lingers on his face, his dual-colored eyes reflect so much love and tenderness that I have to reach out for the doorframe to steady myself.
Slowly, his mouth curves into a smile that fills me up, erasing the sadness on his gorgeous features. He holds out his hand, and I go to him, craving his touch. The reassurance that all is well.
But as I walk toward my husband, this man I love with all my heart, I glimpse the lingering shadows in his eyes, and I can’t shake the cold blanket of fear that settles over my shoulders when I slide my hand into Damien’s.
Chapter Three
After we tuck Lara back into bed, Damien and I walk in silence to our bedroom. As soon as I close the door behind us, I expect him to speak. But he says nothing. Just sits in the armchair by the window and loosens his tie.
I go to him, then kneel at his feet, my hands on his thighs. “Damien,” I whisper. “Please.”
The corner of his mouth curves up. “Anything, baby. You know that.”
But I don’t know it. Not really. Because I’ve asked him to tell me what’s wrong, and he’s remained silent. But that’s what I need. That’s what will make me whole—getting into his head. Understanding him.
Most of all, helping him.
“Damien,” I whisper as I look into those eyes that have seen all the way into my soul. “Please. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
An infinity passes between us in the space of a breath, then a small, sad smile touches his lips. “Everything is fine, Nikki. I promise.”
Anger boils in me, as hot as wildfire and at least as destructive. I want to scream at him that I know something is off. I want to yell that I can practically smell the secrets. I want to beg him to tell me. Because doesn’t he understand how much his silence hurts?
I say none of that, though. Instead, I press down on his thighs as I lever myself back up.
“Nikki—”
“I need to check on Anne.” My voice is sharp, my words nothing more than an excuse to leave. Because if I stay, I’m going to sink to the ground and beg. But I don’t want to beg. I want him to tell me. To keep his promise that there would be no more secrets between us.
In the girls’ room, I peek in on Anne, sleeping peacefully in her crib with Blankie. Then I pick Kitty up from beside Lara’s bed and tuck the little guy next to her. Immediately, her arm goes around her bedraggled lovey.
I close the door behind me, intending to return to the bedroom. Instead, I go outside. I pour another glass from the second bottle Jamie and I opened, then settle onto the chaise lounge and look up, letting myself get lost in the stars that blanket the moonless sky.
I don’t hear him, but I know when Damien steps onto the patio. The scent of him. The subtle shift in the air, as if Damien Stark truly is the force of nature I sometimes believe him to be. Mostly, though, I am simply attuned to him, and he to me. Of course, I know he’s there. Just as I knew that he would come.
I turn my head and let myself breathe him in, this man the gods must have made just for me. He’s strong and powerful and walks with confidence. His strides are long and straight, and his goal is clear—me.
When he reaches my chaise, he sits on the edge of it near my hip, then takes my hand in his. I’m still wearing the bathing suit I put on to lounge with Jamie, covered by a simple, lacey pull-over. It eased up when I sat, and now Damien’s slacks brush the bare skin of my thigh, making me hyperaware of our connection.
Damien lifts our joined hands, then kisses my knuckles. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
My eyes dart to his, and I see both apology and humor reflected on his face. “I think that’s my line,” I say.
Slowly, he slips his hand beneath the lace of my cover-up so that his palm presses against the bare flesh of my lower abdomen, just above my bikini line. The touch is casual, little more than a place to rest his hand, and yet the contact sends sparks shooting down through my core, making my inner thighs tingle and my sex burn hot and needy.
I bite my lower lip and focus on my husband’s face, not his touch. “Damien,” I say, my voice raw with both frustration and need. “Please talk to me.”
“It’s work,” he says. He’s still holding my hand, and he releases it now to run his fingers through his hair. “Just some massive fuckery going on, and I’m trying hard not to bring that shit home.”
I almost tell him that the frustration that flows off him in waves pretty much defeats his good intentions, but I stay silent. The truth is that I really do understand. Or, at least, I think I do. He’s been working on an acquisition of a medical tech company for months. The deal recently went sour when the C
EO turned out to be an asshole of the #metoo variety, and Damien started getting flack in the press about the fact that the deal would line the asshole’s pockets.
So I understand why he’s frustrated, but in the grand scheme of Stark International, walking away from one acquisition is a minor stumbling block. And that’s why I think that something else went sideways with the deal. Something he’s not sharing with me.
I lick my lips. “I love you so damn much,” I say. “But Damien, I …”
I draw a breath and try again. “You promised me no more secrets.”
He reaches out and cups my cheek. “Baby, I know.”
I swallow. Because knowing isn’t the same as telling. And I’m about to say so when he draws a breath, then speaks. “Nikki, I—”
The pain in his voice is palpable, and I cover his hand on my cheek with my own. My heart pounds against my ribcage as I wait for him to tell me what troubles him.
For a moment, silence lingers. Then he says, very simply, “I just need you.”
My chest tightens, and I want to scream that he can tell me. Whatever it is, doesn’t he know that by now? With everything we’ve been through together? Everything we’ve shared with each other? How can he not understand?
But I say none of that. On the contrary, it’s myself who gets the stern lecture. Because no matter what, I don’t doubt that Damien loves me, and that’s really our bottom line. Whatever it is that’s going on, he’s obviously not ready to tell me. I might not like it, but I can accept it. Begrudgingly, yes. But I can.
And the truth is, it’s not his secret that’s bothering me so much as his pain. Because I can see that he’s suffering, and it hurts that he hasn’t come to me for help.
Except he has.