Hot Summer Nights (Lucas Brothers)

“You never want to talk about it,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, head bent. I can see the pain radiating from him. He’s such a beautiful man standing there in faded jeans, barefoot and no shirt. His hair slightly damp from a shower. I long to reach up and kiss him, tell him I love him—that I’ve always loved him—and yet, I don’t. “Why are you here?” he asks, bringing my attention back to the reason I’m here. I swallow nervously as I fight my nerves and this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m pregnant.”

Bryant

A Mistake Worth Repeating

“Will you say something?” Maggie says, jerking my attention back to her. I lift my gaze to look at her face and all I can think is that this should be something beautiful. We should be celebrating. I should be able to pick her up and spin her around. I should be able to kiss her, carry her to bed and worship her body the way I have in my dreams a million times.

I can’t do that because this is not news that makes Maggie happy. I’m truly not sure how I feel about it, but only because this won’t fix the rift between the two of us.

“What do you want me to say, Maggie?”

“Something. Anything,” she mumbles, but she’s not looking at me. She walks over to the sofa and plops down on it.

I take a deep breath and follow her over, sitting down beside her. She looks dejected, pale and alone. I hate that look because Maggie doesn’t have to be alone. I used to think she was one of the bravest women I’ve ever known. Now, I see beneath that hard outer shell that she wears. She’s terrified to live. Terrified to love.

“It’s going to be okay, Maggie,” I whisper, knowing that’s what is worrying her the most.

“You don’t know that Bryant. You can’t tell me everything is going to be fine when you have no fucking idea if it will or not,” she says, her voice filled with pain.

I let out a deep breath and without thought, pick Maggie up in my arms and settle her down on my lap. Maggie doesn’t fight me, which, to be honest, I expected. Instead, she lays her head against my chest and curls into me.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her again.

“I never wanted to have more kids. I can’t be trusted with them,” she murmurs miserably.

I give her a squeeze and kiss her forehead.

“Brylee’s death wasn’t your fault, Maggie,” I mutter, my lips still against her forehead. I know she won’t believe me—she never has. I still feel the need to tell her, though. “Tell me what you want me to do, baby,” I add when she doesn’t respond.

“Go back in time and put your dick on a diet, so it doesn’t bust through condoms,” she grumbles, making my chest jerk with laughter that I refuse to verbalize with sound. My woman—and despite everything, Maggie is mine—is hurting. Laughter of any sort just feels wrong. I wish I knew how to heal her, heal us, fix everything. But I don’t.

I never did.

“I don’t think it works that way, baby. Besides, he’s been on a diet since you walked out of the house. Not sure I can do much better than that,” I respond.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t been with anyone in all this time,” she replies, and I swear it sounds like she’s complaining.

“What’s so hard to believe? Have you wanted anyone else?” I ask her, praying she says no. If I’m wrong, fuck, is that going to burn in my gut.

“Don’t be stupid,” she admonishes. “You know better.”

“Then, why is it so hard to believe that I haven’t?”

“Because you’re you and you’re a guy. Guys think about sex all the time.” I grin. When Maggie’s around, that statement is one hundred percent true. “What are we going to do, Bryant?” she asks.

“What do you want to do?” I ask her because I know what I want. I want Maggie under my roof, in my bed, and completely mine again. It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what I wanted even when she filed for the divorce.

“I don’t want to be alone…”

“Then, you move in here.”

“I… I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Why not? You don’t want to be alone. I’m home every night. I think it’s the perfect solution.”

“Your parents will throw a shit-fit.”

“Maggie, I stopped caring what my parents thought a long time ago.”

“My mom will—”

“Please, your mother loves me,” I interrupt, and she frowns, pulling her head back, her lips pursed as she looks at me. She may want to argue, but there’s not much she can pick apart.

“I’m never getting married again, Bryant. We can live together as friends,” she cautions. I want to roll my eyes. I probably do.