Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

His gaze returned to her face. His expression had sobered into the mask she’d seen so often on television. That was when she realized just how much time had passed. Just how many tears she’d cried. Just how much damage he’d done—to her self-confidence, her self-worth, her ability to trust, her desire to dream, her capacity to take risks.

“You have every right to turn away—”

“You’re damn right I do.” The depth of anger in her voice surprised her. Her walls shook with the strength of a California quake, creating cracks for hurt to seep deeper. Seeing him was definitely a wake-up call. The fury and hurt swimming through her body was proof positive she hadn’t dealt with his abandonment. “What, Dylan? Why are you here? Now?”

“If this is a bad time, we could meet another day. I just came here because I didn’t know how else to get ahold of you.”

Part of her wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Another wanted to sink onto a bench and talk with him for hours. She found herself in a fierce tug-of-war she didn’t know what to do with. What she did know was that she couldn’t walk away with this hanging over her.

“No.” She had to move on. She had to put him behind her. Emma gestured toward the benches lining the path to the hospital’s main entrance. “Let’s get this over with.”

Then he would be out of her life for good. Maybe things would start making sense again.

Emma gave him a wide berth as she passed, but his scent still reached her—clean and spicy. He still wore the sandalwood and citrus she loved. That did not help her head stop swimming with his sudden appearance.

She dropped her bag to the ground at the closest bench. Then she sat on one end, pivoted, and pulled her feet up, wrapping her arms around her knees. Seemed like the best barrier she was going to be able to create.

While she waited for him to take his sweet damn time meeting her there, Emma shored up her walls the way she did when she had to notify a patient’s family that their loved one had died. She retreated deep, deep inside herself. A bit of disassociation that kept her as safe as possible in the worst situations.

This was definitely one of those situations.

He strolled past her, turned, and eased to a seat on the edge of the metal bench. He stared down at the hat where he turned it in slow circles. But he remained silent. And that, more than anything, was the most effective way to damage the resiliency of her barriers, because it gave her too much time to think. Too much time to look at him. Too much time to catalog all the ways he’d changed. All the ways he’d stayed the same.

“I can’t fucking believe you’re sitting here.” The words drifted from her lips, laced with more pain than she should have exposed. “Eight years without a word, and poof—here you are.”

He turned his head and met her gaze. She could see him better here, under the well-lit entry. And, God, he was even more handsome than he was on television. But Emma could see all she’d feared—exactly how his time in third-world war zones had reshaped him. He wore the face of someone who’d seen it all. All the horror life could bring. All the disillusionment that senseless horror created.

Lines of physical and emotional fatigue framed his mouth, fanned out from the corners of his eyes. Eyes veiled behind walls almost as high as Emma’s.

“I’m not here for forgiveness, because I know there is none.” The timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his gaze made her shiver. He was a deeper, sexier, more intense version of the man she’d loved.

“I also know this may mean nothing to you and that it’s far too little too late, but for whatever it’s worth, I want you to know how sorry I am for what I did.”

The emotion in his voice tugged at every weakness. She’d seen enough people in pain to know he was suffering. And that pulled at every nurturing cell in her heart.

“For forcing you into a decision that wasn’t completely your own,” he went on. “For hurting you. But most of all, for failing you.”

The unmistakable gleam of tears in his eyes tightened Emma’s throat. Painful emotions crowded her chest, making it hard to breathe.

He looked at the ground again. “I should have done this so many years ago. Better yet, I should have never created a situation where I had to say these things at all. I’m not going to make excuses, because nothing justifies all I haven’t said for the past eight years. I’m just… I’m sorrier in more ways than you could imagine.”

“I doubt that.” The words came out flat and serious. Heavy, like a rock. “I have a very vivid imagination.”

He quirked a split-second smile. “Oh, I remember.”

Something about the way he said it made carbonation fizz in her heart and swim through her body. She bit the inside of her lip to short out the sensations. The pain resulted in an automatic strike back.

“Are you in a twelve-step program?” Her ER frequent fliers had taught her all about vices and addictions and where they came from. One of Emma’s longest-standing worries for Dylan was that his injuries and years of emotional and physical suff

ering would eventually take their toll. He was a prime candidate for addiction. Escape from the horror of his reality required heavy hitters. “Is this your make-amends step? What is that? Step eight? Nine?”

“What?” His brow furrowed, and familiar double lines creased between his brows, one longer than the other. How could something so small touch her so deeply? “No. I’m not doing this as part of a twelve-step program.”

“Then why? Why now?”

He released a breath. “That’s…complicated.”

Her mind searched for meaning in that statement, scanning what she knew of his travels over the last year from his television reports and his news articles. Then it hit her. “You heard from my attorney, didn’t you? He tracked you down through your work.”