Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

He wasn’t sure why he’d thought she

’d given up on going overseas. With the fiancé, her friends, and her family here, he’d just assumed she would stay in the US. Now he was faced with the reality that his plan to free her from her school loans was also providing the vehicle to send her away. Again.

He couldn’t tell if he’d discouraged her from jumping at the chance to go overseas or not, but he hoped it would at least slow her down. Give them a chance to get closer.

“Miranda has agreed to be our contractor of record,” he told her, “and has put me in touch with subcontractors we may need. She’s also gotten her real estate license. She said she’d be happy to handle the sale at no cost. And I transferred money into an account. We just need to go down together to have you added.”

“You always did work fast when you wanted something.” Her gaze scanned the front page of the plans depicting a perspective drawing of the house, complete with a few roofline changes, large windows, a wide front porch, and double-doored entry. “Where did these come from?”

“Jack,” he told her. “Miranda’s fiancé. He’s an architect. We’ve been working on it all week.”

“So you pretty much ignored me when I said I didn’t want to renovate. Didn’t you learn anything from your mistakes? You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore.”

After learning her plans, he was asking himself the same thing. But it was still the right thing to do. And he was here to do right by her.

“I own half of the house,” he told her, “so my opinion counts. And I remember just how stubborn you can be, and that you sometimes need a nudge to get out of your own way.”

She laughed and pushed his shoulder with hers. “Shut up.”

“How would you rate the importance of paying off your debt, between one and ten, ten being the most important?”

Her face fell into a familiar pout that softened his heart.

“Please look at the plans and the after-repair values Miranda worked up for us before you put your stubborn foot down.”

“Fine.”

He pulled the plans forward. “And eat something before that wine catches up with you.”

They ate and drank while he explained all the renovation options. Emma’s body had gone loose and relaxed by the time he explained the last and highest after-repair value.

“That’s a lot of money to put into a house,” she said, clearly concerned.

“I’ve got it covered.”

She eyed him. “How’d you get that kind of money over the last eight years? You’ve only been a correspondent for four.”

“So you have been keeping track of me.”

She gave him that don’t-start look, so he dropped it.

“I was able to remain in long-term rehab for two years, until I was able to start outpatient therapy. As soon as I whittled down my pain medications and my head was clear, I had way too much time on my hands. To stay sane, I started writing.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned against the wall. “I developed a nice collection of online magazines that posted and promoted my work. I earned some decent money and squirreled it away. Once I was out of the hospital, I bought my first camera and did some photography and photojournalism while scrounging for more relevant, meaningful stories. I hooked up with a few other journalists, stood in for a local news channel when their newscaster got food poisoning, and ended up getting picked up by their larger affiliate.”

“I’d say that’s incredible, but I always knew you’d make it.” Her voice was soft. “You’re exactly where you dreamed you’d be.”

“No, I’m not. I may have the career I always wanted, but the most important things in life are missing—my wife, my family, friends.”

“Weren’t any of these journalists you hooked up with special?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard him call her his wife.

He was surprised by her directness and annoyed at his own self-loathing. “That’s not what I meant when I said hooked up. But no. There hasn’t been anyone special.”

He covered her hands with his and threaded their fingers. Dylan had occasionally found a woman overseas to ease the pain of Emma’s absence. Sometimes another journalist, sometimes a civilian in a support role with the military. But those fleeting nights had always been out of need, not love. Not even affection. And it hadn’t been often. He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he’d had sex. He only knew he needed Emma worse than he needed his next breath.

“I’d love to tell you I never slept with anyone else—”

She looked away. “I would never expect—”