Grant
Not always, and not often, but sometimes I hated Mercy Kincaid so much that I could
hardly breathe. Not because she was terrible. She wasn’t. Not because she was mouthy or
impertinent, all the things I thought of her before. I hated her because I wanted her more
than I could bear.
My life would be far simpler if I didn’t.
If I didn’t love her more than I ever thought possible.
She was right there. My wife. Right in front of me all the bloody time, and my hands
trembled from wanting to touch her. For weeks, my mind spun endlessly. From wanting to
tell her I loved her. That I missed her. With all the filthy things I wanted to do to her, the
sweet things missing from our days, the ache in my bones at the sight of her face. And
more than all those things, the unrelenting fear that we’d never get back to where we
were before.
That she’d never let me touch her again.
Kiss her.
Experience the unyielding bliss that came only from being inside her body.
But she did let me. Oh, she let me do so much.
It was always how we communicated best, wasn’t it? How we broke our stalemate in
the early days of our marriage. Through touch. Through desperate fucking and torn
clothes and skirts shoved up around her waist. Furious kisses that felt like a fight.
They gave way eventually, to something lighter. Softer. Sweeter. A side of her I’d never
seen and a side of me I didn’t know existed. Where taking care of her became the best part
of my day. Where seeing her smile was the axis on which my world spun.
And now I could only stand in the wreckage left behind and stare down at my dirtied
hands, the broken pieces of pottery heralding the regret that would haunt me the moment
I left this bloody, fucking shed that she loved so much.
Not that she remembered loving it. In fact, after this, she might never love it again.
Might never want to come close.
She’d regret this place, wouldn’t she? Regret me.
I ran my hands through my hair and sank back against the counter. When I swiped a
hand over my mouth, my fingers smelled of her, and I had to close my eyes as I dropped
my arm limply to my side.
Five minutes passed, and my heart rate finally slowed. But I didn’t go inside just yet. I
waited another five, crouching down to assemble the shards of clay into a neat pile,
discarding them in the metal bin tucked in the corner. I stood slowly, my eyes latched on
to a photo of us that I’d forgotten. A trip we’d taken—just for us. Not for show, not to
prove a point. A honeymoon, maybe, not that we’d called it that. My fingers trembled as I
touched the ripped edge. God, the way that woman used to look at me. Like she couldn’t
believe I was real. Like we were real. Earning Mercy’s love once was hard enough. Twice,
or until she remembered it was there, might prove impossible.
When I let myself out into the yard, damp shirt buttoned and tucked in, belt secured
around my waist, the rain had finally stopped. The air smelled like wet grass and spring
flowers. Another day and I might have taken my time, allowed the lush growth in our
backyard to settle my nerves, but now there was too much at stake.
I opened the slider door quietly, and other than the sight of Rose’s mobile and a
half-filled wineglass on the end table next to the couch, there was no sign of anyone else.
My mother was down in her room, and Grandmother had returned to her hotel when
Mercy stayed outside, but not before she’d issued a final command.
“For God’s sake, go after your wife,” she’d instructed. “She’s coming quite undone.”
She certainly had, hadn’t she?
I was as well. So bloody undone. Only by her. Only ever by her.
I sank onto a stool at the island and let my elbows rest on the surface, dropping my
head into my hands as I stared at the plate of remaining lemon bars. There were hints like
this, where I could close my eyes and imagine that time had magically rewound. That
someone had spun the hands on a clock and reset me and Mercy to a place from before. It
wasn’t that life was markedly easier when she remembered, not in the way you’d think,
but God, it was good.
There were sounds coming from our bedroom, the low murmur of a female voice, and I
was glad that Rose was here for her. But right on its heels, a sick feeling turned my
stomach that she needed someone to be here for her.
Because I couldn’t ke ep my mouth shut. Couldn’t ke ep my hands to myself. Because I
couldn’t resist her. I’d never been able to. Not really.
By the time my sister exited the bedroom, I’d found a seat on the couch, legs stretched
out in front of me and a glass of whiskey in my hands.
Her facial expression was placid, and that was never a good sign. She took her seat
silently, tucking her legs up against her chest, then took an impolitely large swallow of
wine before setting the glass back down. My eyebrows popped briefly at the way she
sighed.
“She needed your help?”
“No. She didn’t ask me to check on her, but . . .” Rose stared down into her wine. “Felt
like I should. She looked quite a mess when she came through.”
I closed my eyes, opening them again when Rose stayed quiet.
“Start talking before I start asking,” Rose said, eyes fixed on me. “Believe me when I
say you might not like my questions.”
I rubbed my forehead and allowed for one more bracing drink of the whiskey. “How is
she?”
“Quiet. Didn’t say much.” She tucked some hair behind her ear, gaze going unfocused.
“Odd seeing her like that, I must say.”
I let out a derisive snort, because wasn’t that the understatement of the fucking
century. I held my glass up, a mocking sort of salute. “Welcome to my world the last few
weeks, sister.”
“Would have been lovely if you’d warned us,” she said. “About any of it.”
“Please don’t judge how I’ve handled this.” I stared down into my drink, my sternum
barely able to hold the pressure building underneath. “You have no idea how hard it’s
been.”
“I might have, if you’d let us help you. You’re just as stubborn as she is, you know,
thinking you have to shoulder everything on your own. That you can’t talk to anyone about
it. God, you can’t even look me in the eye right now and admit you’re fucking wrecked
over her.”
My head snapped up. “And say what, Rose? That I’ve been in agony wondering if I’ll
ever have my wife back? Would that make you feel better?” Her chin quivered, her eyes
going suspiciously red, but the flare of my temper was too high, too hot, my hold on the
reins too tenuous to pull back. “I’ve done my bloody best, all right? I’m just trying not to
lose her.”
“You won’t lose her.” A tear dashed down her cheek, and Rose swiped it away. “You
won’t.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know her like I do.”
If I sounded like a miserable wretch, if my tone was hopeless and worn and haggard,
it’s because I was miserable. I was a wretch.
Against all odds, I’d fallen in love with Mercy Kincaid. And because of a cruel twist of
fate, I’d probably lose her. But this time, I feared I’d have to watch her walk away. Watch
her run because what I felt for her triggered all those invisible fears she’d already
conquered once. That she’d choose something other than the life we’d built.
“How can I help?” Rose asked. “I feel entirely useless right now.”
I sat up and exhaled heavily, giving my sister a sad smile. “You’re not useless, Rose.
I’m glad you’re here. Even though I mucked it up at the end, I think we needed . . . that.”
“Dear God, don’t elaborate.”
My answering laugh was faint, hardly even audible, but it lightened some of the
pressure in my chest.
“I told her I loved her.” Carefully, I spun the glass in my hands and watched the light
reflect off the amber liquid. “Quite dramatically, in fact.” I cleared my throat. “During . . .”
I left the rest unsaid, and Rose let out a groan. “What did I just say?”
“If I have to suffer the indignity, then I’m dragging you with me.”
Rose was quiet long enough that I finally dared to lift my gaze. Her brow was lowered,
expression thoughtful. “I knew you were obnoxiously compatible,” she said delicately. “But
I didn’t know you loved her.”
After a sharp inhale, and a long exhale, I nodded slowly.
“Oh, Grant. What a mess you’re both in.”
“I’m quite aware, thank you.” I pushed my knuckle against the bridge of my nose.
“There’s no guidebook for this. Every day, I hope she wakes up and just . . . remembers.
That all the pieces we’ve built over the last year are back in place and there is nothing for
me to tell.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
The question I’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to answer. During my sle epless nights.
During the moments I wrestled with the unbearable urge to take her in my arms so that I
could feel one iota of peace amid so much uncertainty.
As a rule, Mercy rarely gave second chances. Connor was the only person with whom
I’d seen her soften.
Until me, that is. And that took so much bloody time. I’d never shown more patience in
my entire life than I had with that woman. But God, she was worth it. Even when she
pushed me away. When she pretended she didn’t care. When she was scared enough to
run. Loving her was worth every hard-fought inch, and I wasn’t ready to concede a single
one of them.
Eventually, I said, “I believe that’s up to her, isn’t it?”
It was a gross oversimplification, but ultimately the truth. No matter what I did, the
choice would be hers.
Rose’s eyes fell shut, her shoulders dropping a few inches. “I can’t bear the thought of
it.” When she opened them again, they were shining with unshed tears. “You are so much
nicer with her in your life.” I let out a rough laugh and held out my arm. My sister tucked
herself against my side and let out a weary exhale reminiscent of my own. “I’m sorry if this
ruined your birthday.”
I kissed the top of her head, smiling as Rose moved back to her seat. “I don’t know if
I’d say that.” The day was an exhausting blur—lemon bars and pizza, the smell of soil and
the feel of my wife’s body pressed tight to mine. Even if it was brief. Even if it was ill
advised. For that moment, everything sat right in my world again. “Some of it was quite
lovely.”
Rose downed the rest of her wine in an impressive chug. Grandmother would have
burst a blood vessel. “I’m off to bed, brother. I’d say sle ep well, but I have feeling there
will be too much self-flagellation for that to happen.”
Only the slightest hint of a smile tugged at my lips, and I wished her a good night as
well, settling into the couch when I was alone. I wouldn’t reenter the bedroom until I knew
Mercy was asle ep, and right now I was quite sure she was staring up at the ceiling, much
like myself.
I’d done so much of that recently, staying on the couch for a restless night because
somehow, it was better than pretending I was fine with sle eping in a guest room too far
away from her.
Show me, she’d begged.
I covered my face and let out a tortured groan. I’d well and truly done that, hadn’t I?
If I lived a thousand years and had a hundred tries to get this right, I wasn’t sure I’d
ever have the strength to resist her. Not when she was reaching out and pulling me close.
When she was rocking against my body, taking me so bloody well.
Not when she needed me. When she turned those eyes toward me, big and pleading
and open and wanting, I’d never say no.
In that way, my sister couldn’t have been more wrong. I wouldn’t beat myself down for
what we’d done—it was too good for that. But God, I’d r eplay the memories until my heart
ached and the emptiness in my chest forced me to stop.
It would likely make things so much worse for me, but those fleeting moments would
be enough to get me by. Until I could make a plan, at the very least.
The one I’d been following certainly wasn’t working, but I didn’t want to back her into
a corner either. She’d come out swinging. Fighting against anything that felt like a trap. I
scrubbed my hand over my face one last time, and then stood, finishing off my whiskey
and leaving the glass in the kitchen sink.
When the house was locked, all the lights turned off, I listened at the doorway for a
moment, then opened it just far enough that I could take a cautious peek inside.
The lamp on Mercy’s nightstand was left on, a pool of creamy yellow light circling her
side of the bed. She was sound asle ep, a book resting on her chest, and her still-damp hair
twisted up at the nape of her neck, a few tendrils coiling over her shoulder. It was darker
when she didn’t dry it. Wavier too. She fought those waves constantly, even though I often
told her that I quite liked it when they took on a life of their own.
I crouched next to the bed and studied her profile—the faint dusting of freckles over
her nose and cheekbones, the slight upturn of her nose, the lush bow of her lips, the dark
fan of her thick lashes. As beautiful as she was, the part of Mercy I loved most wasn’t
visible. It was her toughness. Her mind. That tender part of her she showed to a very
select few. For a while, I was one of them.
Even as my heart executed a slow, painful roll at the thought of disturbing her, I
reached out and carefully extracted the book from her hold.
She sighed, turning onto her side and tucking her hands against her chest.
I studied the cover with a terrible pang behind my ribs. Her battered copy of The Little
Prince, something I’d seen her read a dozen times or more.
Would that she could find a book to help me navigate this. A tidily written
checklist—how not to fuck it up with your wife when you’ve scared her off with a
mid-coitus declaration of love. It would be quite handy if someone had taken the time.
When it became clear that Mercy was indeed asle ep, I stood and turned off the lamp,
then quietly readied myself for bed, leaving my lounge pants on, as well as a T-shirt. When
my pillow and blanket were on the floor, I settled myself on my back and yet again stared
up at the ceiling with my hands resting on my stomach, where the easy rise and fall of my
breathing k ept me centered.
What I’d shown her was too big, too scary, and far too unpredictable.
She would run from this. Run from me. Not an if, but a when. I just had to hope she
wouldn’t be gone when the sun rose.