How To Mend A Broken Heart. Amy Andrews

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Carita. Who knows.

       Dear Reader,

      The subject matter of this book is a difficult one. The death of a child and the often paralysing grief that comes with it aren’t exactly ripe for a romance novel. But in my line of work, I have unfortunately seen many couples go through this harrowing experience and I so often wonder how they fare when they leave the surrealness of the hospital setting and have to get on with their lives without the little person that completed it so utterly. From this Tess and Fletch were born, two people whose profound grief had driven them apart despite their love for each other.

      My life has been charmed until recently, with no bereavements or tragedies to speak of. Then half way through 2011 I lost my mother quite unexpectedly. Needless to say I now have more than a passing acquaintance with grief. It’s not the loss of a child but grief doesn’t discriminate and it’s been a long, hard road to trudge.

      Giving Tess and Fletch their HEA, even a decade after the tragic events that had marked theirs lives, was vital for me on many fronts.

      I hope you root for them as I did during their journey back to each other.

      Regards,

       Amy

      CHAPTER ONE

      THICK grass spiked at Tessa King’s bare knees as she sank to the ground beside the tiny, immaculately kept grave. Large trees shaded the cemetery and birdsong was the only noise that broke the drowsy afternoon serenity as she laid the bright yellow daffodils near the miniature marble statue of a kneeling angel.

      Grief bloomed in her chest, sharp and fresh, rising in her throat, threatening to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath, reaching for the headstone as the tsunamilike wave of emotion unbalanced her.

      She let some tears escape. Just a few.

      No more.

      Even on the anniversary of his death she rationed her grief. It was ten years to the day since Ryan had died. Ten years of living life in greyscale.

      The memories struggled for release but not even on this day did she allow herself the luxury of remembering too much. She rationed the memories too. His little body squirming against hers, his boyish giggle and that perfect little bow mouth.

      The double cowlick that had refused to be tamed.

      It was enough.

      Tess opened her eyes, the simple inscription she knew as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat, blurring in front of her.

      Ryan King.

      Aged 18 months.

      Gone, and a cloud in our hearts.

      She reached for the letters, the smooth marble cool beneath her fingertips. She didn’t let them linger. She wiped at her cheeks, blinked the remaining moisture away.

      Enough.

      Fletcher King ground his heels into the luxurious carpet of grass, resisting the urge to go to her as she sagged against the headstone. His butt stayed stubbornly planted against the bonnet of his Jag. She’d made it perfectly clear when they’d separated that it had to be a clean break. That she didn’t want to see him or talk to him, and every overture he’d made the first year to keep in touch, to check on her, had been resoundingly rebuffed.

      Frankly, after nine years of watching this ritual from afar, he didn’t even know how to approach her. She seemed as distant today as she had for that awful year after Ryan’s death when their marriage had slowly shrivelled and died.

      He hadn’t been able to bridge the gap back then and he doubted almost a decade of distance would have improved things.

      It didn’t mean he was immune to her grief. Even from this distance the weight of her despair punched him square in the solar plexus. Took him right back to the dreadful day as they’d frantically tried to revive their son, hoping against hope, trying to ignore the portent of doom that had settled over him like a leaden cloak.

      His frantic ‘Come on, Ryan, come on!’ still echoed in his dreams all these years later.

      A lump rose in his throat, tears needled and stung his eyes and he squeezed them tightly shut. He’d already cried a river or two; hell, he was probably up to an ocean by now, but he couldn’t afford to succumb today.

      He was here on a mission.

      He needed his wife back.

      Tess put one foot in front of the other on autopilot as she made her way to her car. Whether it was because of the dark swirl of emotions or the jet-lag, she didn’t see him or at least register the identity of the tall, broad man leaning against the car parked in front of her rental until she was two metres away.

      Then, as her belly did that almost forgotten somersault and her breath hitched in the same way it used to, she wondered why the hell not. She may not have been interested in a man in ten years but she obviously wasn’t totally dead inside.

      And Fletcher King in dark trousers and a business shirt that had been rolled up to the elbows and undone at the throat was still an incredibly impressive man.

      In fact, if anything, the years had honed him into an even more spectacular specimen.

      He looked broader across the shoulders. Leaner at the hips. There were streaks of grey at his temples and where his dark, wavy hair met sculpted cheekbones. His three-day growth, black as midnight last time she’d seen it, was lightly peppered with salt. There were interesting lines around his tired-looking eyes, which were the silvery-green colour of wattle

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