the street. The two-story, rock-and-wood structure looked sleek and modern, yet somehow fit in perfectly with the restored historical homes surrounding it. The perfectly manicured lawn, numerous trees and flower gardens were all well-tended, like something out of a glossy magazine. No doubt the inside of the luxurious home was filled with expensive furniture and matching colors.
He tried to picture Nicole living there, her adoring husband at her side, her baby in her arms, and realized she’d fit right in. In fact, this kind of lifestyle was exactly what he’d wanted for her, for them, even if he’d imagined it would take a while to get to that place. While he’d saved every dollar he could from his military service, he’d planned for the two of them to start out like most young couples did, with a much more modest home.
Looks like she’d managed to skip right over all that by marrying Bill Mabry, the guy her parents had been trying to set her up with all through high school. She’d claimed to find him repulsive, describing several awkward Sunday night suppers when her parents had invited him over.
Kyle guessed she’d lied. Either that, or her parents and Bill Mabry had finally worn her down, probably while she was mourning over Kyle’s supposed death. At least he hoped she’d grieved for him. He studied the house again and came to a decision. There was only one way to find out.
He hustled up the sidewalk, moving fast so he wouldn’t reconsider and change his mind. He rang the bell, listening as sonorous chimes reverberated inside the house, followed immediately by a baby’s loud wailing.
No one came to the door. Instead, he imagined Nicole went to comfort her infant. Heart still racing, he waited, telling himself he’d count to thirty before ringing the doorbell again.
At twenty-nine, the door opened, just a tiny crack. “Go away.” Nicole’s voice, making his stomach do a somersault. “I’ve already told you people I’m not talking to any reporters. My husband just died. Leave me alone.”
“Nicole.” He spoke her name, knowing she’d recognize his voice. “It’s me. Kyle.”
Silence. “Kyle’s dead. What kind of monster would play a cruel trick like this?” she cried out, before slamming the door shut in his face.
Still he waited, trying for patience. Even though she’d married another man immediately after his supposed death, he battled an overwhelming urge to kick the door in and yank her into his arms. Every fiber of his being, every fighting instinct to live, had been about her. Getting back to her. Holding her.
He blinked, hard, his eyes stinging. The one thing he’d never expected had been this betrayal.
When she didn’t come back, he knocked. Not a quiet brush of his knuckles against the polished wood. No, this determined rapping was to let her know he wasn’t going away until she faced him. She at least owed him that.
Finally, she opened the door, all the way this time. “Kyle?” she croaked. She’d gone pale as a ghost and swayed on her feet, as if on the verge of fainting. At least she wasn’t holding her baby. Even though she’d borne another man’s child, he didn’t want her to inadvertently injure an infant.
“In the flesh.” He jerked his head in a nod, emotion warring inside him. He was furious with her, as he had every right to be, but his soul rejoiced at just the sight of her. Still tiny, slender and petite, she wore her long brown hair the same way she always had. Her hazel eyes were rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying—of course she had, her husband had just died—and even now tears made the ends of her long dark lashes glisten.
Despite all this, she was still just as beautiful. This pissed him off more than it should have. Damned if he could stomach seeing her while she mourned another man. “Did you cry for me too?” he asked—no, demanded. “Tell me you did, because it didn’t appear to be all that long after my supposed death when you went and got yourself married off to him.”
“Kyle,” she repeated, her voice breaking. All at once, he realized she was on the verge of shattering into a million pieces. He moved to help her without conscious thought.
At the last minute, when he would have reached her and hauled her up close against him, she stepped aside, shaking her head.
“This can’t be real,” she muttered. Just then, her baby began crying again and she hurried away, into the house. Though she hadn’t invited Kyle to follow, she hadn’t told him to leave either, so he went after her.
She picked up her son and put him to her shoulder, rubbing his back in soft circles and making soothing sounds. The baby’s crying tapered off, replaced with quiet hiccupping sounds. She glanced at Kyle, her child held protectively against her, and made a strangled sound.
“You’re still here? This isn’t just some kind of dream?”
Before he could reply, she continued talking, almost as if to herself rather than him. “Kyle, I’m not sure how this is possible, but you’re dead. And now you’re not.”
“Sit down,” he told her, his tone gentler than she deserved. Once she had, he told her what had happened to him, all of it. Beginning with the IED exploding, the fact that he’d been holding his friend’s dog tag, and the months he’d spent in a coma in a hospital. Then the rehab, learning to walk again and, finally, coming home to learn the woman he’d expected to marry had become the wife of another man. He didn’t tell her the rest of it, about the PTSD he battled, because it was no longer any of her concern.
She listened quietly, tears slipping down her cheeks to be wiped away with the back of her hand. Her baby rooted around her chest, clearly seeking her breast, and finally she grabbed a baby blanket and arranged it so the infant could nurse. She looked the picture of maternal perfection, gazing lovingly at her child while her body gave sustenance.
It was almost too much for Kyle. But he’d already been to hell and clawed his way back. He’d come here for explanations and damned if he’d go without getting them.
When the baby finally finished, she rearranged her clothing and the blanket and put his tiny body against her shoulder so he could burp. Kyle continued to watch her, willing himself to feel nothing, though he failed miserably. A tempest of emotion raged inside him, ranging from a kind of joyous relief that they once again occupied the same space, to disappointment, hurt and gut-wrenching jealously. This should have been his wife, his baby. All the plans he’d made, all the hard work and sweat and tears had been supposed to culminate in this.
Instead, he’d been given the middle finger.
They both sat silently for a moment. He took a deep breath and met her gaze, steeling himself against the attraction—still—he felt when he looked at her.
“Your turn,” he said, his tone harsh. “I get that your husband was murdered, but you at least owe me that.”
She nodded once. “My turn,” she repeated, her voice soft. “And I’ll explain. But first, give me a moment to digest the fact that you’re really alive, and here.”
He’d bet it was a shock. She must have thought since he’d been killed, he’d never find out how quickly she’d managed to move on with her life. As if he—and what they’d had—had never mattered. A blip on her lifeline, here one day, gone the next. While for him, she’d been everything. His entire world.
With a nod, he gave her the time she requested. While she burped her baby, he prowled around the room, looking for some clue about what her life with her husband had been like. There
