* *
Megan woke to the steady thud, thud of Connor’s heart beneath her ear, the constant weight of his arm around her waist and the whirl of a mind anxious to put sleep behind it.
After two nonstop days in Denver, they’d packed the bulk of her apartment, leaving only the barest essentials behind. Laughter and fun like she’d never known had punctuated intense negotiations, strict limits and hard deadlines as a plan for the next three months came together. Sleeping arrangements, travel and social obligations, their respective professional commitments and myriad other details of this life they were embarking on had to be addressed. With so much to do, and so many decisions to make...it had been after midnight when Connor finally carried her over the threshold of his spacious San Diego home and about five minutes after that when they’d collapsed into bed.
Now Megan was blinking the sleep from her eyes, a silly grin curving her lips as the phrase “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” came to mind. Squinting around the unfamiliar room, she located a clock at the far corner and winced at the realization today was beginning at the ungodly hour of four.
Megan made a stealthy escape from the bed and padded down the stairs, flipping on one light after another as she tried to familiarize herself with a house not yet her home, searching for clues about the man she’d married along the way. What she’d discovered was an immaculately decorated showplace, where each room had a central piece of artwork around which everything else flowed. Horses in charcoal tore across an open plain in the massive study, a bronze figurine capturing the essence of a weary rider atop his mount was the central focus in a reading room, and aged leather behind glass in the living room revealed her husband had the heart of a cowboy.
Such a contrast to the clean lines and neat cut of his made-to-measure everything else. At least everything she’d seen so far. But perhaps that had just been Vegas.
There was so much left to learn.
Her mother’s parting words from their previous morning’s conversation whispered to her.
“You’re going to have to step up your game if you want to hang on to this one...”
She shook her head. Some advice.
There was no game. There never had been.
She knew better, thanks to the lessons learned at her mother’s knee.
Turning from the relic of the Old West, her gaze caught on the floor-to-ceiling glass doors making up the southwest wall. The inky black of the early hours had faded to blue and the landscape around them had begun to take shape. Palms stretched like dark cutouts against the morning sky and elusive streaks of white rushed the shores.
Slowly she stepped forward, wanting to put her mother’s words and the memories they spurred behind her. Lose herself in the beauty revealed by the approach of the rising sun. Only, the past had already taken hold. All the “daddies” who’d walked through her life. The great guys Gloria Scott had been willing to do anything—be anyone—to keep ahold of. The wild changes to her mother’s personality and personal goals heralding the arrival of each new man. Megan’s own determination not to let this one get too close—no matter how nice or fun he was—because it wouldn’t last. It never lasted. The tug at her little girl’s nerves once things started to slip. The sidelong looks, the downward pull of a mouth. The hope that maybe she was wrong. That maybe if she was good enough, if she tried hard enough, this one wouldn’t leave.
But they all did.
Eugene, Charlie, Pete, Rubin, Zeke, Jose and Dwayne. Seven husbands come and gone, and still her mom hadn’t figured it out. A person couldn’t make something last if it wasn’t meant to, like a person couldn’t be someone they weren’t. And trying only prolonged the inevitable.
Some were easier to let go. And some—she let out a heavy sigh as the memory of sun-crinkled eyes winking at her from across a worn dock squeezed her heart—the echoes of their absence were so deeply ingrained in her psyche they touched every relationship she’d ever attempted.
Her fingers trailed the wood frame of the sliders as a thread of anxious tension stitched through Megan’s belly. In spite of her determination not to, was she just repeating her mother’s mistakes?
She’d married a man she’d known for less than a day. A man who’d been so sold on the woman he met that first night—a night she couldn’t remember—he was determined not to let her get away. Sure, Connor thought he knew her. But what if he was wrong? What if she hadn’t been herself and he was so caught up in the hard-won victory he was after that he simply hadn’t realized it yet?
How long before he saw past the illusion of who he wanted her to be—and actually saw her?
Would it be within the span of this trial or would it be after she’d finally let herself believe—
“You’re up early.”
Megan spun around to find Connor watching her from the hall, a pair of light cotton gray pajama bottoms hanging dangerously low on his trim hips. The bare expanse of his cut chest was emphasized by the casual way he’d leaned one arm at the edge of the open frame doorway.
“So are you.”
God, he was gorgeous with his mess of silky hair standing every which way and a day’s growth roughing up the perfection of his square-cut jaw, giving him a sort of roguish look to match the smile and eyes.
“My bed got lonely,” he offered with a wink that did something crazy to her insides and reminded her of how impossible it was not to get caught up in this man’s convictions when they were together.
He believed in them. Was so ready to take that headlong dive into their future. Made it seem so simple.
Just jump.
When he looked at her the way he was right then, it made her want to jump too. Made her want everything he was offering. But wanting something didn’t necessarily mean it was right. She had to keep her head.
“Lonely.”
He grinned. “Yeah, well, I also figured you might like a tour of your new home. Some coffee maybe?”
She let out an involuntary moan. “Coffee, yes, please.”
Laughing, he walked over and caught her hand. “My ego’s demanding the next time you make that noise, it’s not going to be because of coffee. Come on.”
In the kitchen, she rifled through the freezer as Connor got the pot brewing.
“I’m not much of a cook, in case I didn’t mention it already, but frozen waffles I can do,” she offered over her shoulder.
Connor closed in behind her, one arm reaching past to swing the freezer door shut. “In a minute.”
Her heart skipped a beat and her belly fluttered.
“Connor,” she warned, taking a step in retreat.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he soothed, catching her hips and backing her to the neat square kitchen table, then popping her up to sit atop. “All I’m after is my previously agreed-upon good-morning kiss.”
Their compromise on physical intimacy.
It
