From her perch, her frown deepened, her voice becoming as dark as the night sea. “I thought you understood about my anxiety.” The wind plastered her dress to her slim body. “But I’m wondering if you think I’m a needy person incapable of taking care of myself.”
Hands extended in protest, he tried to steer the conversation back to more even ground. “That’s not what I meant at all. You’re clearly one of the most competent people I’ve ever met.”
“What did you mean, then, with the anxious comment?” She crossed her arms. The moonlight fell on her, made her appear to be a living flame in that gold dress with her red hair.
“I just want to make life easier for you and the baby and, yes, I want to be with you. You and I have great chemistry. We enjoy each other’s company. Marriage between us could be good, very good. Just think of all the bucket list items we could explore together.”
“Bucket list? Bucket list?” Her voice pitched higher with each word. “We should get married to check off bucket list items together?” She shook her head. “Trystan, you can get a pal to do that. Marriage is—should be—about something else. It should be about love, and you don’t love me.”
Hell. He should have thought to use that word because he did care for her. “We have feelings for each other. I think with time that could—um, will—grow into love.”
Her mouth thinned, anger radiating from her. “Trystan, you really should stop talking because you’re making a mess of this.”
“Then tell me what you’re thinking since you’re better with words.”
“I believe you’re offering marriage because you’re still trying to make the perfect family, and that’s not a reason for us to be a couple. Please be honest with yourself.”
Her words sparked frustration and, yes, anger in him. He held his voice in check and said tightly, “You want me to be honest? How about this? I’m not sure you could love me even if we were perfect for each other. You hold yourself apart from people. You’re too afraid of losing your family again—whether it is because of your father walking out or your mother dying—to take a risk on what could be a really good thing.”
She blanched, her face pale in the moonlight, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Then I guess we know where we stand and it’s not together.”
Turning away, she walked down from the rock, landing in the sand with a slight thud. Without looking at him, she walked past him. Away from him. Leaving him with nothing but the cold truth.
He’d done what he’d vowed he would never do—alienated his baby’s mother. Anger at himself battled with a sorrow deeper than he could have ever imagined.
* * *
The last time Trystan had been up in the middle of the night raiding the kitchen, he’d been a teenager. But here he was, on his way to rummage for food, restless.
Five days had passed since Isabeau gave him the boot. Five days of tense work exchanges as she spelled out the tightly contained media exposure for Jeannie and Jack’s wedding. Everytime he tried to bring up making plans for the baby, she insisted that could wait until the second trimester.
Which meant months of the cold shoulder.
And he didn’t have a clue how to win her back. Desperation gnawed at him. He felt the weight of being orphaned all over again...his whole life and outlook shaped by the abandonment of his parents. He wouldn’t allow his child to feel that. He couldn’t. He wanted to be with Isabeau, to try, but she was right that the stakes were higher with a baby involved and nothing short of love was fair.
Except how were they going to figure out if that was possible if she’d shut him out?
Weighed down with regret, he made his way toward the kitchen, his feet slowed by the knowledge of all the ways he’d screwed up. He hadn’t slept in days, and staying in his room staring at the ceiling wasn’t going to help.
He turned the corner, surprised to see the kitchen aglow. His mother sat on a stool, hair in a messy blond bun. Deli meats and cheeses covered the lava stone countertops. Sliced bread, lettuce, tomato and onions flanked the sandwich supplies. Perhaps most notable in the sleek white kitchen with stainless steel accents was the opened gold-labeled Icecap Brews beer bottle in Jeannie’s left hand.
“Hi, Mom, trouble sleeping? Wedding jitters?” The rehearsal dinner was tomorrow, the wedding the next day. He would have no date—no Isabeau—the spot beside him vacant.
“No nerves, dear. I’m sure. I’m just unsettled about other matters. The news about Naomi and Royce splitting up caught us all by surprise. Jack is beside himself worrying for his daughter.” She nudged the sandwich makings toward him so he could make one for himself.
The breakup gave him pause too, as if he didn’t already have enough reasons to wonder about his own relationship with Isabeau. How did he stand a chance winning her back when a perfect couple like Naomi and Royce couldn’t make it work?
And there was still the baby to consider. They would be connected through the child forever, and while he wanted the baby, the thought of making polite arrangements with the woman who’d just stomped on his feelings made his head pound—his chest ache.
Grabbing for the rye bread, he loaded the sandwich with roast beef, turkey, pepperoni and Swiss cheese. Losing himself in routine to keep from thinking about how much he hurt.
Jeannie finished chewing, scrutinizing him. Reading him, just as she’d done when he’d been much younger yet every bit as lost. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m just hungry. Can’t sleep when my stomach’s growling.”
She picked up her sandwich and leaned against the counter. “You used that excuse as a child to keep from going to bed.”
“When I visited here.” He chuckled at the memory of those summers
