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I braved stepping closer to him. The way my heart raced said it probably wasn’t my brightest idea, but I needed him now more than ever—my best friend. It was unfair, I know, but I had never been more afraid or lonely in my life. “We have a choice.” My sorrow bled through, making my voice hitch. He could try to forgive me. It didn’t mean we had to jump right to man and wife. We could be friends again, or at least not the adversaries we had become.
His hand fell to his side while his wide eyes captured mine. Incredulity swirled in his.
I didn’t let it deter me. I took the hand he had offered me moments ago and held it up, between my own, close to my heart, which was pounding. For a beautiful second, he and his hand relaxed under my touch. Then anger became the victor once again. Brock pulled away from me. “You made your choice, Dani.” He turned to walk away.
I choked back my tears. “Yes, I did, but so did you.” My own anger appeared.
He stopped but wouldn’t face me.
“For years I watched you choose the wrong women over and over again while I was very much alive and in love with you. By your own admission, you knew my feelings for you ran deeper than friendship. Still, you chose your career and convenience over me because you didn’t want to be tied down to one woman. You could have chosen me a long time ago,” my voice cracked. “This baby could have . . . should have been ours,” I cried. “I’m not trying to excuse what happened, but just remember I didn’t give you a front-row seat to my choice.”
I strode right past him and into the house to pay the price for my choice.Chapter ThreeI leaned against the kitchen woodblock counter for support, slowly sipping water in hopes of staving off dehydration, and trying to soak in the vitamin D from the glorious warm rays streaming in through the wall of windows. I needed to stay healthy. If I had to go to the hospital now, the secret would be out. And not even Sheridan or my family knew about my pregnancy. I reveled in the few minutes of alone time and reprieve. If only it didn’t smell like the pot roast Sheridan was cooking in the oven. Normally I loved that smell, but today it added to the squeamish feeling.
The rest of the Hollands were in the living room preparing for the arrival of the news crew. John was going over talking points with Brock and Brant while Sheridan was probably straightening her couch cushions for the hundredth time. Jill was sure to be following her future mother-in-law around, trying to prove what a dutiful daughter she would be. Everything was supposed to be perfect—even the people.
“How are you?” Brant startled me.
I turned around to find him leaning against the doorframe, looking worn despite his perfectly pressed dress slacks and button-up. If I had to guess, I would say he’d even lost a few pounds. His angular face was looking thinner. His skin, normally tan this time of year, was gaunt.
“Fine,” I lied. What else could I say? While his care was meant to bring comfort, all I could think was that he shouldn’t be here with me alone. Not because I didn’t trust him or myself around him, though. Brock had warned him to stay away from me, and I didn’t want him and Brock to get into it again.
Brant took a brave step forward. “I’m sorry, Dani.” Throughout the last several weeks, he had said it more times than I could count.
“Stop apologizing. We both . . . well . . . you know.” It was a mutual choice. A mutual mistake. I didn’t believe in casual sex and one-night stands. I had seen how sex ruined lives—almost ruined my life when I was a teenager. I’d never meant to be so careless. Even so, I had been so overcome with staggering grief that night and had sought comfort where I shouldn’t have.
His eyes zeroed in on my midsection. “You’re carrying my child,” he whispered. The ache in his voice was apparent.
Out of all of us, I knew Brant was giving up the most. His father was forcing him to watch his child be raised by the brother who hated him. Yet it didn’t change the facts or the danger his words carried. I looked around, praying that no one had heard him.
“They’re all still in the living room,” he answered in response to my panicked state.
“You should be there too.”
“How do we keep doing this?” he begged to know.
I held my glass tight, to the point of almost shattering it. “A minute at a time.”
“More like second by second.”
