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Henri had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. The level of pain, anger, and resentment Bailey had felt in the wake of such a discovery must’ve been unfathomable.
“I hated him for that. For a long time.” Bailey swallowed, then he turned his hand over, and Henri automatically entwined their fingers. “At least, that’s what I convinced myself. It took me a couple years and a lot of therapy to come to the conclusion that I didn’t actually hate him, I hated his actions that night, his disease.”
Bailey fell silent. Henri stared at their hands and rubbed a thumb over the top of Bailey’s.
“Wow,” Bailey finally said. “You’re probably looking for the closest speedboat right now, huh?”
Henri raised his eyes and shook his head, and when Bailey’s lips quirked up on one corner, Henri leaned over and kissed him there. “I was just thinking what an incredibly special man you are.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do. Your capacity for forgiveness is like no one’s I’ve ever met before.” Henri lifted their hands and turned Bailey’s over, and as he pressed his lips to the center of Bailey’s palm, he closed his eyes and said exactly what was in his heart: “I love you.”
As the words left Henri’s mouth and floated through the air between them, it was like the rest of the world had faded away. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the face he was now convinced was the only thing he needed in his life to survive and saw the answer he both feared and wanted more than his next breath.
Bailey leaned in, pressed a kiss to Henri’s lips, and whispered, “I love you too.”
Chapter Seventeen
CONFESSION
Special. Cherished. Loved.
That’s how Henri makes me feel.
LATER THAT NIGHT, as the water lapped against the pilings of the bungalow, Henri stared at the blades of the fan that spun overhead. He couldn’t sleep, hadn’t been able to for the past three hours, and as he listened to Bailey’s deep, even breathing, he knew exactly what was keeping him awake—guilt.
God, his stomach was twisted up in knots with it, and as he looked across the massive California king the two of them lay in the center of, Henri wondered if he’d made a huge mistake in bringing them there.
After dinner, after that incredible, life-changing moment—I love you too—when Henri’s world had gone from something he merely existed in, to something he was now excited to be a part of? He and Bailey had decided to spend the evening in the hot tub, where they’d made out like a couple of lovesick teenagers until exhausted, then climbed into this bed, where they were now cocooned away from the rest of the world in this thin cotton netting.
It was all very romantic—the room, the bungalow, the seclusion of it all—and while his original intention in bringing Bailey here had been to give him a chance to breathe, having his cop all to himself had made Henri forget that confessing his heart and soul was not exactly the smartest thing for him to do.
Shit. What had he been thinking just blurting his feelings out like that? Without thought, without consequence. But Henri knew exactly what he’d been thinking: I wish I had been there for him. I wish I could’ve held him and loved him through all of that. The way I love him now. And before he knew it, the words had just fallen off his tongue.
Henri turned his head on the pillow and watched as Bailey slept, his expression peaceful despite all he’d gone through. Henri thought it a testament to Bailey’s parents—despite the tragic nature of how they’d passed—that their boy had turned out to be such an amazing man.
Here was someone who had every right to be angry, bitter, jaded, and yet he’d fought through all of that and come out the other side.
That had to be because of his upbringing. The Seafood Sundays, the baseball in the park, the bright, warm house that he and his family had lived in.
Bailey had been raised with love. It showed in every smile, every touch, every look he aimed Henri’s way, and as Henri stared down at him now, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell right he had to ask that Bailey love him. A gutter rat from the swamps. A murderer.
Henri gently pushed the covers aside, got to his feet, and headed toward the sliding door. It was a balmy night, and knowing there wasn’t anyone else for miles, Henri didn’t bother pulling his shorts on over his briefs. He slid open the door and stepped outside.
He made his way across the deck and down the couple steps that led out to the private dock, and when he reached the loungers, he sat down and looked up at the sky above.
