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In the car, he scooted Tilda close to him and murmured all the wicked things he planned to do to her when they got home. She suggested a few of her own, which only intensified the heat that had sprung up the moment she’d walked out of that dressing room. Or, if he was being honest, he’d been hot for her since this morning, when he’d woken up next to her after a night of holding hands while they slept.
When they spilled through the front door, laughing over a joke Tilda had made, he almost swept her up in his arms so he could carry her upstairs. It would be the fastest route to getting her out of that amazing teal concoction so he could lick the gooey center of his treat.
But an envelope on the sideboard caught his eye. That was where the housekeeper put ultraimportant items she’d deemed worthy of his immediate attention, and a sixth sense told him he should heed the recommendation. Clasping Tilda’s hand so she couldn’t escape, he led her across the foyer. Exactly as he’d hoped, the return address was the immigration bureau.
“Fantastic,” he said. “This should be the approval of my petition.”
The response had been pretty fast in the grand scheme of things. He picked up the envelope and tore it open, scanning the first line. The envelope fluttered to the floor from his suddenly nerveless fingers as he reread the words over and over.
“Warren. What is it?” Tilda asked, concern crowding her eyebrows together.
“Denied,” he said flatly and handed her the paper. “They’ve had an influx of applicants due to the immigration uncertainties going on right now, and they’re not approving any new petitions for the next six months until some of the new regulations can be ironed out.”
“What?” All the blood drained from Tilda’s face. “What does that mean?”
She had to leave.
“We got married for no reason.” Lightheaded all at once, he rubbed at his temples. “With all the illegal immigration talk in the news lately, it never occurred to me that the department would be in such flux.”
Denied. His petition had been denied.
Tilda couldn’t apply for a green card at this point. They hadn’t even gotten that far. None of this mattered, not talking over a glass of wine, not the budding confidence Tilda had gained, not the way she looked at him sometimes, as if he was a hero.
“I don’t understand,” Tilda whispered as her eyes scanned the page. “We’re married. What if I was pregnant? That wouldn’t make a difference to them? We’d still be split up?”
“What?” Dumbfounded, he pushed the paper away and grabbed Tilda’s hand, his gaze tight on hers as he filtered through her expression seeking more information. “Are you pregnant? You can’t know that already. Can you?”
The very foundation of the earth started to spin as he internalized the vast and unforeseen complications that had just been dropped in their laps, if so. The sense of awe and wonder had no place in his gut when there were too many other things to worry about.
Pregnant. Tilda could even now be pregnant with his child and—
“No!” She shook her head. “I’m saying what if. God, could you imagine?”
Yeah, he could, and that was part of the problem. All of this was a problem. He shouldn’t be this devastated. What were they going to do? They’d only just started discovering all the wonders of their relationship. She’d held his hand all night long—more than once. It was a huge stride and it was so sweet.
“I’m sorry, Warren,” she said quietly. “I know how important this project is to you.”
Project?
He stared at her for a full minute before it registered that she was apologizing because the petition denial meant the project was in jeopardy. The fact that he hadn’t even considered the project swirled through his gut.
He was in trouble. Big time.
For the first time in his life, the vow he’d taken in college felt extremely precarious. Panic swirled through his gut and he couldn’t even lie to himself that it was due to the imminent danger of breaking the pact—it was all because he could not lose her.
“Yes. That’s true.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but the project didn’t magically become the most important part of this equation. That was not a good thing. “We can do it remotely. It’ll be fine.”
It would not be fine. It would be horrific. He couldn’t touch her through a screen. Tilda would be thousands of miles away where he couldn’t kiss her whenever he felt like it. She wouldn’t be in his bed. Worst of all, she wouldn’t be the author of his stolen moments of happiness. The ones he didn’t deserve but had come to want. Fiercely.
