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He halted his movement and scrutinized me, working his jaw from side to side. “You are. And you’re going to stay that way. I know you like to take care of everything and everyone else before you focus on yourself, but not anymore. I’m here now. And I’m going to take care of you.”
I gave him an exaggerated eye roll and dropped my head back against the pillows.
“I’m serious, Hazel. No more junk food. We’re going to work on bringing your stress level down, and first thing tomorrow, I’m going out to buy all those fancy vitamins the doctor recommended.”
I sat up straight and crossed my arms over my chest. Who did he think he was, telling me what to do? “I already have an overprotective brother. I don’t need another.”
He pinned me with a glare that shut me up immediately. There was a fire raging in his normally kind eyes. “I am your husband.” He growled. “Not your brother.”
“Same difference.”
He took a step toward the bed and loomed above me. “No, Hazel. Big difference. Huge.”
I froze, my jaw slack in surprise. His bossiness was annoying, but his concern was doing things to me. Things—like ramping up my heart rate and sending tingles coursing through me—I couldn’t understand in my post-surgical haze.
Biting my lip, I nodded, unable to tear my attention away from him and unsure whether I was enraged, turned on, or nauseated. Maybe a bit of all three?
“I care about you. You’re one of my oldest friends. And I took vows. They mean something to me. Even if this marriage has an expiration date, protecting you is my job.”
“I can protect myself.” Though I meant it to be a proud, feminist declaration, it came out as more of a squeak.
“Agreed. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re not alone anymore. You have me now.”
“Thank you.” I dipped my chin, giving in to the kindness he offered. “For worrying about me. I’ve never had anyone in my life besides Dylan.”
“You have me now. I know I’m not the husband you would have picked, but I’m the one you’ve got.”
His dark eyes softened at that admission. Vulnerability was not something I was familiar with, but in that moment, all I needed was to have him close.
“Do you want to sleep in here?” I asked. “The bed is huge, and we could watch a movie.”
I didn’t want to admit how terrified I was. How sick and weak and lonely I felt. I was a warrior. My independence was my superpower.
But right now. I was desperate for the comfort of my husband.
“You sure you’re okay? I don’t want to hurt you,” Remy said, reclined against the mountain of fluffy pillows he had erected for us. He had changed into his gray sweats and a T-shirt (thank the Lord) and had commandeered the remote.
After a few episodes ofThe Office, we both brushed our teeth, then tentatively came back to bed. He pulled the blankets up around me, wrapping me tight, before settling in next to me.
He gently draped an arm around me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder, feeling warm and safe and comfortable.
Hours later, as Remy snored softly next to me in the massive bed, his words came back to me.
He was wrong. There were several alternate realities where I would happily marry Remy. Obviously, we could never be anything more than friends and short-term spouses, but he was selling himself way too short.
He was the best kind of person. Kind, generous, and loving. And it made sense, because his family was wonderful too. The Gagnons were doting, caring parents and active members of the community. They’d cared for Dylan and me so often. They’d done so much for us when we were children. Most of which I didn’t realize until I was an adult. I couldn’t remember a Thanksgiving or Christmas I didn’t spend at Loraine’s table.
Clothes, sneakers, and backpacks always magically appeared. There were books under their Christmas tree for me every single year.
My hand floated to the chain, as it often did, that held the compass around my neck. Another reminder of just how much I owed this place and this man.
I knew the statistics. How vulnerable Dylan and I had been. What could have happened. Most kids in foster care don’t even graduate from high school, never mind make it to graduate school.
Shifting on the mattress, I inspected Remy. His dark hair falling across his forehead, his high cheekbones framed by his trimmed beard. He was beautiful. These were precisely the kind of thoughts I had to guard against. We could not let things get messy.
My feelings for Remy were tied up with my feelings for Lovewell. The familiarity and comfort of home.
The rightness of it all.
