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I pull away, but not far enough to lose his warm breath on my face. “My late husband’s parents are both dead. I never got to meet them. He loved his mother and couldn’t stop talking about her. And later, he couldn’t stop comparing me to her. I always came up short.” I glance back at the house. I already know Troy’s mom is perfect. “I can’t even make a casserole.”
His brow scrunches into a clueless frown. “What do you mean? You’ve made a casserole before.”
“Not like the one your mom brought you last Sunday.” His mom’s casserole was like a touch of heaven. Like the casseroles Granny used to make.
Troy hooks my chin with his finger and turns my head to him. “Your casseroles are delicious too, Jess. And that’s not gonna happen with my parents. My mom likes you. You put up with my dumb ass, so my father will automatically like you. And I’ll never compare you to my mother. You’re an amazingly strong and beautiful woman, Jess. You’ll never come up short.” His lips brush mine once more.
A rush of relief surges through my veins. Admitting the truth to him—some of it, anyway—is like having a whale-sized weight knocked off me. I’m no longer being dragged beneath the surface. No longer gasping for air.
But there’s one thing I’m not ready to tell him about—the one thing I wonder if he already knows.
Amelia.
She’s a minor, and none of the news stories I’ve read have mentioned her. That’s to protect her—in more ways than the media can appreciate. But maybe there’s a story out there that does report I have a daughter. Or at the very least, a child. A news story from shortly after my husband was murdered.
All Troy has to do is google my name, and he could stumble over my remaining secret.
“Have you googled me yet?” I didn’t mean for the words to slip out, a touch of accusation poisoning them.
“Have I googled Jessica Smithson to make sure no one has figured out who you really are? Yes. Have I googled Savannah Townsend? No. It wasn’t easy for you to tell me what you did when it came to your husband…or even to admit you had one. I want you to be able to trust me. And that won’t happen if I snoop into your past.”
I consider his words for a second, roll them around in my mind.
I haven’t imploded from telling him about my husband and about the conviction. He hasn’t pulled away because I spent five years in Beckley.
Even knowing that, I still can’t admit to my one biggest failing. I can’t admit to losing something that means more to me than my life.
Troy pulls me to him with his good arm. “I really hope you trust me, Jess.” He kisses my forehead, and the tenderness of it sends a shiver sashaying up my spine.
I smile up at him. “I do.” For the most part, that is true.
“Butterscotch,” he calls out. “This way.” He leads me down the side of his parents’ house, to the wooden gate. His dog comes bounding after us.
Troy opens the gate, and we enter a garden that looks like something out of one of Iris’s magazines. We walk past colorful flowerbeds and rock gardens to the expansive pond in the middle of the lawn. The greenery and rocks surrounding the odd-shaped pond give it a natural feel. Like the water was here first, and the house came later.
I peer at the light-pink water lilies, delicate and beautiful. “I love the pond.”
“Garrett built it,” Troy says.
“He did?”
“Yup. Mom kept saying how great the yard would look with a pond. She’d been saying it for several years. Two years ago, she and Dad were on a cruise to Alaska. Garrett was struggling with a book he was working on. And, well…”
I laugh, knowing where Troy’s headed with this. In the few months I’ve gotten to know his brother, I’ve learned the man could start a landscaping business if he ever quit writing. He’s responsible for several of the gorgeous gardens in Maple Ridge. All because whenever he struggles with plot points or some other aspect of his political thrillers, he gardens. A lot.
Whatever it is about gardening for him, it certainly works. I’ve read a couple of his books. They’re addictive and filled with so many twists and turns, it’s impossible to predict what’s going to happen next.
“Maybe I should become an author if this is what my garden will look like while I’m writing.” A soft chuckle tickles the back of my throat as I imagine turning my garden into an oasis with a pond and a deck where I can write from. Where I can write those articles for the With Hope festival. The articles I still need to interview some PTSD survivors and their families for.
Troy’s responding chuckle is a sexy rumble in his chest. “Let me know if you need help lifting the heavy stuff.”
I pointedly check out his injured shoulder. He no longer needs the sling, but the joint is still a long way from being healed. “We might need to wait a while longer on that.”
“Hey, don’t underestimate my abilities.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “You weren’t complaining about my arm last night.”
I grin. “You might be right about that.” Although him going down on me might not have been what the doctor ordered when it came to my ribs. But the orgasm? Definitely worth it.
Simone, Zara, Garrett, and Lucas walk over to join us. “Wow, you two look happy.” Zara carefully hugs me and then Troy. “I don’t remember you ever smiling this much, Jess.”
