Page 51 of One Night Only

I shove at his shoulder playfully and pout. “What’s with the smirk?”

“You’re cute when you try to be manipulative.”

I gasp and shove him harder. He falls back against the wall and pulls me with him. Our breaths punch out together, and, inevitably, our lips meet again.

Too soon, he pulls away and huffs out a rough breath. Tipping onto my toes, I press closer and grind my hips against the thick stiffness branding my flesh. He clasps my nape in a rough grip. “Stop tormenting me, rainbow girl.”

“Tell me then.”

“My mother’s a sixty-seven-year-old woman who raised me alone, after the chump who got her pregnant ran out on her. She put me through med school. She managed all of Aunt Marion’s affairs for years when she lost lucidity. Even after she lost her sight, she refused to let it dampen her spirit.” He rubs his nose against mine, and the affection in the gesture floors me.

It’s like I’ve spent all my life walking through a desert, and now I’m suddenly drenched in soul-renewing rain.

“She’s never asked me to earn prestige or success or millions.” There’s a stark vulnerability peeking through his gray eyes that makes me want to hold him close. “Only that I am happy.”

“That’s the Martha I love.”

He nods. “I wish I could claim that the happiest moment of my life was when Jonah was born. But I was exhausted and confused and worried as fuck about being a dad. As much as I would like to, I can’t rewrite it. Not even for him.”

I take his fingers in mine and lace them together. “From everything Martha told me, you’re fixing things with him. And from the very little I interacted with him,” which was mostly through goofy texts and funny memes, “he doesn’t resent you.”

“We’re working on our relationship every day. So please trust me when I say that this one night with you has made me happier than I’ve ever been before. Mom will love you even more for that.”

I swallow hard, forcing a nod.

He’s right, I remind myself. Martha’s the sweetest, kindest woman I know. My childhood nanny, Shanti Aunty, is right up there too. “Can it be my choice? How we tell her?”

“Always, Annika.”

I slip into love with him just a little more for understanding me so well. But it doesn’t stop the nerves knotting my stomach as we make our way to her private suite.

The scent of antiseptic and fresh linens meets my nostrils as we enter, but beneath it, there’s something distinctly Martha—her lavender lotion, the faint honeyed tea she always sips.

The sight of her, small but strong in the hospital bed, sends a wave of relief through me, easing the tight grip of worry I’ve been carrying since last night. Her leg is elevated, wrapped in acast, and she’s propped up in bed. With her silver hair brushed back neatly, there’s a hint of color in her cheeks.

Her head tilts slightly, sensing us in the room, and then her entire expression brightens. “Annika, darling.” Her voice is warm, welcoming, as she reaches out a steady hand. “I’m so glad you dropped by. See, I told you, Ethan,” she says, smiling, “she wouldn’t leave without checking on me.”

“You did, Mom,” Dr. Cross says, watching me with a bemused gaze.

My legs carry me to Martha at the speed of lightning and I press my torso to hers, shocking her, no doubt. She’s thin but solid and the familiar lavender scent of her is a comfort. Her fingers are a little cold on my face, but her laughter is music. “I missed you too, Ani.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Martha. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there—”

“Oh hush, child. None of that.” Martha pats my cheek, then cups my shoulder. “It was an unfortunate accident. I won’t have you, or that stubborn son of mine, take on unnecessary guilt. You hear me, the both of you?”

I sniffle back tears and say, “Yes, Ma’am,” at the same time as Dr. Cross.

Martha laughs, then claps her hands to get my attention. “I know you have to leave soon, but tell me, how was your Valentine’s Day?”

I hesitate. My throat feels tight, my pulse erratic. I can feel Dr. Cross even more keenly beside me, solid and unwavering. He won’t push me on this, I know, and yet I feel the weight of his request anyway.

It’s when someone expects something from me—in deed or words or accomplishment or a particular quality—that I fail most spectacularly. There are stats that prove it.

Dr. Cross rubs the back of his hand against the back of mine surreptitiously. My gaze glides to his and there’s nothing but steady acceptance there.

“Annika?” Martha prompts, her fingers tightening slightly around mine. “Did something happen?”

I swallow and squeeze her hand. “Rahul and I broke up.”

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