Page 117 of Mended Hearts

A record scratch couldn’t have cut harder.

She sat up straighter in her leather seat, jaw dropped, eyes blown wide. Her hands splayed in front of her like she was checking for incoming debris. Her head tilted to the side like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

And neither could I.

If I could physically grab the words and shove them back down my throat, I would. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry her.God, I did. But it wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Not now. Not like this. It was supposed to be after she loved me back. After we’d built something stable and solid. After we’d earned the smooth part.

“Wow. Nothing says swoony like fucking damage control.”

“Leigh, it’s not like that?—”

“I’m not a PR fire for you to hand off to Alice, Oliver Hart,” she snapped, voice trembling. And somehow, that was worse. The softness, the hurt.I’dhurther. “This baby will not be papered over with a shotgun wedding.”

“Leigh, I?—”

“So much for not feeling shame about that night, huh?”

“No—Leigh, I swear I didn’t mean it like that, I just—I meant it.”

“You meant it?” she echoed, laughing without a hint of humor. “Is that your default reactionto a positive pregnancy test?”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that?—”

“But youdidmean tosay it,” she cut in. “Ollie, it’s not 1919. You don’t have to marry a woman just because you knocked her up?—”

“I know that.”

“Then what? You think I should feelgratefulyou’re offering me a ring?”

I shook my head, hating every fucking second of this.

“And for the record?” Her voice dropped, firm and low. “A proposal should be something special. A botanical garden. A rooftop. A heartfelt speech because you can’t imagine your lifewithout me. It should be a memory, not a bandage.”

“Leigh, I…” My throat burned. The words crashed around like a demolition site in my skull, but nothing that came out would fix this. I’d blown it. Again. I was supposed to do it right this time. Be the man she chose, not the man she was trapped with. Instead, I’d let every fear and insecurity fly out of my mouth like shrapnel.

She went quiet, her jaw clenched tight as she stared out her window while we wound up the ramp of her parking garage.

“Look, Ollie,” she sighed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I fucking love you. And I’m trying really hard not to lose my shit right now. Because I have done nothing to make you think I would screw you over. But the last twenty-four hours has beena lot—too much, honestly—and I’mnotin the headspace for some life-planning summit. Neither are you.”

I pulled into the spot beside her building entrance and put the car in park. She still didn’t look at me. The red glow of the exit sign painted her profile like a warning.

“Maybe this trip will do us some good,” she added, almost to herself. “Some time to breathe. Process.”

My head screamedno. This wasn’t the time to pull back. But I nodded anyway. Because I didn’t know how to say what I needed to say without hurting her again.

I got out and rounded the car, opening her door. She let me. Took my hand without hesitation. I reached up to thread my fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head as I kissed the crown of it.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Everything’s coming out wrong.”

“I can see that.”

“I know you’re not Carly.”

“Damn straight, Skippy.”

I huffed a laugh I didn’t feel and held her tighter, breathing her in, resisting the urge to drop to my knees and beg her not to go.

“Ollie,” she warned gently.

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