Page 84 of Her Christmas Wish
He’d dropped to the seat she’d left open for him, knees apart, elbows propped, his hands clasped and hanging in the air between them.
His sideways glance...didn’t show her anything she’d expected. Or really even understood. “Gray?”
Had he decided not to go through with the sale on the cottage? Or be her friend? The scare had been too much for him? Chances of another one too much of a threat looming over him with them living on the same mile-long stretch of beach?
“I’m sorry, Sage,” he started, and her heart dropped further. “I just... I know that a part of you...it’s what you’ve always wanted, more than anything else, being pregnant.”
No! She would not be pitied. Most particularly not by him.
“I knew I was meant to be a mother, Gray,” she said softly, feeling the conviction of her words with all her heart. “And I am one. The possibility of a baby...” She stopped, glanced at him. And made a choice. “Yeah, I was disappointed, on one level. Gutted, actually. But on another...just as much relieved. I knew what it would do to you, Gray, and honestly, it wouldn’t have been worth it.”
The truth slid out—both from some hidden source inside her and into the room. Simultaneously.
Having a family had been vitally important to her.
But so had he been.
And while she’d never once considered giving up motherhood.
She hadn’t fought for him.
Or for them.
Chapter Twenty-Five
She wasn’t.
Gray walked slowly back to Scott’s place, thinking about sand in his flip-flops. How warm the San Diego sun felt even in November.
She wasn’t.
An early Thanksgiving blessing. A whole two weeks before the holiday.
He hadn’t stayed long. One long glance between the two of them, and Gray had downed his tea in one long drink. Set the glass down and hadn’t been surprised when she’d rushed right with him, though good steps behind him, to the door.
They’d broken a cardinal rule there for a second.
Being alone in either of their homes.
He figured, over time, the attraction between them would fade. Or become so commonplace that they lived with it just like their enjoyment of alcohol. It was there, but you didn’t partake of it in excess.
In their case—with the passion—any at all was excess.
She wasn’t.
They’d escaped disaster.
So why wasn’t he flying? Light as a feather?
He’d most definitely spent the week praying for the outcome she’d just delivered.
Even as he’d tried to prepare himself for a different answer. Tried to envision how he’d handle that other outcome. Just so he’d be prepared in the event that she’d said she was.
He’d worked himself up to believing that it could work. If it had to.
She wasn’t.
And...hadn’t seemed all that broken up by the fact. Shockingly unbroken, actually. He knew her well enough to know she’d been hiding from him.
