Page 43 of Slightly Married
“Does it bother you that I asked?” she questioned, finally looking up to meet my eyes.
“No,” I replied honestly. “You’re the second person who’s asked. Santo was the first.”
“Most people are afraid to ask about painful experiences. They think they’re being kind by avoiding the subject. But sometimes talking about trauma helps process it.” Her fingers traced a circular pattern on my thigh. “After my mother died, my friends walked on eggshells around me. They meant well, but their silence made her absence feel even more enormous. Did you have nightmares afterward?”
“Yes. For months. Sometimes I still do.”
“I had them too, after Mom,” she admitted quietly. “Not about her death itself, but about all the conversations we’d never have.” She paused. “Does talking about it help? Or does it just reopen the wound?”
“Both.”
“Survivor’s guilt.Who was he? The friend who died that day?”
“Theo was my best friend since childhood. We grew up together, attended the same schools, and even shared business interests.” I found myself speaking more freely. “He stood by me when our friendship group of four deteriorated.” I deliberately avoided mentioning Yiorgos and Elana. “He was a brilliant lawyer and a loyal friend. He took the bullet meant for me.”
I fell silent for a moment, wishing for whiskey despite the early hour.
“The murderers boarded my yacht wearing masks, demanding money. When I refused, their leader decided I should be tied up and ransomed. Theo must have heard the commotion from his cabin and come to investigate.” The memory played vividly in my mind. “His appearance startled them, and we managed to disarm two of them. But one had a second weapon and aimed at me. Theo—” My voice caught unexpectedly. “Theo jumped in front of me. I rushed to him when he went down, and in that moment of distraction, I was shot in the knee and chest while holding him. I lost consciousness shortly after. I should have been the one to die that day, not him.”
I’d rehearsed this story countless times in police reports and insurance claims, but never had I shared the emotional weight of that day.
Kayla moved her hands from my thigh to my chest, her palms pressing against the scar tissue beneath my shirt. The warmth of her touch penetrated deeper than skin, reaching something broken inside me.
“I’m deeply sorry about your friend, but you survived because you were meant to.”
“In fifteen days, it will be a year since his death,” I confessed. “And I’m no closer to discovering who was behind it or why.”
The private investigator had uncovered nothing new, and the police investigation had slowed to a crawl. Each passing month without answers only deepened my frustration.
She surprised me by climbing into my lap and settling against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, accepting the comfort she offered without the usual barriers I maintained.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
She looked up, her brow furrowed. “For what?”
“For asking about him. For listening.” I traced the curve of her cheek with my thumb. “Most people tiptoe around the subject as if mentioning his name might break me.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who breaks easily,” she replied, her eyes holding mine with unexpected tenderness.
The shared vulnerability created a different kind of intimacy than I’d experienced before. Physical desire remained, but now it was intertwined with an emotion wanting me to be closer to her in every way.
“I think we should remain here a while longer,” I suggested, breathing in the faint vanilla scent of her skin. “We should know each other better if we’re to be parents.”
The truth was simpler than I wanted to admit. I wanted to understand her, to let her understand me. I wanted to continue experiencing the unfamiliar sensations and emotions only she seemed capable of evoking.
I experienced desire, companionship, and affection before. But this consuming awareness of another person’s existence was entirely new.
“Maybe we should invite Stella,” she countered with a smirk. “After all, she’ll be our child’s stepmother.”
I tightened my hold. “You’re a brat.”
“I’m serious,” she insisted with mock solemnity. “We should make this a threesome.”
Before I could formulate a proper response, her hand slipped beneath the waistband of my boxers, stroking me. This touch wasn’t meant to heal. It was designed to arouse, and it succeeded immediately.
I captured her lips in a kiss, starting slow, then deepening with each passing second. The taste of her, the scent of her skin and the warmth of her body against mine, all of it combined into something intoxicating.
“I hope our daughter doesn’t inherit your smart mouth,” I murmured against her lips.
