Page 255 of Broken Saint

She’s told me time and time again that she’s forgiven me, but it’s a tough one to swallow when I know how much I hurt her.

The second we landed, I didn’t message her. I needed more than a few words on a screen. I needed to know that she was okay. So I called her.

She sounded sad, but she was okay.

She was home with Angie, sitting out on the deck and watching the sunset.

I could picture it. With almost high-definition clarity, I could see her sitting on the swing seat with her legs curled up and a mug of decaf coffee in her hands as she laughed with Angie.

That house…despite all the pain it’s seen over the years, it’s so full of laughter and happiness.

I loved being there. It is the kind of home I always hoped my house on the outskirts of Seattle could be.

With a sigh, I push through my front door and step into my apartment for the first time in weeks.

I haven’t been here since before my accident, yet it feels weirdly welcoming. Although I can’t help but wonder if Ella’s lingering presence has something to do with that.

The blanket that’s thrown haphazardly over the back of the couch is courtesy of her. The wine glass in the kitchen with a lipstick mark on it? Hers.

The small pair of shoes in the hallway.

And then I step into the bedroom.

Image after image of the two of us in here assaults me. There are little reminders of her everywhere. I both love and hate it.

It’s barely been a few hours and I miss her so much already.

Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the city I love, I pull my cell from my pocket. The temptation to call her first is strong. But I manage to put it off for just a little while longer.

I’ve got plans that need my attention. Plans that I put in place when I first arrived in Texas. Plans that Ella doesn’t know anything about. Plans that I hope will continue to cement in her mind that I am in this for the long haul with her.

Colt: What are you doing?

Bombshell: Watching TV with Mom. What are you doing?

Colt: Thinking about you…

Fuck, if that ain’t the truth.

I stretch my legs out in the hope of some relief from the ache that has taken up residence not only in my cock but in every inch of my body.

Being so close to her and not taking her was torture of a whole new kind that I wasn’t used to.

It’s what we both needed, and I’ll stand by that decision. It was fucking hard, though.

So much of our relationship has focused on the passion, on the electricity that sparks when we collide. Hell, what am I saying? Prior to her turning up in Seattle and rocking my world, that was all it was. I made sure of it.

But that’s no longer the case. Our connection, our commitment runs deeper than sex. I needed her to see that. I also needed her to heal, to rest, to give her body the time it needs to be able to support our little one.

Fuck me. Ella’s pregnant.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the idea. Every single day, multiple times a day, that little reality check has hit me upside the head and knocked me for six.

I’m happy about it. Fuck, I’m ecstatic, don’t get me wrong. But I’m also fucking terrified.

I can barely look after myself on a good day. How the hell I’m meant to now take care of not only Ella but also an innocent little baby, I’ve got no fucking clue.

I’m going to do it, though.