Page 50 of Journey to You
Hell no.
White hot rage slammed through him, quickly turning into blinding fury as he bunched the newspaper in his fist, searched Tam’s face, seeing the truth in every devastated line.
That bastard.
That lowlife, lying, cheating, no good, son of a bitch.
He sucked in a deep breath. He needed to support Tam, not fuel his anger. An anger that continued to bubble and stew and threaten to spill over as he watched her swipe her eyes, her hand shaky, her lower lip trembling.
He’d never seen her so bleak, even when she’d lost Richard—the jerk he’d like to personally kill at this moment if he wasn’t already dead.
“That baby should’ve been mine,” she whispered.
He froze. Surely she didn’t mean that? After what he’d just learned about Richard, about their marriage, how could she have wanted a child by that monster?
“I wanted one, you know.” She scrambled in her bag for a tissue, her fingers fumbling before she found one and used it to blow her nose. “More than one. I hated being an only child.”
What could he say? That he thought she was crazy for wanting kids with Richard? That now, a year after his death, she shouldn’t be reacting this way to proof the guy was scum?
Then it hit him.
What he’d been trying to ignore all along.
She still loved Richard.
Ethan had kept his distance all these years, had only made a move now because he thought she was over him. But she wasn’t, and despite everything Richard had done, clearly stated in that paper for the world to see, she wasn’t over the prick.
His hands balled into fists, frustration making him want to pound the table. It was the reason why he hadn’t pushed things with her at the start, this fear she still had feelings for Richard, the fear he’d never be more than rebound guy no matter how long he waited.
He’d put it down to his insecurities, had ignored the twinge of doubt, had taken a chance by letting his iron-clad control slip for the first time ever.
He’d made a monumental mistake, as feared. Losing control, allowing emotions to rule, only led to one thing: disaster.
“I don’t believe this.”
Her red-rimmed eyes sought his, her expression somber. But she didn’t reach out to him and he wanted her to.
Damn it, he wanted her to need him, to want him, to love him.
As much as he loved her.
The realisation sent him striding from the table to behind the bar, desperate to put something concrete and solid between them.
He’d made an idiot of himself without adding an inopportune declaration to the mix.
She didn’t need his love. How could she, when she was pining for Richard?
She wished Richard’s girlfriend’s baby was hers.
He couldn’t compete with that. He couldn’t compete with the memory of a dead guy. He didn’t want to.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.” He switched on the espresso machine, needing to keep busy, needing to obliterate the driving need to vault the bar and bundle her in his arms. “Coffee? Or the usual?”
She stilled before his eyes, her hands steadying as she pushed her chair back, her legs firm as she stood and crossed the restaurant to lean on the bar.
Confusion clouded her eyes. “I thought you’d be more understanding about this?”
“I understand a lot more than you think.”