Pregnant by Morning(27)
How much longer did it really make sense for her to stay?
Seven
Matthew blinked and it was somehow Saturday already.
Evangeline filled his house, exactly as he’d envisioned, and blinded him to everything else. They didn’t go out, more through his insistence than hers. He’d set up an account at both the local pharmacy and the grocery store so Evangeline could order whatever she needed to be delivered. The creative thank-you she’d given him for his thoughtfulness still ranked as one of the highlights of the week.
And there had been a lot of highlights, especially the gradual lightening of the shadows in her eyes, which he’d only made worse with his meddling. He was gratified she’d stayed long enough to let him undo the hurt he’d caused.
He’d never had a relationship with no promises past breakfast. Certainly never thought he’d have suggested it. Every morning, he expected—braced—to find she’d left in the middle of the night.
It was getting old. But the terms were too necessary to change.
The wanderlust in her eyes was unmistakable. When she talked about performing in Budapest or Moscow, her expression reminded him of when he was inside her. Rapturous. She couldn’t sing, but she still liked roaming. Eventually, she’d move on and leave him behind.
Which was good. This thing between them was amazing, but he couldn’t keep it up, not long term.
He glanced at his phone. With the time difference, Mama should be at one of her Saturday-morning fundraisers right about now. The perfect time to call. He dialed and waited for voice mail to pick up.
“You’ve reached Fran Wheeler. I’m busy saving the world with style and grace. Leave a message.”
His mother’s voice poured alcohol on the exposed wound of guilt in his gut, which was approximately half the size of Texas. “It’s me, Mama. Just checking in to let you know I’m still alive. Talk to you later.”
He wouldn’t, because he never called when she might actually answer.
What would he say? Sorry about taking off. No, still not coming home. Still not capable of being the Wheeler you raised me to be.
He had to go home and pick up his responsibilities with Wheeler Family Partners.
But he’d left because he couldn’t do it any longer, couldn’t see his grandfather’s empty desk every day. Couldn’t attend fundraisers and ribbon cuttings without Amber. Couldn’t watch Lucas and Cia sneak off during the boring parts of events and return with all that love and affection dripping from their faces.
It was too hard.
So he’d live in the present and wring every bit of pleasure out of it.
He sat at the kitchen island and watched Evangeline wash lunch dishes in the sink. He cooked and she washed dishes. Worked for him—the view was very enjoyable from his stool.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked. She flashed a naughty smile over her shoulder. “Twice this morning wasn’t enough for you?”
“Never enough. I like you too much.”
Yeah. He liked her, too. Everything was fun. Showers. Dishes. Long talks in the afternoon. “The weather is supposed to be unseasonably warm today. What if we have dinner on the roof?”
“There’s a rooftop patio?” Her gravelly voice was hopeful as she dried the last dish and put it away.
That voice. It still dug in, sharp and hot inside no matter how many times he heard it. It was the first thing he wanted to hear in the morning and the last thing he wanted to hear before he went to sleep.
“Did I forget to mention that?”
“Never mind dinner. Show it to me right now.”
“Sure.” He took her hand and led her outside.
The breeze from the canal was chilly, but bearable, as they climbed the outside stairs to the roof. Venice unfolded as they walked out onto the patio.
Evangeline gasped. “Oh, Matt. I could live here. Right here in this spot. The view is amazing.”
“I know. It’s one of the reasons I bought this palazzo.”
Several of the plants lined up in clay planters against the railing had withered and died, but a few remained green, fresh against the backdrop of browns, terra-cotta and white from the surrounding buildings.
Millions of dollars of real estate stretched on either side of the canal. Once, he’d have taken in the structures with a critical eye, evaluated the resale value, calculated the square footage. Mapped the location and noted the neighborhood features automatically.
None of that could compare to the gorgeous vision standing next to him. The look on her face—he’d move a mountain with a teaspoon if it put that expression of awe and appreciation there.
“You can see the spires of San Marco. And Santa Maria della Salute. Isn’t it beautiful?” She pointed, but he was busy looking at her. Her loose curls blew against her cheek and her eyes were luminous and his gut tightened. His reaction to her was so physical, so elemental. Would he ever get tired of that?