And they'd fucked up.
Even him.
He'd wounded her with his disbelief and mistrust.
"I thought you were kidding with that crack about the Die Hard movies," he muttered even as he smoothed a palm over her hair, drawing the heavy chocolate strands out of her face and behind her shoulders. "How can you not love this one? Give me one good reason why you don't. Just one."
She shrugged. "It's just not as smart as the first two. And Samuel L. Jackson yells through the whole movie. It's annoying."
If he were a lesser man, he might've gasped. Okay, maybe he did … a little. "Are you crazy, woman? What about the bait-and-switch at the end? Pure genius. And I'll have you know Willis and Jackson are an awesome team. They play perfectly off each other."
"Han Solo and Luke Skywalker are an awesome team. Frodo and Sam are an awesome team. Bruce and Samuel L.? Not so much."
"You are so close to getting shoved off this bed," he growled. "Solo and Skywalker. Okay, I give you that. But you can compare two dwarves with huge hairy feet, a ring, and a volcano to action heroes, bombs, and a raid on the freakin' Federal Reserve for the state of New York? Really?"
She snatched a small pillow from behind his back and smacked him on the shoulder. "They were hobbits, not dwarves. And they saved all of Middle Earth, not just a crapload of gold." The pillow thumped him in the chest.
Like there was a difference? Dwarves? Hobbits? They were both short and hairy. The woman was definitely crazy. "You have no soul. No patriotism. John McClane saves the U.S. from terrorism over and over again. Why don't you just say you hate hot dogs, flags, and the Pats?" he scoffed. But when she blinked and stared at him, he groaned, smacking his forehead in horror. "Are you kidding me? You live in Boston, for God's sake!"
She smiled, sheepish. She damn well should be sheepish. "Tom Brady's hot."
"Tom. Brady's. Hot." Wow. "I can't believe I invited you inside my house." He tossed her feathery weapon back at her. "As soon as that baby is born, we're putting him in a silver-and-blue jersey. Stat."
The smile bled from her face, and his words seemed to echo in the room, growing louder and louder with each second. Even a bomb blasting on the screen faded into the background.
"We?" she asked softly … wistfully. "Don't worry. I won't hold you to that statement. It was just said in the moment."
He stared at her for several seconds, then swearing under his breath, swung his legs over the side of the bed. Though the opposite wall filled his vision, he didn't see it, didn't hear the television. The regret, the apology, the … awful resignation in her expression blinded him, the weary acceptance in her voice deafened him. Hold me to it, damn it, he longed to shout at her. Longed to grab her by the shoulders and demand she promise that his heart wouldn't be broken again. Vow she wouldn't walk, taking his child and his fucking soul with her.
Ached to drag her over his lap, press her close, and believe.
Instead he propped his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head forward.
"What do you want from me, Greer?" he asked, the question so loaded it should have had a safety.
"The impossible?" she replied on the tail of a grim chuckle. "Your trust, your faith in me? Rafe, we've only known each other for a short length of time-really known each other. Yet you are the most honest, real person I've ever met. I think that's what drew me to you. Why I did something so totally alien and had a one-night stand. You desired me, wanted to have sex with me. No lies, no lines. No agenda. You just put it out there. I wasn't-I'm still not-used to that kind of honesty and courage from other people … just myself. After my father's deceit, my mother's willing blindness, and Ethan's denial about who he was, I promised myself I wouldn't lie to myself or others. It was the only control I had then. I've never lied to you, Rafe. Never. Not that night in the bar, not since seeing you again, not about Gavin. You accept there may be a possibility that you're the father of my baby. But if you trusted me, believed in me, you'd know there isn't a possibility. Just a certainty."
Trust? Only a few people had earned his unconditional trust. He studied his hands as if they held the answers. As if text would suddenly appear on his palms, instructing him how to find the damn balls to leap in faith. He wanted to. Fuck, he wanted to! The need ripped at him, had him dangling on a rope, one hand stretched out, but the other still desperately clutching it, scared to fall …
"Seven years ago, I fell in love with a woman. We were from completely different worlds-she was wealthy, from a prestigious family, a socialite. Still we fell in love-or I fell in love. And she became pregnant." He caught her soft gasp, but didn't turn around. He had to force this out now. "I was so happy. The woman I planned on spending the rest of my life with was having our baby. I enjoyed every minute of the pregnancy, loved seeing her body change, watching the baby grow. And when he was born … " He stopped, rubbed a knuckle over his eyebrow. So many years ago and yet the faint echoes of that immense love for the child he'd thought was his son continued to pulse within him. So did the pain and grief of what followed. He inhaled a deep breath, released it. "I … "
Slim thighs encased his. Soft breasts pressed against his back, and strong, slender arms wrapped around him, fingers linking over his abdomen. He stiffened; he hadn't detected movement behind him, hadn't heard her shift across the bed. But when her embrace tightened, as if telling him she refused to let go, the tension seeped from his body. Since he'd turned fifteen had anyone just held him? Had he allowed anyone to pull him close in comfort? Let himself be vulnerable enough to be held? No. The answer bounced against his skull, loud and immediate. Not even in sex. He'd convinced himself he didn't want it, didn't need it.
But as she laid her cheek against his shoulder, he ached for it.
"The baby wasn't mine. The entire time she'd been seeing me, she'd also been with another man. A man she ended up engaged to. For ten months, I'd believed I was a father-could be the father I didn't have-to a son. And after a paternity test, I had nothing except a pain I couldn't outrun and believed I wouldn't survive."
"I'm so sorry, Raphael," she murmured, her voice vibrating over his skin. "I'm sorry she lied and hurt you. I'm sorry I remind you of her and that time in your life."
"No, baby." He grasped her hand, pressed a kiss to the center of the palm. "You are nothing like her. Faced with everything you've endured these months, she would've crumbled. But not you. You're stronger, fearless even when scared. I loved her, but I don't think I can say I admired her. You, though? I want to be you when I grow up."
She laughed, but it ended on a sigh that tore at his heart. Flipping the hand he held, she enclosed his in hers. And squeezed.
Several quiet moments later, her mouth brushed the top of his spine through his T-shirt. "Raphael?"
"Yeah?"
"You would've made a good father-you will make a good father." She looped her free arm under his and cupped his shoulder. Pressed another kiss there. "I don't know much about your childhood, about your father. But you're not him. You're a protector, honorable. I feel sorry for any person-man, woman, or child-who would dare hurt your son or daughter." She softly snorted. "There'd be hell to pay."
He closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the constriction in his throat. How had she known about the tiny kernel of doubt, of fear, that he would be a complete fuck-up as a dad? If there was a time when his dad had been loving and kind, Rafe had been too young to recall it. He remembered the monster-and a part of him worried about becoming the terror he despised.
"Damn straight," he rasped, opening his eyes, staring at their clasped hands. "I'd kick ass."
She disentangled her fingers and released his shoulder. With a soft murmur, she stroked up his back, then retraced the path to his waist where she slipped under his shirt. He hissed at the skin-on-skin contact, loving her hands on him. Anywhere she wanted to touch. Along his spine, over his abs, his chest. Her palms skimmed his nipples, and he groaned as the caress arrowed straight to his cock, which leaped in an ecstatic hell, yeah. When she eased her hands from under his shirt to grab the hem and tug the black cotton over his head, he laughed. And if it sounded a bit hoarse to his ears, well, fuck it. Her fingers circled his nipples while her lips traced his spine. He was grateful he could breathe, damn it.