Chapter 18
“She checked herself out of the rehab facility after a month, hitched a ride back home, collected her waiting government support checks, and took herself to the pub.”
Christian’s tone was frighteningly neutral. If Emily hadn’t gotten to know him so well, his matter-of-fact words might have seemed harsh. But she could feel the tension in his muscles, hear the roughness inhis voice.
Hehurtfor the woman who had birthed him. Hurt for her, missed her, and very likely suffered no small amount of guilt that he hadn’t been enough to save her, even though the truth of the matter was, he’d done everything he could.
Emily ached for him. Always so put together. Always so stoic. Always soin control. But just as she’d suspected, he was as multilayered as an onion.
His surface was all poise and charm and self-assurance. But beneath that layer lay a fierce warrior, an incredibly passionate lover, a man with grit in his eye and steel in his spine. Yet, there were deeper layers still. Layers that held the loss of a father at too young an age. Layers that bore the fear and uncertainty and humiliation of living with a drunken, self-medicating mother. Layersthat carried the horror and the scars of childhood abuse—she wasstilltrying to wrap her head around how some sick shit could do that to a sweet, innocent boy.
Not to mention the thick layers he must have grown over the years of being a spec-ops warrior,she thought.
Crash!There they went. All those walls she’d built against him.
She supposed it had been inevitable. The minute shehad agreed to go to bed with him, to stop the surface-level teasing and taunting and really get toknowhim, was the minute she’d given the go-ahead to the demolition team. But that didn’t lessen the fear that rushed in to take the place of her fortifications. It was one thing to let herself be physically vulnerable to the man, another thing entirely to let herself be emotionally vulnerable tohim.
Because what did that emotional vulnerability even mean?
Not for a hot minute did she think it changed her inability to have lasting love. Which was good since he’d made it clear that the last thing he was looking for was a happily ever after. But still, now that she was emotionally wide open to him, now that she thought of herself as his friend—Oh, for the love of José Abreu,thatwas an odd concept, wasn’t it? Friends with the ever-annoying, always titillating Christian Watson?—he had the ability to hurt her.
What if he wanted to end things between them before she did? Or worse, what if he found someone else and fell in love? Emily could see it all so clearly, the irascible Christian Watson with his happy wife and happy life.
Truth was, shewantedthat for him.She really did. But it would be agony having gotten to know him, having gotten tobewith him, only to let him go when something better, something purer, somethinglastingcame along.
“According to everyone who was there that night”—he dragged her from her troubling thoughts—“she had herself a proper piss-up. Downed two bottles of gin in about two hours and then stumbled home.”
“Good Lord.”
“The landlord found her three days later. She’d choked to death on her own vomit.”
Once again, tears threatened behind Emily’s eyes, but damned if she’d give in to them. This was his story, his tragedy. She wouldn’t take anything away from him by wallowing in her own grief.
For a long time he was quiet. She held him close, offering what comfort she could, knowing it wasn’t enough.
Finally, he said, “She was cremated. I had her remains secretly flown to Chicago. And then I sailed into the middle of Lake Michigan and let the wind and the water take what was left of her. Sometimes I wonder if I should have come back and done it here, sent her drifting down the Thames or something.” If Emily looked up, she felt certain she would see his brow furrowed. “But after Dad wasgone, she was never happy in England. For most of her life, this place brought her nothing but sorrow. So I thought…you know…she could never make a fresh start here while she was alive, but I could take her somewhere to give her a fresh start in death.”
“I think you did the right thing. If that’s what felt right, you shouldn’t second-guess yourself.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He blew out a breath,then pointed at the far wall. “She liked that mural. Every time we came here, she would look at it and smile.”
Emily ducked her chin, her gaze drifting over the wall-sized piece of art. Shards of tile, mirror, and glass made up a mosaic garden scene. There were hundreds of colorful flowers, two brightly hued butterflies, and a cheery-looking dragonfly hovering near the corner.
The instantshe had walked into the room, she had been drawn to it, just like Christian’s mom. She hated to think she had anything in common with a woman who could neglect her child to such an inexcusable degree, but she also liked the thought that, once upon a time, his mother had been better, been more, been good to him.
“Do you suppose it explains your need for control?” she heard herself ask.
“What? The fact that I had none as a child?”
She nodded. She’d been thinking about how much she loved it when Christian tied her up. Thinking that the reason she liked giving up control wasn’t only because her job meant she always needed to be on her toes, but also because, ever since she was a young girl, she’d always been the one steering her own ship, making all the decisions because herparents hadn’t been around to guide the way. Was the opposite true for him?
“Of course,” he said. “I don’t need to lie on a headshrinker’s sofa to know I am the way I am because I’m compensating for having no say in what I wore, how I lived, or whom my mother brought into the house when I was young.”
“I thought maybe the clothes and the car had more to do with you growing up poor. Youknow… Now that you have some cash, you want to show the world that the kid from the East End gutter had made something of himself.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed. “Designer clothes can be tailored. Same for handmade Italian shoes. Ilikehaving control over what I put on my body. Coming up, I had to wear whatever Mum could find in the charity shops.”
Made sense. And made him go up a few notchesin her estimation—which she wouldn’t have thought was possible since she already respected the hell out of him. Truth was, she’d misjudged him every time she’d teased him for his fussy clothes. He wasn’t showing off. He was simply making up for a lot of years of neglect and chaos in a way that made him feel empowered.
