A beat passes, and I can’t stop the question that comes next. “Have you always lived in Coralhaven?” If so, I want to know how I’ve never run into him before. Not that it necessarily matters, but my heart tells me it does.
“No. I did my schooling in New York, then moved to Coralhaven after I healed from what I went through. I’ve only been working with the psychiatrist unit of the hospital for the last five months or so. I needed an environment that wasn’t so go-go-go all the time. I thought this small beach town could give me that.”
An unsteady laugh comes from me. “Who knew Coralhaven would bring you back to life but nearly try to take mine. The irony is funny, isn’t it?”
His voice turns resolute, that underlying current of seriousness seeping into his words. “There’s nothing funny about you almost dying, Emory. In fact…” he trails off, and my breath hitches ahead of time. “It fucking kills me knowing that you have to go through all of this. It only makes it worse that I’ve been in a similar place as you, that I’ve felt it because I know exactly what you’re feeling. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and if I could, I’d take it from you. I’d absorb every last drop of sadness from your pretty heart so you didn’t have to deal with it.”
My stomach dips and soars, like a paper airplane floating and attempting to stay in flight. “I-I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You say nothing,” he tells me. “You hear it, and you accept that there are people in the world who cherish your smile and want to see that instead of the frowns you wear on a constant basis.”
Someone pounds on the door in the next breath, the vibrations working through the door and jolting me away from it. I hope to hear Lance’s voice on the other side—probably because a hint of disloyalty pools in my stomach at Dr. Cole’s admission—but instead, it's a woman asking if the room is free.
My phone slips from my hands in response and clatters to the ground. In my haste to pick it back up and tell Dawson I have to go, I accidentally end the call.
“Shit,” I mutter as I gather my wits, grab my bag, and let the lady have the restroom.
Dawson redials me as I’m heading back to the table, but I don’t answer.
When I get home later that night, I pretend like I don’t have a missed call waiting for me. Because it felt way too good hearingDawson say those things, and if he doesn’t stop, I know I’ll fall again.
Down, down, down into thelightnessthat is Dawson Cole and all the soft-spoken words he offers me. Down, down, down into the orbs of his warm honey eyes. And down, down, down into that layer of comfort and safety his presence offers me.
11
EMORY
My bagel pops in the toaster, but I’m too busy freaking out over the email Larissa just sent me to do anything about the thunderous roar of my hungry stomach. I look it over for the third time, noting the three hundred and twelve names listed in an attached spreadsheet—AKA our guest list that seems to keep growing.
I cringe and let out an annoyed sigh. This wasn’t what I wanted to deal with this morning. Especially not since I actually had a decent night of sleep last night. Instead, this is pushing me awfully close to that ledge that I’ve been trying so damn hard to stay away from.
Scrolling through the spreadsheet, I roll my eyes, too distracted to hear Lance come into the kitchen behind me. We’re nowhere near close to being back to our regular routine of sharing breakfast and a few loving kisses before we start our day. I was hopeful we could get back to that, but then dinner happened and he pulled away from me, from my affection.
“Your bagel is waiting for you,” he says, giving me a quick glance.
I startle, my shoulder jolting slightly as I find him opening the fridge door. I lift my phone in the air, but he isn’t looking in my direction. “Did your mother send you our guest list, too?”
“Got it a few minutes ago but haven’t looked at it yet.”
“Lance,” I say, “there are over three hundred people on it. I don’t even think the country club can hold a group that big without the fire marshal showing up.”
He grabs the milk carton and places it on the kitchen island. He gets a glass, fills it up, and says, “I honestly don’t know how many people are cleared for the venue.”
He still hasn’t looked my way again, but when I sigh, he lifts his attention to me, sipping his drink in the process. “I thought we agreed a long time ago that we wanted a small wedding.”
He swallows a big gulp. “You heard her at dinner last night before you ran off to the bathroom.”
I’m mildly surprised he mentions my trip to the bathroom just because it wasn’t an issue last night. I sidestep it, declaring it unimportant to the topic at hand. “I did hear her,” I say, “but you're not getting married to your mother. You’re marrying me.”
His face screws into a grimace at the mention of Larissa. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because you seem to be forgetting thatweare the ones in a relationship.Weare engaged and preparing to get married. She had her chance at having everything exactly the way she wanted when she married your dad.”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is.”
Frustration like I’ve never felt moves through me. Why can’t he understand that this isn’t okay? That it’s not what I want, and it wasn’t what he wanted, either. “When did it change for you?”
Confusion dawns on his face. “What do you mean?”
