“Shock. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Testing. Acceptance. Seven stages of grief, all wrapped up in happy family counseling.” She made a sour face. “The counselor said that it’s perfectly normal for us to go through all of the stages in order or to go back and forth between them.” She lifted her shoulder. “It’s not something I’m proud of, but we promised to be honest about how we felt throughout this whole morbid process.”
Nash stared at the floor. This family was seriously messed up. Perhaps their business reputation was as spotless as Pamela claimed, but their private lives were splattered with instability. Who yelled at their father on his deathbed? The puzzle pieces were falling into place, and Nash had a much better idea as to why Kensington needed to hire a husband.
A man with a stethoscope around his neck and a white lab coat walked up the staircase. He glanced over Nash and focused on Kensington with a familiarity that didn’t sit right. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “We need to discuss the next few hours.”
Kensington gathered herself emotionally. The process was akin to watching a bird fluff her feathers and then settle them back into place, as smooth as if the storm had never blown through. “Let’s talk in the library.”
The doctor motioned for her to precede him into the room next to the master bedroom. At the door, she turned back to look at Nash. Her eyes were pools of determination, but there was something deep in there that whispered of vulnerability and tugged at his heartstrings.
She disappeared inside the room, which was heavily loaded with leather-bound volumes and thick rugs over wood floors. The door swung but didn’t shut all the way. The soft murmur of voices came through the remaining two inches, but Nash couldn’t make out what they were saying.
He ran his thumb along the life line of his other hand, pressing into the fleshy parts to make sure he was really awake. His dumpy hotel room could fit inside the front foyer of the Donegal mansion. He’d grown up in a middle-class apartment complex. His dad was a businessman and his mom a teacher at the high school. They didn’t have all this, but he’d never thought they were poor. The price of the couch under his rear end could pay for his brother’s last semester of college.
He’d stepped into the rabbit hole—not fallen. No, falling implies a lack of control. He’d entered the world of crystal and crazy voluntarily, had signed his name on the line and saidI do. He ran his hand over his eyes. “I must be insane.”
The bedroom door whooshed open, spewing the scent of antiseptic and heavy perfume. Raquel stood in the doorframe, her hands on her curvy hips and her eyes made into slits. “Who are you, really?” she demanded as she came to stand in front of him.
Nash’s hands shook. Not because he was intimidated by Raquel—she had nothing on him—but because the words he was about to say were foreign and oh so binding. They were a job description and an identity all rolled up into three little words that were harmless on their own, but together they packed a punch. “I’m Kensington’s husband.” He held up his left hand, willing it to stop trembling, and pointed to the ring on his finger.
If Raquel could have shot lasers from her eyes, his hand would be a pile of melted flesh. “Harrison!” she screeched as she made a dash for the stairs the doctor had come up.
A nurse appeared at the open bedroom door, glared at him, and placed her finger over her lips before shutting the door.
“My sentiments exactly,” he muttered, rubbing the spot over his eyebrow where a headache had started to form. “Heaven help me get through my first day of marriage. The second one can’t be as bad as this.” He cleared his throat, hoping God still heard his prayers. He could sure use a bit of heavenly intervention right about now.
