I swallow, trying to process his words. His attention is locked on me, as if he is trying to read our future in the lines of my face. After a moment, his brow furrows, and I see the slightest hint of uncertainty flash in his eyes. “Are you . . . Nikki, I get that you’re scared. That you were caught off guard. But is there more going on here? Are you thinking about—I mean, do you not want this at all?”
At first, I can’t even comprehend what he’s asking. Then the meaning of the words—so horrible and wrong—hit me with the force of a slap. “Not want this? Not want your child? No, Damien, no. How can you even ask that? You have to know that I—”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingertips to my temples because, of course, he would think that after everything I’ve said. “No. No. It’s just . . .”
“What?” he urges.
“I don’t know how to explain, but having a baby with you . . . building a family with you. I want that more than anything.”
“I believe you,” he says, and I sag with relief at the pure simplicity and love that color his words.
“But I still feel numb,” I say, sitting on the edge of the tub, “and I don’t know why.”
My eyes are welling up again, and Damien comes to sit at my side. “Of course, you know why. Because you’re surprised. Unprepared. And,” he adds, putting an arm around me, “because you’re not sure you can handle it. But you can, baby. I promise you can.” He takes my hand, then lifts it and gently kisses my palm. “Sweetheart, you’re not your mother.”
A hard knot forms in my gut, because Damien has cut straight to the crux.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds as small and fragile as I feel.
“I just do. And I’m brilliant, remember? All the articles say so.”
I laugh, the tightness inside me loosening a bit. “You definitely have your moments,” I concede before he leans in to gently kiss me.
After a moment, he stands, then holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he leads me back to the living room, then gestures for me to sit on the sofa. I do, and he sits beside me, then leans forward and pulls open the drawer in the coffee table. “I was going to show you this at dinner,” he says in what seems like a complete non sequitur. “I pulled it from my files before we left Los Angeles.”
He passes me a photo, and I take it automatically, making a little “oh” sound when I see the image—me in a bathing suit on a stage at the Dallas Convention Center. “You really kept this?”
“How can that possibly surprise you?”
He’s right. Once upon a time, I would have thought it odd. Now I know that Damien cherishes even the most random memories of the two of us together.
I run my fingertip over the image of me. We’d met for the first time when I was competing in the Miss Tri-County Texas Pageant, and professional tennis player Damien Stark was one of the celebrity judges. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that day changed my life forever.
“You scared me,” I admit.
His brows rise. “Did I?”
“Because of the way you made me feel. I didn’t know you—hell, I barely talked to you—but those minutes in the green room with you were so vivid, I knew even then that they’d be burned into my memory.”
“I felt the same.”
I smile. I know that now, of course, but at the time, I’d had no clue that Damien thought of me as anything but another contestant.
“I was overwhelmed by the intensity of you. You enthralled me. And I swear that if you’d asked me, I would have run off with you, just like that girl at the end of The Graduate.”
“I was sorely tempted, I assure you.” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “Do you have any idea what I wanted to do back then? How I wanted to take you away from that reception, find a dark room, and touch every inch of you. I wanted to take you over the edge, Nikki. I wanted to feel you explode in my arms. And as I stood there by those damn tiny cheesecake squares, all I could think of was how you would sound screaming my name when you came in my arms.”
“Oh, yes.” I shiver as I think about it. “I wanted it, too. But it never would have happened. I would have walked away, slapped you across the face, even. I was too much under my mother’s thumb. Too locked into seeing myself the way that she saw me, and I didn’t have the courage to break away.”
I’m no longer talking about running from Damien that night, and he knows it. I’m talking about escaping from the life I was trapped in. The world where I was a walking, talking Barbie doll, and my mother was the girl playing with her pretty, mindless toy.
“But you did find the courage,” he says gently.
I swallow, thinking about the scars that mar my body. “A blade isn’t courage.”
“No, it’s not. It was a tool—the strength was always there. And now you don’t need the tool anymore, either. You’re strong, baby. You know I believe it.”
I sniffle and nod. It’s true. He looks at me and sees strength. He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. “I have the strength because of you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. But even if it is, so what? I’m right beside you, and I promise you, sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”
6
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper to the baby in the crib. I reach for her, moving her gently into my arms, and she blinks wide, blue eyes at me, her expression of utter love so like her father’s it makes my heart sing with joy. I want to hold her close and never let go.
I want to applaud her first steps, hear her first words.
Most of all, I want to keep her safe.
She is the most precious thing in my world—our child. Mine and Damien’s.
Tears of joy trail down my cheeks. Because she’s finally here with us, and it’s true and it’s right and it’s perfect.
I don’t know how I ever doubted. How I could ever have been afraid.
“You can’t do this.”
The harsh, familiar voice pulls my attention away from my daughter, and I look up, my blood running cold when I see the woman standing in the middle of the nursery, arms crossed, a stern expression cutting deep lines into her usually attractive face.
At first, I can’t even comprehend what he’s asking. Then the meaning of the words—so horrible and wrong—hit me with the force of a slap. “Not want this? Not want your child? No, Damien, no. How can you even ask that? You have to know that I—”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingertips to my temples because, of course, he would think that after everything I’ve said. “No. No. It’s just . . .”
“What?” he urges.
“I don’t know how to explain, but having a baby with you . . . building a family with you. I want that more than anything.”
“I believe you,” he says, and I sag with relief at the pure simplicity and love that color his words.
“But I still feel numb,” I say, sitting on the edge of the tub, “and I don’t know why.”
My eyes are welling up again, and Damien comes to sit at my side. “Of course, you know why. Because you’re surprised. Unprepared. And,” he adds, putting an arm around me, “because you’re not sure you can handle it. But you can, baby. I promise you can.” He takes my hand, then lifts it and gently kisses my palm. “Sweetheart, you’re not your mother.”
A hard knot forms in my gut, because Damien has cut straight to the crux.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds as small and fragile as I feel.
“I just do. And I’m brilliant, remember? All the articles say so.”
I laugh, the tightness inside me loosening a bit. “You definitely have your moments,” I concede before he leans in to gently kiss me.
After a moment, he stands, then holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he leads me back to the living room, then gestures for me to sit on the sofa. I do, and he sits beside me, then leans forward and pulls open the drawer in the coffee table. “I was going to show you this at dinner,” he says in what seems like a complete non sequitur. “I pulled it from my files before we left Los Angeles.”
He passes me a photo, and I take it automatically, making a little “oh” sound when I see the image—me in a bathing suit on a stage at the Dallas Convention Center. “You really kept this?”
“How can that possibly surprise you?”
He’s right. Once upon a time, I would have thought it odd. Now I know that Damien cherishes even the most random memories of the two of us together.
I run my fingertip over the image of me. We’d met for the first time when I was competing in the Miss Tri-County Texas Pageant, and professional tennis player Damien Stark was one of the celebrity judges. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that day changed my life forever.
“You scared me,” I admit.
His brows rise. “Did I?”
“Because of the way you made me feel. I didn’t know you—hell, I barely talked to you—but those minutes in the green room with you were so vivid, I knew even then that they’d be burned into my memory.”
“I felt the same.”
I smile. I know that now, of course, but at the time, I’d had no clue that Damien thought of me as anything but another contestant.
“I was overwhelmed by the intensity of you. You enthralled me. And I swear that if you’d asked me, I would have run off with you, just like that girl at the end of The Graduate.”
“I was sorely tempted, I assure you.” He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “Do you have any idea what I wanted to do back then? How I wanted to take you away from that reception, find a dark room, and touch every inch of you. I wanted to take you over the edge, Nikki. I wanted to feel you explode in my arms. And as I stood there by those damn tiny cheesecake squares, all I could think of was how you would sound screaming my name when you came in my arms.”
“Oh, yes.” I shiver as I think about it. “I wanted it, too. But it never would have happened. I would have walked away, slapped you across the face, even. I was too much under my mother’s thumb. Too locked into seeing myself the way that she saw me, and I didn’t have the courage to break away.”
I’m no longer talking about running from Damien that night, and he knows it. I’m talking about escaping from the life I was trapped in. The world where I was a walking, talking Barbie doll, and my mother was the girl playing with her pretty, mindless toy.
“But you did find the courage,” he says gently.
I swallow, thinking about the scars that mar my body. “A blade isn’t courage.”
“No, it’s not. It was a tool—the strength was always there. And now you don’t need the tool anymore, either. You’re strong, baby. You know I believe it.”
I sniffle and nod. It’s true. He looks at me and sees strength. He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. “I have the strength because of you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. But even if it is, so what? I’m right beside you, and I promise you, sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”
6
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper to the baby in the crib. I reach for her, moving her gently into my arms, and she blinks wide, blue eyes at me, her expression of utter love so like her father’s it makes my heart sing with joy. I want to hold her close and never let go.
I want to applaud her first steps, hear her first words.
Most of all, I want to keep her safe.
She is the most precious thing in my world—our child. Mine and Damien’s.
Tears of joy trail down my cheeks. Because she’s finally here with us, and it’s true and it’s right and it’s perfect.
I don’t know how I ever doubted. How I could ever have been afraid.
“You can’t do this.”
The harsh, familiar voice pulls my attention away from my daughter, and I look up, my blood running cold when I see the woman standing in the middle of the nursery, arms crossed, a stern expression cutting deep lines into her usually attractive face.
