Anne Winston - Heart of a Hero

Phoebe’s chest hurt as she fought not to sob. She didn’t dare glance at Wade. She could imagine the wintry expression on his face without having to see it. But she didn’t try to correct Reston’s assumption about Bridget’s last name. There would be time for that.

Bridget started to fuss and Wade said, “Here. Let me see if I can settle her.” Phoebe did glance at him then, but he wasn’t looking at her. He lifted the baby and held her against his shoulder; it was amazing how natural the gesture looked after such a short time. Bridget quieted immediately and Wade grinned. “She’s turning into a daddy’s girl.”

Phoebe relaxed, one of those silly maternal things that happened when one’s child was well-behaved. Before Bridget, she’d never understood how parents could be so uptight. A screaming session in the middle of Wal-Mart could change your perspective pretty quickly. She dug in her bag and handed Reston a photo album into which she had slid pictures of Bridget right after her birth and at various ages since. “I brought you some pictures.”

Reston moved to the sofa and patted the seat beside him. His face was soft. “Sit down here and tell me about her.”

“I’ll join you.” Wade’s voice was quiet.

She glanced up at him, but he was looking at the album and wouldn’t meet her gaze. She knew he’d looked through the photo albums she’d kept since Bridget’s birth…but she’d never told him much about his daughter’s early days, she realized.

Remorse shot through her for about the zillionth time, and she mimicked his father’s motion, patting the cushion on the other side of her. “That would be nice. I haven’t told you that Bridget was almost born in the middle of a wedding.”

Wade froze. “What?”

She tugged on his arm and he sank down beside her, patting Bridget’s back in a distracted manner. Smiling, she opened the photo album. On the first page, she’d placed the only picture she had of herself during her pregnancy.

“This picture was taken the day Bridget was born. I went to the wedding of a coworker and the photographer snapped this shot before the service while I was standing at the guest book.” She chuckled. “It’s a good thing he got a picture of me then!”

“You went into labor at the wedding?” Wade was looking a little green around the edges.

“I was already in labor,” she corrected. “But I was too dumb to realize it until about halfway through the ceremony. I just thought my back hurt from being on my feet so much the day before.”

Reston guffawed. “Bet you’ll never be that dumb again.”

A silence followed his hoot of laughter. A pregnant silence, she thought, as she cast around for a response. Would she ever be pregnant again?

Wade wanted her to marry him…but she hadn’t really let herself dwell on exactly what that would mean. Would he want other children?

An involuntary quiver deep in her belly made her shiver suddenly as her thoughts immediately turned to how those children would be created. Every nerve cell in her body homed in on Wade’s large, warm body sitting so close to hers. Hastily, she shoved the photo album into Wade’s hands and leaped to her feet. “I’d like to freshen up.”

Sometimes it seems as if one thing just led to the next.

Wade could still hear the grief in Phoebe’s voice as he lay in the single bed in his childhood room that night. That phrase had been haunting him.

God, but he felt like the lowest of the low. She hadn’t said it, and he was pretty sure she hadn’t even thought about how it had sounded. But he knew that her life would never have turned out the way it had if it wasn’t for him.

If it wasn’t for you getting her pregnant, you mean.

Well, yeah, that was what he’d meant. If he’d kept his hands off her, if he’d given her the comfort that she’d really needed instead of the sex she’d thought would make her forget the pain, if he’d been less of a self-absorbed jerk afterward…. If, if, if.

No point in going any farther down that road. It was what it was. He and Phoebe had a daughter together. And they owed it to Bridget to work out their issues and give her the happy, stable home she deserved.

Which was why he had to figure out a way to get Phoebe to marry him. She had seemed so resistant to the idea. Why?

He was sure it wasn’t physical. God knew, they had enough chemistry between them to start a brush fire.

Unable to sleep, he rose and padded down the stairs in his bare feet. The little photo album Phoebe had given his father lay on the coffee table in the living room. The streetlight outside cast a few bars of light across the room and he idly picked up the scrapbook and flipped through it. Phoebe had spent more time earlier taking them through Bridget’s young life. Rolling over, sitting up, first teeth. Stuff he would have laughed at if the married guys in his unit had talked about it.

“Wade?”

Startled, he nearly dropped the album and he juggled it for a moment until he had it in his hands again. Phoebe stood on the lowest step.

“What are you doing?”

Her hair was down. Even in the darkened room, he could tell it was long. Longer than it had been a year and a half ago. He hadn’t realized it because, until now, she’d worn it scrambled up in a messy knot atop her head. It should have looked ridiculous but it was oddly charming. And even more so since he was pretty sure she hadn’t tried for that effect. For Phoebe, it was expedient to shove her hair up out of the way.

If it had been Melanie, she’d probably have worked on it for an hour in front of a mirror to achieve a like effect. Melanie. Were they ever going to talk about her? Her memory hovered between them like a helium balloon tied to a kid’s hand.

“Are you all right?” She was standing there with a concerned look on her face, clad in what resembled a men’s-style button-down shirt, although from the way it caught her at mid-thigh and fit her curves, he was pretty sure it hadn’t been designed for a man.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly.

Before he knew what she intended, she was down the steps and across the room, placing one small, cool hand on his brow. “Do you feel sick?”

He looked at her, standing so close to him in the shadows of the small living room, her eyes wide and worried. “No,” he said. “I’m not sick.”

Immediately she began to withdraw her hand but he caught it before she could move away. “Don’t go.”

She stilled, but didn’t speak. Her gaze flew to his face again as he tugged on her hand, drawing her closer. He threaded one hand through her hair, cupping her cheek, and rubbed his thumb lightly over her lips. She swallowed. “Wade, I…” She stopped and shook her head. “I’m glad we came to visit your father.”

He smiled, letting his hand drift from her face to play with the cool, silky strands of hair. “Me, too. Bridget’s already got him wrapped around one of those little fingers. Thanks for letting him give her a bottle tonight.”

“He never stopped talking to her the entire time. Did you notice that?”

He nodded. “He sounded pretty ridiculous.”

“Like someone else I know.”

“Hey! I do not sound ridiculous.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “Just infatuated. Totally, ridiculously infatuated.”

“It would be impossible not to be,” he agreed. “She’s perfect.”

“Well, almost, maybe,” she conceded.

“She’s a lot like her mother,” he said. “Wrapping men around her little finger.”

She snorted beneath her breath. “You know darn well I never wrapped a man around any part of me.”

Silence fell between them as her retort registered.

Immediately, his thoughts turned to the cabin in the woods where he’d made love to her. She’d been wrapped around him then, her long, slim legs gripping his hips as he’d plunged into her with so little restraint he winced at the memory even as his body responded to it. “I’d have to disagree with that,” he said, aware that his voice had roughened.