Hell, I wouldn’t even know where to start explaining.
“Hello? Nick? What are you thinking so hard about?”
I smile at her, but don’t say anything.
Because I’m thinking… I have regrets.
And I don’t want her to know that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - WENDY
Nick is worried about me and I hate it when he worries about me.
“Just thinking about you, Wen.” He sighs. “I want to ask you all the questions right now. But I can’t. Just…”
“Just tell you I’m fine?”
“No.” He actually laughs out loud. “I mean, yeah. But only if it’s true.”
I laugh too. “It’s true. I’m fine. We’re good.”
He picks up my hand and brings it to his lips, kisses my knuckles as he smiles at me. “Mrs. Tate.”
“Mmm. I’ve been thinking about that. Do I have to be a Mrs. Can’t I just be Wendy Tate?”
“Pretty sure that’s the tradition. Title comes with the marriage.”
“Yeah, but it’s us. Right? Are we traditional?”
“Maybe the better question is do we want to be traditional?”
It takes about two seconds of thought for both of us to laugh and shake our heads. “Nah.”
He pulls me closer to him and I’ve missed this. I always miss him when we’re apart, but this time it really does feel different. Not just because we’re married now and this is the first time we’ve been together since all that happened, but also because… everything feels so on track.
“Now I wanna know what you’re thinking.”
Hmmm. Here’s something no one knows about Nick Tate except me—he’s a really nice guy. I’m talking open-doors-for-you nice. Hold-your-hand kind of nice. He will grocery-shop and put everything away when he gets home. He will come when you call, be there regardless if you don’t, and if you ever need a new heart, he’ll either find you a replacement or give you his own.
I know this.
Because Nicholas Tate gave me his heart seven years ago when I needed a new one.
And he never asked for it back.
I sigh as I stare up into those brown eyes. Fucking eyeballs. Who knew they could hide so many secrets? These brown eyes are why I trust him. He’s not like me. Not at all like me. I don’t trust anyone like me. Not even Adam, and I like Adam. He’s a nice guy too, but he’s got those blue eyes. He’s one of them and Nick isn’t.
Nick taps my forehead with the tip of his finger. “Come on. What the hell is going through that head of yours?”
When he asks me this I always lie. But he knows I’m lying, so it’s fine. This is how we keep the even keel when all the waters around us are stormy. And it’s not really lies, anyway. It’s more like a daydream. “I was thinking about our wedding. It was pretty fun.”
He swipes a piece of hair away from my eyes and smiles. “It’s almost time for the real honeymoon. Are you ready?”
It’s a serious question designed to be hidden inside innocent words. “I’m so ready.”
He pauses, letting out a small, silent breath before he responds. “Good. Because we’re almost there, kid. We’re almost there.”
I let out a long, tired breath myself. And the stress of being under Merc’s capable, yet very frightening, hands goes with it. I’m here. I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me and he didn’t get any secrets, either. It’s like… best-case scenario, right?
“Go to sleep now. You need to rest.”
“I think I’ve been sleeping for days. I am super in need of the bathroom right now.”
“Oh, shit. Let me help you.” And he does. Nick is out of the bed before the last word even leaves his mouth. Then he’s carefully pulling me up and walking me to the bathroom. I’m still a little wobbly. I know I’m not making a big deal about this whole Merc thing—big deals are never good in the long run—but it’s kind of a big deal that the most dangerous mindfucker in the history of the Company just had a grip on my brain.
Still, I don’t want Nick to think too hard about that, so when he says, “Do you need me to help you?” even though I kinda do, I say, “No. I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”
He closes the door and I listen for his creaky footsteps as he makes his way into the kitchen. Probably to mix me up a powdered electrolyte drink. And I spend the next thirty seconds or so clinging to the edge of the sink, staring into the drain, as I wait for my head to stop spinning from the walk.
When my brain is mostly settled, I pee, then stand back up and try not to look at myself as I wash my hands.
My mouth feels like cotton. But I’m at Nick Tate’s house. And this is never a bad thing when you’re teetering on the edge of insanity and need something real and normal to pull you back.
When I swing open the mirror vanity and find a little plastic box with a piece of black electrical tape across the front with the name ‘Wendy’ written on it in silver Sharpie, I say a prayer of thanks for my Nick.
Here’s something else no one knows about Nick except me. He has beautiful handwriting. Once, when I was like eleven, we were in the bookstore, and you know those bargain shelves? They have all kinds of pretty colorful coffee table books in that section. And kits of things. Like… learn origami kits. Or bullet journal kits. Shit like that. On that day I wanted a calligraphy kit. Lauren was only like two and a half when this happened, so she didn’t care one way or the other. But Nick bought that kit for me and we spent an entire week at Hilton Head resort, sitting at the beach or the outdoor restaurants, and he learned calligraphy with me.
So my silver Sharpie name written on that random piece of black electrical tape is an example of some of the most beautiful letters ever imagined. And I wasn’t the one who wrote it. I wasn’t the one who put a new-in-the-package toothbrush in the little plastic container, either.
That was Nick.
Because I’m telling you, he might kill little blonde girls for a living, but he’s a really nice guy.
When I come out of the bathroom Nick is sitting in one of two chairs at his crappy kitchen table. There are two electrolyte drinks, one in front of him and one in front of my chair.
Told ya he was making me a drink.
He’s grinning too. “Sit. Drink. Tell me everything.”
Not everything, because we still don’t know if it’s safe to talk. But that’s not what Nick means. When he says ‘tell me everything’ he means I should catch him up on what’s been happening in my life since we saw each other last. Nothing serious. Stupid things.
So I take a seat, drink, and then I start talking.
I tell him random things about the last eight months. I keep a journal so I don’t forget these things, but the journal is kept hidden in the backseat armrest of my truck and I don’t have any idea where my truck is right now, so I just wing it.
There is a short story about a donut shop in Peoria, Illinois, a hotel I stayed at in Mississippi, and a roadside stand in Ohio where I bought some deer jerky that was to die for.
Nick smiles through all of it. “Welp. I’ll put it all on the list for the honeymoon.”