Sweetest Mistake (Nolan Brothers #2) (27 page)

“W-would y-y-you be serious? I’m trying to talk to you.”

“I am serious.” He rolled away, yanked open the top drawer of the nightstand, and twisting back around, he set a small black box on her stomach.

Over the thundering of her heart, she heard herself ask, “Wh-what is that?”

“It’s a ring.”

She sprang from the bed, sending the little box tumbling through the sheets. “B-b-but w-why?”

He pushed himself upright, flipped on the bedside lamp, and reclined against the headboard. “Because I just asked you to marry me and it’s customary to offer a ring as a testament of my devotion.”

Her heart, lacking logic as it did, started to soar. She ruthlessly squashed it back down. “Okay, you got me. That was a good one.”

“Emily, I’m not joking.”

She gaped at him. “You want to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m pregnant.”

“No.” His denial came quick and he pushed up off the bed. “That’s part of it, of course, but not all of it. I like you. I like us. I want to marry you, Emily.”

She liked them, too, but— Wait, he
liked
her?

The painful slash at her heart sparked an ember of anger. “You know what? Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

He eyed her skeptically.

“What do you say to St. Patty’s Day? It’s a little sudden, I know, but just think about it—I’ll wear a gold dress and you can wear a green tuxedo, but instead of walking down the aisle on a red carpet, I’ll slide down a rainbow-colored one.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Are you finished?”

“You don’t like that idea, I can tell. How about Valentine’s Day? It’s a little predictable, sure, and I should warn you, I do not look good in red. It totally clashes with my hair.”

He settled on the arm of a club chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Valentine’s Day is a little over two months away.”

Only her misery curtailed her smug satisfaction.

Startling green eyes captured hers. “I don’t see any reason to wait that long, do you?”

“You don’t see any reason…?” She trailed off as her racing thoughts slowed and thickened to tree sap.

“We could get married next weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“But if you’re willing to hold off, we could do it the week before Christmas. Jack will be home, and Leo’s supposed to make an appearance. I’d like it if they could be there.”

The breath she’d been holding erupted from her like the air from a burst balloon. “We’re talking about getting
married
. Not taking a weekend road trip or trying a new hairstyle. We barely know each other.”

“I know enough.”

She stumbled back. “We can’t. It would never work. We’re too different.”

“We’re not that different.”

Somehow, he managed to say that with a straight face.

“You’re gorgeous and charming and-and-and everyone likes you and I’m…”

His features darkened. “You’re what?”

She lifted her shoulders. “I’m not any of those things. I’m the opposite of those things.”

“You know what they say, opposites attract, and all that.”

“Or someone ends up murdered in their sleep,” she muttered.

“I promise not to murder you.” He crossed to her and slipped his hand beneath the curtain of her hair. “Marry me.”

“People will think—”

Storm clouds gathered on his face. “Do you honestly believe I give a fuck what anyone thinks?” Just as quickly as the clouds had gathered, they scattered like mist at dawn. “You’re smart and sweet, and I can’t wait to watch you become a mom.” He scraped the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “And I’m more than convinced you and this mouth will keep me quite contented until the end of my days.”

The lure of him was so incredibly seductive. She couldn’t stop her heart from imagining what it’d be like to marry him. If she’d allowed herself, she’d have dreamed this dream a thousand times already. Instead, she experienced the thrill of all her secret longings at once.

She swayed slightly.

She wouldn’t have to be alone anymore. No more fear. No more soul-crushing loneliness.

He doesn’t love you.

He dropped a light kiss on the tip of her nose. “Marry me.”

In all her life, she’d never wanted to say yes to anyone for anything more than she did in that moment. Maybe one day, he’d grow to love her.

Except, other than her mom, no one who knew her had ever grown to love her. Not even her own father.

She opened her mouth to deny him, but he spoke first.

“I can make you happy, Em, I know I can. Give me a chance.”

Tears tightened her throat. He cradled her head in both his hands.

“Say it,” he whispered.

The hole near her heart filled to overflowing. She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, which glittered with some unnamable emotion.

“Marry me, Emily, and let me give you a last name you can be proud of. One that nobody can deny you.”

S
he said yes.

It’d taken his full power of persuasion, and a touch of manipulation, but he’d won.

The smug smile still lingered on his lips when he entered the station the next morning.

He made her say it again, and again, and spent several long, languid moments tasting the flavor of the yeses on her tongue. Then he’d gone to the bed for the little black box and tossed it to her.

Caught by surprise, she batted the box around a few times before reeling it in. She cracked it open.

Her head bent, he couldn’t read her reaction. She didn’t speak, or smile, or sigh dreamily, or even reach out to finger the delicate ring.

He’d grown self-conscious. Maybe he should’ve spent more than ten minutes picking out the round-cut solitaire with white-gold banding, but as soon as he saw it, he knew it was her ring. Flawless and unpretentious. Simply beautiful, like her.

He’d scratched a phantom itch on his shoulder. “In a couple of years, I’ll be able to upgrade to something a little bigger.”

She’d pressed the box to the center of her chest, over her heart, and her eyes shone when she looked up at him. “I love it. I’ll never wear another.”

The gut punch knocked the breath from his body.

He reached for her, and soon lost himself in her soft, warm body. His release building, emotions he couldn’t name rioted though him. He wouldn’t regret his decision to marry her. She made him happy.

Now all he had to do was settle in for a life of easy, wedded bliss. No drama. No disasters. No despair. Oh, and make sure he didn’t fall in love with her.

No love. Just happiness.

At his desk, he pulled up the day’s log, already counting the minutes before he could get his soon-to-be wife naked again, touching and teasing her until they both collapsed in contented exhaustion.

The figure of a man appeared before him and Luke looked up into Captain Davison’s grizzled face. Behind him, Chief Brown came into view.

“Good morning, Detective,” she said. “We’re ready for you.”

Shit
.

In the chaos of the last few days, he’d forgotten about the interview. Dread crystallized into a heavy ball in the pit of his stomach as he followed his bosses into the conference room.

The interview started well, with Captain Davison posing a couple of questions about Luke’s educational background and experience, which he answered with ease.

Then Chief took a turn asking questions. “It’s no secret there is an enormous amount of stress in our jobs. How do you handle stress and avoid burnout?”

Luke’s mind blanked. He blinked at her while his mouth filled with sand.

But the Chief and Captain were staring at him, waiting, so he started to talk. “You’re absolutely right, Chief. In my career, I’ve experienced stressful periods and have had to find various ways to decompress.”

Wrong
.

Unless heavy drinking and insomnia counted.

“I spend time with my friends and family, particularly my niece and nephews.”

Wrong
.

Since the shooting, he’d avoided close contact with any of them, his niece and nephews in particular, afraid he’d be unable to keep it together in their presence.

“I enjoy several hobbies, including music and playing in a hockey league.”

Wrong
.

He’d dropped out of the league this year and never played music, except when others forced him to do so.

“Finally, I guess I’d say I find comfort in talking to my colleagues and those close to me about my job and its challenges. Their understanding and support is an invaluable gift.”

Wrong and wrong
.

He had a sharp distaste for Sloane and, by design, no relationship with the rookie, Newberry. Neither of them would ever replace Anthony.

He flashed his charmer’s smile. “Oops, I lied. I have one more.”

Chief and Davison smiled, perfectly at ease.

“This department has been on the forefront of providing assistance and access to mental health professionals, which has been both a surprise and a blessing.”

Not entirely wrong. At least the seminars he’d been pushed to attend helped him come up with all the bullshit he was now spewing.

The remainder of the interview progressed without incident. Until the last question.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

Not working here
.

He muttered some bullshit answer and soon the interview ended.

On the drive to Emily’s at the end of the day, a clear winter sunset painted the horizon in lavender and pink. A chilly wind blew a blinding white canvas of fresh snow across the island.

Dusk in winter. It brought to mind memories of That Day. Like parasites, crawling and wiggling under his skin, they harassed. He turned up her driveway and pulled to stop in front of the house.

Lost in his inner battle, he failed to notice the threat until it was upon him.

Red blood splattered over pure white snow. Dark, nasty, brutal.

A massacre.

He stumbled back. The screaming inside his skull drowned out his ability to think, to assess, or to search out options. His vision narrowed.

Emily’s snowman lay in scattered pieces. His head severed from his body. His torso hacked into tiny bits.

Blackness closed in on him. He was underwater, the surface fading away. He gasped for air, an instinct his body couldn’t let die. Hope faded. It was too heavy, this burden.

Wet snow seeped through his blue jeans.

Get up, you piece of shit. Get up right now!

At the water’s surface, huge brown eyes stared down at him. She lifted her hand under her nose. “It’s ketchup. They’re filming a scene.”

“I killed him.”

Her dainty features pulled into a frown. “Who?”

“The fifteen-year-old.” Horror rushed through his veins along with the self-hatred. “I fucking killed him.”

The words broke over his sobs with the dread and hopelessness crashing into him, dragging him down, down. All was lost.

A weight pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground beneath a large object. He clenched her small hand. His grip clamped so tight around her fine bones, it had to hurt her.

But he didn’t let go, and she didn’t complain.

“I think about it every day. Every goddamn day I relive that moment I pulled the trigger.”

The pad of her thumb stroked back and forth over his palm.

“If just one thing had happened differently, maybe I wouldn’t have killed him.” Wetness smeared his cheeks. “If just one fucking thing had gone differently—if the kid’s friend hadn’t said something shitty on Facebook. If his mom didn’t get on him about his attitude that morning. If they hadn’t left the gun safe unlocked. If it’d been sunny instead of cloudy for the fourth day in a row. If he hadn’t been called on in class. If only the kid had forgotten his Kevlar and gave up his insane plan, or his gun had jammed, or he’d turned just a little to the right rather than the left, my bullet would’ve caught his arm instead of his chest cavity. Anything could’ve made the difference. He didn’t have to die. None of them had to die.”

But they did die.

Tears fell from her cheeks and plopped onto his hand. “You had to s-stop him from killing those other children. It was the only choice.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t help me sleep at night.”

Nothing did.

“How many other children are alive because of what you did? How many other parents didn’t have to mourn their babies?”

“You want to know the worst part?” He could see she didn’t, but he couldn’t hold the words back any longer. “Fuck him.”

“Wh-what?”

“The fifteen-year-old. Fuck him. He killed eight people that day. And I murdered him, a fucking child. He killed my friend and I fucking hate him.” His voice trembled with his soul’s seething. “Do you hear me? I
hate
him.”