Something patted her hand. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. She could hear the edge in his voice. He’d thrown her nightshirt over her and stayed with her, sleeping on top of the covers like they were teenagers dating, too scared to have sex, but too attracted to stay apart. She suspected there was more to it, but she was too afraid to ask him how she’d thrown herself at him.
“I’ll make it up to you.” Her mind couldn’t think beyond the present moment, but she’d think of something when she felt better.
“You don’t have to balance the scales, Nat.”
No, he’d never kept score. Not once during their time together. She’d always loved that about him.
“Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “I need to head home to let the caterers in and deal with the guys.”
“Oh, God, I forgot. Brunch. I am the worst professional on the face of the planet.”
“I…ah…wasn’t sure what to do when your assistant called, so I texted her back and told her to show up without…well…you. I knew you’d be embarrassed if I answered your phone.”
This further evidence of his consideration sent a sweet pang through her chest. She turned her head and forced her eyes open. Ten eighteen. They would be arriving at eleven. “I can help.”
He gently pressed her back down when she tried to rise. “Don’t bother. It’s not like they don’t know what to do. Everything’s ready, right?”
When she nodded, a bolt of pain shot across her temple. She clutched it.
“I’ll check on you later.”
Could he be any sweeter? She felt the urge to curl up into a ball.
“Thanks,” she rasped out instead.
A soft kiss landed on her brow, and his hand stroked the hair from her forehead. “Get some rest.”
The movement in the bed when he left was more akin to a flock of pigeons landing, and sure there was a jolt in her stomach, but not the roll she’d experienced earlier. She nodded off again. By the time she finally managed to crawl out of bed and into the shower, she’d downed the tomato juice and more water. She’d be drinking buckets today. The steam and water helped, and after she dried herself and wrapped herself in a towel, she forced herself to deal with the one thought that now wouldn’t leave her consciousness.
If he’d found her nightshirt, he must have found her secret too.
She walked to her cedar chest and opened the lid. The wedding picture she’d placed inside with her dress was lying at an angle, but the black box holding her rings lay undisturbed.
He had seen these precious mementos and touched them. She sank to a knee and wondered what he’d felt. He’d sent these items over in her hope chest with the note No one should be without their hope, but try as she might, she couldn’t force herself to get rid of them.
Picking up the frame, she stared at the picture inside. She radiated all the good things about life in that one snapshot: life, love, joy, and hope. Looking at it, she could finally admit she wasn’t happy, not like she’d been before Kim’s death. She’d given up believing that she could be, that she deserved to be. How had it ever come to this? Blake living next door and taking care of her when she was drunk, even though they were divorced.
Her eyes tracked to the imprint of his body on the covers and the pillow.
Her stomach rolled, but this time, it wasn’t from excess.
It was from grief.
Chapter 17
Sam was reading the Sunday paper at the kitchen table when Blake let himself in through the garage. He and Andy had orchestrated the return of Natalie’s car—Andy had dropped it off, and then Blake had dropped Andy off. They hadn’t really talked about last night, thank God. All he really wanted to do now was take a long shower before the caterers arrived.
“Everyone still asleep?”
“I think a few are showering. We might need to wake the others up with ice water after last night’s antics.”
He wasn’t even going to ask what they’d gotten up to after he left. “I’d be particularly happy to wake up Jordan that way.”
“Sounds like fun. How is Natalie?” Sam asked, folding The Western Independent and settling it in his lap.
“Hung over. Shock.” He made jazz hands, which normally would have made Sam laugh. But his friend didn’t play along.
“How are you after playing husband last night?”
The bold question would have gone unanswered had anyone else asked it. “Shitty. She pulled one of her Natalie Shows and danced in her underwear.”
His memory couldn’t seem to stop replaying that scene, and the mere memory was enough to arouse him. It was embarrassing. And heartbreaking.