“No.” She repeated the sentiment with a vigorous shake of her head. “If it’s true, then I have the right to know. My parents should have told me. I...” She paused to inhale and release a ragged breath, still mentally stumbling. “Adopted? It explains a lot about my father’s distance and lack of connection to me, but...my mother—”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Reid raked his free hand through his hair as he leaned his head against the back of the couch.
“Yes, you should have. I’m glad you told me. It’s just...” She blew out a puff of breath, overwhelmed. “A lot to process.”
“Which is my point.”
He pulled his arm from her grip and speared his fingers under the curtain of auburn hair at her nape. His long fingers began massaging the knotted muscles of her neck, and she instantly felt a heady rush of warmth loosen the tension inside her. Reid Colton’s magic caress was more relaxing than any hot bath, more intoxicating than the finest wine.
“You didn’t need anything else worrying you right now. It could have kept until this mess with your father was settled and you were able to go home.”
“Except that he isn’t really my father...” She was still testing the concept and examining it from all sides. “And that makes me feel...strangely relieved.”
And a bit grief stricken. Her real mother hadn’t wanted her. She’d been given away...
He canted his head to one side, lifting an eyebrow as he studied her. “I can see feeling relief concerning Hugh. But I’m sure it raises a lot of questions. Maybe opens old wounds? I hate to think I was the cause of any new pain for you.”
She leaned against the sofa, rolling her head to the side, then forward, giving him better access to her achy neck and coiled muscles. “I asked. And you’re not to blame for the secrets my parents kept from me. Or my awful relationship with my father.” She closed her eyes as a pang shot to her heart. “But I’m disappointed my mother never said anything.”
“Maybe she’d planned to, before she got sick. Telling your kid they’re adopted when, ‘oh, by the way, I’m also sick and dying,’ would have been a lot for a kid of...what? Twelve?”
“Thirteen. Possibly the most awkward age for a girl.” She sighed and put her head on his shoulder, lifting her feet to the sofa and snuggling against him. “I see your point.”
“Besides, I’m betting your mother was the one behind the adoption. She chose you. She wanted you.”
The air snagged in her lungs, and she struggled to draw a new breath. His reassurance arrowed to her core, cracked the vise of grief and loosened the stranglehold of hurt on her soul.
“She loved you, even if your father proved—”
“An ass?”
He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her closer. “I was going to say a disappointment, but... I like your word better.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head.
She relaxed against him, savoring the connection. His presence took the edge off of what could have been devastating news, had she learned it under other circumstances. Knowing she’d been adopted cast so much of her childhood in a new light, whether it should or not. She reflected on some key moments, searching for clues she may have missed. The feeling that returned over and again as she thought of her younger years was isolation. And not just from her father. Maybe she’d had a second sense that she didn’t belong all along...
“You know, until I met Andrew, I always felt so alone in the world. I know my mother tried to help me make friends, but I never really fit in at all those cotillions and social clubs and society teas.” She furrowed her brow in deeper thought. “Maybe that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for animals. They made me feel wanted, needed. I had something in common with those homeless animals and never knew it. I’d been a stray, adopted by my family...”
“Pen, keep in mind that your mother wanted you. You don’t know why your birth mother gave you up, but you were given a home with the Barringtons because your mother wanted you.”
The rumble of his baritone voice and the vibration of his chest beneath her ear as he spoke his affirmation were comforting. The assurance he offered touched a raw, aching part of her heart.
She nodded, still analyzing her past. “I hope you’re right. But the truth is, I think I sensed something. I know I felt alone more often than not. And when Andrew died, I was right back at square one, all by myself.”
“No,” he argued, his tone full of passion, “you’re not alone. For one thing, you have Nicholas.”
“That’s not the same. I’m his mother, and while it helps to have somebody to share my life with and take care of, he can’t replace the companionship, the bond I had with Andrew. The friendship.”
Reid grunted as if he couldn’t stand to hear the truth. “You have friends. I know you do. Neighbors that we cooked out with and church members...and—” He exhaled a puff of breath, his hand tightening on her shoulder. “You have me.”
She could hear the increased thumping of his heart beneath her ear, could feel the heavy beat against her cheek.
Though his offer touched her, it niggled, as well. “Why?”
He scoffed. “What do you mean, why?”
“What does it sound like? I want to know why you’re here, why you’re taking care of me and offering to help me.”
“Because...we’re friends.”
“Are we?” She didn’t want blanket statements of support or friendship made out of pity. She hadn’t talked about her lonely childhood to gain his sympathy. If she were to accept Reid as a constant in her life, as a rock of strength she could depend on, she needed to know his offer was genuine and not born of guilt.
“I... Yeah. I think so. Don’t you?”
“Then this isn’t some kind of a guilt trip over Andrew? I mean, we were never close before I married Andrew, so why now? What’s changed?” She pushed away from him, angling her body so she could face him and see his expression. “I appreciate that you’re here now, that you’ve done so much to help me these past few weeks, but...what about later? A year from now? Ten years?”
She looked deep into the blue stare that met hers, knowing if she looked into his eyes she would see the truth.
And what she saw was his hesitation, his own conflict and uncertainty.