He watches his hand reach for her. He wants to caress the concave of her cheek, kiss away the tears, wind his arms around her, and never let go. But she’s no longer his to care for, to soothe away the worry. The gold band on her finger, bright like starlight in the glow of the street lamp, is a grim reminder. She’s no longer his.
His arm drops into his lap and her gaze follows. “You’re shaking.”
“Because I want to touch you so badly,” he rasps.
She shifts her face away, revealing her profile. The soft slide of her nose, the quiver of her chin. With the base of her palm, she wipes away the moisture that makes her cheekbone shine.
“Aimee.” His own eyes dampen. He blinks rapidly, fighting the burn. “Aimee, baby. Say something.”
She briefly squeezes her eyes shut and James curses the endearment that slipped from his tongue. He doesn’t want to scare her away.
Her breath hitches on a long inhale. “I’ve been driving in circles for the past two hours.”
“Baby . . .” This time he ignores the slip. He doesn’t like it when she’s upset or sad. Make that devastated.
She wipes her face again. Her hand trembles and his restraint shatters. He grasps her fingers and his tears fall.
For an instant she tugs her hand, startled by the contact, only to grip his palm tightly. She turns fully toward him, tucking her nearest leg underneath her. “I’ve known for a while that you remember again.”
“How long? Since December?” And she never reached out to him.
She nods. “Kristen called me after you called Nick. I always wondered if you’d recover. Carlos didn’t think so. I mean, you didn’t think so. But I still wondered. I also wondered what it’d be like when you came back. I’ve wondered that since the beginning,” she quietly admits.
“Since Mexico?”
“Yes, since I found you.” She glances out the front window with an unfocused gaze and James wonders if she’s back with him in Puerto Escondido. All he knows about that visit is what Carlos wrote in the journal. Aimee had been honest with him and herself before she left. It had been achingly difficult to read, but he admired her strength. He didn’t like it, but understood why she had to walk away from him.
“I wasn’t sure how I’d feel living near you and not be with you. Would I realize I was still in love with you? Would I leave Ian to be with you?” Her voice diminishes until barely audible. She moistens her lips and stares at their joined hands, her fair Irish complexion a vivid contrast to his deep tan from years living under the Mexican sun.
“Nick called yesterday and told me you’re here.” She motions at the house. “With your sons. And suddenly . . .” She pauses, lips parted as though figuring how to word what she has to say. James gives her hand an encouraging squeeze and she looks up at him from under her lashes. “Suddenly I didn’t have to wonder anymore. I knew. I can’t invite you over for Saturday-night barbecues. And I won’t go to Nick and Kristen’s house for their pool parties. Not if you’re there.” Her mouth contorts into a watery grimace and James wilts inside. She’s right, though. Still, it doesn’t hurt less hearing it. It’ll be awkward for both of them.
“I wish . . . I wish I’d listened to Lacy. I could have found you sooner.” Her shoulders shake as she cries harder, forcing out the words. “But she was so odd. She scared me and I didn’t know her, and the thought of you still alive . . .”
“Honey . . . darling, don’t,” James soothes. She’s beating herself up and he feels every verbal punch. He knows of Imelda’s friend, the one who approached Aimee at his funeral. Imelda told Carlos everything she knew about how Lacy, whom she’d known as Lucy, convinced Aimee to seek him out. Imelda had finally gathered the courage to draw Aimee out. She was weary of the deception and willing to risk Thomas’s ire and Carlos’s hatred for the sake of his well-being. He was entitled to the truth. James shakes his head. “Don’t blame yourself. You can’t blame yourself.”
She bites her lower lip, absently nodding. James shifts his hand, twining his fingers between hers. “Aimee.” He whispers her name again and again. He can’t stop saying her name, even murmurs it against her skin when he brings their linked hands to his lips.
She whimpers. “Kristen said you were at the café this morning. That’s why I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be there in case you . . . showed up. I was . . . I was afraid.” She stops and a fresh current trails down her cheeks, thin streams that soak her lips and cling to her chin. A few tears spill onto her lap, further staining the tight jeans that adorn her legs. Legs he desperately craves to have cradling his hips.
Before he can make sense of what he’s doing, James unlatches her seatbelt and drags Aimee onto his lap. He wraps one arm around her waist and burrows a hand through the curls he loves so much. Cupping the back of her head, he offers his shoulder for her to cry on. To his shock, she kisses him instead, crying into his mouth.
God help him, he kisses her back. The connection strikes him with tremendous force. He’s missed her terribly. Her taste, her touch, her scent.
Her.
They pour everything they are, everything they have, and everything they’ve lost into the kiss. Tears mingle as they cling to each other, shaking in each other’s arms.
He breaks the kiss and cups her face, pressing his forehead against hers. There’s so much he has to say, so much he needs to explain. He knew it bothered her he never liked discussing his parents, or what it was like growing up in a home where a parent’s love had to be earned. Nothing was freely given like the affection the Tierneys doted on Aimee. It had been especially difficult keeping from her the truth about Phil, that he is his brother, not a cousin, as his entire family led everyone to believe. Each of them had been disgusted in their own way that his mother had an incestuous relationship with her brother. James, though, he’d been ashamed. His family and the way they treated each other, the way his mother disregarded his art, and the way his father dealt out his punishments. It all embarrassed him.
Looking back, though, he understood why Phil’s favorite pastime had been knocking around his brothers. His mother refused to recognize him as her own in public. He might have been Donato Enterprises’ CEO’s son at the time, but to the outside world, the mother who birthed him was a mystery. Uncle Grant never talked about her. He never admitted he’d slept with his own sister, not until Phil and James saw them more than wrapped in each other’s arms.