His elbow on the outside chair armrest, he held his brow and rubbed his temple.
What was he going to do about that? He and Annabelle weren’t in a relationship, as such. They’d seen each other a few times. They seemed to like the same things, got each other’s humor and respected each other’s space. But after what had happened between him and Laura last night …
His hand dropping from his brow, he blew out a breath.
Clearly, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to even think about getting involved with Annabelle or any other woman.
Shifting his hip, he dug the cell out of his back pocket. A moment later the recipient’s soft voice drifted down the line.
He straightened in his chair. “Annabelle. It’s Samuel.”
“Sam? I was hoping you’d phone this weekend. You’ve been busy?”
“You could say that.”
As usual, she was understanding. “There’s still most of Sunday left.”
He cursed himself. He’d never felt more like a heel, but there was no way around it.
“Look, this is probably not a conversation we should have over the phone. But …” His gaze wandered over the bush, the gazebo, the setting that used to be so much a part of his life and seemed to be again for however long. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
“Something’s wrong?”
“I told you I’d been married.”
“Yes … you said it ended badly.”
“Thing is, Laura, my ex, had an accident Friday.”
He imagined Annabelle’s long dark lashes batting as she took that in and then her eyes widening as she made a likely assumption. “You’re with her now?”
“I took her home from the hospital.”
“You’re … patching things up?”
“It’s complicated.” He rubbed his brow. Really, really complicated.
“But you’re together?” Her tone was less fragile now.
He answered as honestly as he could. In a sense… “Yes.”
He waited as Annabelle no doubt composed herself. But she sounded calm when she spoke. Understanding, even. She’d make someone a great wife someday.
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
“Except, I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask you not to lose my number, you know, in case things don’t work out?”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
But as he hung up, Bishop knew he wouldn’t contact Annabelle again. Not because things would work out between him and Laura; he was damn close to certain it wouldn’t. But because if they saw each other again, Annabelle would always wonder whether he was thinking about his ex. If he were in her position he might do the same.
Besides, Annabelle deserved someone who could offer her a future and Bishop hadn’t been after commitment even before Friday’s incident.
And so another short chapter in his life was closed, while the case of the amnesiac ex was still wide-open.
As he slotted the phone away, his nose picked up on an aroma that came from the kitchen. Butter melting in a pan.
It was Sunday. Tradition decreed they have brunch on this porch. Hash browns and bacon, pancakes and maple syrup, or their old favorite, eggs Benedict? No matter which, from experience he knew the meal would be mouth-watering.
Bishop moved inside, thinking how easy it’d be to slip back into this lifestyle … if Laura remained this Laura and they could work their issues out. But it was dangerous to think that way. Yes, he’d had the best sex ever last night with his ex. He knew no complaints would be coming from her quarter. But relationships were about a whole lot more than physical attraction and sexual gratification. If he’d understood that over two years ago, he’d have held off asking Laura to marry him.
He hated to admit it, but snooty Grace was right. He’d fallen in love so hard and so fast he hadn’t spared the time to think things through. Amazing, given his stellar track record regarding decision making.
He moved down the hall and as that delicious hot butter smell grew, so did his concern.
In sleeping with Laura last night he’d set a precedent. This afternoon they were off to Sydney, and she would expect them to make love again tonight. And he couldn’t deny that he wanted to do just that. More to the point, if she didn’t get her memory back between now and then, he knew that he would.
Seven
“Sam Bishop? Is that you?”
In response to the male voice at their backs, Laura pulled up at the same time Bishop swung around. A smile breaking on his face, Bishop offered his hand to the jovial-looking man striding up.
“Robert Harrington.” Bishop shook the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Mr. Harrington, a rotund man in an extralarge dinner suit, arched a wry brow. “Enjoying the ballet, son?”
Bishop tugged an ear. “It’s … lively.”
The man chuckled as if to say he understood. Obviously, Robert Harrington wasn’t a Swan Lake fan, either.
Earlier, on the heels of their Sunday morning eggs Benedict tradition, she and Bishop had journeyed to Sydney and, after strolling around the Rocks, one of Sydney’s most historic harbor-side suburbs, had checked into their Darling Harbor residence, a five-star-hotel three-bedroom penthouse Bishop used if business kept him in the city during the week. Soaking up the sunshine on the balcony and watching the boat activity on the sparkling blue waters below had absorbed the rest of their lazy afternoon. They’d arrived at the Opera House with barely enough time to be seated. Five minutes ago they’d joined the rest of the Opera Theater’s glittering crowd to partake of refreshments during intermission.
Their seats could have been better, but Laura wouldn’t complain. It was the thrill of the experience she adored. Her mother had introduced her to the theater, in all its guises, at an early age. She’d dreamed of perfecting pointe work and pirouettes and one day starring in the Australian Ballet. But professional ballerinas were superb athletes; heart conditions, even mild ones, weren’t the norm. So Laura, along with Grace on occasion, had been content to enjoy a number of magical performances as enthusiastic spectators.
Laura wished Bishop shared her love of the art form, but she was only grateful he hadn’t bleated on about coming along; a lot of men might suggest their wives take a friend while they chilled out at a football match or poker game. But Bishop was one of the most supportive people she’d ever known.
That’s why she was certain they could work out this difference regarding how to start their family. When he truly understood how important having her own child was to her—when he evaluated the risks from a less, well, paranoid point of view—he would come around. He’d support her, as he always had. This time next year, they might even be singing lullabies to their firstborn.
Boy or girl, she’d be beyond happy with either. Or both.
Laura put those thoughts aside as she smiled a greeting at this middle-aged couple. Wherever they went, it seemed Bishop bumped into someone