“I’ve got news for your father—he’s wrong.”
Adam had gradually chipped away at her defenses, and he’d done it so subtly she hadn’t even realized she needed to defend herself.
Her work often demanded that she work late, and there had been nothing notable about that until the first time Adam had strolled into her office carrying a pizza box.
She’d raised her eyebrows.
I don’t eat pizza.
There’s a first time for everything, McBride.
Somehow they’d ended up sprawled on the office floor eating pizza out of the box long after everyone else had gone home.
Hannah had never eaten pizza out of a box before she’d met Adam.
Hannah had never kicked off her shoes or sprawled on the office floor.
She wasn’t sure she’d even known how to relax before he’d arrived in the company, but those late-night work sessions had fast become the favorite part of her day. She looked forward to being overloaded just so that she could have an excuse to stay after everyone else had left.
They’d worked, they’d shared food and they’d talked. There was something about being in the nighttime stillness of the office cocooned by the glitter of the city outside that made it easy to say things she never would have said in other circumstances.
One night he’d confessed that his aunt had insisted he learn ballroom dancing because she thought it was an essential life skill.
He’d insisted on teaching Hannah.
Everyone should be able to dance the tango, McBride.
I don’t dance, Kirkman.
But somehow, with him, she’d danced barefoot around the empty pizza boxes.
It was ridiculous, but she’d ended up laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
And that was how intimacy happened, she thought, watching as he took a mouthful of his drink. Not in a giant leap, but step by gentle step, each movement forward as stealthy as the incoming tide. One minute you were standing alone on dry land and the next minute you were in over your head and drowning.
Light wings of panic fluttered across her skin. If she could have fastened those wings to her back, she would have flown away. For some people, fear was a dark alley at night or a growling dog with sharp teeth. For her, it was intimacy.
Maybe he thought he loved her, but she knew that whatever she had to offer, it wouldn’t be enough.
A crash and a curse dragged her out of her thoughts and she saw a woman trying to wrestle her case into the overhead bin.
Adam stood up to help, using his superior height to wedge it into place.
Hannah saw the woman’s eyes linger on his profile and then slide to his shoulders. A faint smile acknowledged this prime specimen of manhood, and then she turned and registered Hannah’s presence. Her smile went from interested to resigned. Hannah could almost see her thinking all the good ones are taken.
“When are you going to tell Beth about us?” Adam sat down again. “Not that I mind being your dirty little secret, but it would be a lot easier if you told them. I could come to dinner with you. I’m great with kids.”
Hannah hoped he would still feel that way if it turned out she was pregnant.
He stretched out his legs again. “We’ve been virtually living together for the past six months. You can’t hide me forever.”
Six months? “I’m not hiding you.”
Prior to Adam, her longest relationship had been two months. Eight weeks. It was a time frame that suited her. Hannah preferred to focus her efforts on things she excelled at. Relationships fell outside that category.
With Adam, it had been different.
The connection had been so powerful she hadn’t known how to handle it. At first their only interaction had been at work. She couldn’t recall who had made the first move.
The first time they’d had sex had been in his apartment. They hadn’t made it as far as the bedroom. The second time had been at hers, and that time they’d made it as far as the floor of her living room. She’d assumed that urgency would fade, but some days they didn’t even pause for conversation. It was as if everything they held back in public during their working day demanded to be released the moment they were in private. Twice in the past week they’d made love standing up in the entryway with the lights still on. Part of her had wondered why sex with Adam always felt desperate. Maybe because in her head she believed it was going to end soon.
Everything ended, Hannah knew that, and yet here they were, six months later.
She shifted in her seat.
If she was pregnant, she’d know, surely? Weren’t women usually sick?
She didn’t feel sick.
As the plane’s engines screamed ready for takeoff, Adam finished his drink. “If you’re going home to your family this Christmas, I should be there.”
“To cause trouble?”
“To protect you.” This time he wasn’t smiling. “I hate seeing you like this. I want my Hannah back.”
My Hannah.
Her family, she knew, wouldn’t recognize the Hannah that Adam knew. She barely recognized that woman, either.
“I don’t need you to come with me, but it’s kind of you to offer.” She could just imagine Suzanne’s reaction if she showed up with Adam. She would have booked the church and bought a hat before Hannah had even unpacked.
Above their heads the seat belt light went out and Adam made himself more comfortable. “If Christmas is stressful, why go?”
“I don’t want to disappoint Suzanne.” And that feeling that she was falling short, not delivering, brought back uncomfortable memories.
“Suzanne? You don’t call her mom?”
“She isn’t my mother. My mother is dead.”
She saw the shock in his eyes and wondered what had possessed her to blurt out that fact in these stark, impersonal surroundings. She never talked about her real parents, but there was something about Adam that unraveled the part of her she usually kept tightly wound.
“I didn’t know.” He spoke quietly. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It was a long time ago. I was eight.”
“Dammit, Hannah. That’s a difficult age to lose a parent. Why haven’t you told me this before?” He held out his hand, palm upward, and she hesitated for a moment and then slid her hand into his. His fingers closed over hers, strong and protective, and she could feel the ropes of intimacy tightening around her.
I love you, Hannah.
“It’s not the kind of thing that comes up in general conversation. We lost both our parents. They died in the same accident.”
“Car?”
“Avalanche. They were climbers.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you weren’t always a city girl?”
She had a feeling she’d always been a city girl.
“So who is Suzanne?” His tone was neutral, as if he’d recognized her need not to be smothered with sympathy.
“Suzanne and Stewart adopted us. Suzanne is American. Stewart is Scottish. After the…accident…we moved back to Scotland